Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Christmas Eve in the inn turns out to be pretty full-on.
It feels like every single human being who lives in Cornwall turns up, along with the two guests who are staying here for the big day.
They look a little bewildered as the place fills up, every table packed, every corner crammed, every space at the long wooden bar taken.
Sean, Dad and I pull endless pints, pour rivers of wine, and have to refill some of the spirit optics twice.
The recycling bin is over-flowing with bottles that once contained beer and mixers, and the whole place is stripped of peanuts, chips and pork scratching.
It’s like a plague of fun-loving locusts have descended.
Empty glasses pile up along the bar, all three of us scurrying to load and unload the machine, tugging it open with vast clouds of steam in our eagerness to keep the drinks flowing.
A few of the Byrnes have brought guitars and banjos, and some of the locals are singing along – anything from Christmas carols to fishing shanties to Slade.
People are jigging in a cleared space in the middle of the room, and the mood is high, cheeks bright pink from the roaring fire in the hearth and the sheer jollity of being alive and in such good company.
I have been dragged onto the impromptu dance floor a few times, and have had to swerve several villagers who have come brandishing their own mistletoe.
My dad, the old flirt that he is, also has some pinned up at one end of the bar.
I’ve insisted that I stick at the other end, because I am nowhere near drunk enough to want to lock lips with anybody here.
Except one, of course, and he is also keeping a cautious eye on the roving kissing stations.
Liam is tucked away with the rest of his family, apart from Bernadette, who has stayed at home to look after all the small children.
Cara’s three boys are there, along with Alice and Alex, and a host of other younger grandkids.
I can only imagine how high the excitement levels are in that house – not only are they all together, but it is Christmas Eve.
That’s crack cocaine for the under-tens.
Bella is here, along with her cousin Lucy and a few other older Byrnes.
She’s wearing my Nirvana T-shirt, and is minesweeping the tables when she thinks nobody is looking.
She looks happy enough though, which is wonderful to see.
Her story about her last Christmas with her mum has lodged itself in my heart like a splinter, and I have to fight the urge to run over and hug her.
She wouldn’t thank me for it, especially as I stink of spilled beer and exhaustion.
My dad rings the big brass bell that hangs over the bar at eleven o’clock, and shouts in his very best landlord voice: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, last orders at the bar!’
There is a predictable rush after that, a human tsunami of customers.
People double up, getting in extra rounds and whisky chasers and triple Baileys, and by the end of it there is not a single clean glass left in the building.
I know a select few will end up staying behind for another hour or so, or even longer.
I may have imagined it, but I’m fairly sure I remember coming downstairs as a kid one Christmas morning and finding the village postman still snoring in a corner, his feet propped up on a chair, surrounded by empty pint glasses.
Still, this is the last round that will be paid for, and I am almost trembling with relief. Sean and I exchange a look, and he grins at me. ‘We did it!’ he says, offering me his palm for a high five.
‘We certainly did,’ I murmur, feeling both wiped out and full of adrenaline.
Working behind a bar is a kind of performance, in a way.
You have to engage with so many people, exchange greetings and stories and listen to complaints, all the time giving the impression that there is absolutely nothing you would rather be doing right in that moment.
It’s why my dad has always been so good at it, and why I need to climb into an ice bath and sleep for a thousand years.
Tomorrow is going to be busy too. We have been invited to Sandra’s for Christmas lunch, and to meet her daughter, who is home from London.
But after Maggie’s accident, I am going to duck out and head straight to the café.
She’s sent me a huge list of instructions on WhatsApp, followed by some very random emojis which possibly coincided with her drugs kicking in.
The X-rays did indeed reveal a fracture, and she will be staying in hospital until she can have surgery to fix it.
Although I reassured her that I would be okay and that everything was absolutely under control, I am secretly terrified.
Lucy has agreed to come and help, along with any able-bodied friends she can rope in, so I’m sure we’ll be fine.
It’s a buffet full of cakes, not a gourmet Michelin-starred taster menu, and it will all be splendid.
I repeat this to myself over and over again in an attempt to make it stick.
I pour myself a small glass of prosecco to celebrate the end of the working night, determined to stick to the one so I can be fully focused tomorrow. Or at least ninety per cent focused, being realistic.
I have only taken a few sips when Sean drags me off for a dance.
The unofficial house band has launched into a spirited version of Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town, everybody singing along in the chorus, a whirling group of us jigging around in a big circle.
That segues into Fairytale of New York, and all of us screeching the words so loud my eardrums almost burst. Everyone seems to get up for this one, including the teenagers. A timeless classic.
Liam is in the mix too, screaming Shane MacGowan’s insults at me as I scream my own back.
This is familiar territory for us, a song that we have sung with each other countless times.
I know my knees won’t thank me for it in the morning, but it is such fun, bouncing up and down and yelling, and when it draws to a close we fall against each other, laughing and sweaty.
‘Just like old times!’ he says, steadying me with his hands on my shoulders. I gaze up at him with a big smile on my face, knowing I must look awful but not really caring.
‘Yep, but with less booze – in my case at least.’
People are flagging after their exertions, and only a few of us are left standing as the music changes to a far more sedate choice – Last Christmas by Wham! Another classic, and it works surprisingly well on the guitar, Brian’s melodic voice rising over the chatter of the crowd.
Liam reaches out and tucks a strand of my messy hair behind my ear, and even that small contact feels intense.
‘I must look like crap,’ I mutter, as he stares down at me, his gold-and-hazel eyes on mine.
‘Never. You look like Ellie, and that was always a very fine way to look.’
Around us, a few couples are slow-dancing, draped over each other as they smooch. Liam and I are not dancing, not quite. We’re just swaying, but I know we should stop. This is the kind of swaying that should come with a health warning.
I want to say goodnight, and run away up the stairs, where I will be safe – but somehow I can’t.
It’s like I’m trapped here, in his orbit, unable to escape.
Hot, bothered and completely undone by the gentle quirk of his lips, the look in his eyes.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t get to find out what he was about to say – because Cara appears next to us, mischievously brandishing a bunch of mistletoe in her hand.
She holds it over our heads, laughing, and says: ‘Come on now, you two! Don’t be angering the gods of Christmas!’
It breaks the spell, shatters the moment.
The moment that both Liam and I said would never happen again.
I’m frustrated for a split second, and then relieved.
We jump away from each other, both recoiling and looking a bit sheepish when we realise quite how close we had been.
Cara has, unintentionally, saved us both from ourselves.
‘Sorry, sis,’ he says, grinning at her. ‘The gods of Christmas won’t mind! Right, I’d better check on Bella. She’s just necked one of Patrick’s whiskies when he wasn’t looking…’
He walks away, and I watch him go with such a strange mix of emotions. I really don’t have a clue what is going on here.
Cara raises her eyebrows at me, and says: ‘You two need your heads banging together, you really do,’ before she strides away in disgust.
I take a final glance around the still-full room.
I smile at the madness – the banjos and guitars and the singing; at my dad telling a story with extravagant hand gestures; at the elderly man who has fallen asleep in one corner, a paper party hat wonky on his head.
Familiar faces, new friends, old friends, all of them enjoying themselves.
It’s a lovely feeling, and I choose to hold on to the warmth of that rather than the whirling dervish of my feelings for Liam.
My feelings for Liam are a black hole of confusion, and I don’t have the energy to deal with it right now.
It is Christmas Eve in St Tilda, and that has always been a special time. I have missed out on so many, and now I am back, I should focus on enjoying it. I take a mental snapshot of the joyful chaos in front of me, before heading up to bed.
As I turn to leave the bar, I see a new arrival standing uncertainly in the doorway, gazing in. A new arrival who is wearing a sweatshirt decorated with a picture of three beautiful Labrador retrievers.
I freeze in my tracks, and stare at him in disbelief.
It’s Tyler. And he does not look happy.