A Cornish Christmas by Lily Graham Page A

was given time
    â€˜Time?’
    To be... with you
    I inhaled, closing my eyes. ‘How much time?’
    Enough
    â€˜Enough?’ I asked. But she didn’t answer... I suppose that enough was plenty.
    â€˜Oh Mum, I miss you so much.’
    I’m always with you. I know it’s not the same but we have this
    The tears slid down my cheeks. ‘This is more than I could have ever dreamt of. I love you, Mum.’
    Love you more
    I grinned, with aching familiarity; it was Mum, despite the mysterious words, and the moonlight magic, it was what she had always said to me – even when I argued that that was impossible, she’d insisted no one could love more than she.
    Her last message for the night, though, was enigmatic.
    Upstairs wardrobe
    The words appeared then slowly faded away. I stared, waiting, yet knowing as the air changed, and the sounds came back to life and the light... the moonlight that had bathed the desk disappeared, that the postcard would not fill again that night.
    I bit my lip, hand clutched to my heart, afraid it would burst, and went to bed. Hours later, I fell asleep, a small smile on my face.

Chapter 7
The Hope Box
    W hen morning came , despite broken sleep and vivid dreams, I was eager to start the day.
    The postcard was like a secret held close to my chest, colouring the day with rose-tinged promise, and at around mid-morning I decided to take her message of the night before literally.
    Because, despite the enigma and the mystery and how strange it sounded, Mum had always been practical, and her last message of the night had been no exception.
    I stood before the upstairs wardrobe.
    The one in the passageway between our room and the studio, where I’d put just one box, the only one I hadn’t unpacked. The one filled with all our lost hope, broken dreams, and unfulfilled wishes.
    Before the first failed IVF, the first miscarriage... before we knew not to dare hope at all, I’d planned, and dreamed, and bought. Babygros and teddy bears and palm-sized shoes. I sat back on my heels on the wooden floor, tenderly unfolding each little outfit, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers.
    I didn’t see him come, just felt his fingers brush my hair, the wooden floor creak as he settled himself next to me. I looked up into his brown eyes, gentle, soft.
    â€˜I’d forgotten about these,’ he said, touching the silken leg of a Babygro.
    â€˜Me too.’
    Fingers playing with my hair, Stuart asked, ‘It’s time? To unpack the Everton Ten: Burnt alive ?’
    I bit my lower lip and nodded. It was time, time to dream, time to hope.
    I took a shaky breath. ‘Stuart, we’re having a baby,’ I said, with a big wobbling smile, finally daring to say it aloud, to believe, to trust that if I did then it would all be all right.
    He hugged me close, dark eyes shining with moisture. ‘We’re having a baby,’ he said in wonder.
----
    W e had dinner that night at Dad’s, finally breaking the news. He was overjoyed; his wild, grey hair seemed to crackle afterwards, as if whatever emotion he was feeling radiated from its tips.
    I realised – as we sat in the sitting room now empty of Mum’s desk, mugs of hot chocolate steaming while he made plans with Stuart to help set up the nursery and he told us that my old cot was somewhere in the attic and it could be sanded and varnished, that there was the rocker too, which could be reupholstered – that he needed this. Something besides his work as a workshop manager at a freighting company, and his long-held passion for philosophy. I suspected he’d lost the will to feel philosophical about very much since Mum fell ill.
    I grinned at his enthusiasm. The next few months would be filled with decorating and restoring. The sanding, and the massive mural I was planning – well, that was all up to me.
    For the first time, sitting in this room since she was gone, I felt like everything