Winter Wishes by Ruth Saberton Page B

same locals were still heading inside to sit at the same seats and play dice. Big Eddie Penhalligan would be there for sure, and Chris the Cod from the chippy. And without a doubt, her father-in-law Jimmy Tremaine would be in The Ship too, for a pint and the chance of winning a few pounds.
    Elsewhere, too, the same familiar people would be doing the same familiar things in the same familiar places as always.
    It was thicontinuity that Morgan needed, Tara concluded. There was comfort in it and safety and routine; all the things that were necessary for him to be happy and secure. The same things that a few years ago had driven her almost to distraction. When Danny had phoned and said that there was accommodation available for them where he was based in Germany, and that if she wanted to come she could fly out that month, Tara’s feet had hardly touched the ground. She couldn’t escape Polwenna Bay quickly enough. If she could turn the clock back, she would do things so differently, Tara reflected as she crossed the bridge and headed past the huddled cottages that jostled for space on the quayside. Yet there was one thing she could never regret, and that was Morgan. He alone made everything worthwhile. She would never, ever regret having her son.
    Deep in thought, Tara took the steepest path out of the village and over the cliffs. Her breathing came in sharp gasps and before long she was unwinding her scarf and pulling off her coat. The sea glittered and boiled around needle-sharp rocks, dizzyingly far below now as the path climbed higher and the land fell away to her left. Tara paused for a moment to gather her energy before going further. Walking the cliffs required more physical effort than all the treadmills and steppers in Ant’s gym put together, and by the time she turned away from the coast and began following a merry stream into the woods, her lungs were burning.
    But at least she wasn’t thinking anymore – and that had to be a good thing.
    Slowing her pace so that she could recover her breath, Tara continued alongside the stream for a mile or so until the trees opened out into a clearing. The branches high above were knitted together less densely now, allowing the light to filter through their vibrant green canopy. The stream had widened out too, tickling the tree roots that had crept closer over time to dip themselves into the water. Gradually it flowed into a deep pool around a weathered Celtic cross. Nearby, little scraps of fabric flickered in the breeze and a string of bells draped over a lilac bush chimed softly.
    “St Wenn’s Well!” Tara said, in surprise. She hadn’t expected to find herself here. Goodness, she’d walked miles if she’d reached this isolated spot. Wasn’t there supposed to be a myth about making wishes here? Something to do with wishing for true love?
    She laughed out loud. She could wish all she liked for that. Tara was starting to wonder whether true love even existed. Once upon a time she’d thought so, but life, and her own stupidity, had soon put paid to that belief. Danny, Ant and… well, never mind him, they’d all done their bit to prove to Tara that true love was right up there with the tooth fairy and Santa.
    Sunlight dappled the dank woodland floor, turning the chuckling stream to diamonds and making the shadows dance. A wood pigeon’s trembling call floated down from high above her head and the bells tinkled again as the breeze toyed with them. Tara stopped and crouched down at the water’s edge. It was certainly a pretty spot and, judging by the numerous rags and scraps tied to the branches, enough people still believed in the power of St Wenn to make the long hike up over the cliffs and through the woodland. The pagan past was never far away in Cornwall, she remembered. People still dressed up as green men or had fun morris dancing, didn’t they, so why would making a wish in a sacred stream be any different?
    Tara wasn’t quite sure why, but she found herself