The Great Christmas Knit Off
The Great Christmas Knit Off
Alexandra Brown
Can wacky Christmas jumpers really mend a broken heart? A classic Christmas Cracker from the bestselling author of The Secret of Orchard CottageHeartbroken after being jilted at the altar, Sybil has been saved from despair by her knitting obsession and now her home is filled to bursting with tea cosies, bobble hats, and jumpers. But, after discovering that she may have perpetrated the cock-up of the century at work, Sybil decides to make a hasty exit and, just weeks before Christmas, runs away to the picturesque village of Tindledale.There, Sybil discovers Hettie’s House of Haberdashery, an emporium dedicated to the world of knitting and needle craft. But Hettie, the outspoken octogenarian owner, is struggling and now the shop is due for closure. And when Hettie decides that Sybil’s wonderfully wacky Christmas jumpers are just the thing to add a bit of excitement to her window display, something miraculous starts to happen…
Copyright (#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014
Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2014
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://www.shutterstock.com)
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Map © Nicolette Caven 2014
Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007597369
Ebook Edition © November 2014 9780007597376
Version: 2016-12-14
Dedication (#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
For my Nanny Edie
Who always loved a good knit and natter session xxx
‘In the rhythm of the needles there is music for the soul.’
– Anonymous
Contents
Cover (#u06356826-0d3d-537e-864e-c3d7223f2df5)
Title Page (#u66f7b549-b395-5221-b749-015a295c57ed)
Copyright
Dedication
Map (#u78ac2b96-fc29-59bf-a20a-0d3ee6f3b5ed)
Epigraph (#u824c9ad4-93db-5890-97bc-9eae5b25ec7d)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading Not Just for Christmas (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Also by Alexandra Brown
About the Publisher
Prologue (#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
Hettie Honey picked up a lovely lavender lace weight that a customer had abandoned by the till after pondering for what seemed like an eternity that, actually, it wasn’t the right shade of lavender after all. She then walked across the shop floor of her House of Haberdashery to repatriate the ball into its rightful place – a wooden, floor-to-ceiling cabinet comprising twenty-four cubbyholes inset over three shelves crammed with every colour, ply, and type of yarn imaginable. Hettie smiled wryly, remembering the programme she had listened to on the radio not so long ago. Knitting! It was all the rage nowadays and she hoped it would finally catch on in Tindledale, her beloved picture-postcard village and Hettie’s home for the eighty-three years of her life to date. She ran the timber-framed, double-fronted shop adjacent to the wisteria-clad roundel of the oast house her father had built before she was even born.
Hettie lifted the tray on which sat the last remnants of her afternoon tea; a cheese sandwich minus the crusts because her teeth weren’t as strong as they used to be plus a pot of tea and a pink iced finger that had only cost ten pence on account of being past its best. Kitty, in the tearoom up on the High Street, had tried to give her the bun for free, but Hettie hated taking charity, especially when she felt there were other people in far more need. Hettie moved to the back of the shop, swept the curtain aside and went through to the little kitchenette area. Years ago this had been her mother’s sewing room, and the wooden Singer machine with its rickety foot pedal still lived there, with a multitude of multi-coloured bobbins all piled up high on the shelf behind it.
After placing the tray on the draining board next to the age-veined Belfast sink and carefully wrapping the crusts in clingfilm to dunk into her warming homemade soup the following afternoon, Hettie picked up the picture frame on the mantelpiece above the fire and ran a finger over the faded black-and-white autographed photo. She allowed herself an enormous sigh. She wasn’t usually one for self-pity or hand wringing, but another one of the letters had come this morning, with FINAL DEMAND stamped across the top in ugly red type. Business had been so slow these past couple of years, and now, with her dwindling savings and pittance of a pension, she had come to realise that it was going to take a darn miracle this Christmas for Hettie’s House of Haberdashery to remain afloat come the new year.
There had been talk of retirement; of closing down the House of Haberdashery; of putting her feet up and going ‘into a home’. Hettie’s nephew, her brother Harold’s son and last of the Honey family line, was all for it. On one of his rare visits, on the pretext of seeing how she was, he’d told Hettie he was concerned about her living on her own, that she needed the rest and that ‘it’s not like you’ve got that many customers these days, is it?’ He said he’d make sure she had her own bedroom or at the very least, a twin sharer. ‘And besides, it might be nice for her to have the company of people her own age.’ He’d put forward a strong case and had already contacted the council to enquire about a suitable place. But Hettie wasn’t losing her marbles and she knew that what he was really after was to bulldoze her beloved home – the oast house surrounded by a meadow of pretty wild flowers, and the place where she grew up. There’s her cosy bedroom suite, set upstairs in the roundel with its magnificent view of the valley, the lovely farmhouse kitchen with the walk-in pantry, the sunroom, the snug – it’s got the lot, and that’s on top of all her memories wrapped within its circular walls. Not to mention her beloved little shop, right next door, crammed full of all her favourite knitting and needlecraft goodies.
Then he’d be able to get his hands on the land for one of his building projects. He’d told her all about the one with ample parking and plastic windows that his company had created in the town where he lived, over fifty miles away. Seventeen months it had taken, he’d said, to fight all the objections from the local residents’ association, and he had puffed on about it for the entire hour of that tedious visit. But Hettie isn’t ready to be written off; to be carted away to an old people’s home like a nag to a glue factory, not when there is plenty of life still left in her sprightly body. Besides, ‘going into a home’ would mean leaving Tindledale behind, and Hettie knows more than anything that this is where her heart belongs. It always has, even when she’d had the chance of a different life, far, far away.
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Three weeks until Christmas …
I stare at the radio mounted in the dashboard of my clapped-out old Clio as I negotiate a particularly icy corner off Lewisham High Road. Jennifer Ford! Did the London FM newsreader guy just say Jennifer Ford had absconded? I wasn’t really paying attention, but I know that name. F-O-R-D, the woman had even spelled it out for me, as in Harrison Ford, that’s what Jennifer had said. It was about a month ago, and I had shuddered, which is hardly surprising given my monumentally embarrassing showdown at the altar of my own Star Wars-themed wedding just six months previously. I’m still cringing. 4 May it was, obviously. Luke, my ex – and for the record, a massive tool, I know that now, it’s just a shame I didn’t know it then – anyway, he thought it would be a brilliant idea to have ‘May the fourth be with you’ in big swirly gold lettering on the wedding invites. He was literally leaping over the proverbial moon when we managed to secure the date with the church. So why then didn’t he turn up?
Jilted at the altar! That’s me. I’m the woman none of us ever wants to be. Stood there in a floaty neck-to-toe white hooded dress, complete with Princess Leia buns, having opted for the pin-on ones after my unruly red curls had refused to get involved, the realisation dawning that he wasn’t actually going to turn up. A no-show. And that’s when I knew, really knew, what had been going on, because Sasha, my identical twin sister and far more glamorous than me – even her name is bursting with va-va-voom compared to my Sybil – wasn’t there either. To be honest, I think I had known, deep down, in the weeks and months leading up to the wedding that something wasn’t quite right. But I had chosen to ignore it – or perhaps that’s the whole purpose of hindsight: its job is to protect you, to let you be obliviously happy for just a while longer before the reality swoops in to deal a cruel, mean blow.
I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, which forms a miniature Australia-shaped mist on the windscreen. Sasha, golden and gregarious, the pony club princess to quirky and creative me, hadn’t wanted to be a bridesmaid, citing a desire for not wanting to steal the limelight away from me on my big day. Ha! Instead she stole my husband-to-be. Turns out Luke had always had a bit of a twin fantasy thing going on in his head and had decided to make it a reality – they had been having a secret ‘thing’ for ages. I don’t know all the details, I really don’t want to, and I haven’t spoken to either of them since …
So, after wrenching the Princess Leia buns from my head, I had flung them into the crowd and run from the church, narrowly managing to avoid body slamming into a late-arriving, over-furry Chewbacca as I burst out through the doors and into the sanctuary of the waiting tour bus. Yes, another one of Luke’s brilliant ideas, a big bastard 48-seater with STAR WARS: May the fourth be with you, love Sybs and Luke emblazoned down both sides for the whole world – well, the greyest part of London and beyond at least – to witness my humiliation. And I’ll never forget the look on my parents’ faces: disappointment mixed with embarrassment. I had let them down in front of all their friends. Even the flower girls were crying because the party was over before it had even started and I had promised them the DJ would do a special One Direction medley during the disco. I felt like an utter failure! And still do, a lot, to be honest.
I park the Clio and give the door an extra-hard slam with the full force of my left Converse trainer before picking my way through the dirt-stained leftovers from this morning’s sleet storm and making my way down the path to my basement flat, deftly sidestepping the cracked paving slabs and trying really hard to ignore the mounting swirl of unease in my stomach. Maybe I’d misheard the newsreader. Let’s hope so, because the Jennifer Ford I’d dealt with at work wouldn’t take £42,000 in housing benefit wrongly credited to her bank account and blow it on a crazeee trolley dash around Westfield shopping centre, and then be daft enough to post the pics of the shopping hauls across her multiple social media channels, would she? No! Of course she wouldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, as I negotiate the crumbly old steps, push the key into the front door, retrieve the post from the mat and give Basil, my bonkers black Scottie dog, a stroke as he dashes to greet me with an expectant time-for-dinner look on his whiskery face.
It’s Thursday evening and I’ve just finished work at the housing department of the local council office. I flick the switch to illuminate the miniature Christmas tree on my hall table and read the note from the dog sitter.
Basil had a lovely time today. Went for a run around the park followed by a long snoring snooze on my sofa lol. Sorry, I know you’re trying to train him to keep off the furniture but he’s just too cute, I couldn’t resist a cuddle during Judge Judy. I’ll try harder tomorrow.
Love, Pops xxx
Ah, Poppy is a godsend and I don’t know what I’d do without her. After Luke left (he used to take Basil to work in his electrician’s van) I very nearly had to rehome Basil, because I couldn’t face leaving him on his own all day. Then Poppy moved in upstairs and she loves dogs but can’t have one as she works nights as an administrator at one of the big law firms in the City, so she jumped at the chance to look after Basil when I’m at work.
I press the button on the landline phone’s answer machine – I actually ventured out last night with a few friends, a bit of a rarity since the 4 May showdown, and then didn’t have time to listen to my messages this morning. We’d gone to a Zumba class – so not my thing. My backside feels as if it’s been pummelled by a trillion pygmy goat hoofs, and I really must get a new mobile, although it’s been rather liberating being without one: no sneaking a peek at Luke’s Facebook whenever the fancy takes me, or sending drunken texts only to agonise over them the following morning. I had hurled my old phone from the window of the Star Wars’ bus somewhere on the M4 on the way back to my parents’ bungalow in Staines when Sasha had called to ‘apologise’ with promises of ‘making it up to me’ and explanations of it ‘just happened’, all of the clichés rolled into one big ball of crushing heartbreak.
In keeping with tradition, I had stayed with Mum and Dad the night before the wedding and, after gathering up Basil and my special ‘going away’ clothes, I’d beaten a rapid retreat back here to my flat, called a locksmith, and had the Yale lock changed. At least Luke had had the good grace to have already cleared his gear out before I got home, saving me the job of dumping it all in next door’s skip. Although he did forget to cancel his Star Wars magazine subscription, so I store them under the kitchen sink to use when Basil sicks up grass, which I have to say is really rather satisfying. Especially the time the magazine came with a free Luke Skywalker plastic figurine: Basil and I played fetch with it until he’d had enough, bit Luke’s head off, chewed up his body and spat it out in disgust. High five, Basil!
After deleting all of Sasha’s latest apology messages without listening to them – I can always tell them apart; there’s a delay, then a bit of background noise, muffled voices (her and Luke, I presume), lots of shushing followed by the sound of her clearing her throat in preparation for yet another one of her convoluted ‘explanations’ – there’s a message from Mum.
‘Sybil. How are you, darling? Just checking to see if you’re still alive, only we haven’t heard from you for a couple of days …’ cue a short, nervous laugh, ‘and Dad was wondering if you’d like to join us for a pre-Christmas lunch soon. Help us all to really get into the festive spirit before we board the Majestic for the Christmas break. Are you sure you can’t come too? I think they still have a few cabins left, inside lower deck ones only, mind you.’ Her voice drops, just in case the neighbours are listening, I guess. Mum is very Hyacinth Bucket when it comes to keeping up appearances. ‘But still, leftovers are better than nothing, dear, and beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?’ I breathe in before exhaling a looooong calming breath, wondering when exactly it was that I became a ‘beggar’. ‘Won’t you be very lonely on your own?’ ‘What about your turkey dinner with all the trimmings?’ Cue a short silence before she changes tack. ‘We could invite Gloria from next door to lunch, the one with the handsome son who is a barrister with his own chamber! Fancy that.’ She pauses momentarily to draw breath. ‘And such a lovely fellow! Wouldn’t it be marvellous if he—’
I press the button to skip to the next message. I know she means well, but I really don’t want to spend Christmas on a cruise ship packed full of people twice my age and beyond, while Mum tries to fix me up with a ‘leftover’ man or, worse still, Ian, the barrister, named after Ian Botham, the cricketer, but with a face like a moon landing, all craters and scars. We went to the same school and, a fellow horse lover, he dated Sasha for a while during sixth form and they rode together and showed off together in all the gymkhanas. After the end-of-year disco, he got hammered and then lunged at me for a snog, thinking I was Sasha. If that wasn’t bad enough, he says things like ‘giddy up’ in a ridiculously plummy voice instead of ‘hello’ like everyone else, which is fine if you’re astride a stallion and starring in a period drama or whatever, but he isn’t, and therefore doesn’t sound cool, just plain daft.
I unwind my most recently completed project from my neck, an extra-long, super-chunky knitted scarf with a tassel trim in Kermit green, and loop it over the banister before moving on to the next message.
‘Sybs, babe, it’s me, Cher. Listen, you have to see this new pub I’ve landed.’ Ah, she’s there already. Last time we spoke Cher was still waiting to hear from the brewery about where they wanted to send her next. ‘It’s called the Duck & Puddle and gorgeous is a massive understatement. The village is just like something out of The Darling Buds of May and the locals – well, where have you ever heard of someone welcoming you with a whole hog to roast as a housewarming present? Tindledale, that’s where! No joke. Cooper, he’s the village butcher, came in yesterday with the pig flung over his shoulder, slapped it on the bar and said, “There you go, love! I’ll send the lad over later to set it up on the spit roaster for you.” So you’d better visit soon as I now have hog roast baps coming out of my ears. Bring Basil too, I know he’s partial to pork.’ She laughs warmly while I remember the time Basil stole a whole stuffed pork belly joint, and I had only turned my back for a few minutes to lay the table for our Sunday lunch. ‘Ooh, better go, babe, nearly last orders.’ And the message fades to the sound of very jolly pub banter with Cher bellowing, ‘Time to drink up, ladies and gents’ over the ding-a-ling of a ringing hand bell.
I smile. Cher, short for Cheryl, is my oldest and dearest friend. She and I first met at Brownies after her publican parents took over the local pub, ‘a step up’ they had said, having come from a proper boozer in London’s East End. By the end of Girl Guides, we were inseparable. Sasha was never keen on going, much preferring the Pony Club, but I loved it – all those craft badges to collect, just my kind of thing. Cher and I grew up together in the Home Counties town of Staines, until she moved away and her parents ran a number of pubs up North before retiring to the Lake District. Cher and I have always kept in touch and I’ve stayed with her and her husband, Clive, in many of the pubs she’s managed over the years. The last one was in the pretty seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. The Hook, Line and Sinker it was called, and she did such a good job with it that the brewery asked her to go and rejuvenate this new one. Clive is a chef, so he spends most of his time in the kitchen or standing out the back by the industrial wheelie bins with a fag on the go, putting the world to rights with whichever of the locals are his new best drinking buddies.
I take off my coat and saunter through to the kitchen. After dumping my bag on the counter, I flick on the kettle before reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard to retrieve the biscuit tin, stashed up high in a vague attempt to curtail my sugar addiction, but it never seems to work. Well, it did for a bit, when I had a wedding to get ready for, but not now. I choose a Jammie Dodger and bite into its gooey sweet loveliness before firing up my laptop and typing Jennifer Ford absconded in to Google.
The kettle boils so I swiftly make a mug of Wispa hot chocolate and it’s just reaching the crackly, popping stage of the stirring process when an article posted just a few hours ago appears on the screen.
A young mum who went on a spending spree after a bungling council official accidentally deposited £42,000 in her bank account has disappeared. Police are trying to trace Jennifer Ford, who was last seen boarding a plane to Las Vegas dressed in designer gear including £350 Gucci shades and seven-inch Louboutin stacked heels.
With sweaty palms, I swig the hot chocolate, scalding the roof of my mouth in the process. Ouch! I scroll down further. And there she is. Jennifer Ford. My mouth drains of saliva. It’s her. Definitely her. The woman whose claim I processed. Even with her new, superimposed, here’s-what-she-might-look-like-now picture, complete with long, butter-blonde hair extensions, which the article then details were acquired from a ‘top salon in London’s swanky West End, mainly frequented by celebrities’. Oh good-o, I shall rest easy armed with this important piece of trivia. Not. But part of me is thinking: good on you, Jennifer, I’m not sure I could resist such an enormous windfall, but then … what about the consequences? Surely there are laws about spending money that isn’t yours, even if it has been paid into your very own bank account? I gulp, and try to ignore the hammering of my heart as I speed-read on.
A council spokesman has vowed to conduct a full investigation to ensure the bungling employee is identified and reprimanded for irresponsibly giving away such a huge sum of taxpayer’s money.
And there, right in the middle of my laptop screen, is a picture of my boss, Mr Banerjee, with his arms crossed and a furious look on his face. He’s even wearing his serious black turban, and not his usual, colourful orange everyday one.
A wave of nausea crashes right through me and I actually think I might be sick. The kitchen sways slightly so I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. What am I going to do? This has to be the cock-up to end all cock-ups, and I should know – I’ve had a few, and that’s not including the wedding fiasco. Since 4 May I’ve been reprimanded several times at work by Gina, the team leader, mainly for trawling the internet looking at knitting websites as a way to relieve the tedium of my boring job. The plan had been for me to marry Luke and then work from home – it was even his idea – because, he said, it made sense if we were to start a family. I’d be self-employed; I’d get to embrace my passion for knitting and needlecraft and see if I could make a proper go of it. I would take orders online at first and then, if it took off, I’d look for a shop, somewhere on-trend – like nappy valley, aka Clapham, where there are loads of people who love to create one-off masterpieces.
I had it all mapped out. But that dream has gone now, along with my heart, which shattered into a trillion tiny fragments on that day in the church. I swallow the last of the hot chocolate in an attempt to shake off the pity party for one and delve into my bag to retrieve my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’mthe bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!
I dart through the archway into my tiny lounge and slump down in the armchair. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNITONEPURLONEKNITONEPURLONE! And on it goes, faster and faster and faster and faster until the prancing reindeer tea cosy is finished in record-breaking time, and my hands have fused themselves into the shape of an ancient Chinese woman’s lotus feet.
I take Rudolph into the boxroom and place him on the bookshelf next to the others. Twenty-seven tea cosies in total. Not to mention all the other shelves housing the numerous bobble hats, cardies, scarves, mittens and jumpers. My boxroom is jam-packed with knitted goods. But what can I say? I’ve had a lot of dark thoughts, and all of the sad feels, recently …
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I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.
‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.
Keep calm and carry yarn.
That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.
Of course, I didn’t mention the cock-up to end all cock-ups at work and that I’m actually running away because right now I just can’t deal with any more stress. Only for a long weekend, mind you, but enough time to give myself some space to figure out what to do and come up with a strategy. It’s a chance to breathe, and I don’t feel as if I’ve done that properly since the ‘wedding that never happened’. Besides, Mum will only panic about everyone finding out that I’m the bungling employee. Plus, I don’t want Sasha knowing. I feel so betrayed by her and the last thing I want is her knowing that I’ve messed up at work and could potentially lose my job too, in addition to the boyfriend that she stole from me. She’s always wanted what I’ve had; as children she’d want the toy that I’d been given, even though it was exactly the same as hers, and she’d make me swap. As we’ve got older, I’ve often felt that she thinks she’s better than me, more successful, just because she travels and has a full-on social life. It’s well known within the family that she thinks my job and passion for knitting and needlecraft is dull – ‘provincial’ is what she said on one of the rare occasion we were last all together – and I think she secretly feels the same way about our parents too, in their bungalow in the cul-de-sac in Staines – they and it are just not glamorous or exciting enough for Sasha.
Not that Mum and Dad are in constant communication with her; in fact, since May the fourth they’ve been extremely diplomatic and have kept her very much at arm’s length, which I guess is fairly easy given that Sasha spends most of her time gallivanting around, organising spectacular events for her fabulously famous and wealthy clients in places like Dubai, and not forgetting her annual charity event here in the UK – the Christmas hunt ball – because she likes to ‘give a little back’ as she says, to the horse community that helped launch her career. It’s how she came to be such a successful event planner in the first place: she started out by organising pony shows and polo parties for well-heeled people who recommended her to their even wealthier friends, who make up her glittering client portfolio. And now she’s being fabulous all over the place with my ex-fiancé in tow, no doubt. Well, good riddance to them, I rally, mustering up a modicum of resilience. I wonder if Sasha has discovered Luke’s penchant for farting under the duvet yet?
The Duck & Puddle number rings for what seems like an eternity before I hang up – I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s just after 7 p.m. – Cher is obviously busy and I imagine the bar area is noisy so maybe nobody can hear the phone. I try her mobile, but it doesn’t even ring, it goes straight through to the ‘person can’t take your call …’ message. Anyway, it’ll be fine; Cher said to visit, so it’ll be a nice surprise for her and I’ve already called work – well, luckily Gina’s mobile went straight to voice mail too, so I left a message to say that since I have a migraine coming on and quite possibly a temperature, but I haven’t actually confirmed this as I don’t have a thermometer (Gina can be very pedantic), it was looking highly unlikely that I’d make it into work tomorrow. Not strictly a lie, as I really do have a headache, an anxiety one, and I’m starting to sweat in this furry hood and bobble hat. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that right now I’m one very hot mess!
*
An hour later, the train to Tindledale is just about to depart – the last direct one, luckily, which arrives at 10.39 p.m. After that, you have to go to Market Briar, the nearest big town, and get a taxi or a lift on a tractor apparently, ‘so don’t be planning any big late nights out while you’re there’, is what the man in the ticket office chortled when I told him where we were heading.
Basil settles at my feet after giving up on trying to snuggle on the seat beside me. A guy in a black duffel coat and a grey beanie hat (definitely machine-knitted) is sitting by the window in the bank of seats adjacent to me, reading a newspaper; he looks up and gives me a courteous smile. I smile back and instantly notice his kind-looking emerald eyes behind black-framed glasses which accentuate the stubbly dark beard and curly hair peeping out from under the sides of his hat. This is only a recent thing, noticing men. After being in a relationship for five years with a man that I was certain I’d marry, it still feels weird looking at other guys in a snog/marry/avoid way, as Cher would say. I guess, it just isn’t something I’m used to; I really loved Luke, so it didn’t ever cross my mind to notice other men, and then, after everything that happened … well, let’s just say that it’s taking me time to reprogram my head to an ‘I’m single’ status.
‘Basil!’ I yell as he darts across the carriage and goes to swipe the guy’s Costa cake from a napkin on the table. I dive-bomb Basil just in time. ‘I’m so sorry, anyone would think he was starving, which he certainly isn’t,’ I say, grinning apologetically to the guy. I grab Basil’s collar and swiftly pull him back. Luckily, the guy laughs and shrugs it off, before moving the cake to a safer spot and lifting his newspaper back up.
A few minutes later, an older lady, sixty-something perhaps, arrives through the door of the adjoining carriage and sits opposite me.
‘Ah, he’s a fine-looking lad. What’s his name?’ she asks in a country accent as she glances down at my feet. ‘And what a superb coat he has on.’
‘Thanks, he’s called Basil.’ I smile, straightening Basil’s festive red knitted body warmer before unzipping my parka. Basil lifts his head on hearing his name so I give him a quick stroke. He laps it up before resting his chin back on my right foot.
‘Well I never, that was my late husband’s name, God rest his soul, and I haven’t heard it in a while, I must say! Is it significant to you too?’
‘Um, yes, I’m called Sybs, well, Sybil really. My friend, Cher, she came up with his name on account of—’
‘Oh yes, I know it! From the TV series, Fawlty Towers, it was so funny. Basiiiiiiiiiiil,’ she bellows, taking me by surprise. ‘That’s what his wife, Sybil, used to holler – it was a standing joke with my Basil and I. He always laughed when I did it to him.’ Her eyes close momentarily as she reminisces.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say gently.
‘Oh, thank you, love, but it was a very long time ago and he certainly had a good innings. I’m on my second husband now, met him a year ago on a coach tour to Portofino. Colin was the driver,’ she chuckles, ‘and fourteen years younger than me. I’m Dolly, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dolly.’ I smile, loving her zest for life, and Dolly chuckles and winks before loosening her coat and removing her fur hat.
‘You have the right idea, Sybs, it’s mighty warm in this carriage, that heater is churning out the hot air.’ She frowns, pointing at the panel beside us.
‘It sure is,’ I say, slipping off the parka.
‘Cor! That’s a beauty. Knit it yourself?’ She nods at my Christmas jumper.
‘Oh, um, yes I did. Thank you!’ I beam and cast a glance down at the fleece-lined chunky red knit with Ho Ho Ho emblazoned across the front in sparkly yarn, and each Ho a different colour. The heater in the Clio is so temperamental that I wasn’t taking any chances on freezing to death during the long drive to Tindledale and this is the warmest jumper I’ve ever made, but then, when the taxi turned up right away, I didn’t have time to get changed into something more suitable for a steamed-up train journey.
‘You have a real gift. I could never get on with knitting.’ Dolly shakes her head and I smile politely, unable to imagine a life without knitting. Knitting has never let me down: it soothes me, comforts me, excites me, calms me – it’s multifaceted and it means so many things to me. It may sound silly, but all of my knitting projects have memories attached too: I can swing a silver pashmina around my shoulders, knitted on holiday in Ibiza, and it instantly puts me right there on the sandy beach under a parasol with Cher nodding her head along to the tunes on her iPod, us laughing together, sipping sangria and feeling carefree and happy. This was long before I met Luke, or Sasha betrayed me. ‘So where are you off to?’ Dolly asks.
‘I’m going to surprise a friend who’s just moved to a village called Tindledale. Do you know it?’
‘I most certainly do. My Basil was postman there for a while and his father before him. Colin and I live in Stoneley, four stops before yours.’
‘Ooh, you might be able to help me with something then, please?’ I ask, eagerly.
‘Always happy to help if I can, dear. What is it?’ Dolly smiles kindly.
‘I left home in a bit of hurry and haven’t brought a housewarming gift for my friend, I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop where I can buy something nice for her? I was thinking a candle or some Belgian truffles perhaps.’ Cher isn’t really one for knitted garments, otherwise I’d have brought her a cardy, or a tea cosy or two. I managed to grab a bottle of red wine from my fridge, and it’s almost full, but it’s hardly the same as a proper present, especially when Cher already has a pub full of alcohol. Dolly laughs.
‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been in Tindledale, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere that sells candles, certainly not the fancy fragranced ones that you’d be after. You might get some white Price’s household ones in the village store – they always used to keep a few boxes in stock for the power cuts,’ she says knowingly. ‘And as for chocolates, they won’t be Belgian, but I’m sure you’d get a nice bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream in there too. They have quite a range in their small supermarket section – through the archway next to the post office counter.’
‘Lovely. I’ll head there right away,’ I say, not wanting to be rude, but I can’t exactly turn up with a bar of Fry’s chocolate. Cher will think I’ve really lost the plot.
‘Oh, it won’t be open this time of night, dear. The village store closes at four in the winter. You could try the pub though; just go to the hatch in the snug, they have a little shop that has sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel … that kind of thing. There’s an honesty box so take what you like and leave the money in the bowl.’ I smile again – I can just see Cher’s face if I buy her a bag of crisps as a present from her own shop. And who ever heard of a pub with an honesty box? At the fried chicken place on the corner of my street they have a metal grill that you have to pay through at the time of order, and they don’t take notes over a fiver in case they’re forgeries.
*
The train pulls into Stoneley and I can barely keep my eyes open after chatting to Dolly for most of the journey. I stifle a yawn and will myself to keep awake.
‘Oh dear! You need a good night’s sleep.’ Hmm, this is true – I haven’t slept properly in months. ‘But not far now,’ Dolly says warmly, buttoning up her coat and giving Basil a parting tickle under his chin.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I say, doing a little wave.
‘You too, love. Enjoy your stay in Tindledale. And do look me up if you’re ever in Stoneley. We have the import/export company on the old Market Briar road – can’t miss our barn which doubles as a warehouse. Cheerio.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile and wave again as she steps off the train and walks past the window and into the arms of her husband who is waiting to greet her at the end of the platform with a big grin on his face and an enormous bouquet of festive winter blooms – rich reds, oranges and greens, and there’s even one of those little dried pumpkins on a stick nestling next to a silver-sprayed sprig of mistletoe which he plucks from the bunch and holds high above her head before leaning in for a Christmas kiss. Laughing, she bats his chest before pulling him in close. They clearly adore each other and it’s so nice to see. Maybe there’s hope for me yet …
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and realise that I really am exhausted. A few minutes later I become conscious that Basil’s beside me, so I open one eye and do a quick scan of the carriage. The guy by the window is still engrossed in his newspaper and there’s nobody else here, so I put my hand around Basil and stroke his silky soft ear. He takes the cue and snuggles into the side of my thigh, curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, instinctively knowing that he needs to be on his best behaviour or he’ll be back on the hard train floor.
*
The train stops moving and I jolt awake.
‘Er, excuse me … are we here?’ I ask the ticket inspector, as I wipe away the condensation that’s gathered on the window, but he’s already heading back off down the carriage, and the guy with the newspaper has gone too. I must have nodded off.
I peer out through the gap on the glass.
And gasp.
We’re on the set of Frozen! Or so it seems. Outside there’s a magical winter wonderland where Olaf could appear at any given moment – I’m convinced of it. The platform is covered in a beautiful layer of crisp, clean white snow, untouched and definitely not mottled with dirt like the sludgy grey sleet at home. It’s perfect. Just like one of Mum’s special festive placemats with the perfect Christmassy scene on them that she keeps for best, or for when Gloria from next door pops in for her annual New Year drinks soirée.
Feeling very excited, I quickly pull on my parka, loop my hand through Basil’s lead and gather up my stuff before heading for the door. I can’t wait to grab a taxi to the Duck & Puddle pub; with a bit of luck, Basil and I will make it there just in time to surprise Cher and Clive before last orders.
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But where’s the taxi rank?
Basil and I are standing underneath an old-fashioned Dickensian-looking streetlight! And I don’t believe it – we’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow-dappled trees and standing on a postage-stamp-size patch of tarmac that I’m assuming must count as a car park around here. And it’s deserted, apart from what looks like half of a dilapidated two-berth caravan. It’s hard to tell as the top has been cut off and the rest ‘left to nature’; brambles, ten feet high with an intricate crocheted maze of snow-dusted spider webs weaving between the leaves, are sprouting from it at jaunty angles. Basil and I are the only ones here and the tiny ticket office, aka a converted Portakabin, is all locked up; we had to exit the platform via a rickety wooden side gate. So now what? There isn’t even a bus stop or a phone box that I can see, and the snow is falling thicker and faster.
We start walking.
Well, I’m walking, trudging like a Sherpa really, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me, whereas Basil is bouncing along up front, biting the snow as if it’s a real thing and generally having a good time.
We’ve been walking for at least ten minutes when we come to a fork in the road. There’s one of those traditional white wooden country signposts, so I stop walking and, after catching my breath, I reach up and wipe the snow away to see if we’re even going in the right direction.
Tindledale 2¼
Two and a quarter miles! Sweet Jesus, when was the last time I walked that far? From what I can see, it’s uphill all the way and my backside still aches from the Zumba class. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all. On the numerous occasions when the Clio has conked out, I’ve just taken the tube or jumped on a bus. Getting around is easy in London, but not here it seems. I scan the narrow, twisting country lane, hopeful for a bus stop, but there’s nothing, just trees and hedges and darkness and silence. I never knew the countryside could be this quiet. No car alarms. No shouting. No TV. No belting Dubstep from next door at 3 a.m. on a school night. No nothing. Just nature at night-time, I suppose. It’s peaceful. And I never noticed it before when camping with the Brownies as a child, but then there were ten giggling girls in sleeping bags right beside me.
There aren’t even any streetlights now. Only a pretty pearlescent hue from the full moon high up in the inky, twinkly starry night sky. Oh well. It could be fun, in a Dorothy-following-the-yellow-brick-road kind of way; only my road is glistening snow-white to light the way. I click the heels of my (fittingly) red Converse trainers together and try to ignore the fact that they’re already soaked through. Right on cue, Basil, thinking it’s some kind of new game, leaps up at me. Catching him with my gloved hands, I laugh and pull him in close, letting him nuzzle into my face, his whiskery nose tickling my cheeks and making me smile. He can be my Toto.
‘Come on. We better get on with it then,’ I say, placing him back on the snowy ground, and making a mental note to buy a new mobile first thing in the morning.
Figuring it will be easier to push the suitcase up the hill, I lengthen the strap on my handbag and swing it over my head, cross-body style, before pulling the bobble hat and hood down over my forehead to act as a kind of snow shield, then I manoeuvre the suitcase into position like a mini snowplough, and start trudging. And trudge some more. And more again. Past a quaint, brick-built school with a tiny playground and an impressive clock tower at one end of the roof, a row of the cutest chocolate-box cottages I’ve ever seen, with wrought-iron gates leading into long front gardens surrounded by mature hedges and dotted with wooden bird feeders and wind chimes. One of the cottages has a pile of wellies and muddy boots stacked up in the porch by the front door and I can’t help thinking how lovely it is, that they can leave stuff like that outside without the fear of somebody nicking it. That would never happen in London – I put a herb planter on my windowsill once and it lasted exactly a day before it disappeared. I keep trudging until, eventually, I spot a hazy glow in the distance. A flicker.
As we get closer, I see a single white column candle in a glass-covered storm lamp at the foot of a stone war memorial set in the middle of a very tiny village square. There’s a festive holly wreath lying next to the candle, its crimson red berries a vivid contrast in the white of the snow, and for some reason it takes my breath away. It’s poignant and magical and I stand mesmerised for a few minutes at the significance of the sight before me. Even Basil stops bounding and stands completely still, instinctively sensing the reverence of the moment.
The snow stops and I notice a bus shelter to my left with a wooden bench inside. Hurrah! I stagger in and sit down, grateful for the breather. Two and a quarter miles, uphill, in deep snow, is very hard work.
‘Evening!’ a man’s voice says in the dark, and I almost jump right off the bench. I didn’t see him there, huddled up in the corner. ‘Sorry to startle you. Just waiting for the good lady wife,’ he explains, before rubbing his gloved hands together and stamping his welly-clad feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘Nippy one tonight. Where are you heading? There won’t be a bus along until tomorrow, you know. First one is at eight so you’ll have a bit of a wait.’
‘Oh, um, hello,’ I start, awkwardly. I’m not used to complete strangers making eye contact in public, let alone talking to me. It isn’t the done thing in London. What if they have a knife? But he looks harmless in the candlelight, wizened but friendly, jovial even, and Basil likes him; he has his front paws up on the man’s knees and his tail is wagging from side to side. ‘Basil! Stop that. Sorry, he’s still learning,’ I say, grabbing Basil’s collar in an attempt to pull him away from the man.
‘Ah, he’s OK. Can probably smell my dogs. Got six of them at home. Not Scotties, mind. Working Collies – for the sheep.’ The man treats Basil to a vigorous rub behind his ears.
‘That’s nice. Are you a shepherd?’ I say, and then instantly wish I could push the words back into my mouth. I sound ridiculous – from what I’ve already seen of Tindledale, it’s obviously a bit behind the times but hardly biblical. Then the man surprises me.
‘Yes, I guess so. Ah, those were the days!’ He chuckles. Wow! I’ve just met my first shepherd. ‘It’s all changed now, but I’ve still got sheep, hundreds of the bleaters. So where have you come from?’
‘Um, London,’ I reply, a little taken aback by his directness. ‘I’ve just walked from the station,’ I add, to clarify.
‘Well, that’s certainly a trek.’ He lets out a long whistle. ‘Oh, here she is.’ The man stands up as a mud-splattered old tank of a Land Rover judders to a halt in front of us, its diesel engine still chugging as the window is cranked down a few inches, gets stuck and a woolly-mittened (definitely homemade) hand appears over the top to force it down the rest of the way.
‘Been bothering you, has he?’ A blowsy woman in a floral silk headscarf pops her head out.
‘Oh, no, not at all.’ I shake my head vehemently and smile to assure her.
‘Well, that makes a change – fancies himself as a ladies’ man when he’s got his drinking goggles on, don’t you, dear?’ She chuckles as he plants a big kiss on her plump cheek before heading round to the passenger seat. ‘Do you need a lift?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, feeling ever so slightly displaced, a bit parallel universe, even. It’s surreal. I’m standing in Narnia with the shepherd and his wife chatting like they’ve known me my whole life.
‘Where are you heading to?’
‘The Duck & Puddle pub, do you know it?’
The woman roars with laughter like I’ve just cracked the funniest joke ever.
‘Indeed, I do! Very well, in fact. It’s my husband’s second home. End of the High Street, over the village green – watch out for the duck pond – and Bob’s your uncle.’ She points into the dark over my left shoulder.
‘Is it far?’ I ask, looking in the direction of her index finger.
‘Minutes. But here, you’ll need this.’ And after leaning down and rummaging around in the footwell for a while, her head bobs back up and she hands me a flashlight. It even has its own plastic carrying handle. ‘Switch that on and you’ll be able to see as far as Market Briar,’ she instructs. ‘I would give you a lift, but you can be there in the time it’ll take us to load you, the dog and the suitcase into the car.’ She roars again.
‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking the flashlight on and thinking how generous she is. I could run off with this for all she knows.
‘There’s a girl!’ She nods cheerily. ‘It’s not usually this pitch-black in the village. Blasted snow puts the power off, you see. The pylons don’t like it.’ And she points again, this time above the bus stop to an overhead cable that’s laden with snow. So, Dolly was on the ball. ‘Good night.’
‘But what about the flashlight?’ I say, waving it in the air.
‘Just leave it with the others in the crate by the bar.’ And with that, she pulls the window back up and chugs away.
With the powerful beam from the flashlight guiding the way, Basil and I step onto the cobbly street that’s flanked either side with rows of small black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops which I presume is the village centre – a far cry from London with all its multi-storey concrete tower blocks and big flashing neon signs. I shine the light towards the end of the little street and sure enough, there’s the pub, the Duck & Puddle, cloaked in darkness, just past the village green. I take it we’ve missed last orders, then.
Pushing the suitcase, Basil and I make our way towards the pub, but I can’t resist having a nose through the mullioned windows of the shops. There’s what looks like a clothes boutique on my left across the road, vintage maybe, because there’s a swishy pink polka-dot Fifties’ prom dress on a headless dressmaker’s bust in the window. Opposite is a place called The Spotted Pig – a double-fronted café, by the looks of it, there’s a menu in a glass case on the wall in the little alcove by the front door. I take a closer look and see that the Christmas special is panettone bread pudding with creamy rum custard. Cor, I love the sound of this; maybe I can bring Cher to The Spotted Pig for afternoon tea tomorrow. Aw, a pet parlour is next door. I can see the sign, PAWS, in elegant mint green and cream letters above the door.
‘One for you, Basil.’ But he’s too busy biting the snow. There’s a bookshop now, a proper musty, old-looking one. Using the sleeve of my parka, I wipe a space on the window and press my nose up to the glass. Wow! There must be a billion books filling every shelf, table top and nook and cranny; old books too, ones that you might have to wear special white gloves for before being allowed to thumb through them. A fruit and veg shop is next door with a stack of empty fruit boxes piled up neatly in the doorway.
We cross over and next to the one with the prom dress in the window is a butcher’s, a traditional one with a ceramic-tiled counter and a row of silver meat hooks dangling in the window. Next, there’s an antiques shop, then a chemist, a florist and a bakery. And here’s the village store that Dolly mentioned, and, last of all, there are a couple of empty shops at the end nearest the green. I’m impressed: a butcher and a baker; all they need is a candlestick maker – which, given the apparent frequency of the power cuts around here, might very well be a good thing. A real money-spinner.
We reach the green. Ah, this is nice. There’s a very plump Christmas tree set right in the middle, and it must be at least twenty feet tall. It has glittery baubles hanging from the ferny fingers, glistening in the glow from the flashlight. My heart lifts. It’s truly magical – so quiet and peaceful and in such utter contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of what I’ve left behind. I think I’m going to really enjoy my weekend here. And then I realise that I haven’t thought about May the fourth, or indeed, Jennifer Ford, since I stepped on the train in London, which right now feels like a million miles away – and that’s a good thing, surely? These past few months, I have honestly been rapidly reaching the point where I feel as if my head might actually explode. A mini-break in the beautiful, cosy, bubble of Tindledale is just what I need.
(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
It’s like that film, Deliverance, when I push open the door of the Duck & Puddle – all that’s missing is a man in dungarees chewing tobacco and strumming a banjo.
Ten or so pairs of eyes turn to stare at me as I stamp the bulk of the snow from my legs and feet, push down the hood of my parka and pull off my bobble hat, it’s like a furnace in here. And I haven’t missed last orders at all; in fact, from the number of full pints lined up on the bar, I’d say ‘drinking up time’ has only just begun. The windows all have heavy velvet blackout curtains blocking the light from the numerous candles dotted around the tables, which explains why the pub looked closed from the other side of the village green, and the source of the heat is an enormous real log fire with crimson, blue-tinged flames crackling and wheezing in the ceiling-height inglenook fireplace to my right.
I smile tentatively and scan behind the bar, but Cher isn’t here.
‘Well, don’t just sit there. Give the girl a hand,’ a chunky woman wearing a woolly poncho (handknitted) bellows to the extremely tall, robust-looking man sitting beside her, before elbowing him sharply in the ribs.
‘Will you turn it in, woman?’ he pretends to chastise her as he shoos her hand away. ‘I was just getting my bearings.’ There’s a collective good-natured laugh from the crowd as the man downs his pint in one and then steadies himself on the table before hauling himself into an upright position.
‘That suitcase looks heavy enough to house a body,’ the woman continues. Oh God, don’t say that! They’re already eyeing me suspiciously – probably thinking I’m some kind of crazeee looper on the loose, come to their village to strangle them all in their beds as they sleep.
The man strides towards me and hauls the suitcase up over his shoulder in one swift movement. He extends his free hand.
‘I’m Cooper.’ He nods firmly, as if to punctuate the point. Ah, yes, I remember, the butcher with the hog roast.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I quickly pull a woolly mitten off with my teeth and shake his hand. ‘I’m Sybs,’ I finish quietly, but he’s already dropped my hand and turned his back to go in search of a suitable spot in which to deposit the suitcase.
‘Now, where do you want this?’ he yells back over his shoulder.
‘Oh, well, I’ve come to visit Cher, so behind the bar perhaps, for now?’ I suggest, quickly going after him, scanning again and thinking where is she? This is really awkward. They are all still staring at me – and the only sound comes from the pop and whizz of the log fire. I spot the crate next to the bar, stacked high with an assortment of torches and flashlights and deposit my borrowed one on top of the pile.
‘SONNNNYYYYY!’ Jesus, that was right in my ear. Cooper sure has a big, booming voice. And Basil has obviously heard him from outside as he’s now barking like a mad dog – woofing over and over and over. Another guy jumps up.
‘That’ll be the cocker from the country club,’ he says to nobody in particular. ‘Perishing thing is always getting free and roaming around the village like it’s lord of the manor. I’ll herd it up and take it back.’ He heads towards the door with a determined look on his ruddy weather-beaten farmer’s face.
‘Oh, well actually, that could be my Scottie, Basil. He’s tied up securely though,’ I say, shrinking a little inside as they clearly don’t approve of dogs barking late at night. I wouldn’t usually risk leaving Basil on his own outside, certainly not in London where he could get kidnapped in the twinkling of an eye, but I’d figured he was probably safe until I found Cher and could get him upstairs out of the way. Besides, I thought the villagers would all be in bed asleep – I mean, don’t they all have to be up at the crack of dawn to milk cows or something? Obviously not, they’re all in the Duck & Puddle – the shepherd’s second home, theirs too by the looks of it! I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s after eleven. The farmer guy stares at me like I’ve just sprouted another head.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Pardon?’ I blink, wondering what he’s going on about.
‘Leave your dog outside?’ he says, frowning and giving me an up-and-down look.
‘But, I thought—’
‘Get him in quick before he wakes up Mark.’ Who’s Mark? ‘And put him by the fire – he must be freezing half to death, the poor thing.’ Oh God, now they think I’m cruel to animals. He points to a dog bowl brimming with water next to a tartan blanket by a log basket at the corner of the tiled hearth.
‘Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you.’ There’s a little ricochet of chuckles as I dash back outside. How was I supposed to know that dogs were actually allowed inside the pub? And with special provisions too – blanket, refreshments, cosy log fire to bask beside – Basil is going to be in his element.
‘Did someone bellow?’ Clive has appeared behind the bar when I return with Basil. ‘Sybs! Hello darling. What a nice surprise,’ he beams on spotting me. ‘And Cher will be made up to see you.’ He lifts the hatch and motions for me to come through. I smile with relief at seeing a familiar face, and then, as if by magic, everyone starts chatting and laughing amongst themselves, doing normal pub banter – just like a scene from Emmerdale in the Woolpack Inn when the director has just yelled ‘action’. How strange … I feel as if I’ve passed some kind of initiation ritual and that they’ve all relaxed and gone back to whatever it was they were doing before I burst through the door of their local, a stranger in their midst, but it’s all OK – now Clive has verified me, that is.
I take off Basil’s snowy wet coat and settle him in the designated spot by the fire (he instantly looks right at home, sprawled out on the blanket and he’s practically comatose already as he relishes the intense heat) before I head towards Clive. Cooper follows behind, dumping my suitcase in the hall next to a mountain of boxes containing cheese and onion crisps.
‘Thanks, Cooper,’ says Clive.
‘No problem, Sonny.’ And he strides off through to the other side of the bar.
Clive gives me a hug and then steers me through to a cosy private lounge out the back. Once the door is closed and I’m satisfied that the locals can’t overhear us, I give Clive a quizzical look.
‘Er, why is he calling you Sonny?’ I ask in a hushed voice, creasing my forehead. Clive smiles and shakes his head in amusement.
‘Because I’m Cher’s boyfriend.’ Clive shrugs as if it’s the most obvious reason ever, and then he explains. ‘On our first day here, one of the regulars said it for a laugh, you know, as in, “so if our new landlady is called Cher and you’re her fella, then you must be Sonny” and it’s stuck. Now everyone in Tindledale calls me Sonny, as in Sonny and Cher.’ And he belts out a line from their iconic song, ‘I Got You Babe’.
‘Ha ha, of course they do,’ I laugh and give him another hug. ‘And my second question – who is Mark?’ I shake my head.
‘Oh! He’s the local bobby – lives in the police house next door to Dr Darcy who’s the village GP. Mark gets upset if he’s woken up in the middle of the night, hence Pete wanting to get Basil inside quickly,’ Clive explains in a matter-of-fact way.
‘But Mark is OK about you having a lock-in?’ I ask, lifting my eyebrows. I’m surprised; it’s not something Cher usually goes for.
‘Weeeeell …’ He gives me a shifty look and shoves his hands into his jeans’ pockets. ‘Cher isn’t actually here. She’s on a course at Brewery HQ. A last-minute space came up after one of the others dropped out so she jumped at the chance of staying in a hotel for a few nights.’
‘Oh no!’ My heart sinks.
‘But she’ll be back by Sunday afternoon,’ he adds quickly, seeing my face drop. ‘And Mark’s fine about a bit of banter after hours as long he doesn’t know about it, if you know what I mean. Discretion, that’s the key.’ Clive winks and grins before tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. ‘Now, how about I get you a drink before we find you somewhere to stay.’ He rubs his hands together.
‘Er, I thought it was OK to stay here. Cher said …’ My voice trails off and for some ridiculous reason I can feel tears threatening. I push my top teeth down hard on my tongue to focus my mind and stop the tears from tumbling out. I’ve cocked up again. I should never have just rocked up here. What was I thinking? I can’t imagine there’s a Travelodge anywhere in Tindledale so I’m going to have to go back home – which is where I probably should have stayed to face the music in the morning with Mr Banerjee.
‘Hey, of course it is,’ Clive says kindly. ‘Cher has been going on and on about you coming. Like I said, she’ll be made up that you’re here. And it’ll sweeten the blow when she returns.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come and see.’ And Clive pulls open a little timber-slatted door in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed, and after ducking his head under the low frame, he motions for me to follow him up the narrowest, twistiest, higgledy-piggledy stairs I think I’ve ever seen. I feel like Alice in Wonderland as I crouch down and place the palms of my hands on the steps in front of me just to get low enough to climb up to the next floor.
‘Oh dear! I see what you mean.’ We’ve emerged into a tiny, exposed beamed bedroom with a mattress on the floor, one side of which is propped up on a row of wooden blocks next to a window so low and bowed it’s practically a continuation of the carpet. ‘What are they for?’ I point to the blocks.
‘So we don’t tumble away when we’re fast asleep in the middle of the night and end up going through the window.’ He manages a wry smile, but he also has a very good point, because the floorboards slope so severely that there’s every chance this really could happen. ‘We can’t get any of our furniture up those doll’s house stairs. The pub was built in 1706 as a coaching inn originally – even the old stable buildings are still intact. And currently storing all of our furniture, I hasten to add. People were clearly pocket-size in those days.’ He shrugs and pulls a face. ‘We’re lucky to even have the mattress; if it wasn’t for Pete lashing it up tight like a bale of hay, we would have never squeezed it up the stairs. No, we need a new bed, one that can be assembled in situ, as it were.’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘But until then, this is it, I’m afraid. So unless you and Basil fancy bunking down with me on the mattress …’ He laughs, slings a friendly arm around my shoulders, and jiggles me up and down in a big bear hug.
I like Clive, always have. When Cher first met him, he was washing dishes in her parents’ pub in Doncaster to pay his way through catering college, and they’ve been together ever since. He’s so solid and uncomplicated. When I ran out of the church, Cher and Clive arrived at Mum and Dad’s house within moments of me getting there. I learned later that Clive had grabbed Cher’s hand, run her from the church (she was bridesmaid, of course) and driven at breakneck speed to find me. No fuss, just a ‘well, she’s your mate and he’s a wanker’, and he was all for hunting Luke down and giving him a ‘good slap’, but Cher talked him out of it. Yes, Clive is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, and there’s a lot to be said for that. Not like Luke who clearly has very hidden depths. You know, Luke even tried telling me once that he mistook Sasha for me and that’s how the ‘mix up’ had all started in the first place. He snogged her by accident and it ‘sort of went from there’. I didn’t buy it of course – because for starters, our faces may be the same but that’s where the identical twin bit ends these days. And Sasha wears completely different clothes to me – expensive body-con dresses and designer stacked heels to my hand-sewn Renfrew tops or chunky jumpers in winter with jeans and flats. Anyway, Sasha could easily have pushed him away, or laughed it off at the very least.
‘Um, think I’ll pass if you don’t mind. Cher has told me all about your super-loud snoring,’ I play punch his chest, trying to make light of the situation and wondering if perhaps Basil and I could sleep on one of the sofas in the bar. If the villagers ever decide to head back to their chocolate box cottages, that is.
(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
Leaning back against the plum-coloured velvet headboard with Basil snuggled up on a blanket beside me, his front left paw on my thigh as he snores softly, I snuggle into the enormous squishy bed in my ditsy floral-themed bedroom.
After Clive and I had made it back down the tiny stairs and into the saloon bar area earlier, the woman in the poncho, who it turns out is called Molly and has a pet ferret which she walks around the village on a lead – it was under the pub table apparently, and I didn’t even notice – anyway, she’s Cooper’s wife, and she kindly rang the only B&B for miles around. It’s located in the valley on the far side of the village and doubles as a hair salon too, apparently. As luck would have it, there was one room left, and dogs are very welcome, so Pete, who I later found out farms cattle – ‘three fields over near Cherry Tree Orchard which supplies apples to all the major supermarkets’ – loaded me, Basil and my suitcase into the cab of his tractor, I kid you not, and then trundled us all the way down the hill in the snow and right up to the front door that doubles up as the B&B and hair salon reception.
So now I’m wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe trying not to think about the contents of my suitcase. All of my clean clothes, pyjamas, underwear – the whole lot’s soaked in red wine. Ruined. Even my almost-finished knitting project, a lovely little Christmas pudding, is now stained a vivid claret colour and stinks like a barrel of rotten grapes. The top on the bottle wasn’t screwed on properly so had come off and seeped wine into everything. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, in my rush to escape London and the wrath of Mr Banerjee, I left my make-up bag and hairbrush behind on the hall table, so I will now have to spend the whole weekend wearing my super warm, fleece-lined Ho Ho Ho jumper and snow-sodden jeans.
I say good night to Basil and switch off the lamp – the electricity in the village flicked back on, just like magic, as Pete and I left the Duck & Puddle. I was climbing into the tractor when the festive fairy-tale scene literally took my breath away. The pretty red, gold and green Christmas lights twinkling all over the tree on the village green before cascading the length of the High Street, with a grand finale – the cross at the top of the tall church steeple illuminated in silver as if bathing the whole village in a ray of tranquillity and spiritual peace.
I lie in the silent night of the countryside, except for the intermittent ter-wit-ter-woo of an owl and try to let everything wash over me: Jennifer Ford, Mr Banerjee, Mum and her ‘make do with whatever’s left over’ implications, Luke the tool, Star Wars, Princess Leia buns, Chewbacca and, worst of all, the betrayal by my very own twin sister. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive her; men come and go, I know that, but my own sister? How does one deal with that? It’s not as if I can just cut her out of my life! What would that do to Mum and Dad? And it would certainly make things very awkward at family events. But then again, Sasha did this, not me. And I can’t help wondering if she has difficulty sleeping at night too!
I breathe in and out, desperately trying to slow my racing thoughts, in the hope of actually getting to sleep and making it through to the morning without waking up for once. It’s been ages since I managed to get a proper night’s sleep. Soon after the wedding-that-wasn’t, my GP prescribed sleeping tablets, saying they would help with the ‘overwhelming feelings of sadness too’ and they do, a bit, I guess. Which reminds me. I sit bolt upright and switch the lamp back on. Basil stirs before settling again at the end of the bed. I reach over to my handbag and check the inside pocket, but I already know the answer; the packet of tablets are on my nightstand at home. I’ve forgotten them too.
Sighing, I lie back down and focus on breathing in and out, desperately trying to evoke a sense of calm. Basil moves up the bed and snuggles his chin onto my shoulder as if willing me to relax too, but it’s no use. I fidget and plump the pillow over and over, dramatically, like they always do in the films, and resign myself to yet another restless night.
*
Satisfied that I won’t scare the other guests with my appearance – I’ve managed to tease my curls into some kind of normal-ish state, which given that I had to use the flimsy little plastic comb from the complimentary vanity pouch in the bathroom, was never going to be easy – I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab the Tindledale Herald (I must have gathered the newspaper someone had left in the carriage in amongst my stuff when I got off the train last night), pull the bedroom door closed behind me, and head off in search of breakfast. I’ve decided to keep the bathrobe on after flicking through the B&B’s brochure (at about four o’clock this morning when I gave up on trying to actually sleep) and saw a picture of a couple wearing theirs in what appeared to be the dining room. Let’s hope it’s OK, otherwise I’m going to look like a right fool, yet again. An image of me in the Princess Leia dress and buns flashes into my head like a still from a Hammer horror film. I shudder and instantly shove the sorry sight away. Years ago, Cher told me that she read in one of those psychology magazines that a Buddhist monk said it can take a whole year to get over a break-up. Hmm. So by that reckoning I have another five months of these dark thoughts. Oh joy.
‘Welcome to Tindledale.’ A very tall, fifty-something, debonair man with a shaved head, clad in a gorgeous soft grey cashmere cardigan (handknitted) over a checked shirt and chinos, walks over to where I’m standing by the breakfast cereal table. Underneath his stylish black-framed retro glasses, he’s wearing diamanté-tipped lash extensions. ‘I’m Lawrence Rosenberg,’ he says, sounding very polite and stately in an old school gentlemanly way, with the faintest hint of an American accent. He holds out his hand, the nails of which are painted a glorious pearly plum colour.
‘Oh, um, hi, I’m Sybil,’ I say, trying not to stare. It’s not every day you meet a man wearing lashes and nail polish, and it’s certainly not something I expected to find in this sleepy little village from a bygone era. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘Do excuse the …’ He circles an index finger around his face. ‘I’m an actor. I run the Tindledale Players.’ I must look bemused as he quickly adds, ‘Amateur dramatics, musical theatre, that kind of thing. It’s my passion, and we had a dress rehearsal last night for the Tindledale Christmas pantomime – I’m the fairy godmother. In addition to being the scriptwriter and chief gofer.’ He smiles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
‘Well, I think you look fabulous,’ I say, instantly warming to him. He smells of toasted almonds mingled with cigar smoke, and has sparkly blue eyes. ‘How did the rehearsal go?’
‘Thank you.’ He does a gentlemanly bow. ‘Very well, considering we had no electricity in the village hall, so it was very much “he’s behind you” and “oh no he isn’t!”and all the other pantomime catchphrases that we love, albeit by candlelight.’
‘Sounds fun,’ I say, remembering the Brownie pantomimes – Cher and I had loads of laughs one Christmas playing Happy (me) and Dopey (Cher) in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
‘It is. You should come to a show, it’s Puss in Boots and His Merry Band of Santa’s Elves this year and I wrote it myself. Tickets include a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine. First proper performance is a week before Christmas Eve, so not long to go, but we have another dress rehearsal tonight so you’re more than welcome to pop along,’ he says brightly.
‘Oh, I might just do that. If I can bring Basil too,’ I venture, wondering if the same dogs-allowed-in-the-village-pub rule applies to the village hall as well.
‘Sure you can.’ Excellent. ‘And what’s your name, little one?’ Lawrence strokes Basil under the chin.
‘Meet Basil, and thanks for letting him stay too,’ I say.
‘It’s our pleasure to look after you both.’ Ah, how nice.
‘Thank you. And it is OK to wear …?’ I lift the collar of the robe.
‘Of course, anything goes round here, hadn’t you noticed?’ Lawrence says, raising one eyebrow, which makes me smile.
‘And I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I might take him to …’
‘Follow me.’ Lawrence leads the way to a utility room by the back door. ‘You can just pop in here and let him out here whenever he needs to go. Did you bring his food?’
‘Yes!’ At least I remembered Basil’s pouches. I pull one from the pocket of my robe and waggle it in the air as proof.
‘Well done. You’d be surprised at the number of our guests who forget. That’s why I keep an emergency supply in the cupboard; I can’t see the dogs going hungry.’ Lawrence shakes his head and selects two dog bowls from a shelf next to the sink. He fills one with water and places it on the floor before taking the pouch from me and squeezing it into the other. ‘I’ll meet you back in the breakfast room.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I call after him, thinking how nice he is – nothing is too much trouble, it seems.
After Basil has finished eating and had a dash around the garden, we head back to where Lawrence is waiting.
‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down by the window and I’ll fetch you a nice cooked breakfast,’ he says kindly. ‘All the trimmings?’ I nod and grin before making my way over to the oval-shaped two-person table he’s gesturing towards. It has an exquisite festive orange-and-clove pomander arrangement set in a crystal glass bowl, and underneath the table is a faux suede bed for Basil to lie on. Wow, this place is just like a dog hotel.
Fluffing a crisp white napkin over my knees, I gaze out through the big bay window to watch the snow. It’s just started falling again, a light sprinkling like icing sugar, swirling all around as if somebody has just shaken a giant snow globe. I feel a swell of excitement, a magical fairy-tale feeling that only a pristine duvet of crisp, clean, white snow invokes. Untouched, it stretches out before me like a virginal safety blanket across a rolling field and up to an interesting-looking building with a huge circular chimney that has smoke spiralling from it up into the white sky, like candy floss in a breeze. And there’s what looks like an adjoining double-fronted shop. It’s really cute with a little white picket fence around the garden although it seems odd to have a shop in the middle of a field. I can’t imagine they get much business being so far away from the centre of the village.
‘Marvellous view, isn’t it?’ Lawrence is standing next to me, gripping the edge of an enormous dinner plate with a blue-and-white striped tea towel. ‘That’s Hettie’s place you can see. The Honey family have been in Tindledale for centuries and her father used to own the hop farm before he passed away. It was sold on, but Hettie kept the oast and all the land around it. And her House of Haberdashery shop next door, of course.’
‘Oh, it sounds fascinating! I love knitting and needlecraft,’ I say, a surge of excitement rising within me.
‘Then you should call in, I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I don’t think she gets many visitors – which reminds me, I must pop over and see if she needs any groceries. She does a weekly trip on the bus up to the village store, but it’s not quite the same as having Ocado deliver,’ he laughs. ‘Plus, I’ve heard she buys barely enough to feed a sparrow. Please be careful, the plate’s hot,’ he adds, sounding warm and mumsy as he places my breakfast in front of me, and for some bizarre reason that I can’t fathom, tears burst onto my cheeks. ‘Well, this is a first – I know our breakfasts are good, award-winning, in fact, but I’ve not had one evoke this sort of emotion before! Sybs, what’s the matter?’ Lawrence dips down into the chair opposite, concern darting from one eye to the next and back again, both slender hands clasping the tea towel that’s pressed to his chest. He’s clearly not used to his guests crying for no apparent reason, talking of which, a group of ramblers arrive, clad in check shirts and corduroys tucked into chunky knee-length socks (handknitted, by the looks of them). They take one look in my direction and beetle off to a large table on the opposite side of the room before whipping up menus to hide behind. Oh God! And how does Lawrence even know that I like to be called Sybs? He checked me in very quickly last night, seeing as it was so late, saying I probably wanted to get off to bed right away, and as Cooper’s wife, or ‘the funny woman with the ferret’ is what Pete called her, had already vouched for me in any case … well, it was all very laid-back. He didn’t even ask for a credit card to do the usual pre-authorisation checks in case I stayed the night, nicked all the bathroom products and coffee sachets and then ran off without paying. It’s like another world here in Tindledale.
‘Um, I don’t know. I, um, er … just feeling a bit overwhelmed and …’ My voice fades as I think of the plans, the dream I had to have my own haberdashery business just like Hettie. I rummage in my pocket in search of a tissue, getting flustered when I can’t find one. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Lawrence hands me the tea towel instead.
‘Thank you.’ Dabbing at my face with the soft cloth that smells of bluebells, I press it to my nose and inhale. It reminds me of day trips to the forest in springtime, the ground carpeted in a layer of delicately scented flowers that stretched for miles, swinging between my grandparents, one on either side, gripping my chubby, little-girl hands as they whispered tales of fairies and angels hiding in amongst the sun-dappled trees. Feeling happy, loved, and long before Luke and Sasha broke my heart. And Sasha hated those walking trips, preferring to stay at home and look at her pony annuals or whatever. The moment vanishes and I take a deep breath, willing myself to get a grip.
‘Maybe you’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.’ Lawrence reaches a hand across the table to gently pat my arm. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. If you don’t mind me saying, you do look very tired.’ He smiles gently, the corners of his eyes tilting upwards. I manage a half-smile.
‘You’re very kind,’ I say, in a wobbly voice, feeling embarrassed. ‘And I really am so sorry to cry on you like this. I don’t know what came over me.’ I hand the tea towel back to Lawrence before picking up a knife and fork as a diversion tactic.
‘Well, eat up and try not to be sad, you must look after yourself.’ He scrutinises my whole face in one quick scan. ‘And just so you know, I’m here if you ever want to chat. I’m a very good listener.’
Lawrence leaves, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as he goes and I think about what he said as I prong a chubby sausage and cut it in two, before dipping one end into the filmy egg yolk. A complete stranger spotting how tired and fed-up I look. Well, it isn’t good, but I have been feeling so down since everything happened with Luke. And then turning into a recluse and not going out very much, apart from to work and back, and then with all the cock-ups, culminating in the cock-up-to-end-all-cock-ups, well, Lawrence has a very good point. I am tired. Exhausted, in fact, from all the worrying. Which reminds me, I must check online and see if there have been any developments in the hunt for Jennifer Ford or, indeed, Mr Banerjee’s investigation into the ‘bungling employee’.
After finishing the scrumptious breakfast, I put the napkin down, push the chair back and I’m just about to stand up when Lawrence appears again with something hidden behind his back.
‘Now, we’re not going to have any more tears, are we?’ he asks hesitantly.
‘Oh, I hope not.’ I paint a half-smile onto my face. ‘And I really am very sorry about earlier.’
‘Ah, it’s fine. Please, there really is no need to apologise, these things happen. We all get emotional sometimes,’ he says, very graciously.
‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask earlier …’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows inquiringly, ‘how do you know that I like to be called Sybs?’
‘Well, I probably shouldn’t have been so nosey, but I noticed it there on your newspaper.’ I stare blankly. ‘The message.’ And he taps the Tindledale Herald on the table next to the pomander. I pick the paper up. ‘See, right there.’
And I do.
Sybs, give me a try x
There’s even a phone number next to the message that’s scrawled in black marker pen. A feeling flits through me. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. A fluttery, flattering feeling. I glance up into Lawrence’s diamanté-tipped eyes and then cast a glance around the room, half expecting someone with a smartphone to pop out from under one of the tables to Snapchat me and scream ‘gotcha’ in my face. Things like this don’t usually happen to me.
‘Oh.’ I hesitate, unsure of what to say and much to my dismay, I see that my hands are trembling slightly. I really need some sleep.
‘Sorry.’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows in concern. ‘See, you’ve got me at it now. Have I embarrassed you? Only you look a little bit taken aback.’
‘No. Not at all. I – just – I – well, I didn’t see the message before now.’ I shake my head.
‘Not from someone you know then?’
‘No, definitely not. No chance of that,’ I say wryly.
‘Well, this is rather exciting. It’s very flirty,’ Lawrence says.
‘It sure is.’ I quickly rack my brains to work out how it came to be there and then it dawns on me – the guy sitting next to the window on the train. He had a newspaper. Yes, it has to be the guy in the duffel coat with the glasses and nice eyes and the curly hair peeping out from under his beanie hat who didn’t seem to mind when Basil tried to snaffle his Costa cake. Because there wasn’t anyone else in our carriage, which means that he must have left the message while I was sleeping. And he was quite cute. My head goes into overdrive trying to fathom it all out. But what does he mean ‘give me a try’? It’s a bit forward, and with a kiss too. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy to be like that, not at all; he was very unassuming with his polite smile. No, flirty swagger is much more Luke’s style – he was very cocky – I used to think it was cheeky, in an appealing, banter-type way, but looking back now it really wasn’t. Hmm, funny how things can seem so different at the time. Lawrence coughs discreetly.
‘I have to say that it’s very intriguing! Are you sure you don’t know who the message is from?’ Lawrence asks.
‘Weeeeell, there was a guy on the train, but—’
‘Then I urge you to call the number, Sybs! It’s like a modern day Brief Encounter. You must find out who your secret admirer is, but before you do, I thought one of these might cheer you up!’ And he brings a four-tiered wire cake tree out from behind his back. And I gasp. I’ve never seen anything quite so spectacular. It’s bulging with cake – slabs of lemon drizzle, chocolate brownies the size of doorstops, delicate pastel pink and white fondant fancies, sugar-dusted squares of stollen and loads of gorgeous festive red and green cupcakes with jaunty reindeers and snowmen piped over their bulging mounds. And the smell is heavenly; a cocoon of warmth and sweetness surrounds me instantly, lifting my mood another notch.
‘Wow, they look amazing,’ I grin, helping myself to a wedge of stollen, my favourite festive treat, and even Basil stirs from under the table to see what’s going on, his little nose twitching as he licks his lips in anticipation of a cake somehow rolling off the table and into his salivating mouth – ha ha, dream on, Basil! ‘Did you make them?’ I ask, scooping a sliver of icing sugar off with my fingernail before popping it into my mouth.
‘Sadly not. Kitty is the baker in Tindledale.’ He pauses before adding, ‘And some of the other villagers bake too – the WI ladies’ Christmas cake sale in the village hall is legendary and always gets a good turnout, but Kitty owns the café called The Spotted Pig and she takes orders for special occasions and does all the village birthday, christening, and wedding celebration cakes.’
‘Ah, yes, I saw her café yesterday when I first got here. The menu looks amazing,’ I say, remembering the panettone bread pudding and rum custard Christmas special.
‘Oh, you really must try her food while you’re here, it is to die for.’ He stops talking abruptly, and glances away. ‘Oh God, I really shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Is everyone OK?’
A flash of sorrow shoots into his eyes.
‘Yes, yes fine,’ Lawrence shakes his head, sounding flustered. ‘It’s just that, well, the whole village was devastated when it happened, and she’s such a lovely, warm, kind person, and everyone knew him – his family has lived here in Tindledale for generations too, still do – that’s why she moved here, to be closer to them as she doesn’t have any family left of her own.’
‘What happened?’
‘Her husband, Ed, he died, you see. Recently too, and he was only twenty-nine. It was insensitive of me …’ his voice trails off.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, immediately realising what a close-knit community it is here. Back home in London I’m not sure I would even know if my next-door neighbour had died, unless it was Poppy, of course, and even then I might only realise that something was amiss because she hadn’t been downstairs to fetch Basil. ‘Was he ill?’
‘Oh no! No, nothing like that – he was a soldier in Afghanistan. A landmine. It was terrible, he was due home on the Sunday, a gloriously sunny day and the village square had even been decorated with banners and balloons for his homecoming – but then Kitty got the visit – she was pregnant too at the time, with little Teddie. Dreadful, dreadful business it was – she was in the café and the vicar heard her screaming all the way from the pulpit at the far end of the church. He was conducting a wedding rehearsal for Gabe and Vicky from Pear Tree Cottages and they all stopped and ran across the village to the café.’ I clasp my hands up under my chin. Lawrence looks down at the floor. Silence follows.
‘I, um, I don’t know what to say.’ And it’s true. Poor Kitty, I don’t even know her, yet I feel bereft on her behalf. To have the person you love snatched away without a second’s warning … I only have an inkling of what that feels like because when I think of Luke I know it’s absolutely no comparison: at least he’s still alive, even if he doesn’t want to be with me, but in that moment at the altar when I realised, it was as if he had died and taken all my dreams and hopes for the future with him. Disappeared in an instant – just like the flame of a candle snuffed out between a thumb and index finger. And then I remember the column candle burning brightly in the snow beside the memorial. A scratchy sensation forms in my throat as a cold shiver trickles down my back. I wonder if Kitty left the candle there for Ed. Oh God, that’s so sad.
‘Sometimes there just aren’t any words,’ Lawrence sighs and another momentary silence follows. ‘Would you like to take the rest of the cake upstairs?’ I nod solemnly. ‘I’ll get you a plate and bring you up a nice mug of hot chocolate with squirty cream too.’
*
Back in my room, having polished off the truly scrumptious cake and settled Basil on the complimentary dog bed, I lean back in the armchair next to the window and close my eyes for a few seconds, letting my mind wander. Crying earlier, what was that all about? I know I’m exhausted, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling so emotional and then, with Cher not being here, well, it’s another let down, and on top of everything else that’s happened, I’ve just had enough, I suppose. And I need to break out of this rut of sleepless nights – keeping going on practically no sleep doesn’t help, it makes me extra emotional. I have to find a way to stop the dark thoughts and pity parties for one. I want to sleep all night long and feel invigorated and excited about life, and do my knitting and needlecraft for fun, just like I always used to before May the flaming fourth.
Opening my eyes and pushing the chiffon away from the window, I stand up and look out towards the puffy sky and watch the snowflakes sprinkling down like tiny diamonds against an almost Tiffany blue backdrop. The same sky that everyone around the world can see, and it makes me think of all the happy couples doing happy things, and I really want to be happy too – what’s that old adage? Love like you’ve never been hurt. But it’s hard, really hard. I think of Kitty again, and her husband Ed, and how the whole thing with Luke just pales in comparison. And I make my decision. I’m going to call the number on the newspaper. Why not? What have I got to lose? Nobody will know, not even Lawrence if I don’t tell him, especially if it turns out to be a big joke.
And then when I’ve done that, I’m going to venture over to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and see what treats she has in store. I’m going to buy loads of wool and some needles and knit something just for fun, like I always used to, and I might even get the material to start a new quilt. A lovely, cosy Christmassy one. Ha! I could even sell it online. Oh yes I could! I can still have my dream; I’ll just go about in a different way, tweak it a bit and see what happens. And I can worry about Jennifer Ford and Mr Banerjee on Monday morning, but until then I’m choosing happy!
I pick up the newspaper and wander over to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and take a deep breath. OK, I can do this. It’s just a phone call. The number is ringing. One, two, three, four bbrrrrring-bbrrrrrrings. And then I get cold feet and quickly end the call. I sit on the bed. Basil is staring at me with his head tilted to one side as if to say, ‘You big wimp, get a grip, Sybs!’ So I do, and lift the receiver back up. This time I’m going to speak – I’ll just say ‘Hi, it’s Sybs,’ in my best breezy voice, and the man with the kind-looking eyes will say, ‘Hi, I’m so pleased you called,’ and we’ll have a laugh about Basil trying to pinch his Costa cake, and it’ll be brilliant. Yep, of course it will.
The phone stops ringing.
There’s a pause.
And then: ‘Tindledale Books, how may I help you?’
It’s a woman’s voice, which completely throws me, so I promptly slam the phone down.
Basil is right. I am a big wimp – but at least I now know where to find the mystery man from the train.
(#ulink_2053d0c4-c928-5fb0-bd51-0c3d47c6c874)
Invigorated by this key milestone in my as-predicted-by-a-monk year of heartache, I press an index finger down too hard on the brass bell, nearly causing it to shoot right off the reception counter. Luckily, I manage to grab it just in time and I’m carefully placing it back where it belongs, when Lawrence appears through an archway from behind a crimson velvet curtain.
‘OK, OK, where’s the fire?’ he asks, making big eyes and pulling a face. It makes me giggle.
‘Er, no fire, I just wanted to return this.’ I hand him a Clarice Cliff crocus pattern tea plate.
‘Oh, you didn’t need to bother with all that. You’re a guest, just leave it outside the door next time.’
‘Thank you, but I didn’t like to. It’s such a pretty plate. Art Deco. I wouldn’t want it to get damaged.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. I just came off the phone with Sonny – he rang to say that if you want to call in later for your dinner, he’s doing steak and ale pie with hand-cut chips followed by sticky toffee pudding for today’s special.’ It takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking about Cher’s Clive at the Duck & Puddle.
‘Ooh, sounds delicious.’
‘Does, doesn’t it? Very hearty winter food and talking of which, how was the stollen cake?’ He glances down at the crumbs left on the plate as he takes it from me to store under the counter.
‘Mmm, delicious, thank you.’ I smile. ‘Lawrence, I was wondering if you might help me with something.’
‘Of course. Always happy to oblige if I can.’ He pats a stack of tourist information leaflets offering two for one tickets to Santa’s grotto at a garden centre in Stoneley into a tidy pile, before tilting his head to one side and smiling at me encouragingly.
‘I was wondering where the nearest shops are to buy clothes – jeans, underwear, that kind of thing? And some suitable footwear for walking in snow – I wasn’t expecting it and I can’t believe how deep it gets here in the countryside.’ I make big eyes. ‘And I should probably get a mobile phone too; I don’t want to get stranded again with no means of even calling a taxi. And maybe a hairbrush, toothbrush and some make-up because I forgot to bring mine and the stuff that I did remember to bring is ruined after wine spilt all over it and … well, I thought I might go for a wander around the village, maybe pop into the pub for today’s special.’ I smile. And Tindledale Books too! I know I panicked when the woman answered but I’m still intrigued to know why the man on the train, who I’m guessing must be something to do with the bookshop, would leave a flirty message on a newspaper for me, but I can hardly venture out in soaking wet jeans that cling to my legs like a pair of needy toddlers, squelchy Converse trainers and hair that resembles a cuckoo’s nest to find out.
Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.
‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’
‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of Heartbeat so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.
‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.
‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’
‘Brilliant,’ I grin.
‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just £4.’ He gives me a helpful look.
‘I see. And does the bus go from the stop in the village square?’ I ask, wondering if it’s walkable from the B&B. Last night, Pete drove the tractor in a loop round the top of the village, past the country club, before dipping down a long snowy tree-tunnel winding lane, so I’ve kind of lost my bearings a bit. Lawrence slowly places the map down on the desk and nods his head like he’s deep in thought, before lifting the hatch up and walking around the counter until he’s standing square in front of me with his hands resting on his slim hips, and a big kind smile spread across his face.
‘That’s right. Did you spot it on your way here?’
‘Yes, last night, and I met a man – a shepherd, um, er, sheep farmer,’ I correct. ‘He was waiting in the shelter for his wife who gave me a flashlight when she turned up. So kind.’
‘Ah, that would be Lord Lucan,’ Lawrence says with a deadpan face. It takes me a moment to cotton on.
‘Ha ha, you’re winding me up. Come on, I know there’s been speculation for years over the whereabouts of Lord Lucan – I saw the docudrama on TV not so long ago, but I think someone would have noticed if the actual Lord Lucan was hanging out in a bus stop in a snowy rural village late at night,’ I snigger.
‘Don’t laugh, Sybs, it’s true. That’s his name, Lord Lucan. Well, Lord Lucan Fuller-Hamilton to be exact. He and Lady Fuller-Hamilton live in Blackwood House – a breathtakingly beautiful Queen Anne mansion set in the grounds of the Blackwood Farm Estate.’
‘Wow, really?’ Well, it just goes to show how first impressions really can be very deceiving.
‘Yes, really. There’s no grandstanding in Tindledale – doesn’t matter who you are, or if you have an ancestral home here or not, we all rub along together. Did you call the number, by the way?’
‘I sure did,’ I grin, feeling light and enjoying our chat; it’s as if I’m somebody else, or another, more relaxed, version of me and not the tetchy, can’t-be-arsed, worn-out Sybil that I am at work in London.
‘And?’ he asks, looking intrigued.
‘A woman answered and said Tindledale Books, so I hung up.’
‘Why would you do that?’ he frowns.
‘I don’t know – what if she was his wife? Or girlfriend? You never know … she sounded very stern, as if she was far too busy to be trifling with mere phone calls. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that she was quite snappy. I panicked, I guess.’
‘Ah, no need to panic, that’ll just have been Mrs Pocket, a retired headmistress – she ran the village school for years – and you’re right, she is very stern, sits on the parish council, and between me and you, thinks she’s the boss of us all, that someone put her singlehandedly in charge of Tindledale.’ He smirks and shakes his head. ‘She volunteers in the bookshop on Fridays, cataloguing all those musty old books. Lots of them detail the history of the area which she’s very keen to preserve – she’s a stickler for heritage and is into all that family tree stuff. Apparently, she’s charted the whole village and can prove that most of the villagers are actually related in one way or another – going back centuries, of course,’ he quickly adds, ‘that would just be weird otherwise. But I can’t imagine for a single second that she would leave a flirty message on a newspaper. Absolutely not.’ He tuts in a way that makes me stifle another snigger. ‘So that leaves Adam. It has to be him who left the message.’
Lawrence rests an elbow on the counter. ‘Now he is a dark horse. I know hardly anything about him though unfortunately, other than that he bought the bookshop just a few months ago when old Alf Preedy retired and moved into the purpose-built annexe in the garden of his daughter’s house in Stoneley. Adam is very mysterious, keeps himself to himself, and is hardly ever there. One of the Tindledale Playerssaid that he travels a lot searching for rare books – some of the tomes in his collection are worth a mint, apparently.’ He stands upright and folds his arms.
‘Interesting,’ I say, liking the sound of Adam because, after all, there is just something about a man who loves books.
‘So are you going to see him then?’ Lawrence probes, even slipping his glasses off and letting them dangle on the chain around his neck as if to scrutinise me further.
‘Well, I thought I might pop in after I’ve been to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery,’ I say, trying to sound casual and like I do this kind of thing every day – sashay up to secret admirers. Eek! ‘If it’s not too far.’
‘Wonderful. You can walk to Hettie’s from here – the snow has stopped, so perfect timing – and then right opposite Hettie’s is a bus stop; time it right, on the hour every hour, remember, and you can hop on a bus that’ll take you all the way up the hill. Jump off in the village square and you’re right there. How exciting!’ He puts his glasses back on and gives me a quick up-and-down look. There’s a short silence before he adds, ‘Will Basil be OK on his own for a bit? Or you could always fetch him down if you like.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine; he was asleep when I left my room, snoring away – it’s his favourite pastime, apart from eating – why do you ask?’ I say, casually.
‘You’ll see. Give me five minutes – I just need to make a quick phone call to Ruby who has a clothes shop in the village and I’m sure she’ll have something you can borrow to visit Adam in.’ And he disappears behind the curtain. I busy myself by thumbing through a copy of the Tindledale Parish News, a lovely A6 pamphlet; it has a pencil line drawing of St Mary’s church on the front, and costs just fifty pence to buy with profits going towards ‘community projects’. Ah, that’s nice. It has a selection of adverts in the back – chiropodist, handyman, undertaker, Indian takeaway in Stoneley, wedding-dress shop … hmm, on second thoughts … I place the pamphlet back in the rack.
Lawrence returns.
‘Right. Now follow me.’ He grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before gliding me up a small flight of stairs towards a door marked Private Staff Only.
(#ulink_1572a820-aed4-5d1e-8fd3-329cdd7436b2)
Inside, I stand for a moment to take it all in. The scent from an enormous Yankee candle, called Christmas Cookie, floats over from a side table giving a glorious festive welcome to the room. There’s an elegant mink suede chaise longue running the length of one wall that’s covered in framed photos, stills from Lawrence’s stage performances by the looks of it, and a cosy log burner set in the centre with a tiled hearth surround and a pavé chandelier hanging from an exposed beamed ceiling, bathing the room in a glittery sheen. Wow, it’s a pretty impressive hair salon – the Tindledale villagers are very lucky indeed. No need to get the bus, on the hour, every hour, to Market Briar when they can trundle down the lane for a cut and blow dry with Lawrence. And reasonably priced too – there’s a laminated list on the wall and it’s only £35 for a full head of highlights!
The entire length of the opposite wall houses a clothes rack crammed full of costumes for the Tindledale Players, I presume. Agatha Christie-style Thirties silk dresses and fur stoles, Jersey Boy crooner suits and puffy prom dresses – they’re all here. There’s even a plastic watermelon hanging on the end of the rack in a big Cellophane bag.
‘Dirty Dancing! We did the musical in summer 2010.’ Lawrence informs me as I instinctively cup both hands around it.
‘I carried a watermelon!’ I say, and we both laugh.
But seriously, it’s like having a Hollywood dressing room in your back bedroom. A large, open-shelved cupboard is stacked full of shoes, hats and all kinds of fluffy, puffy-looking accessories. In the corner is a sink, a proper hair salon one, the kind you can lie back in to have your hair washed before wafting over to sit in front of the enormous gilt-edged mirror framed in a circle of miniature light bulbs. A shiny glass shelf on the wall to the side of the mirror houses a dozen polystyrene mannequin heads, each displaying a different, seriously big, bouffant-style wig. And the biggest collection of lash extensions I think I’ve ever seen: every conceivable colour, design and sparkly type lash imaginable. Crazy Horse, Paris … eat your heart out; this is serious show girl territory. Moving towards the costumes, I let my fingers trace a line along the exquisite fabrics as I walk the length of the rack.
‘This is amazing.’ My eyes widen and my pulse quickens.
‘Why thank you.’ Lawrence laughs and waves a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Now, settle yourself down and let’s sort your hair out first. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s looking a bit, hmm, well, snowswept.’
‘Is that next up on the scale after windswept?’ I laugh, lifting a limp wedge of sausage curls away from my face.
‘Yes, something like that. I can wash and style it for you if you like. I’m a trained stylist with years of experience – good job too as it was something to fall back on when the acting work dried up, and I used to own a hair salon, many moons ago. That was before I grew tired of having to do everything at breakneck speed and retired to Tindledale for some much needed R&R.’
‘In that case I’d love you to, if you’re absolutely sure?’ I can’t remember the last time I went to the hairdresser’s, certainly not since the wedding showdown because I haven’t really felt like it, but it’s different now. ‘But what about your other guests? Don’t they need you?’
‘You need me more right now.’ Lawrence pats a red leather chair by the basin, and I don’t need telling twice. I sit down and he shakes out a black nylon cape before securing it at the nape of my neck, scooping my hair back and turning the hand shower on. ‘How’s the temperature?’ He lets the warm water gently seep from my hairline and down over my scalp, protecting my face with his free hand.
‘Perfect.’ I close my eyes, savouring the relaxing sensation.
‘Hey, are you sure? You look a little anxious, clutching the armrests like that.’ He moves the water away from my head and I open my eyes.
‘Yes, sorry, I’m fine, honestly. This is such a treat, I just didn’t realise – being tense has kind of become second-nature these last few months.’ I release my grip and place my hands in my lap instead.
‘Ah, I see. Well, then try to relax. You’re going to look great, I promise.’ He brushes his hand over my shoulder reassuringly.
Lawrence finishes and wraps my hair up in an enormous sunshine-yellow fluffy towel.
‘Make-up time, and then I’ll blow out your hair,’ he says, leading me over to a chair in front of the mirror. He opens a drawer as I sit down. ‘Now, shall I do the honours or would you prefer to do your own?’ I open my mouth, and then quickly close it again. In the drawer are billions of pots, tubes and tubs of all kinds of lotions, potions and scrubs. I’ve never seen so many beauty products in one place before, except the beauty hall at Selfridges, but even then I reckon Lawrence’s drawer could be a very serious contender on the hugeness scale.
‘Blimey, that’s quite a collection.’ I smile. ‘I don’t tend to wear very much make-up so I’ll just borrow some blusher and a touch of eye shadow, if that’s OK?’
‘Of course, help yourself and I’ll get some tea. Posh or normal?’ he says, his eyes dancing.
‘Er, what’s posh?’ I ask, hesitantly.
‘Well, we have peppermint, camomile, rooibos, Earl Grey and Lady Grey – now that’s really posh.’ Lawrence cocks an expectant eyebrow.
‘Camomile please.’
‘Good choice. Coming right up.’ He takes a bow, laughing as he leaves the room. I take the opportunity to look more closely at the pictures on the wall – they’re mostly of Lawrence in a variety of Shakespearean-looking costumes; velvet and brocade jackets with big billowy sleeves and a serious look on his face, with famous actors such as Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Helen Mirren. The last one is him hugging Dame Judi Dench and they’re laughing like they’re best pals. How lovely! Lawrence has obviously had a wonderful career.
Lawrence returns a few minutes later with a silver tray holding a teapot, covered in a lovely spotty pink and purple cosy (handknitted), and two fine bone china cups on saucers. ‘To Sybs, and her mysterious secret admirer,’ he says, pouring the tea and handing it to me before carefully chinking his own cup against the side of mine. I glance up at him. ‘Oh dear, what is it? You’re not going to cry again are you?’ he says, pulling a face to lighten the mood.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I say, sipping at the grassy smelling liquid before glancing away.
‘What is it then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I lie. So much for my grandstanding and feeling of lightness earlier on; I’m never going to make it through to the end of my year of heartache at this rate. I’m all over the place, upbeat one minute, then miserable for the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes in the day. And hot, boiling hot; maybe that’s the lack of sleep sending my hormones haywire. Or perhaps it’s just because I’m exhausted. How on earth do parents with new babies function? If I were the Queen, I’d put them all on the honours list followed by a nice long rest in a super king bed somewhere very, very quiet. Or maybe it’s the menopause, come early, just to hack me off even more.
‘Well, it must be something. Tears before breakfast and now you look like you’re bracing yourself for the first day of an IKEA sale instead of Tindledale’s hottest newcomer. Apart from your good lady self, of course.’ He winks and places his cup back on the tray before pulling up a chair alongside me.
‘Ah, thank you Lawrence.’ I manage a smile. ‘You mentioned a doctor earlier?’ I need some sleeping pills because there’s no way I’m going to make it through the weekend without them. This must be how inmates in dodgy prisons feel after months of sleep deprivation torture, only much, much worse.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not ill are you?’ he says, his face clouding with concern.
‘Well, not exactly, not physically anyway.’ I’m not sure a broken heart counts as an actual illness. ‘I’m just finding it hard to sleep at the moment.’ I take another sip of tea before glancing away.
‘And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Oh, I, um, I’m not really used to talking about it.’ And it’s true, I’m not. Cher has tried to make me open up, but I didn’t want to drag her down with my self-loathing and angst and perpetual analysing of my disastrous relationship with Luke. I must have gone over and over our time together a trillion times in my head looking for clues, something I missed, or didn’t do, or did do but did it wrong because if I did screw up, then how do I know the same thing isn’t going to happen again? I’ll go mad and be like Miss Havisham, cloistered away, wringing my hands over yet another ruined wedding breakfast! And let’s face it, nobody likes a Debbie Downer, so I figured it was best just to bury all the dark thoughts into my knitting instead of burdening my best friend with the metaphorical wah-wah-wah of a muted trombone sounding out after everything that comes from my mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ Lawrence says gently.
‘It’s OK.’ I turn to look at him and take a deep breath. ‘It’s just been this way for quite a long time now …’ I hesitate.
‘Go on.’
‘Um, ever since my boyfriend failed to turn up to his own wedding.’ I smile wryly. ‘To me, I hasten to add.’ I pull a face and take another sip of tea, willing my bottom lip to stop trembling – what am I? Five years old? Sweet lord of heartache, I really need to get a grip, I can’t keep crying all over the place.
‘Ouch. Hmm, I guess that would do it.’ Lawrence tuts. ‘Well, it’s his loss!’ He stands up defiantly. ‘You know, I believe in fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, and him not turning up happened for a reason. And do you know what that reason is?’ He has both hands on his hips now and a resolute look on his face.
‘Er, because he wants to be with my twin sister instead of me?’
Lawrence does a double take, then opens and closes his mouth before swallowing hard and carrying on.
‘Because there’s someone far better out there for you! Now, let’s get your slap on so you can go and find him. Trust me, after you’ve clapped eyes on Adam you won’t need a doctor. Oh no. Unless it’s to resuscitate you after you’ve fainted from sheer lust.’ We both laugh. ‘You know, I met my late partner, Jason, on a blind date. Well, kind of, it was a balmy Sunday evening, standing in line for the Saturday Night Fever wrap party at Studio 54. It was 1978.’ He pauses to take a sip of his tea. ‘Yes, back in the day, this was. Anyway, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vision standing right there in front of me, looking resplendent in peach cord flares and a chest-hugging top. He had that whole Shaft thing going on.’ I frown. ‘Oh, never mind, before your time, I guess. Well, I made a beeline for him on the dance floor. You should have seen it, Sybs. It was sublime – a strawberry-hued mural of the man in the moon, with his very own coke spoon twinkling and glistening under the disco lights. Dancing away making history we were.’ He closes his eyes for a second, looking like he’s savouring the nostalgia. ‘I was very young and naive,’ he offers, by way of explanation as I try and picture the scene in my head. It’s hard; I can’t imagine Lawrence ever being naive, not when he seems so assured and worldly wise. ‘So, after a few too many glasses of Midori, we had a snog and a bit of a fumble on one of the balconies, and then he ended up back at mine testing out my new magenta silk sheets. And the rest really is history. Marvellous.’ He drains the last of his tea before placing the cup back down on the tray. ‘Oh, don’t look so scared – you’ll not end up in Adam’s bed, no, this is the sleepy, quaint little village of Tindledale, not NYC in the hedonistic Seventies. Besides, you’re a far nicer girl than I ever was.’ Lawrence winks, and I take another mouthful of tea.
‘Ha!’ I grin, feeling relaxed; it’s great chatting to him and so nice to just hang out and drink tea – it’s been a while. All of my free time recently has been full of dark thoughts, with Basil and my knitting to keep me company. ‘It seems strange to be talking about dating, when not so long ago I assumed I’d be married by now and, well … that would be that. Sorted. I guess.’ I shrug.
‘I bet it does. But lots of marriages don’t turn out the way they were intended to. You know, Jason had a wife for a while. She lives in Australia now!’ Lawrence says casually.
‘Really? Wow!’
‘Yes, Queensland, which is just so ironic when you think about it.’ He pauses to muse. ‘She went there when he eventually mustered up the courage to jump out of the closet, and confess all. Years ago this was, but she’s happily partnered now to a used-car salesman and they have three gloriously tanned grown up children together – she still sends me birthday cards every year, which is very lovely of her. We’re the best of friends and she was such a comfort to me when Jason went to the big Studio 54 in the sky.’ Lawrence smiles contemplatively.
‘Well … that’s refreshing,’ I say, thinking how incredible Jason’s wife must be and wondering how I might have felt if Luke had turned around and said that he much preferred men to me, after all. Although I actually think that may have hurt less than him jilting me at the altar for my twin sister. I’m convinced the feeling of hurt would have been lessened if he’d left me for a stranger, man or woman, and it still cuts me up inside that my own sister could do that to me. ‘And I’m sorry to hear about Jason. Do you miss him very much?’
‘I do. Every day, but it was inevitable, I guess; he was quite a bit older than me and not in the best of health towards the end. It was very peaceful though and just as he wished, at home with me,’ Lawrence explains. ‘My sadness is for him really, that he didn’t come out sooner and get to live as he truly wanted to for more of his life.’
‘But he had you and your life together. I’m sure that made him very happy,’ I say softly, and Lawrence leans forward to pat the top of my hand. A short silence follows as we both sit with our respective thoughts.
I finish my tea and start dabbing a smoky eye shadow into the crease of my eyelid.
‘Now that’s a perfect colour on you. A touch of mascara, maybe, or how about some Cheryl lash extensions?’ Lawrence asks.
‘Cheryl?’ They sound fascinating.
‘Yes, here. That’s the name of them.’ And he reaches into the box and pulls out a dainty pair of feathery lashes. ‘The nation’s sweetheart – you know, Cheryl Cole, or Fernandez-Versini or whatever her name is now. Exquisite, isn’t she? And a phenomenal performer too – the young girls in the Tindledale Players are always trying to emulate her moves up on the stage of the village hall. But I’m not sure the villagers are quite ready for a panto with added grind just yet. And you’re going to look just like her.’ He smiles.
‘Ha! Hardly.’
‘You’re not a million miles away. Such a cracking figure and pretty face you have.’
‘Yeah, right. Only she’d fit twice over into my body, possibly three times, and I’d need a whole factory full of hair serum to smooth out my bushy barnet,’ I say, wondering again how Sasha, my so-called identical twin, always seems to manage to get her curls transformed into a poker straight and glossy sheet falling down her back with never a hair out of place.
‘Nonsense, don’t put yourself down. Now, do you want to try the lashes? We can always trim them if you think they’re too much.’
‘Er, I’m not sure, I don’t want to look too …’ I pause to choose my words carefully, not wanting to upset him, especially as he’s batting his diamantés at me pleadingly, ‘spectacular,’ I settle on.
‘Wonderful. I’ll just pick out a few for the corners and then you’ll look totally natural. Trust me, you’re going to love it; they’ll be tossing rose petals wherever you walk when I’m finished with you,’ he says in a very grand actorly style voice. Then, chuckling and shaking his head, he busies himself with gathering the equipment together.
‘OK then,’ I nod, with only a hint of apprehension after such a glowing guarantee. But I needn’t have worried; because when I open my eyes and look into the mirror it’s like a mini miracle. My whole face looks open and bright – even my eye bags have practically disappeared. And it feels so good. ‘They’re incredible. And subtle too,’ I tell him. I’m impressed. Grinning at myself in the mirror, I flutter my new lashes admiringly as I turn my head from side to side to get a better look from all angles. Then I reach up and give Lawrence a quick squeeze.
‘Thank you, I love them.’
‘Told you. Now, hair time.’ And he darts around behind the chair, whips the towel from my head and starts combing through. ‘Big?’ he asks, widening his eyes hopefully and holding a length of my hair out sideways, letting the comb hover in mid-air.
‘OK. But not too big, I don’t want to look like Beyoncé about to go on stage as I walk down Tindledale High Street.’
‘Point taken.’
Using a big cylindrical brush, Lawrence funnels the hot air from the hairdryer down and around sections of my hair before teasing the brush free and scooping up another section and repeating the process all over again, each time gathering speed.
‘Voila! How’s that for madam,’ he eventually declares, grabbing a round mirror and holding it behind my back. I twist my head to get a better look, loving how he’s managed to get my bedraggled, snowswept curls cascading in a way I’ve never managed to before.
‘Oh, Lawrence I love it.’ I stand up and give him a hug.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says modestly, ‘as our Chezza says, it’s because you’re worth it.’ He hugs me back and then takes both my hands in his and squeezes them gently. ‘And don’t you ever forget it.’ He pulls a stern face, pretending to chastise me. I look into his eyes, thinking what a lovely, kind man he is. I’m so glad I came to Tindledale – I would never have met him otherwise. Maybe Cher not being here happened for a reason too – not that Lawrence is better than Cher, just different, and exactly what I needed today.
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Alexandra Brown
Can wacky Christmas jumpers really mend a broken heart? A classic Christmas Cracker from the bestselling author of The Secret of Orchard CottageHeartbroken after being jilted at the altar, Sybil has been saved from despair by her knitting obsession and now her home is filled to bursting with tea cosies, bobble hats, and jumpers. But, after discovering that she may have perpetrated the cock-up of the century at work, Sybil decides to make a hasty exit and, just weeks before Christmas, runs away to the picturesque village of Tindledale.There, Sybil discovers Hettie’s House of Haberdashery, an emporium dedicated to the world of knitting and needle craft. But Hettie, the outspoken octogenarian owner, is struggling and now the shop is due for closure. And when Hettie decides that Sybil’s wonderfully wacky Christmas jumpers are just the thing to add a bit of excitement to her window display, something miraculous starts to happen…
Copyright (#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2014
Copyright © Alexandra Brown 2014
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://www.shutterstock.com)
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Map © Nicolette Caven 2014
Alexandra Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007597369
Ebook Edition © November 2014 9780007597376
Version: 2016-12-14
Dedication (#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
For my Nanny Edie
Who always loved a good knit and natter session xxx
‘In the rhythm of the needles there is music for the soul.’
– Anonymous
Contents
Cover (#u06356826-0d3d-537e-864e-c3d7223f2df5)
Title Page (#u66f7b549-b395-5221-b749-015a295c57ed)
Copyright
Dedication
Map (#u78ac2b96-fc29-59bf-a20a-0d3ee6f3b5ed)
Epigraph (#u824c9ad4-93db-5890-97bc-9eae5b25ec7d)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading Not Just for Christmas (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Also by Alexandra Brown
About the Publisher
Prologue (#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
Hettie Honey picked up a lovely lavender lace weight that a customer had abandoned by the till after pondering for what seemed like an eternity that, actually, it wasn’t the right shade of lavender after all. She then walked across the shop floor of her House of Haberdashery to repatriate the ball into its rightful place – a wooden, floor-to-ceiling cabinet comprising twenty-four cubbyholes inset over three shelves crammed with every colour, ply, and type of yarn imaginable. Hettie smiled wryly, remembering the programme she had listened to on the radio not so long ago. Knitting! It was all the rage nowadays and she hoped it would finally catch on in Tindledale, her beloved picture-postcard village and Hettie’s home for the eighty-three years of her life to date. She ran the timber-framed, double-fronted shop adjacent to the wisteria-clad roundel of the oast house her father had built before she was even born.
Hettie lifted the tray on which sat the last remnants of her afternoon tea; a cheese sandwich minus the crusts because her teeth weren’t as strong as they used to be plus a pot of tea and a pink iced finger that had only cost ten pence on account of being past its best. Kitty, in the tearoom up on the High Street, had tried to give her the bun for free, but Hettie hated taking charity, especially when she felt there were other people in far more need. Hettie moved to the back of the shop, swept the curtain aside and went through to the little kitchenette area. Years ago this had been her mother’s sewing room, and the wooden Singer machine with its rickety foot pedal still lived there, with a multitude of multi-coloured bobbins all piled up high on the shelf behind it.
After placing the tray on the draining board next to the age-veined Belfast sink and carefully wrapping the crusts in clingfilm to dunk into her warming homemade soup the following afternoon, Hettie picked up the picture frame on the mantelpiece above the fire and ran a finger over the faded black-and-white autographed photo. She allowed herself an enormous sigh. She wasn’t usually one for self-pity or hand wringing, but another one of the letters had come this morning, with FINAL DEMAND stamped across the top in ugly red type. Business had been so slow these past couple of years, and now, with her dwindling savings and pittance of a pension, she had come to realise that it was going to take a darn miracle this Christmas for Hettie’s House of Haberdashery to remain afloat come the new year.
There had been talk of retirement; of closing down the House of Haberdashery; of putting her feet up and going ‘into a home’. Hettie’s nephew, her brother Harold’s son and last of the Honey family line, was all for it. On one of his rare visits, on the pretext of seeing how she was, he’d told Hettie he was concerned about her living on her own, that she needed the rest and that ‘it’s not like you’ve got that many customers these days, is it?’ He said he’d make sure she had her own bedroom or at the very least, a twin sharer. ‘And besides, it might be nice for her to have the company of people her own age.’ He’d put forward a strong case and had already contacted the council to enquire about a suitable place. But Hettie wasn’t losing her marbles and she knew that what he was really after was to bulldoze her beloved home – the oast house surrounded by a meadow of pretty wild flowers, and the place where she grew up. There’s her cosy bedroom suite, set upstairs in the roundel with its magnificent view of the valley, the lovely farmhouse kitchen with the walk-in pantry, the sunroom, the snug – it’s got the lot, and that’s on top of all her memories wrapped within its circular walls. Not to mention her beloved little shop, right next door, crammed full of all her favourite knitting and needlecraft goodies.
Then he’d be able to get his hands on the land for one of his building projects. He’d told her all about the one with ample parking and plastic windows that his company had created in the town where he lived, over fifty miles away. Seventeen months it had taken, he’d said, to fight all the objections from the local residents’ association, and he had puffed on about it for the entire hour of that tedious visit. But Hettie isn’t ready to be written off; to be carted away to an old people’s home like a nag to a glue factory, not when there is plenty of life still left in her sprightly body. Besides, ‘going into a home’ would mean leaving Tindledale behind, and Hettie knows more than anything that this is where her heart belongs. It always has, even when she’d had the chance of a different life, far, far away.
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Three weeks until Christmas …
I stare at the radio mounted in the dashboard of my clapped-out old Clio as I negotiate a particularly icy corner off Lewisham High Road. Jennifer Ford! Did the London FM newsreader guy just say Jennifer Ford had absconded? I wasn’t really paying attention, but I know that name. F-O-R-D, the woman had even spelled it out for me, as in Harrison Ford, that’s what Jennifer had said. It was about a month ago, and I had shuddered, which is hardly surprising given my monumentally embarrassing showdown at the altar of my own Star Wars-themed wedding just six months previously. I’m still cringing. 4 May it was, obviously. Luke, my ex – and for the record, a massive tool, I know that now, it’s just a shame I didn’t know it then – anyway, he thought it would be a brilliant idea to have ‘May the fourth be with you’ in big swirly gold lettering on the wedding invites. He was literally leaping over the proverbial moon when we managed to secure the date with the church. So why then didn’t he turn up?
Jilted at the altar! That’s me. I’m the woman none of us ever wants to be. Stood there in a floaty neck-to-toe white hooded dress, complete with Princess Leia buns, having opted for the pin-on ones after my unruly red curls had refused to get involved, the realisation dawning that he wasn’t actually going to turn up. A no-show. And that’s when I knew, really knew, what had been going on, because Sasha, my identical twin sister and far more glamorous than me – even her name is bursting with va-va-voom compared to my Sybil – wasn’t there either. To be honest, I think I had known, deep down, in the weeks and months leading up to the wedding that something wasn’t quite right. But I had chosen to ignore it – or perhaps that’s the whole purpose of hindsight: its job is to protect you, to let you be obliviously happy for just a while longer before the reality swoops in to deal a cruel, mean blow.
I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, which forms a miniature Australia-shaped mist on the windscreen. Sasha, golden and gregarious, the pony club princess to quirky and creative me, hadn’t wanted to be a bridesmaid, citing a desire for not wanting to steal the limelight away from me on my big day. Ha! Instead she stole my husband-to-be. Turns out Luke had always had a bit of a twin fantasy thing going on in his head and had decided to make it a reality – they had been having a secret ‘thing’ for ages. I don’t know all the details, I really don’t want to, and I haven’t spoken to either of them since …
So, after wrenching the Princess Leia buns from my head, I had flung them into the crowd and run from the church, narrowly managing to avoid body slamming into a late-arriving, over-furry Chewbacca as I burst out through the doors and into the sanctuary of the waiting tour bus. Yes, another one of Luke’s brilliant ideas, a big bastard 48-seater with STAR WARS: May the fourth be with you, love Sybs and Luke emblazoned down both sides for the whole world – well, the greyest part of London and beyond at least – to witness my humiliation. And I’ll never forget the look on my parents’ faces: disappointment mixed with embarrassment. I had let them down in front of all their friends. Even the flower girls were crying because the party was over before it had even started and I had promised them the DJ would do a special One Direction medley during the disco. I felt like an utter failure! And still do, a lot, to be honest.
I park the Clio and give the door an extra-hard slam with the full force of my left Converse trainer before picking my way through the dirt-stained leftovers from this morning’s sleet storm and making my way down the path to my basement flat, deftly sidestepping the cracked paving slabs and trying really hard to ignore the mounting swirl of unease in my stomach. Maybe I’d misheard the newsreader. Let’s hope so, because the Jennifer Ford I’d dealt with at work wouldn’t take £42,000 in housing benefit wrongly credited to her bank account and blow it on a crazeee trolley dash around Westfield shopping centre, and then be daft enough to post the pics of the shopping hauls across her multiple social media channels, would she? No! Of course she wouldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, as I negotiate the crumbly old steps, push the key into the front door, retrieve the post from the mat and give Basil, my bonkers black Scottie dog, a stroke as he dashes to greet me with an expectant time-for-dinner look on his whiskery face.
It’s Thursday evening and I’ve just finished work at the housing department of the local council office. I flick the switch to illuminate the miniature Christmas tree on my hall table and read the note from the dog sitter.
Basil had a lovely time today. Went for a run around the park followed by a long snoring snooze on my sofa lol. Sorry, I know you’re trying to train him to keep off the furniture but he’s just too cute, I couldn’t resist a cuddle during Judge Judy. I’ll try harder tomorrow.
Love, Pops xxx
Ah, Poppy is a godsend and I don’t know what I’d do without her. After Luke left (he used to take Basil to work in his electrician’s van) I very nearly had to rehome Basil, because I couldn’t face leaving him on his own all day. Then Poppy moved in upstairs and she loves dogs but can’t have one as she works nights as an administrator at one of the big law firms in the City, so she jumped at the chance to look after Basil when I’m at work.
I press the button on the landline phone’s answer machine – I actually ventured out last night with a few friends, a bit of a rarity since the 4 May showdown, and then didn’t have time to listen to my messages this morning. We’d gone to a Zumba class – so not my thing. My backside feels as if it’s been pummelled by a trillion pygmy goat hoofs, and I really must get a new mobile, although it’s been rather liberating being without one: no sneaking a peek at Luke’s Facebook whenever the fancy takes me, or sending drunken texts only to agonise over them the following morning. I had hurled my old phone from the window of the Star Wars’ bus somewhere on the M4 on the way back to my parents’ bungalow in Staines when Sasha had called to ‘apologise’ with promises of ‘making it up to me’ and explanations of it ‘just happened’, all of the clichés rolled into one big ball of crushing heartbreak.
In keeping with tradition, I had stayed with Mum and Dad the night before the wedding and, after gathering up Basil and my special ‘going away’ clothes, I’d beaten a rapid retreat back here to my flat, called a locksmith, and had the Yale lock changed. At least Luke had had the good grace to have already cleared his gear out before I got home, saving me the job of dumping it all in next door’s skip. Although he did forget to cancel his Star Wars magazine subscription, so I store them under the kitchen sink to use when Basil sicks up grass, which I have to say is really rather satisfying. Especially the time the magazine came with a free Luke Skywalker plastic figurine: Basil and I played fetch with it until he’d had enough, bit Luke’s head off, chewed up his body and spat it out in disgust. High five, Basil!
After deleting all of Sasha’s latest apology messages without listening to them – I can always tell them apart; there’s a delay, then a bit of background noise, muffled voices (her and Luke, I presume), lots of shushing followed by the sound of her clearing her throat in preparation for yet another one of her convoluted ‘explanations’ – there’s a message from Mum.
‘Sybil. How are you, darling? Just checking to see if you’re still alive, only we haven’t heard from you for a couple of days …’ cue a short, nervous laugh, ‘and Dad was wondering if you’d like to join us for a pre-Christmas lunch soon. Help us all to really get into the festive spirit before we board the Majestic for the Christmas break. Are you sure you can’t come too? I think they still have a few cabins left, inside lower deck ones only, mind you.’ Her voice drops, just in case the neighbours are listening, I guess. Mum is very Hyacinth Bucket when it comes to keeping up appearances. ‘But still, leftovers are better than nothing, dear, and beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?’ I breathe in before exhaling a looooong calming breath, wondering when exactly it was that I became a ‘beggar’. ‘Won’t you be very lonely on your own?’ ‘What about your turkey dinner with all the trimmings?’ Cue a short silence before she changes tack. ‘We could invite Gloria from next door to lunch, the one with the handsome son who is a barrister with his own chamber! Fancy that.’ She pauses momentarily to draw breath. ‘And such a lovely fellow! Wouldn’t it be marvellous if he—’
I press the button to skip to the next message. I know she means well, but I really don’t want to spend Christmas on a cruise ship packed full of people twice my age and beyond, while Mum tries to fix me up with a ‘leftover’ man or, worse still, Ian, the barrister, named after Ian Botham, the cricketer, but with a face like a moon landing, all craters and scars. We went to the same school and, a fellow horse lover, he dated Sasha for a while during sixth form and they rode together and showed off together in all the gymkhanas. After the end-of-year disco, he got hammered and then lunged at me for a snog, thinking I was Sasha. If that wasn’t bad enough, he says things like ‘giddy up’ in a ridiculously plummy voice instead of ‘hello’ like everyone else, which is fine if you’re astride a stallion and starring in a period drama or whatever, but he isn’t, and therefore doesn’t sound cool, just plain daft.
I unwind my most recently completed project from my neck, an extra-long, super-chunky knitted scarf with a tassel trim in Kermit green, and loop it over the banister before moving on to the next message.
‘Sybs, babe, it’s me, Cher. Listen, you have to see this new pub I’ve landed.’ Ah, she’s there already. Last time we spoke Cher was still waiting to hear from the brewery about where they wanted to send her next. ‘It’s called the Duck & Puddle and gorgeous is a massive understatement. The village is just like something out of The Darling Buds of May and the locals – well, where have you ever heard of someone welcoming you with a whole hog to roast as a housewarming present? Tindledale, that’s where! No joke. Cooper, he’s the village butcher, came in yesterday with the pig flung over his shoulder, slapped it on the bar and said, “There you go, love! I’ll send the lad over later to set it up on the spit roaster for you.” So you’d better visit soon as I now have hog roast baps coming out of my ears. Bring Basil too, I know he’s partial to pork.’ She laughs warmly while I remember the time Basil stole a whole stuffed pork belly joint, and I had only turned my back for a few minutes to lay the table for our Sunday lunch. ‘Ooh, better go, babe, nearly last orders.’ And the message fades to the sound of very jolly pub banter with Cher bellowing, ‘Time to drink up, ladies and gents’ over the ding-a-ling of a ringing hand bell.
I smile. Cher, short for Cheryl, is my oldest and dearest friend. She and I first met at Brownies after her publican parents took over the local pub, ‘a step up’ they had said, having come from a proper boozer in London’s East End. By the end of Girl Guides, we were inseparable. Sasha was never keen on going, much preferring the Pony Club, but I loved it – all those craft badges to collect, just my kind of thing. Cher and I grew up together in the Home Counties town of Staines, until she moved away and her parents ran a number of pubs up North before retiring to the Lake District. Cher and I have always kept in touch and I’ve stayed with her and her husband, Clive, in many of the pubs she’s managed over the years. The last one was in the pretty seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. The Hook, Line and Sinker it was called, and she did such a good job with it that the brewery asked her to go and rejuvenate this new one. Clive is a chef, so he spends most of his time in the kitchen or standing out the back by the industrial wheelie bins with a fag on the go, putting the world to rights with whichever of the locals are his new best drinking buddies.
I take off my coat and saunter through to the kitchen. After dumping my bag on the counter, I flick on the kettle before reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard to retrieve the biscuit tin, stashed up high in a vague attempt to curtail my sugar addiction, but it never seems to work. Well, it did for a bit, when I had a wedding to get ready for, but not now. I choose a Jammie Dodger and bite into its gooey sweet loveliness before firing up my laptop and typing Jennifer Ford absconded in to Google.
The kettle boils so I swiftly make a mug of Wispa hot chocolate and it’s just reaching the crackly, popping stage of the stirring process when an article posted just a few hours ago appears on the screen.
A young mum who went on a spending spree after a bungling council official accidentally deposited £42,000 in her bank account has disappeared. Police are trying to trace Jennifer Ford, who was last seen boarding a plane to Las Vegas dressed in designer gear including £350 Gucci shades and seven-inch Louboutin stacked heels.
With sweaty palms, I swig the hot chocolate, scalding the roof of my mouth in the process. Ouch! I scroll down further. And there she is. Jennifer Ford. My mouth drains of saliva. It’s her. Definitely her. The woman whose claim I processed. Even with her new, superimposed, here’s-what-she-might-look-like-now picture, complete with long, butter-blonde hair extensions, which the article then details were acquired from a ‘top salon in London’s swanky West End, mainly frequented by celebrities’. Oh good-o, I shall rest easy armed with this important piece of trivia. Not. But part of me is thinking: good on you, Jennifer, I’m not sure I could resist such an enormous windfall, but then … what about the consequences? Surely there are laws about spending money that isn’t yours, even if it has been paid into your very own bank account? I gulp, and try to ignore the hammering of my heart as I speed-read on.
A council spokesman has vowed to conduct a full investigation to ensure the bungling employee is identified and reprimanded for irresponsibly giving away such a huge sum of taxpayer’s money.
And there, right in the middle of my laptop screen, is a picture of my boss, Mr Banerjee, with his arms crossed and a furious look on his face. He’s even wearing his serious black turban, and not his usual, colourful orange everyday one.
A wave of nausea crashes right through me and I actually think I might be sick. The kitchen sways slightly so I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. What am I going to do? This has to be the cock-up to end all cock-ups, and I should know – I’ve had a few, and that’s not including the wedding fiasco. Since 4 May I’ve been reprimanded several times at work by Gina, the team leader, mainly for trawling the internet looking at knitting websites as a way to relieve the tedium of my boring job. The plan had been for me to marry Luke and then work from home – it was even his idea – because, he said, it made sense if we were to start a family. I’d be self-employed; I’d get to embrace my passion for knitting and needlecraft and see if I could make a proper go of it. I would take orders online at first and then, if it took off, I’d look for a shop, somewhere on-trend – like nappy valley, aka Clapham, where there are loads of people who love to create one-off masterpieces.
I had it all mapped out. But that dream has gone now, along with my heart, which shattered into a trillion tiny fragments on that day in the church. I swallow the last of the hot chocolate in an attempt to shake off the pity party for one and delve into my bag to retrieve my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’mthe bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!
I dart through the archway into my tiny lounge and slump down in the armchair. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNIT ONE PURL ONE, KNITONEPURLONEKNITONEPURLONE! And on it goes, faster and faster and faster and faster until the prancing reindeer tea cosy is finished in record-breaking time, and my hands have fused themselves into the shape of an ancient Chinese woman’s lotus feet.
I take Rudolph into the boxroom and place him on the bookshelf next to the others. Twenty-seven tea cosies in total. Not to mention all the other shelves housing the numerous bobble hats, cardies, scarves, mittens and jumpers. My boxroom is jam-packed with knitted goods. But what can I say? I’ve had a lot of dark thoughts, and all of the sad feels, recently …
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I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.
‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.
Keep calm and carry yarn.
That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.
Of course, I didn’t mention the cock-up to end all cock-ups at work and that I’m actually running away because right now I just can’t deal with any more stress. Only for a long weekend, mind you, but enough time to give myself some space to figure out what to do and come up with a strategy. It’s a chance to breathe, and I don’t feel as if I’ve done that properly since the ‘wedding that never happened’. Besides, Mum will only panic about everyone finding out that I’m the bungling employee. Plus, I don’t want Sasha knowing. I feel so betrayed by her and the last thing I want is her knowing that I’ve messed up at work and could potentially lose my job too, in addition to the boyfriend that she stole from me. She’s always wanted what I’ve had; as children she’d want the toy that I’d been given, even though it was exactly the same as hers, and she’d make me swap. As we’ve got older, I’ve often felt that she thinks she’s better than me, more successful, just because she travels and has a full-on social life. It’s well known within the family that she thinks my job and passion for knitting and needlecraft is dull – ‘provincial’ is what she said on one of the rare occasion we were last all together – and I think she secretly feels the same way about our parents too, in their bungalow in the cul-de-sac in Staines – they and it are just not glamorous or exciting enough for Sasha.
Not that Mum and Dad are in constant communication with her; in fact, since May the fourth they’ve been extremely diplomatic and have kept her very much at arm’s length, which I guess is fairly easy given that Sasha spends most of her time gallivanting around, organising spectacular events for her fabulously famous and wealthy clients in places like Dubai, and not forgetting her annual charity event here in the UK – the Christmas hunt ball – because she likes to ‘give a little back’ as she says, to the horse community that helped launch her career. It’s how she came to be such a successful event planner in the first place: she started out by organising pony shows and polo parties for well-heeled people who recommended her to their even wealthier friends, who make up her glittering client portfolio. And now she’s being fabulous all over the place with my ex-fiancé in tow, no doubt. Well, good riddance to them, I rally, mustering up a modicum of resilience. I wonder if Sasha has discovered Luke’s penchant for farting under the duvet yet?
The Duck & Puddle number rings for what seems like an eternity before I hang up – I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s just after 7 p.m. – Cher is obviously busy and I imagine the bar area is noisy so maybe nobody can hear the phone. I try her mobile, but it doesn’t even ring, it goes straight through to the ‘person can’t take your call …’ message. Anyway, it’ll be fine; Cher said to visit, so it’ll be a nice surprise for her and I’ve already called work – well, luckily Gina’s mobile went straight to voice mail too, so I left a message to say that since I have a migraine coming on and quite possibly a temperature, but I haven’t actually confirmed this as I don’t have a thermometer (Gina can be very pedantic), it was looking highly unlikely that I’d make it into work tomorrow. Not strictly a lie, as I really do have a headache, an anxiety one, and I’m starting to sweat in this furry hood and bobble hat. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that right now I’m one very hot mess!
*
An hour later, the train to Tindledale is just about to depart – the last direct one, luckily, which arrives at 10.39 p.m. After that, you have to go to Market Briar, the nearest big town, and get a taxi or a lift on a tractor apparently, ‘so don’t be planning any big late nights out while you’re there’, is what the man in the ticket office chortled when I told him where we were heading.
Basil settles at my feet after giving up on trying to snuggle on the seat beside me. A guy in a black duffel coat and a grey beanie hat (definitely machine-knitted) is sitting by the window in the bank of seats adjacent to me, reading a newspaper; he looks up and gives me a courteous smile. I smile back and instantly notice his kind-looking emerald eyes behind black-framed glasses which accentuate the stubbly dark beard and curly hair peeping out from under the sides of his hat. This is only a recent thing, noticing men. After being in a relationship for five years with a man that I was certain I’d marry, it still feels weird looking at other guys in a snog/marry/avoid way, as Cher would say. I guess, it just isn’t something I’m used to; I really loved Luke, so it didn’t ever cross my mind to notice other men, and then, after everything that happened … well, let’s just say that it’s taking me time to reprogram my head to an ‘I’m single’ status.
‘Basil!’ I yell as he darts across the carriage and goes to swipe the guy’s Costa cake from a napkin on the table. I dive-bomb Basil just in time. ‘I’m so sorry, anyone would think he was starving, which he certainly isn’t,’ I say, grinning apologetically to the guy. I grab Basil’s collar and swiftly pull him back. Luckily, the guy laughs and shrugs it off, before moving the cake to a safer spot and lifting his newspaper back up.
A few minutes later, an older lady, sixty-something perhaps, arrives through the door of the adjoining carriage and sits opposite me.
‘Ah, he’s a fine-looking lad. What’s his name?’ she asks in a country accent as she glances down at my feet. ‘And what a superb coat he has on.’
‘Thanks, he’s called Basil.’ I smile, straightening Basil’s festive red knitted body warmer before unzipping my parka. Basil lifts his head on hearing his name so I give him a quick stroke. He laps it up before resting his chin back on my right foot.
‘Well I never, that was my late husband’s name, God rest his soul, and I haven’t heard it in a while, I must say! Is it significant to you too?’
‘Um, yes, I’m called Sybs, well, Sybil really. My friend, Cher, she came up with his name on account of—’
‘Oh yes, I know it! From the TV series, Fawlty Towers, it was so funny. Basiiiiiiiiiiil,’ she bellows, taking me by surprise. ‘That’s what his wife, Sybil, used to holler – it was a standing joke with my Basil and I. He always laughed when I did it to him.’ Her eyes close momentarily as she reminisces.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say gently.
‘Oh, thank you, love, but it was a very long time ago and he certainly had a good innings. I’m on my second husband now, met him a year ago on a coach tour to Portofino. Colin was the driver,’ she chuckles, ‘and fourteen years younger than me. I’m Dolly, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dolly.’ I smile, loving her zest for life, and Dolly chuckles and winks before loosening her coat and removing her fur hat.
‘You have the right idea, Sybs, it’s mighty warm in this carriage, that heater is churning out the hot air.’ She frowns, pointing at the panel beside us.
‘It sure is,’ I say, slipping off the parka.
‘Cor! That’s a beauty. Knit it yourself?’ She nods at my Christmas jumper.
‘Oh, um, yes I did. Thank you!’ I beam and cast a glance down at the fleece-lined chunky red knit with Ho Ho Ho emblazoned across the front in sparkly yarn, and each Ho a different colour. The heater in the Clio is so temperamental that I wasn’t taking any chances on freezing to death during the long drive to Tindledale and this is the warmest jumper I’ve ever made, but then, when the taxi turned up right away, I didn’t have time to get changed into something more suitable for a steamed-up train journey.
‘You have a real gift. I could never get on with knitting.’ Dolly shakes her head and I smile politely, unable to imagine a life without knitting. Knitting has never let me down: it soothes me, comforts me, excites me, calms me – it’s multifaceted and it means so many things to me. It may sound silly, but all of my knitting projects have memories attached too: I can swing a silver pashmina around my shoulders, knitted on holiday in Ibiza, and it instantly puts me right there on the sandy beach under a parasol with Cher nodding her head along to the tunes on her iPod, us laughing together, sipping sangria and feeling carefree and happy. This was long before I met Luke, or Sasha betrayed me. ‘So where are you off to?’ Dolly asks.
‘I’m going to surprise a friend who’s just moved to a village called Tindledale. Do you know it?’
‘I most certainly do. My Basil was postman there for a while and his father before him. Colin and I live in Stoneley, four stops before yours.’
‘Ooh, you might be able to help me with something then, please?’ I ask, eagerly.
‘Always happy to help if I can, dear. What is it?’ Dolly smiles kindly.
‘I left home in a bit of hurry and haven’t brought a housewarming gift for my friend, I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop where I can buy something nice for her? I was thinking a candle or some Belgian truffles perhaps.’ Cher isn’t really one for knitted garments, otherwise I’d have brought her a cardy, or a tea cosy or two. I managed to grab a bottle of red wine from my fridge, and it’s almost full, but it’s hardly the same as a proper present, especially when Cher already has a pub full of alcohol. Dolly laughs.
‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been in Tindledale, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere that sells candles, certainly not the fancy fragranced ones that you’d be after. You might get some white Price’s household ones in the village store – they always used to keep a few boxes in stock for the power cuts,’ she says knowingly. ‘And as for chocolates, they won’t be Belgian, but I’m sure you’d get a nice bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream in there too. They have quite a range in their small supermarket section – through the archway next to the post office counter.’
‘Lovely. I’ll head there right away,’ I say, not wanting to be rude, but I can’t exactly turn up with a bar of Fry’s chocolate. Cher will think I’ve really lost the plot.
‘Oh, it won’t be open this time of night, dear. The village store closes at four in the winter. You could try the pub though; just go to the hatch in the snug, they have a little shop that has sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel … that kind of thing. There’s an honesty box so take what you like and leave the money in the bowl.’ I smile again – I can just see Cher’s face if I buy her a bag of crisps as a present from her own shop. And who ever heard of a pub with an honesty box? At the fried chicken place on the corner of my street they have a metal grill that you have to pay through at the time of order, and they don’t take notes over a fiver in case they’re forgeries.
*
The train pulls into Stoneley and I can barely keep my eyes open after chatting to Dolly for most of the journey. I stifle a yawn and will myself to keep awake.
‘Oh dear! You need a good night’s sleep.’ Hmm, this is true – I haven’t slept properly in months. ‘But not far now,’ Dolly says warmly, buttoning up her coat and giving Basil a parting tickle under his chin.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I say, doing a little wave.
‘You too, love. Enjoy your stay in Tindledale. And do look me up if you’re ever in Stoneley. We have the import/export company on the old Market Briar road – can’t miss our barn which doubles as a warehouse. Cheerio.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile and wave again as she steps off the train and walks past the window and into the arms of her husband who is waiting to greet her at the end of the platform with a big grin on his face and an enormous bouquet of festive winter blooms – rich reds, oranges and greens, and there’s even one of those little dried pumpkins on a stick nestling next to a silver-sprayed sprig of mistletoe which he plucks from the bunch and holds high above her head before leaning in for a Christmas kiss. Laughing, she bats his chest before pulling him in close. They clearly adore each other and it’s so nice to see. Maybe there’s hope for me yet …
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and realise that I really am exhausted. A few minutes later I become conscious that Basil’s beside me, so I open one eye and do a quick scan of the carriage. The guy by the window is still engrossed in his newspaper and there’s nobody else here, so I put my hand around Basil and stroke his silky soft ear. He takes the cue and snuggles into the side of my thigh, curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, instinctively knowing that he needs to be on his best behaviour or he’ll be back on the hard train floor.
*
The train stops moving and I jolt awake.
‘Er, excuse me … are we here?’ I ask the ticket inspector, as I wipe away the condensation that’s gathered on the window, but he’s already heading back off down the carriage, and the guy with the newspaper has gone too. I must have nodded off.
I peer out through the gap on the glass.
And gasp.
We’re on the set of Frozen! Or so it seems. Outside there’s a magical winter wonderland where Olaf could appear at any given moment – I’m convinced of it. The platform is covered in a beautiful layer of crisp, clean white snow, untouched and definitely not mottled with dirt like the sludgy grey sleet at home. It’s perfect. Just like one of Mum’s special festive placemats with the perfect Christmassy scene on them that she keeps for best, or for when Gloria from next door pops in for her annual New Year drinks soirée.
Feeling very excited, I quickly pull on my parka, loop my hand through Basil’s lead and gather up my stuff before heading for the door. I can’t wait to grab a taxi to the Duck & Puddle pub; with a bit of luck, Basil and I will make it there just in time to surprise Cher and Clive before last orders.
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But where’s the taxi rank?
Basil and I are standing underneath an old-fashioned Dickensian-looking streetlight! And I don’t believe it – we’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow-dappled trees and standing on a postage-stamp-size patch of tarmac that I’m assuming must count as a car park around here. And it’s deserted, apart from what looks like half of a dilapidated two-berth caravan. It’s hard to tell as the top has been cut off and the rest ‘left to nature’; brambles, ten feet high with an intricate crocheted maze of snow-dusted spider webs weaving between the leaves, are sprouting from it at jaunty angles. Basil and I are the only ones here and the tiny ticket office, aka a converted Portakabin, is all locked up; we had to exit the platform via a rickety wooden side gate. So now what? There isn’t even a bus stop or a phone box that I can see, and the snow is falling thicker and faster.
We start walking.
Well, I’m walking, trudging like a Sherpa really, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me, whereas Basil is bouncing along up front, biting the snow as if it’s a real thing and generally having a good time.
We’ve been walking for at least ten minutes when we come to a fork in the road. There’s one of those traditional white wooden country signposts, so I stop walking and, after catching my breath, I reach up and wipe the snow away to see if we’re even going in the right direction.
Tindledale 2¼
Two and a quarter miles! Sweet Jesus, when was the last time I walked that far? From what I can see, it’s uphill all the way and my backside still aches from the Zumba class. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all. On the numerous occasions when the Clio has conked out, I’ve just taken the tube or jumped on a bus. Getting around is easy in London, but not here it seems. I scan the narrow, twisting country lane, hopeful for a bus stop, but there’s nothing, just trees and hedges and darkness and silence. I never knew the countryside could be this quiet. No car alarms. No shouting. No TV. No belting Dubstep from next door at 3 a.m. on a school night. No nothing. Just nature at night-time, I suppose. It’s peaceful. And I never noticed it before when camping with the Brownies as a child, but then there were ten giggling girls in sleeping bags right beside me.
There aren’t even any streetlights now. Only a pretty pearlescent hue from the full moon high up in the inky, twinkly starry night sky. Oh well. It could be fun, in a Dorothy-following-the-yellow-brick-road kind of way; only my road is glistening snow-white to light the way. I click the heels of my (fittingly) red Converse trainers together and try to ignore the fact that they’re already soaked through. Right on cue, Basil, thinking it’s some kind of new game, leaps up at me. Catching him with my gloved hands, I laugh and pull him in close, letting him nuzzle into my face, his whiskery nose tickling my cheeks and making me smile. He can be my Toto.
‘Come on. We better get on with it then,’ I say, placing him back on the snowy ground, and making a mental note to buy a new mobile first thing in the morning.
Figuring it will be easier to push the suitcase up the hill, I lengthen the strap on my handbag and swing it over my head, cross-body style, before pulling the bobble hat and hood down over my forehead to act as a kind of snow shield, then I manoeuvre the suitcase into position like a mini snowplough, and start trudging. And trudge some more. And more again. Past a quaint, brick-built school with a tiny playground and an impressive clock tower at one end of the roof, a row of the cutest chocolate-box cottages I’ve ever seen, with wrought-iron gates leading into long front gardens surrounded by mature hedges and dotted with wooden bird feeders and wind chimes. One of the cottages has a pile of wellies and muddy boots stacked up in the porch by the front door and I can’t help thinking how lovely it is, that they can leave stuff like that outside without the fear of somebody nicking it. That would never happen in London – I put a herb planter on my windowsill once and it lasted exactly a day before it disappeared. I keep trudging until, eventually, I spot a hazy glow in the distance. A flicker.
As we get closer, I see a single white column candle in a glass-covered storm lamp at the foot of a stone war memorial set in the middle of a very tiny village square. There’s a festive holly wreath lying next to the candle, its crimson red berries a vivid contrast in the white of the snow, and for some reason it takes my breath away. It’s poignant and magical and I stand mesmerised for a few minutes at the significance of the sight before me. Even Basil stops bounding and stands completely still, instinctively sensing the reverence of the moment.
The snow stops and I notice a bus shelter to my left with a wooden bench inside. Hurrah! I stagger in and sit down, grateful for the breather. Two and a quarter miles, uphill, in deep snow, is very hard work.
‘Evening!’ a man’s voice says in the dark, and I almost jump right off the bench. I didn’t see him there, huddled up in the corner. ‘Sorry to startle you. Just waiting for the good lady wife,’ he explains, before rubbing his gloved hands together and stamping his welly-clad feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘Nippy one tonight. Where are you heading? There won’t be a bus along until tomorrow, you know. First one is at eight so you’ll have a bit of a wait.’
‘Oh, um, hello,’ I start, awkwardly. I’m not used to complete strangers making eye contact in public, let alone talking to me. It isn’t the done thing in London. What if they have a knife? But he looks harmless in the candlelight, wizened but friendly, jovial even, and Basil likes him; he has his front paws up on the man’s knees and his tail is wagging from side to side. ‘Basil! Stop that. Sorry, he’s still learning,’ I say, grabbing Basil’s collar in an attempt to pull him away from the man.
‘Ah, he’s OK. Can probably smell my dogs. Got six of them at home. Not Scotties, mind. Working Collies – for the sheep.’ The man treats Basil to a vigorous rub behind his ears.
‘That’s nice. Are you a shepherd?’ I say, and then instantly wish I could push the words back into my mouth. I sound ridiculous – from what I’ve already seen of Tindledale, it’s obviously a bit behind the times but hardly biblical. Then the man surprises me.
‘Yes, I guess so. Ah, those were the days!’ He chuckles. Wow! I’ve just met my first shepherd. ‘It’s all changed now, but I’ve still got sheep, hundreds of the bleaters. So where have you come from?’
‘Um, London,’ I reply, a little taken aback by his directness. ‘I’ve just walked from the station,’ I add, to clarify.
‘Well, that’s certainly a trek.’ He lets out a long whistle. ‘Oh, here she is.’ The man stands up as a mud-splattered old tank of a Land Rover judders to a halt in front of us, its diesel engine still chugging as the window is cranked down a few inches, gets stuck and a woolly-mittened (definitely homemade) hand appears over the top to force it down the rest of the way.
‘Been bothering you, has he?’ A blowsy woman in a floral silk headscarf pops her head out.
‘Oh, no, not at all.’ I shake my head vehemently and smile to assure her.
‘Well, that makes a change – fancies himself as a ladies’ man when he’s got his drinking goggles on, don’t you, dear?’ She chuckles as he plants a big kiss on her plump cheek before heading round to the passenger seat. ‘Do you need a lift?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, feeling ever so slightly displaced, a bit parallel universe, even. It’s surreal. I’m standing in Narnia with the shepherd and his wife chatting like they’ve known me my whole life.
‘Where are you heading to?’
‘The Duck & Puddle pub, do you know it?’
The woman roars with laughter like I’ve just cracked the funniest joke ever.
‘Indeed, I do! Very well, in fact. It’s my husband’s second home. End of the High Street, over the village green – watch out for the duck pond – and Bob’s your uncle.’ She points into the dark over my left shoulder.
‘Is it far?’ I ask, looking in the direction of her index finger.
‘Minutes. But here, you’ll need this.’ And after leaning down and rummaging around in the footwell for a while, her head bobs back up and she hands me a flashlight. It even has its own plastic carrying handle. ‘Switch that on and you’ll be able to see as far as Market Briar,’ she instructs. ‘I would give you a lift, but you can be there in the time it’ll take us to load you, the dog and the suitcase into the car.’ She roars again.
‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking the flashlight on and thinking how generous she is. I could run off with this for all she knows.
‘There’s a girl!’ She nods cheerily. ‘It’s not usually this pitch-black in the village. Blasted snow puts the power off, you see. The pylons don’t like it.’ And she points again, this time above the bus stop to an overhead cable that’s laden with snow. So, Dolly was on the ball. ‘Good night.’
‘But what about the flashlight?’ I say, waving it in the air.
‘Just leave it with the others in the crate by the bar.’ And with that, she pulls the window back up and chugs away.
With the powerful beam from the flashlight guiding the way, Basil and I step onto the cobbly street that’s flanked either side with rows of small black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops which I presume is the village centre – a far cry from London with all its multi-storey concrete tower blocks and big flashing neon signs. I shine the light towards the end of the little street and sure enough, there’s the pub, the Duck & Puddle, cloaked in darkness, just past the village green. I take it we’ve missed last orders, then.
Pushing the suitcase, Basil and I make our way towards the pub, but I can’t resist having a nose through the mullioned windows of the shops. There’s what looks like a clothes boutique on my left across the road, vintage maybe, because there’s a swishy pink polka-dot Fifties’ prom dress on a headless dressmaker’s bust in the window. Opposite is a place called The Spotted Pig – a double-fronted café, by the looks of it, there’s a menu in a glass case on the wall in the little alcove by the front door. I take a closer look and see that the Christmas special is panettone bread pudding with creamy rum custard. Cor, I love the sound of this; maybe I can bring Cher to The Spotted Pig for afternoon tea tomorrow. Aw, a pet parlour is next door. I can see the sign, PAWS, in elegant mint green and cream letters above the door.
‘One for you, Basil.’ But he’s too busy biting the snow. There’s a bookshop now, a proper musty, old-looking one. Using the sleeve of my parka, I wipe a space on the window and press my nose up to the glass. Wow! There must be a billion books filling every shelf, table top and nook and cranny; old books too, ones that you might have to wear special white gloves for before being allowed to thumb through them. A fruit and veg shop is next door with a stack of empty fruit boxes piled up neatly in the doorway.
We cross over and next to the one with the prom dress in the window is a butcher’s, a traditional one with a ceramic-tiled counter and a row of silver meat hooks dangling in the window. Next, there’s an antiques shop, then a chemist, a florist and a bakery. And here’s the village store that Dolly mentioned, and, last of all, there are a couple of empty shops at the end nearest the green. I’m impressed: a butcher and a baker; all they need is a candlestick maker – which, given the apparent frequency of the power cuts around here, might very well be a good thing. A real money-spinner.
We reach the green. Ah, this is nice. There’s a very plump Christmas tree set right in the middle, and it must be at least twenty feet tall. It has glittery baubles hanging from the ferny fingers, glistening in the glow from the flashlight. My heart lifts. It’s truly magical – so quiet and peaceful and in such utter contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of what I’ve left behind. I think I’m going to really enjoy my weekend here. And then I realise that I haven’t thought about May the fourth, or indeed, Jennifer Ford, since I stepped on the train in London, which right now feels like a million miles away – and that’s a good thing, surely? These past few months, I have honestly been rapidly reaching the point where I feel as if my head might actually explode. A mini-break in the beautiful, cosy, bubble of Tindledale is just what I need.
(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
It’s like that film, Deliverance, when I push open the door of the Duck & Puddle – all that’s missing is a man in dungarees chewing tobacco and strumming a banjo.
Ten or so pairs of eyes turn to stare at me as I stamp the bulk of the snow from my legs and feet, push down the hood of my parka and pull off my bobble hat, it’s like a furnace in here. And I haven’t missed last orders at all; in fact, from the number of full pints lined up on the bar, I’d say ‘drinking up time’ has only just begun. The windows all have heavy velvet blackout curtains blocking the light from the numerous candles dotted around the tables, which explains why the pub looked closed from the other side of the village green, and the source of the heat is an enormous real log fire with crimson, blue-tinged flames crackling and wheezing in the ceiling-height inglenook fireplace to my right.
I smile tentatively and scan behind the bar, but Cher isn’t here.
‘Well, don’t just sit there. Give the girl a hand,’ a chunky woman wearing a woolly poncho (handknitted) bellows to the extremely tall, robust-looking man sitting beside her, before elbowing him sharply in the ribs.
‘Will you turn it in, woman?’ he pretends to chastise her as he shoos her hand away. ‘I was just getting my bearings.’ There’s a collective good-natured laugh from the crowd as the man downs his pint in one and then steadies himself on the table before hauling himself into an upright position.
‘That suitcase looks heavy enough to house a body,’ the woman continues. Oh God, don’t say that! They’re already eyeing me suspiciously – probably thinking I’m some kind of crazeee looper on the loose, come to their village to strangle them all in their beds as they sleep.
The man strides towards me and hauls the suitcase up over his shoulder in one swift movement. He extends his free hand.
‘I’m Cooper.’ He nods firmly, as if to punctuate the point. Ah, yes, I remember, the butcher with the hog roast.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I quickly pull a woolly mitten off with my teeth and shake his hand. ‘I’m Sybs,’ I finish quietly, but he’s already dropped my hand and turned his back to go in search of a suitable spot in which to deposit the suitcase.
‘Now, where do you want this?’ he yells back over his shoulder.
‘Oh, well, I’ve come to visit Cher, so behind the bar perhaps, for now?’ I suggest, quickly going after him, scanning again and thinking where is she? This is really awkward. They are all still staring at me – and the only sound comes from the pop and whizz of the log fire. I spot the crate next to the bar, stacked high with an assortment of torches and flashlights and deposit my borrowed one on top of the pile.
‘SONNNNYYYYY!’ Jesus, that was right in my ear. Cooper sure has a big, booming voice. And Basil has obviously heard him from outside as he’s now barking like a mad dog – woofing over and over and over. Another guy jumps up.
‘That’ll be the cocker from the country club,’ he says to nobody in particular. ‘Perishing thing is always getting free and roaming around the village like it’s lord of the manor. I’ll herd it up and take it back.’ He heads towards the door with a determined look on his ruddy weather-beaten farmer’s face.
‘Oh, well actually, that could be my Scottie, Basil. He’s tied up securely though,’ I say, shrinking a little inside as they clearly don’t approve of dogs barking late at night. I wouldn’t usually risk leaving Basil on his own outside, certainly not in London where he could get kidnapped in the twinkling of an eye, but I’d figured he was probably safe until I found Cher and could get him upstairs out of the way. Besides, I thought the villagers would all be in bed asleep – I mean, don’t they all have to be up at the crack of dawn to milk cows or something? Obviously not, they’re all in the Duck & Puddle – the shepherd’s second home, theirs too by the looks of it! I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s after eleven. The farmer guy stares at me like I’ve just sprouted another head.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Pardon?’ I blink, wondering what he’s going on about.
‘Leave your dog outside?’ he says, frowning and giving me an up-and-down look.
‘But, I thought—’
‘Get him in quick before he wakes up Mark.’ Who’s Mark? ‘And put him by the fire – he must be freezing half to death, the poor thing.’ Oh God, now they think I’m cruel to animals. He points to a dog bowl brimming with water next to a tartan blanket by a log basket at the corner of the tiled hearth.
‘Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you.’ There’s a little ricochet of chuckles as I dash back outside. How was I supposed to know that dogs were actually allowed inside the pub? And with special provisions too – blanket, refreshments, cosy log fire to bask beside – Basil is going to be in his element.
‘Did someone bellow?’ Clive has appeared behind the bar when I return with Basil. ‘Sybs! Hello darling. What a nice surprise,’ he beams on spotting me. ‘And Cher will be made up to see you.’ He lifts the hatch and motions for me to come through. I smile with relief at seeing a familiar face, and then, as if by magic, everyone starts chatting and laughing amongst themselves, doing normal pub banter – just like a scene from Emmerdale in the Woolpack Inn when the director has just yelled ‘action’. How strange … I feel as if I’ve passed some kind of initiation ritual and that they’ve all relaxed and gone back to whatever it was they were doing before I burst through the door of their local, a stranger in their midst, but it’s all OK – now Clive has verified me, that is.
I take off Basil’s snowy wet coat and settle him in the designated spot by the fire (he instantly looks right at home, sprawled out on the blanket and he’s practically comatose already as he relishes the intense heat) before I head towards Clive. Cooper follows behind, dumping my suitcase in the hall next to a mountain of boxes containing cheese and onion crisps.
‘Thanks, Cooper,’ says Clive.
‘No problem, Sonny.’ And he strides off through to the other side of the bar.
Clive gives me a hug and then steers me through to a cosy private lounge out the back. Once the door is closed and I’m satisfied that the locals can’t overhear us, I give Clive a quizzical look.
‘Er, why is he calling you Sonny?’ I ask in a hushed voice, creasing my forehead. Clive smiles and shakes his head in amusement.
‘Because I’m Cher’s boyfriend.’ Clive shrugs as if it’s the most obvious reason ever, and then he explains. ‘On our first day here, one of the regulars said it for a laugh, you know, as in, “so if our new landlady is called Cher and you’re her fella, then you must be Sonny” and it’s stuck. Now everyone in Tindledale calls me Sonny, as in Sonny and Cher.’ And he belts out a line from their iconic song, ‘I Got You Babe’.
‘Ha ha, of course they do,’ I laugh and give him another hug. ‘And my second question – who is Mark?’ I shake my head.
‘Oh! He’s the local bobby – lives in the police house next door to Dr Darcy who’s the village GP. Mark gets upset if he’s woken up in the middle of the night, hence Pete wanting to get Basil inside quickly,’ Clive explains in a matter-of-fact way.
‘But Mark is OK about you having a lock-in?’ I ask, lifting my eyebrows. I’m surprised; it’s not something Cher usually goes for.
‘Weeeeell …’ He gives me a shifty look and shoves his hands into his jeans’ pockets. ‘Cher isn’t actually here. She’s on a course at Brewery HQ. A last-minute space came up after one of the others dropped out so she jumped at the chance of staying in a hotel for a few nights.’
‘Oh no!’ My heart sinks.
‘But she’ll be back by Sunday afternoon,’ he adds quickly, seeing my face drop. ‘And Mark’s fine about a bit of banter after hours as long he doesn’t know about it, if you know what I mean. Discretion, that’s the key.’ Clive winks and grins before tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. ‘Now, how about I get you a drink before we find you somewhere to stay.’ He rubs his hands together.
‘Er, I thought it was OK to stay here. Cher said …’ My voice trails off and for some ridiculous reason I can feel tears threatening. I push my top teeth down hard on my tongue to focus my mind and stop the tears from tumbling out. I’ve cocked up again. I should never have just rocked up here. What was I thinking? I can’t imagine there’s a Travelodge anywhere in Tindledale so I’m going to have to go back home – which is where I probably should have stayed to face the music in the morning with Mr Banerjee.
‘Hey, of course it is,’ Clive says kindly. ‘Cher has been going on and on about you coming. Like I said, she’ll be made up that you’re here. And it’ll sweeten the blow when she returns.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come and see.’ And Clive pulls open a little timber-slatted door in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed, and after ducking his head under the low frame, he motions for me to follow him up the narrowest, twistiest, higgledy-piggledy stairs I think I’ve ever seen. I feel like Alice in Wonderland as I crouch down and place the palms of my hands on the steps in front of me just to get low enough to climb up to the next floor.
‘Oh dear! I see what you mean.’ We’ve emerged into a tiny, exposed beamed bedroom with a mattress on the floor, one side of which is propped up on a row of wooden blocks next to a window so low and bowed it’s practically a continuation of the carpet. ‘What are they for?’ I point to the blocks.
‘So we don’t tumble away when we’re fast asleep in the middle of the night and end up going through the window.’ He manages a wry smile, but he also has a very good point, because the floorboards slope so severely that there’s every chance this really could happen. ‘We can’t get any of our furniture up those doll’s house stairs. The pub was built in 1706 as a coaching inn originally – even the old stable buildings are still intact. And currently storing all of our furniture, I hasten to add. People were clearly pocket-size in those days.’ He shrugs and pulls a face. ‘We’re lucky to even have the mattress; if it wasn’t for Pete lashing it up tight like a bale of hay, we would have never squeezed it up the stairs. No, we need a new bed, one that can be assembled in situ, as it were.’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘But until then, this is it, I’m afraid. So unless you and Basil fancy bunking down with me on the mattress …’ He laughs, slings a friendly arm around my shoulders, and jiggles me up and down in a big bear hug.
I like Clive, always have. When Cher first met him, he was washing dishes in her parents’ pub in Doncaster to pay his way through catering college, and they’ve been together ever since. He’s so solid and uncomplicated. When I ran out of the church, Cher and Clive arrived at Mum and Dad’s house within moments of me getting there. I learned later that Clive had grabbed Cher’s hand, run her from the church (she was bridesmaid, of course) and driven at breakneck speed to find me. No fuss, just a ‘well, she’s your mate and he’s a wanker’, and he was all for hunting Luke down and giving him a ‘good slap’, but Cher talked him out of it. Yes, Clive is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, and there’s a lot to be said for that. Not like Luke who clearly has very hidden depths. You know, Luke even tried telling me once that he mistook Sasha for me and that’s how the ‘mix up’ had all started in the first place. He snogged her by accident and it ‘sort of went from there’. I didn’t buy it of course – because for starters, our faces may be the same but that’s where the identical twin bit ends these days. And Sasha wears completely different clothes to me – expensive body-con dresses and designer stacked heels to my hand-sewn Renfrew tops or chunky jumpers in winter with jeans and flats. Anyway, Sasha could easily have pushed him away, or laughed it off at the very least.
‘Um, think I’ll pass if you don’t mind. Cher has told me all about your super-loud snoring,’ I play punch his chest, trying to make light of the situation and wondering if perhaps Basil and I could sleep on one of the sofas in the bar. If the villagers ever decide to head back to their chocolate box cottages, that is.
(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
Leaning back against the plum-coloured velvet headboard with Basil snuggled up on a blanket beside me, his front left paw on my thigh as he snores softly, I snuggle into the enormous squishy bed in my ditsy floral-themed bedroom.
After Clive and I had made it back down the tiny stairs and into the saloon bar area earlier, the woman in the poncho, who it turns out is called Molly and has a pet ferret which she walks around the village on a lead – it was under the pub table apparently, and I didn’t even notice – anyway, she’s Cooper’s wife, and she kindly rang the only B&B for miles around. It’s located in the valley on the far side of the village and doubles as a hair salon too, apparently. As luck would have it, there was one room left, and dogs are very welcome, so Pete, who I later found out farms cattle – ‘three fields over near Cherry Tree Orchard which supplies apples to all the major supermarkets’ – loaded me, Basil and my suitcase into the cab of his tractor, I kid you not, and then trundled us all the way down the hill in the snow and right up to the front door that doubles up as the B&B and hair salon reception.
So now I’m wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe trying not to think about the contents of my suitcase. All of my clean clothes, pyjamas, underwear – the whole lot’s soaked in red wine. Ruined. Even my almost-finished knitting project, a lovely little Christmas pudding, is now stained a vivid claret colour and stinks like a barrel of rotten grapes. The top on the bottle wasn’t screwed on properly so had come off and seeped wine into everything. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, in my rush to escape London and the wrath of Mr Banerjee, I left my make-up bag and hairbrush behind on the hall table, so I will now have to spend the whole weekend wearing my super warm, fleece-lined Ho Ho Ho jumper and snow-sodden jeans.
I say good night to Basil and switch off the lamp – the electricity in the village flicked back on, just like magic, as Pete and I left the Duck & Puddle. I was climbing into the tractor when the festive fairy-tale scene literally took my breath away. The pretty red, gold and green Christmas lights twinkling all over the tree on the village green before cascading the length of the High Street, with a grand finale – the cross at the top of the tall church steeple illuminated in silver as if bathing the whole village in a ray of tranquillity and spiritual peace.
I lie in the silent night of the countryside, except for the intermittent ter-wit-ter-woo of an owl and try to let everything wash over me: Jennifer Ford, Mr Banerjee, Mum and her ‘make do with whatever’s left over’ implications, Luke the tool, Star Wars, Princess Leia buns, Chewbacca and, worst of all, the betrayal by my very own twin sister. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive her; men come and go, I know that, but my own sister? How does one deal with that? It’s not as if I can just cut her out of my life! What would that do to Mum and Dad? And it would certainly make things very awkward at family events. But then again, Sasha did this, not me. And I can’t help wondering if she has difficulty sleeping at night too!
I breathe in and out, desperately trying to slow my racing thoughts, in the hope of actually getting to sleep and making it through to the morning without waking up for once. It’s been ages since I managed to get a proper night’s sleep. Soon after the wedding-that-wasn’t, my GP prescribed sleeping tablets, saying they would help with the ‘overwhelming feelings of sadness too’ and they do, a bit, I guess. Which reminds me. I sit bolt upright and switch the lamp back on. Basil stirs before settling again at the end of the bed. I reach over to my handbag and check the inside pocket, but I already know the answer; the packet of tablets are on my nightstand at home. I’ve forgotten them too.
Sighing, I lie back down and focus on breathing in and out, desperately trying to evoke a sense of calm. Basil moves up the bed and snuggles his chin onto my shoulder as if willing me to relax too, but it’s no use. I fidget and plump the pillow over and over, dramatically, like they always do in the films, and resign myself to yet another restless night.
*
Satisfied that I won’t scare the other guests with my appearance – I’ve managed to tease my curls into some kind of normal-ish state, which given that I had to use the flimsy little plastic comb from the complimentary vanity pouch in the bathroom, was never going to be easy – I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab the Tindledale Herald (I must have gathered the newspaper someone had left in the carriage in amongst my stuff when I got off the train last night), pull the bedroom door closed behind me, and head off in search of breakfast. I’ve decided to keep the bathrobe on after flicking through the B&B’s brochure (at about four o’clock this morning when I gave up on trying to actually sleep) and saw a picture of a couple wearing theirs in what appeared to be the dining room. Let’s hope it’s OK, otherwise I’m going to look like a right fool, yet again. An image of me in the Princess Leia dress and buns flashes into my head like a still from a Hammer horror film. I shudder and instantly shove the sorry sight away. Years ago, Cher told me that she read in one of those psychology magazines that a Buddhist monk said it can take a whole year to get over a break-up. Hmm. So by that reckoning I have another five months of these dark thoughts. Oh joy.
‘Welcome to Tindledale.’ A very tall, fifty-something, debonair man with a shaved head, clad in a gorgeous soft grey cashmere cardigan (handknitted) over a checked shirt and chinos, walks over to where I’m standing by the breakfast cereal table. Underneath his stylish black-framed retro glasses, he’s wearing diamanté-tipped lash extensions. ‘I’m Lawrence Rosenberg,’ he says, sounding very polite and stately in an old school gentlemanly way, with the faintest hint of an American accent. He holds out his hand, the nails of which are painted a glorious pearly plum colour.
‘Oh, um, hi, I’m Sybil,’ I say, trying not to stare. It’s not every day you meet a man wearing lashes and nail polish, and it’s certainly not something I expected to find in this sleepy little village from a bygone era. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘Do excuse the …’ He circles an index finger around his face. ‘I’m an actor. I run the Tindledale Players.’ I must look bemused as he quickly adds, ‘Amateur dramatics, musical theatre, that kind of thing. It’s my passion, and we had a dress rehearsal last night for the Tindledale Christmas pantomime – I’m the fairy godmother. In addition to being the scriptwriter and chief gofer.’ He smiles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
‘Well, I think you look fabulous,’ I say, instantly warming to him. He smells of toasted almonds mingled with cigar smoke, and has sparkly blue eyes. ‘How did the rehearsal go?’
‘Thank you.’ He does a gentlemanly bow. ‘Very well, considering we had no electricity in the village hall, so it was very much “he’s behind you” and “oh no he isn’t!”and all the other pantomime catchphrases that we love, albeit by candlelight.’
‘Sounds fun,’ I say, remembering the Brownie pantomimes – Cher and I had loads of laughs one Christmas playing Happy (me) and Dopey (Cher) in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
‘It is. You should come to a show, it’s Puss in Boots and His Merry Band of Santa’s Elves this year and I wrote it myself. Tickets include a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine. First proper performance is a week before Christmas Eve, so not long to go, but we have another dress rehearsal tonight so you’re more than welcome to pop along,’ he says brightly.
‘Oh, I might just do that. If I can bring Basil too,’ I venture, wondering if the same dogs-allowed-in-the-village-pub rule applies to the village hall as well.
‘Sure you can.’ Excellent. ‘And what’s your name, little one?’ Lawrence strokes Basil under the chin.
‘Meet Basil, and thanks for letting him stay too,’ I say.
‘It’s our pleasure to look after you both.’ Ah, how nice.
‘Thank you. And it is OK to wear …?’ I lift the collar of the robe.
‘Of course, anything goes round here, hadn’t you noticed?’ Lawrence says, raising one eyebrow, which makes me smile.
‘And I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I might take him to …’
‘Follow me.’ Lawrence leads the way to a utility room by the back door. ‘You can just pop in here and let him out here whenever he needs to go. Did you bring his food?’
‘Yes!’ At least I remembered Basil’s pouches. I pull one from the pocket of my robe and waggle it in the air as proof.
‘Well done. You’d be surprised at the number of our guests who forget. That’s why I keep an emergency supply in the cupboard; I can’t see the dogs going hungry.’ Lawrence shakes his head and selects two dog bowls from a shelf next to the sink. He fills one with water and places it on the floor before taking the pouch from me and squeezing it into the other. ‘I’ll meet you back in the breakfast room.’
‘Thank you so much,’ I call after him, thinking how nice he is – nothing is too much trouble, it seems.
After Basil has finished eating and had a dash around the garden, we head back to where Lawrence is waiting.
‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down by the window and I’ll fetch you a nice cooked breakfast,’ he says kindly. ‘All the trimmings?’ I nod and grin before making my way over to the oval-shaped two-person table he’s gesturing towards. It has an exquisite festive orange-and-clove pomander arrangement set in a crystal glass bowl, and underneath the table is a faux suede bed for Basil to lie on. Wow, this place is just like a dog hotel.
Fluffing a crisp white napkin over my knees, I gaze out through the big bay window to watch the snow. It’s just started falling again, a light sprinkling like icing sugar, swirling all around as if somebody has just shaken a giant snow globe. I feel a swell of excitement, a magical fairy-tale feeling that only a pristine duvet of crisp, clean, white snow invokes. Untouched, it stretches out before me like a virginal safety blanket across a rolling field and up to an interesting-looking building with a huge circular chimney that has smoke spiralling from it up into the white sky, like candy floss in a breeze. And there’s what looks like an adjoining double-fronted shop. It’s really cute with a little white picket fence around the garden although it seems odd to have a shop in the middle of a field. I can’t imagine they get much business being so far away from the centre of the village.
‘Marvellous view, isn’t it?’ Lawrence is standing next to me, gripping the edge of an enormous dinner plate with a blue-and-white striped tea towel. ‘That’s Hettie’s place you can see. The Honey family have been in Tindledale for centuries and her father used to own the hop farm before he passed away. It was sold on, but Hettie kept the oast and all the land around it. And her House of Haberdashery shop next door, of course.’
‘Oh, it sounds fascinating! I love knitting and needlecraft,’ I say, a surge of excitement rising within me.
‘Then you should call in, I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I don’t think she gets many visitors – which reminds me, I must pop over and see if she needs any groceries. She does a weekly trip on the bus up to the village store, but it’s not quite the same as having Ocado deliver,’ he laughs. ‘Plus, I’ve heard she buys barely enough to feed a sparrow. Please be careful, the plate’s hot,’ he adds, sounding warm and mumsy as he places my breakfast in front of me, and for some bizarre reason that I can’t fathom, tears burst onto my cheeks. ‘Well, this is a first – I know our breakfasts are good, award-winning, in fact, but I’ve not had one evoke this sort of emotion before! Sybs, what’s the matter?’ Lawrence dips down into the chair opposite, concern darting from one eye to the next and back again, both slender hands clasping the tea towel that’s pressed to his chest. He’s clearly not used to his guests crying for no apparent reason, talking of which, a group of ramblers arrive, clad in check shirts and corduroys tucked into chunky knee-length socks (handknitted, by the looks of them). They take one look in my direction and beetle off to a large table on the opposite side of the room before whipping up menus to hide behind. Oh God! And how does Lawrence even know that I like to be called Sybs? He checked me in very quickly last night, seeing as it was so late, saying I probably wanted to get off to bed right away, and as Cooper’s wife, or ‘the funny woman with the ferret’ is what Pete called her, had already vouched for me in any case … well, it was all very laid-back. He didn’t even ask for a credit card to do the usual pre-authorisation checks in case I stayed the night, nicked all the bathroom products and coffee sachets and then ran off without paying. It’s like another world here in Tindledale.
‘Um, I don’t know. I, um, er … just feeling a bit overwhelmed and …’ My voice fades as I think of the plans, the dream I had to have my own haberdashery business just like Hettie. I rummage in my pocket in search of a tissue, getting flustered when I can’t find one. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Lawrence hands me the tea towel instead.
‘Thank you.’ Dabbing at my face with the soft cloth that smells of bluebells, I press it to my nose and inhale. It reminds me of day trips to the forest in springtime, the ground carpeted in a layer of delicately scented flowers that stretched for miles, swinging between my grandparents, one on either side, gripping my chubby, little-girl hands as they whispered tales of fairies and angels hiding in amongst the sun-dappled trees. Feeling happy, loved, and long before Luke and Sasha broke my heart. And Sasha hated those walking trips, preferring to stay at home and look at her pony annuals or whatever. The moment vanishes and I take a deep breath, willing myself to get a grip.
‘Maybe you’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.’ Lawrence reaches a hand across the table to gently pat my arm. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. If you don’t mind me saying, you do look very tired.’ He smiles gently, the corners of his eyes tilting upwards. I manage a half-smile.
‘You’re very kind,’ I say, in a wobbly voice, feeling embarrassed. ‘And I really am so sorry to cry on you like this. I don’t know what came over me.’ I hand the tea towel back to Lawrence before picking up a knife and fork as a diversion tactic.
‘Well, eat up and try not to be sad, you must look after yourself.’ He scrutinises my whole face in one quick scan. ‘And just so you know, I’m here if you ever want to chat. I’m a very good listener.’
Lawrence leaves, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as he goes and I think about what he said as I prong a chubby sausage and cut it in two, before dipping one end into the filmy egg yolk. A complete stranger spotting how tired and fed-up I look. Well, it isn’t good, but I have been feeling so down since everything happened with Luke. And then turning into a recluse and not going out very much, apart from to work and back, and then with all the cock-ups, culminating in the cock-up-to-end-all-cock-ups, well, Lawrence has a very good point. I am tired. Exhausted, in fact, from all the worrying. Which reminds me, I must check online and see if there have been any developments in the hunt for Jennifer Ford or, indeed, Mr Banerjee’s investigation into the ‘bungling employee’.
After finishing the scrumptious breakfast, I put the napkin down, push the chair back and I’m just about to stand up when Lawrence appears again with something hidden behind his back.
‘Now, we’re not going to have any more tears, are we?’ he asks hesitantly.
‘Oh, I hope not.’ I paint a half-smile onto my face. ‘And I really am very sorry about earlier.’
‘Ah, it’s fine. Please, there really is no need to apologise, these things happen. We all get emotional sometimes,’ he says, very graciously.
‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask earlier …’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows inquiringly, ‘how do you know that I like to be called Sybs?’
‘Well, I probably shouldn’t have been so nosey, but I noticed it there on your newspaper.’ I stare blankly. ‘The message.’ And he taps the Tindledale Herald on the table next to the pomander. I pick the paper up. ‘See, right there.’
And I do.
Sybs, give me a try x
There’s even a phone number next to the message that’s scrawled in black marker pen. A feeling flits through me. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. A fluttery, flattering feeling. I glance up into Lawrence’s diamanté-tipped eyes and then cast a glance around the room, half expecting someone with a smartphone to pop out from under one of the tables to Snapchat me and scream ‘gotcha’ in my face. Things like this don’t usually happen to me.
‘Oh.’ I hesitate, unsure of what to say and much to my dismay, I see that my hands are trembling slightly. I really need some sleep.
‘Sorry.’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows in concern. ‘See, you’ve got me at it now. Have I embarrassed you? Only you look a little bit taken aback.’
‘No. Not at all. I – just – I – well, I didn’t see the message before now.’ I shake my head.
‘Not from someone you know then?’
‘No, definitely not. No chance of that,’ I say wryly.
‘Well, this is rather exciting. It’s very flirty,’ Lawrence says.
‘It sure is.’ I quickly rack my brains to work out how it came to be there and then it dawns on me – the guy sitting next to the window on the train. He had a newspaper. Yes, it has to be the guy in the duffel coat with the glasses and nice eyes and the curly hair peeping out from under his beanie hat who didn’t seem to mind when Basil tried to snaffle his Costa cake. Because there wasn’t anyone else in our carriage, which means that he must have left the message while I was sleeping. And he was quite cute. My head goes into overdrive trying to fathom it all out. But what does he mean ‘give me a try’? It’s a bit forward, and with a kiss too. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy to be like that, not at all; he was very unassuming with his polite smile. No, flirty swagger is much more Luke’s style – he was very cocky – I used to think it was cheeky, in an appealing, banter-type way, but looking back now it really wasn’t. Hmm, funny how things can seem so different at the time. Lawrence coughs discreetly.
‘I have to say that it’s very intriguing! Are you sure you don’t know who the message is from?’ Lawrence asks.
‘Weeeeell, there was a guy on the train, but—’
‘Then I urge you to call the number, Sybs! It’s like a modern day Brief Encounter. You must find out who your secret admirer is, but before you do, I thought one of these might cheer you up!’ And he brings a four-tiered wire cake tree out from behind his back. And I gasp. I’ve never seen anything quite so spectacular. It’s bulging with cake – slabs of lemon drizzle, chocolate brownies the size of doorstops, delicate pastel pink and white fondant fancies, sugar-dusted squares of stollen and loads of gorgeous festive red and green cupcakes with jaunty reindeers and snowmen piped over their bulging mounds. And the smell is heavenly; a cocoon of warmth and sweetness surrounds me instantly, lifting my mood another notch.
‘Wow, they look amazing,’ I grin, helping myself to a wedge of stollen, my favourite festive treat, and even Basil stirs from under the table to see what’s going on, his little nose twitching as he licks his lips in anticipation of a cake somehow rolling off the table and into his salivating mouth – ha ha, dream on, Basil! ‘Did you make them?’ I ask, scooping a sliver of icing sugar off with my fingernail before popping it into my mouth.
‘Sadly not. Kitty is the baker in Tindledale.’ He pauses before adding, ‘And some of the other villagers bake too – the WI ladies’ Christmas cake sale in the village hall is legendary and always gets a good turnout, but Kitty owns the café called The Spotted Pig and she takes orders for special occasions and does all the village birthday, christening, and wedding celebration cakes.’
‘Ah, yes, I saw her café yesterday when I first got here. The menu looks amazing,’ I say, remembering the panettone bread pudding and rum custard Christmas special.
‘Oh, you really must try her food while you’re here, it is to die for.’ He stops talking abruptly, and glances away. ‘Oh God, I really shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Is everyone OK?’
A flash of sorrow shoots into his eyes.
‘Yes, yes fine,’ Lawrence shakes his head, sounding flustered. ‘It’s just that, well, the whole village was devastated when it happened, and she’s such a lovely, warm, kind person, and everyone knew him – his family has lived here in Tindledale for generations too, still do – that’s why she moved here, to be closer to them as she doesn’t have any family left of her own.’
‘What happened?’
‘Her husband, Ed, he died, you see. Recently too, and he was only twenty-nine. It was insensitive of me …’ his voice trails off.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, immediately realising what a close-knit community it is here. Back home in London I’m not sure I would even know if my next-door neighbour had died, unless it was Poppy, of course, and even then I might only realise that something was amiss because she hadn’t been downstairs to fetch Basil. ‘Was he ill?’
‘Oh no! No, nothing like that – he was a soldier in Afghanistan. A landmine. It was terrible, he was due home on the Sunday, a gloriously sunny day and the village square had even been decorated with banners and balloons for his homecoming – but then Kitty got the visit – she was pregnant too at the time, with little Teddie. Dreadful, dreadful business it was – she was in the café and the vicar heard her screaming all the way from the pulpit at the far end of the church. He was conducting a wedding rehearsal for Gabe and Vicky from Pear Tree Cottages and they all stopped and ran across the village to the café.’ I clasp my hands up under my chin. Lawrence looks down at the floor. Silence follows.
‘I, um, I don’t know what to say.’ And it’s true. Poor Kitty, I don’t even know her, yet I feel bereft on her behalf. To have the person you love snatched away without a second’s warning … I only have an inkling of what that feels like because when I think of Luke I know it’s absolutely no comparison: at least he’s still alive, even if he doesn’t want to be with me, but in that moment at the altar when I realised, it was as if he had died and taken all my dreams and hopes for the future with him. Disappeared in an instant – just like the flame of a candle snuffed out between a thumb and index finger. And then I remember the column candle burning brightly in the snow beside the memorial. A scratchy sensation forms in my throat as a cold shiver trickles down my back. I wonder if Kitty left the candle there for Ed. Oh God, that’s so sad.
‘Sometimes there just aren’t any words,’ Lawrence sighs and another momentary silence follows. ‘Would you like to take the rest of the cake upstairs?’ I nod solemnly. ‘I’ll get you a plate and bring you up a nice mug of hot chocolate with squirty cream too.’
*
Back in my room, having polished off the truly scrumptious cake and settled Basil on the complimentary dog bed, I lean back in the armchair next to the window and close my eyes for a few seconds, letting my mind wander. Crying earlier, what was that all about? I know I’m exhausted, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling so emotional and then, with Cher not being here, well, it’s another let down, and on top of everything else that’s happened, I’ve just had enough, I suppose. And I need to break out of this rut of sleepless nights – keeping going on practically no sleep doesn’t help, it makes me extra emotional. I have to find a way to stop the dark thoughts and pity parties for one. I want to sleep all night long and feel invigorated and excited about life, and do my knitting and needlecraft for fun, just like I always used to before May the flaming fourth.
Opening my eyes and pushing the chiffon away from the window, I stand up and look out towards the puffy sky and watch the snowflakes sprinkling down like tiny diamonds against an almost Tiffany blue backdrop. The same sky that everyone around the world can see, and it makes me think of all the happy couples doing happy things, and I really want to be happy too – what’s that old adage? Love like you’ve never been hurt. But it’s hard, really hard. I think of Kitty again, and her husband Ed, and how the whole thing with Luke just pales in comparison. And I make my decision. I’m going to call the number on the newspaper. Why not? What have I got to lose? Nobody will know, not even Lawrence if I don’t tell him, especially if it turns out to be a big joke.
And then when I’ve done that, I’m going to venture over to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and see what treats she has in store. I’m going to buy loads of wool and some needles and knit something just for fun, like I always used to, and I might even get the material to start a new quilt. A lovely, cosy Christmassy one. Ha! I could even sell it online. Oh yes I could! I can still have my dream; I’ll just go about in a different way, tweak it a bit and see what happens. And I can worry about Jennifer Ford and Mr Banerjee on Monday morning, but until then I’m choosing happy!
I pick up the newspaper and wander over to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and take a deep breath. OK, I can do this. It’s just a phone call. The number is ringing. One, two, three, four bbrrrrring-bbrrrrrrings. And then I get cold feet and quickly end the call. I sit on the bed. Basil is staring at me with his head tilted to one side as if to say, ‘You big wimp, get a grip, Sybs!’ So I do, and lift the receiver back up. This time I’m going to speak – I’ll just say ‘Hi, it’s Sybs,’ in my best breezy voice, and the man with the kind-looking eyes will say, ‘Hi, I’m so pleased you called,’ and we’ll have a laugh about Basil trying to pinch his Costa cake, and it’ll be brilliant. Yep, of course it will.
The phone stops ringing.
There’s a pause.
And then: ‘Tindledale Books, how may I help you?’
It’s a woman’s voice, which completely throws me, so I promptly slam the phone down.
Basil is right. I am a big wimp – but at least I now know where to find the mystery man from the train.
(#ulink_2053d0c4-c928-5fb0-bd51-0c3d47c6c874)
Invigorated by this key milestone in my as-predicted-by-a-monk year of heartache, I press an index finger down too hard on the brass bell, nearly causing it to shoot right off the reception counter. Luckily, I manage to grab it just in time and I’m carefully placing it back where it belongs, when Lawrence appears through an archway from behind a crimson velvet curtain.
‘OK, OK, where’s the fire?’ he asks, making big eyes and pulling a face. It makes me giggle.
‘Er, no fire, I just wanted to return this.’ I hand him a Clarice Cliff crocus pattern tea plate.
‘Oh, you didn’t need to bother with all that. You’re a guest, just leave it outside the door next time.’
‘Thank you, but I didn’t like to. It’s such a pretty plate. Art Deco. I wouldn’t want it to get damaged.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. I just came off the phone with Sonny – he rang to say that if you want to call in later for your dinner, he’s doing steak and ale pie with hand-cut chips followed by sticky toffee pudding for today’s special.’ It takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking about Cher’s Clive at the Duck & Puddle.
‘Ooh, sounds delicious.’
‘Does, doesn’t it? Very hearty winter food and talking of which, how was the stollen cake?’ He glances down at the crumbs left on the plate as he takes it from me to store under the counter.
‘Mmm, delicious, thank you.’ I smile. ‘Lawrence, I was wondering if you might help me with something.’
‘Of course. Always happy to oblige if I can.’ He pats a stack of tourist information leaflets offering two for one tickets to Santa’s grotto at a garden centre in Stoneley into a tidy pile, before tilting his head to one side and smiling at me encouragingly.
‘I was wondering where the nearest shops are to buy clothes – jeans, underwear, that kind of thing? And some suitable footwear for walking in snow – I wasn’t expecting it and I can’t believe how deep it gets here in the countryside.’ I make big eyes. ‘And I should probably get a mobile phone too; I don’t want to get stranded again with no means of even calling a taxi. And maybe a hairbrush, toothbrush and some make-up because I forgot to bring mine and the stuff that I did remember to bring is ruined after wine spilt all over it and … well, I thought I might go for a wander around the village, maybe pop into the pub for today’s special.’ I smile. And Tindledale Books too! I know I panicked when the woman answered but I’m still intrigued to know why the man on the train, who I’m guessing must be something to do with the bookshop, would leave a flirty message on a newspaper for me, but I can hardly venture out in soaking wet jeans that cling to my legs like a pair of needy toddlers, squelchy Converse trainers and hair that resembles a cuckoo’s nest to find out.
Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.
‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’
‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of Heartbeat so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.
‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.
‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’
‘Brilliant,’ I grin.
‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just £4.’ He gives me a helpful look.
‘I see. And does the bus go from the stop in the village square?’ I ask, wondering if it’s walkable from the B&B. Last night, Pete drove the tractor in a loop round the top of the village, past the country club, before dipping down a long snowy tree-tunnel winding lane, so I’ve kind of lost my bearings a bit. Lawrence slowly places the map down on the desk and nods his head like he’s deep in thought, before lifting the hatch up and walking around the counter until he’s standing square in front of me with his hands resting on his slim hips, and a big kind smile spread across his face.
‘That’s right. Did you spot it on your way here?’
‘Yes, last night, and I met a man – a shepherd, um, er, sheep farmer,’ I correct. ‘He was waiting in the shelter for his wife who gave me a flashlight when she turned up. So kind.’
‘Ah, that would be Lord Lucan,’ Lawrence says with a deadpan face. It takes me a moment to cotton on.
‘Ha ha, you’re winding me up. Come on, I know there’s been speculation for years over the whereabouts of Lord Lucan – I saw the docudrama on TV not so long ago, but I think someone would have noticed if the actual Lord Lucan was hanging out in a bus stop in a snowy rural village late at night,’ I snigger.
‘Don’t laugh, Sybs, it’s true. That’s his name, Lord Lucan. Well, Lord Lucan Fuller-Hamilton to be exact. He and Lady Fuller-Hamilton live in Blackwood House – a breathtakingly beautiful Queen Anne mansion set in the grounds of the Blackwood Farm Estate.’
‘Wow, really?’ Well, it just goes to show how first impressions really can be very deceiving.
‘Yes, really. There’s no grandstanding in Tindledale – doesn’t matter who you are, or if you have an ancestral home here or not, we all rub along together. Did you call the number, by the way?’
‘I sure did,’ I grin, feeling light and enjoying our chat; it’s as if I’m somebody else, or another, more relaxed, version of me and not the tetchy, can’t-be-arsed, worn-out Sybil that I am at work in London.
‘And?’ he asks, looking intrigued.
‘A woman answered and said Tindledale Books, so I hung up.’
‘Why would you do that?’ he frowns.
‘I don’t know – what if she was his wife? Or girlfriend? You never know … she sounded very stern, as if she was far too busy to be trifling with mere phone calls. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that she was quite snappy. I panicked, I guess.’
‘Ah, no need to panic, that’ll just have been Mrs Pocket, a retired headmistress – she ran the village school for years – and you’re right, she is very stern, sits on the parish council, and between me and you, thinks she’s the boss of us all, that someone put her singlehandedly in charge of Tindledale.’ He smirks and shakes his head. ‘She volunteers in the bookshop on Fridays, cataloguing all those musty old books. Lots of them detail the history of the area which she’s very keen to preserve – she’s a stickler for heritage and is into all that family tree stuff. Apparently, she’s charted the whole village and can prove that most of the villagers are actually related in one way or another – going back centuries, of course,’ he quickly adds, ‘that would just be weird otherwise. But I can’t imagine for a single second that she would leave a flirty message on a newspaper. Absolutely not.’ He tuts in a way that makes me stifle another snigger. ‘So that leaves Adam. It has to be him who left the message.’
Lawrence rests an elbow on the counter. ‘Now he is a dark horse. I know hardly anything about him though unfortunately, other than that he bought the bookshop just a few months ago when old Alf Preedy retired and moved into the purpose-built annexe in the garden of his daughter’s house in Stoneley. Adam is very mysterious, keeps himself to himself, and is hardly ever there. One of the Tindledale Playerssaid that he travels a lot searching for rare books – some of the tomes in his collection are worth a mint, apparently.’ He stands upright and folds his arms.
‘Interesting,’ I say, liking the sound of Adam because, after all, there is just something about a man who loves books.
‘So are you going to see him then?’ Lawrence probes, even slipping his glasses off and letting them dangle on the chain around his neck as if to scrutinise me further.
‘Well, I thought I might pop in after I’ve been to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery,’ I say, trying to sound casual and like I do this kind of thing every day – sashay up to secret admirers. Eek! ‘If it’s not too far.’
‘Wonderful. You can walk to Hettie’s from here – the snow has stopped, so perfect timing – and then right opposite Hettie’s is a bus stop; time it right, on the hour every hour, remember, and you can hop on a bus that’ll take you all the way up the hill. Jump off in the village square and you’re right there. How exciting!’ He puts his glasses back on and gives me a quick up-and-down look. There’s a short silence before he adds, ‘Will Basil be OK on his own for a bit? Or you could always fetch him down if you like.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine; he was asleep when I left my room, snoring away – it’s his favourite pastime, apart from eating – why do you ask?’ I say, casually.
‘You’ll see. Give me five minutes – I just need to make a quick phone call to Ruby who has a clothes shop in the village and I’m sure she’ll have something you can borrow to visit Adam in.’ And he disappears behind the curtain. I busy myself by thumbing through a copy of the Tindledale Parish News, a lovely A6 pamphlet; it has a pencil line drawing of St Mary’s church on the front, and costs just fifty pence to buy with profits going towards ‘community projects’. Ah, that’s nice. It has a selection of adverts in the back – chiropodist, handyman, undertaker, Indian takeaway in Stoneley, wedding-dress shop … hmm, on second thoughts … I place the pamphlet back in the rack.
Lawrence returns.
‘Right. Now follow me.’ He grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before gliding me up a small flight of stairs towards a door marked Private Staff Only.
(#ulink_1572a820-aed4-5d1e-8fd3-329cdd7436b2)
Inside, I stand for a moment to take it all in. The scent from an enormous Yankee candle, called Christmas Cookie, floats over from a side table giving a glorious festive welcome to the room. There’s an elegant mink suede chaise longue running the length of one wall that’s covered in framed photos, stills from Lawrence’s stage performances by the looks of it, and a cosy log burner set in the centre with a tiled hearth surround and a pavé chandelier hanging from an exposed beamed ceiling, bathing the room in a glittery sheen. Wow, it’s a pretty impressive hair salon – the Tindledale villagers are very lucky indeed. No need to get the bus, on the hour, every hour, to Market Briar when they can trundle down the lane for a cut and blow dry with Lawrence. And reasonably priced too – there’s a laminated list on the wall and it’s only £35 for a full head of highlights!
The entire length of the opposite wall houses a clothes rack crammed full of costumes for the Tindledale Players, I presume. Agatha Christie-style Thirties silk dresses and fur stoles, Jersey Boy crooner suits and puffy prom dresses – they’re all here. There’s even a plastic watermelon hanging on the end of the rack in a big Cellophane bag.
‘Dirty Dancing! We did the musical in summer 2010.’ Lawrence informs me as I instinctively cup both hands around it.
‘I carried a watermelon!’ I say, and we both laugh.
But seriously, it’s like having a Hollywood dressing room in your back bedroom. A large, open-shelved cupboard is stacked full of shoes, hats and all kinds of fluffy, puffy-looking accessories. In the corner is a sink, a proper hair salon one, the kind you can lie back in to have your hair washed before wafting over to sit in front of the enormous gilt-edged mirror framed in a circle of miniature light bulbs. A shiny glass shelf on the wall to the side of the mirror houses a dozen polystyrene mannequin heads, each displaying a different, seriously big, bouffant-style wig. And the biggest collection of lash extensions I think I’ve ever seen: every conceivable colour, design and sparkly type lash imaginable. Crazy Horse, Paris … eat your heart out; this is serious show girl territory. Moving towards the costumes, I let my fingers trace a line along the exquisite fabrics as I walk the length of the rack.
‘This is amazing.’ My eyes widen and my pulse quickens.
‘Why thank you.’ Lawrence laughs and waves a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Now, settle yourself down and let’s sort your hair out first. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s looking a bit, hmm, well, snowswept.’
‘Is that next up on the scale after windswept?’ I laugh, lifting a limp wedge of sausage curls away from my face.
‘Yes, something like that. I can wash and style it for you if you like. I’m a trained stylist with years of experience – good job too as it was something to fall back on when the acting work dried up, and I used to own a hair salon, many moons ago. That was before I grew tired of having to do everything at breakneck speed and retired to Tindledale for some much needed R&R.’
‘In that case I’d love you to, if you’re absolutely sure?’ I can’t remember the last time I went to the hairdresser’s, certainly not since the wedding showdown because I haven’t really felt like it, but it’s different now. ‘But what about your other guests? Don’t they need you?’
‘You need me more right now.’ Lawrence pats a red leather chair by the basin, and I don’t need telling twice. I sit down and he shakes out a black nylon cape before securing it at the nape of my neck, scooping my hair back and turning the hand shower on. ‘How’s the temperature?’ He lets the warm water gently seep from my hairline and down over my scalp, protecting my face with his free hand.
‘Perfect.’ I close my eyes, savouring the relaxing sensation.
‘Hey, are you sure? You look a little anxious, clutching the armrests like that.’ He moves the water away from my head and I open my eyes.
‘Yes, sorry, I’m fine, honestly. This is such a treat, I just didn’t realise – being tense has kind of become second-nature these last few months.’ I release my grip and place my hands in my lap instead.
‘Ah, I see. Well, then try to relax. You’re going to look great, I promise.’ He brushes his hand over my shoulder reassuringly.
Lawrence finishes and wraps my hair up in an enormous sunshine-yellow fluffy towel.
‘Make-up time, and then I’ll blow out your hair,’ he says, leading me over to a chair in front of the mirror. He opens a drawer as I sit down. ‘Now, shall I do the honours or would you prefer to do your own?’ I open my mouth, and then quickly close it again. In the drawer are billions of pots, tubes and tubs of all kinds of lotions, potions and scrubs. I’ve never seen so many beauty products in one place before, except the beauty hall at Selfridges, but even then I reckon Lawrence’s drawer could be a very serious contender on the hugeness scale.
‘Blimey, that’s quite a collection.’ I smile. ‘I don’t tend to wear very much make-up so I’ll just borrow some blusher and a touch of eye shadow, if that’s OK?’
‘Of course, help yourself and I’ll get some tea. Posh or normal?’ he says, his eyes dancing.
‘Er, what’s posh?’ I ask, hesitantly.
‘Well, we have peppermint, camomile, rooibos, Earl Grey and Lady Grey – now that’s really posh.’ Lawrence cocks an expectant eyebrow.
‘Camomile please.’
‘Good choice. Coming right up.’ He takes a bow, laughing as he leaves the room. I take the opportunity to look more closely at the pictures on the wall – they’re mostly of Lawrence in a variety of Shakespearean-looking costumes; velvet and brocade jackets with big billowy sleeves and a serious look on his face, with famous actors such as Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Helen Mirren. The last one is him hugging Dame Judi Dench and they’re laughing like they’re best pals. How lovely! Lawrence has obviously had a wonderful career.
Lawrence returns a few minutes later with a silver tray holding a teapot, covered in a lovely spotty pink and purple cosy (handknitted), and two fine bone china cups on saucers. ‘To Sybs, and her mysterious secret admirer,’ he says, pouring the tea and handing it to me before carefully chinking his own cup against the side of mine. I glance up at him. ‘Oh dear, what is it? You’re not going to cry again are you?’ he says, pulling a face to lighten the mood.
‘No, no, of course not,’ I say, sipping at the grassy smelling liquid before glancing away.
‘What is it then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I lie. So much for my grandstanding and feeling of lightness earlier on; I’m never going to make it through to the end of my year of heartache at this rate. I’m all over the place, upbeat one minute, then miserable for the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes in the day. And hot, boiling hot; maybe that’s the lack of sleep sending my hormones haywire. Or perhaps it’s just because I’m exhausted. How on earth do parents with new babies function? If I were the Queen, I’d put them all on the honours list followed by a nice long rest in a super king bed somewhere very, very quiet. Or maybe it’s the menopause, come early, just to hack me off even more.
‘Well, it must be something. Tears before breakfast and now you look like you’re bracing yourself for the first day of an IKEA sale instead of Tindledale’s hottest newcomer. Apart from your good lady self, of course.’ He winks and places his cup back on the tray before pulling up a chair alongside me.
‘Ah, thank you Lawrence.’ I manage a smile. ‘You mentioned a doctor earlier?’ I need some sleeping pills because there’s no way I’m going to make it through the weekend without them. This must be how inmates in dodgy prisons feel after months of sleep deprivation torture, only much, much worse.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not ill are you?’ he says, his face clouding with concern.
‘Well, not exactly, not physically anyway.’ I’m not sure a broken heart counts as an actual illness. ‘I’m just finding it hard to sleep at the moment.’ I take another sip of tea before glancing away.
‘And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Oh, I, um, I’m not really used to talking about it.’ And it’s true, I’m not. Cher has tried to make me open up, but I didn’t want to drag her down with my self-loathing and angst and perpetual analysing of my disastrous relationship with Luke. I must have gone over and over our time together a trillion times in my head looking for clues, something I missed, or didn’t do, or did do but did it wrong because if I did screw up, then how do I know the same thing isn’t going to happen again? I’ll go mad and be like Miss Havisham, cloistered away, wringing my hands over yet another ruined wedding breakfast! And let’s face it, nobody likes a Debbie Downer, so I figured it was best just to bury all the dark thoughts into my knitting instead of burdening my best friend with the metaphorical wah-wah-wah of a muted trombone sounding out after everything that comes from my mouth.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ Lawrence says gently.
‘It’s OK.’ I turn to look at him and take a deep breath. ‘It’s just been this way for quite a long time now …’ I hesitate.
‘Go on.’
‘Um, ever since my boyfriend failed to turn up to his own wedding.’ I smile wryly. ‘To me, I hasten to add.’ I pull a face and take another sip of tea, willing my bottom lip to stop trembling – what am I? Five years old? Sweet lord of heartache, I really need to get a grip, I can’t keep crying all over the place.
‘Ouch. Hmm, I guess that would do it.’ Lawrence tuts. ‘Well, it’s his loss!’ He stands up defiantly. ‘You know, I believe in fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, and him not turning up happened for a reason. And do you know what that reason is?’ He has both hands on his hips now and a resolute look on his face.
‘Er, because he wants to be with my twin sister instead of me?’
Lawrence does a double take, then opens and closes his mouth before swallowing hard and carrying on.
‘Because there’s someone far better out there for you! Now, let’s get your slap on so you can go and find him. Trust me, after you’ve clapped eyes on Adam you won’t need a doctor. Oh no. Unless it’s to resuscitate you after you’ve fainted from sheer lust.’ We both laugh. ‘You know, I met my late partner, Jason, on a blind date. Well, kind of, it was a balmy Sunday evening, standing in line for the Saturday Night Fever wrap party at Studio 54. It was 1978.’ He pauses to take a sip of his tea. ‘Yes, back in the day, this was. Anyway, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vision standing right there in front of me, looking resplendent in peach cord flares and a chest-hugging top. He had that whole Shaft thing going on.’ I frown. ‘Oh, never mind, before your time, I guess. Well, I made a beeline for him on the dance floor. You should have seen it, Sybs. It was sublime – a strawberry-hued mural of the man in the moon, with his very own coke spoon twinkling and glistening under the disco lights. Dancing away making history we were.’ He closes his eyes for a second, looking like he’s savouring the nostalgia. ‘I was very young and naive,’ he offers, by way of explanation as I try and picture the scene in my head. It’s hard; I can’t imagine Lawrence ever being naive, not when he seems so assured and worldly wise. ‘So, after a few too many glasses of Midori, we had a snog and a bit of a fumble on one of the balconies, and then he ended up back at mine testing out my new magenta silk sheets. And the rest really is history. Marvellous.’ He drains the last of his tea before placing the cup back down on the tray. ‘Oh, don’t look so scared – you’ll not end up in Adam’s bed, no, this is the sleepy, quaint little village of Tindledale, not NYC in the hedonistic Seventies. Besides, you’re a far nicer girl than I ever was.’ Lawrence winks, and I take another mouthful of tea.
‘Ha!’ I grin, feeling relaxed; it’s great chatting to him and so nice to just hang out and drink tea – it’s been a while. All of my free time recently has been full of dark thoughts, with Basil and my knitting to keep me company. ‘It seems strange to be talking about dating, when not so long ago I assumed I’d be married by now and, well … that would be that. Sorted. I guess.’ I shrug.
‘I bet it does. But lots of marriages don’t turn out the way they were intended to. You know, Jason had a wife for a while. She lives in Australia now!’ Lawrence says casually.
‘Really? Wow!’
‘Yes, Queensland, which is just so ironic when you think about it.’ He pauses to muse. ‘She went there when he eventually mustered up the courage to jump out of the closet, and confess all. Years ago this was, but she’s happily partnered now to a used-car salesman and they have three gloriously tanned grown up children together – she still sends me birthday cards every year, which is very lovely of her. We’re the best of friends and she was such a comfort to me when Jason went to the big Studio 54 in the sky.’ Lawrence smiles contemplatively.
‘Well … that’s refreshing,’ I say, thinking how incredible Jason’s wife must be and wondering how I might have felt if Luke had turned around and said that he much preferred men to me, after all. Although I actually think that may have hurt less than him jilting me at the altar for my twin sister. I’m convinced the feeling of hurt would have been lessened if he’d left me for a stranger, man or woman, and it still cuts me up inside that my own sister could do that to me. ‘And I’m sorry to hear about Jason. Do you miss him very much?’
‘I do. Every day, but it was inevitable, I guess; he was quite a bit older than me and not in the best of health towards the end. It was very peaceful though and just as he wished, at home with me,’ Lawrence explains. ‘My sadness is for him really, that he didn’t come out sooner and get to live as he truly wanted to for more of his life.’
‘But he had you and your life together. I’m sure that made him very happy,’ I say softly, and Lawrence leans forward to pat the top of my hand. A short silence follows as we both sit with our respective thoughts.
I finish my tea and start dabbing a smoky eye shadow into the crease of my eyelid.
‘Now that’s a perfect colour on you. A touch of mascara, maybe, or how about some Cheryl lash extensions?’ Lawrence asks.
‘Cheryl?’ They sound fascinating.
‘Yes, here. That’s the name of them.’ And he reaches into the box and pulls out a dainty pair of feathery lashes. ‘The nation’s sweetheart – you know, Cheryl Cole, or Fernandez-Versini or whatever her name is now. Exquisite, isn’t she? And a phenomenal performer too – the young girls in the Tindledale Players are always trying to emulate her moves up on the stage of the village hall. But I’m not sure the villagers are quite ready for a panto with added grind just yet. And you’re going to look just like her.’ He smiles.
‘Ha! Hardly.’
‘You’re not a million miles away. Such a cracking figure and pretty face you have.’
‘Yeah, right. Only she’d fit twice over into my body, possibly three times, and I’d need a whole factory full of hair serum to smooth out my bushy barnet,’ I say, wondering again how Sasha, my so-called identical twin, always seems to manage to get her curls transformed into a poker straight and glossy sheet falling down her back with never a hair out of place.
‘Nonsense, don’t put yourself down. Now, do you want to try the lashes? We can always trim them if you think they’re too much.’
‘Er, I’m not sure, I don’t want to look too …’ I pause to choose my words carefully, not wanting to upset him, especially as he’s batting his diamantés at me pleadingly, ‘spectacular,’ I settle on.
‘Wonderful. I’ll just pick out a few for the corners and then you’ll look totally natural. Trust me, you’re going to love it; they’ll be tossing rose petals wherever you walk when I’m finished with you,’ he says in a very grand actorly style voice. Then, chuckling and shaking his head, he busies himself with gathering the equipment together.
‘OK then,’ I nod, with only a hint of apprehension after such a glowing guarantee. But I needn’t have worried; because when I open my eyes and look into the mirror it’s like a mini miracle. My whole face looks open and bright – even my eye bags have practically disappeared. And it feels so good. ‘They’re incredible. And subtle too,’ I tell him. I’m impressed. Grinning at myself in the mirror, I flutter my new lashes admiringly as I turn my head from side to side to get a better look from all angles. Then I reach up and give Lawrence a quick squeeze.
‘Thank you, I love them.’
‘Told you. Now, hair time.’ And he darts around behind the chair, whips the towel from my head and starts combing through. ‘Big?’ he asks, widening his eyes hopefully and holding a length of my hair out sideways, letting the comb hover in mid-air.
‘OK. But not too big, I don’t want to look like Beyoncé about to go on stage as I walk down Tindledale High Street.’
‘Point taken.’
Using a big cylindrical brush, Lawrence funnels the hot air from the hairdryer down and around sections of my hair before teasing the brush free and scooping up another section and repeating the process all over again, each time gathering speed.
‘Voila! How’s that for madam,’ he eventually declares, grabbing a round mirror and holding it behind my back. I twist my head to get a better look, loving how he’s managed to get my bedraggled, snowswept curls cascading in a way I’ve never managed to before.
‘Oh, Lawrence I love it.’ I stand up and give him a hug.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says modestly, ‘as our Chezza says, it’s because you’re worth it.’ He hugs me back and then takes both my hands in his and squeezes them gently. ‘And don’t you ever forget it.’ He pulls a stern face, pretending to chastise me. I look into his eyes, thinking what a lovely, kind man he is. I’m so glad I came to Tindledale – I would never have met him otherwise. Maybe Cher not being here happened for a reason too – not that Lawrence is better than Cher, just different, and exactly what I needed today.
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Alexandra Brown
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Can wacky Christmas jumpers really mend a broken heart? A classic Christmas Cracker from the bestselling author of The Secret of Orchard CottageHeartbroken after being jilted at the altar, Sybil has been saved from despair by her knitting obsession and now her home is filled to bursting with tea cosies, bobble hats, and jumpers. But, after discovering that she may have perpetrated the cock-up of the century at work, Sybil decides to make a hasty exit and, just weeks before Christmas, runs away to the picturesque village of Tindledale.There, Sybil discovers Hettie’s House of Haberdashery, an emporium dedicated to the world of knitting and needle craft. But Hettie, the outspoken octogenarian owner, is struggling and now the shop is due for closure. And when Hettie decides that Sybil’s wonderfully wacky Christmas jumpers are just the thing to add a bit of excitement to her window display, something miraculous starts to happen…