by Henry Sands
Once he had escaped, he made an excuse and headed towards the relative safety of the VIP bar behind the DJ booth, where he stayed for the rest of the evening.
One of the increasingly popular traditions of the Papaya night was the random distribution of prizes and competitions. Mostly these were sponsored t-shirts or beachwear that a local brand would supply for some extra exposure. Occasionally, though, hotels liked to give away free accommodation as a branding opportunity on the particularly busy evenings.
Leonardo had agreed in a generous moment earlier in the season that he would contribute an entire week’s free stay at Camp Mayo, and it happened that it was going to be given out that night. He thought he’d hang around then until the prize was awarded, before calling it a night.
At around 3am, it was announced they were going to give away the prize. The party organisers liked to give away the best prizes last to ensure people stayed late and spent as much money as possible in the process.
As with the previous prize-givings that had taken place, it followed the format of José, the lighting guy, focussing the spotlight beam from the top of the stage. It would move randomly over the crowd, before randomly landing on one of the guests when the music stopped.
Leonardo looked on across the crowd at the different faces, all jumping towards the travelling spotlight which continued to flick around the dance floor, before stopping just by the edge closest to the beach.
Leonardo looked towards the light of the spotlight just as Jack, who was leading Noelle by the hand back to the dance floor, inadvertently walked straight into it. They both froze upon realising that everyone was staring straight at them. Leonardo couldn’t contain his laughter at the evident embarrassment on Jack’s face, while secretly already hoping that this might mean his pal, given he had won, would come and visit him again soon. The waitress handed Jack his prize voucher before the spotlight was directed back to Diego and the stage.
Jack opened the envelope and read the card:
This voucher gives you a week’s holiday at Club Mayo, Tulum. It includes all your drinks and food taken at Club Mayo, as well as a return economy class transport from a country of your choice courtesy of Iberia Airlines. Valid for six months only.
He and Noelle looked at each other awkwardly, before Jack handed her the envelope saying, ‘You take this, Noelle. It’s way easier for you to hop on a plane here than me.’ He refrained from pointing out that, while he was just about to start work, Noelle had now all but retired and had a fair amount of spare time on her hands.
Noelle took the card gratefully and gave Jack a hug. ‘You look after yourself, young man.’ She kissed him one more time on the lips and turned to find her friends.
Assuming Leonardo would have already headed back to Camp Mayo, Jack headed towards the exit. He realised his car was coming in three hours, and he still needed to pack. At least he’d sleep on the flight! Unbeknown to him, though, Leonardo had seen the whole exchange since Jack had arrived back on the dance floor from his rendezvous on the beach.
He grabbed his shoulder. ‘You, Jack Morley, are a mad English bastard, but I’ve loved getting to know you. I saw that whole scene unfold,’ Leonardo said knowingly.
‘You were watching us? Dude,’ Jack responded.
‘No! Fuck, God no! Not whatever the fuck you were doing to Noelle on the beach. I meant just now with the spotlight and the envelope and giving away the prize!’
Jack’s face exposed a little relief, and Leonardo continued, ‘Here, this was meant to be the prize for next month, but I want you to have this,’ he said, before handing him a second envelope. ‘Now you’ve got no reason not to come and visit me again!’ It was a separate week’s stay at Camp Mayo.
They hugged each other one last time before Leonardo headed back to the stage.
- Chapter Five -
Ferryman’s Cottage, Norfolk
When Lucinda thought about the times she had been happiest since David had died, it had always been at Ferryman’s Cottage during Christmas time.
From eccentric midnight mass services with the tipsy elderly vicar and children rushing down the stairs to find their stockings in the morning, to long, frosty Christmas morning walks before settling down around the fire to watch the Queen’s speech, the whole family enjoyed Christmas.
Even this year, despite knowing it was going to be the last of its kind, Lucinda was looking forward to it. She hadn’t seen much of Sophie and Jack in the last few months, what with Sophie now living up in Scotland and Jack being away travelling.
Sophie had studied History of Art at Edinburgh University and met Harry, her boyfriend, halfway through her second year. Harry’s family ran a small, at least by Scottish standards, mixed estate up in the Angus Glens. Harry was a couple of years older than Sophie, and after graduating had spent two years working in Edinburgh as an analyst at a large pension fund company while Sophie finished her degree. He knew he was always going to have to return home to run the farm, perhaps sooner rather than later as his dad wasn’t as young and healthy as he had once been, but he wanted to have at least some time working in the city before disappearing into the Scottish countryside.
They had met at a mutual friend’s dinner party in a Georgian flat with high ceilings, which seemed much too grand for student digs, just off Dublin Street. Before that, he’d assumed he would head to London after university, like so many of his friends had done, but meeting Sophie had changed his mind. Perhaps if she had wanted to move down to the Big Smoke after graduating, he might have asked for a transfer to the London office, but at that point he was very happy to stay put.
Sophie graduated with a 2:1 and a tight group of university friends, and their relationship was still going well. With Harry having received a promotion to an associate, and no burning desire on the part of Sophie to leave Scotland, they decided it probably made more sense to stay in Edinburgh. It wasn’t long before Sophie found a job at Lyon and Turnbull, the auction house headquartered in the Scottish capital.
They loved their time transitioning from students to young professionals in Edinburgh, and the lifestyle it gave them. Their flat, which they rented from a distant cousin of Harry’s mother for a quarter of the market rate, had large neo-classical proportions and a lovely view out over the private gardens of Drummond Place, with the Firth of Forth just visible in the distance. It also had the added benefit of them both being able to walk to work – a far cry from the complaints of their London friends battling each morning on the underground.
After another two years, though, Harry’s father found that his age was starting to catch up with him, and he knew his time to return home was approaching.
Sophie and Harry had discussed the move at length, and had agreed that when the time was right, they would throw themselves into it whole-heartedly, without looking back. So, when one January evening they were having a drink together in a wine bar off Queen Street, Harry nervously announced, ‘I think it might be time to go home,’ Sophie agreed immediately. Without drawing out the process, they both resigned from their respective jobs the following morning, and a month later they were in removal vans driving up the A90 past Dundee, and heading home.
It had long been assumed by Lucinda, Jack and Anthony that Sophie would marry Harry, but they couldn’t predict when. They had enjoyed visiting the young couple in Edinburgh, which was lucky, given Sophie’s reluctance to leave the city. The flight from Norwich to Edinburgh was hugely convenient for short trips up to Scotland, and they made the journey fairly regularly, often staying at The Scotsman Hotel just on the Old Town side of the George IV Bridge.
Lucinda was fond of Harry, and any regret she had at not seeing more of her daughter was outweighed by the comfort of knowing Sophie had found a man she clearly adored and who, evidently, reciprocated her feelings. In some ways, there were elements of David, Sophie’s father, about him in his gregarious, enterprising outlook on life
.
Jack, who had studied Geography at Newcastle University, enjoyed having his sister just up the road for the two years that their university days overlapped, and visited her regularly. This usually entailed camping on Sophie’s sofa in Edinburgh, but he also made a few trips up to Glen Clova with his sister, Harry and a gaggle of friends.
On a good run, you could get to Harry’s farm in two hours from Edinburgh, and once there they had the glen right on their doorstep, offering about as much fun as young students could have. Long summer days led to swimming in the nearby loch or stalking deer off the hill, but they were mostly there in the winter when they bunkered down by fires after causing mischief in the snow.
Lucinda did sometimes wonder whether she would have had the same firm inclination to leave Anthony had her children not been away quite so much. Or perhaps she should have been busier on her own projects; she used to spend days working on her watercolours in the summerhouse, and why didn’t she take on one of Diana’s adorable Labrador pups last year?
Doubt crept into her previously clear mind. Was she partly to blame after all? She mulled the idea as she unloaded the Waitrose carrier bags from her car, before quickly assuring herself that her situation was in fact entirely down to Anthony’s dreariness, and had very little, if anything, to do with her own shortcomings.
That’s enough of those thoughts, she told herself, and focussed her attention back on to Jack’s return that evening. Sophie would also start the drive down from Angus that day, but planned to break up the journey by spending the night with friends near Ripon in Yorkshire en route, before arriving home in time for lunch tomorrow. Harry, dedicated as ever, would be staying on the farm in Scotland, as the livestock needed tending to.
*
Lucinda arrived at Downham Market station ten minutes before Jack’s train was due to pull in. This gave her enough time to grab a coffee from the recently opened café on the platform, aptly named The Platform, which had until recently been a public lavatory.
The local MP, Tricia Wilson (or Dishy Trishy, as most of the men in Norfolk referred to her), had proudly opened it the week before to a small public audience and the local newspaper, the Eastern Daily Press.
It was all part of a local government drive to bring more jobs to East Anglia in an attempt to diversify the economy away from agriculture. MPs with rural constituencies, such as West Norfolk, had been warned centrally by the Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs that their efforts to reduce intensive farming in the UK would have a likely short-term negative impact on the local jobs market. Therefore, anything that could be done to help create small businesses in the region would be prioritised. As a result, the new owners of The Platform had almost been given the premises for free by the local council in order to get it going, and Dishy Trishy was ensuring she milked every bit of credit for its opening.
Lucinda found herself thinking it was going to take an awful lot more than The Platform coffee shop to offset the reduction in local farming shops, but it was a surprisingly good cappuccino.
She spotted Jack’s face in the window of the penultimate carriage before the train had pulled in, or perhaps it was his blue North Face backpack that she recognised first.
The scrum of commuters and children, most of whom were also rushing home to friends and family for the Christmas holidays, swept past her as she waited for Jack to get his bags together.
Lucinda hugged him ever so slightly harder than she would have done in previous years, knowing that this familiar annual routine might not happen again in the same way. Jack’s hair had grown and he looked like he needed a good wash, but otherwise she was pleased to see he had returned from his travels seemingly unscathed. No tattoos and no pregnant Mexican girlfriend – can’t wish for more than that, she told herself.
Back at Ferryman’s Cottage, Anthony had got the fire going for their return, and as they came through the door, Jack hugged his stepfather with genuine affection.
Lucinda felt Anthony had many shortcomings, but she could not fault the way he had supported her with Sophie and Jack. From taking them to school sports clubs every weekend, to driving them back from parties late at night throughout their teenage years, he had been nothing but devoted to the children.
That night, after the three of them had had supper and gone to bed, Lucinda lay awake as Anthony snored gently with his back to her. Uneasily, she thought again to herself about how much she would miss Christmas at Ferryman’s, the four of them together.
But her mind quickly and excitedly drifted on to what life would be like in January. Would she ask Anthony to leave, or would she leave herself – and if she went, then where would she go? And who actually owned the house now? She hadn’t thought about that. She had far more friends nearby than Anthony, but she knew that wouldn’t really bother him if he insisted on staying. He hardly saw anyone as it was, and she suspected that the upheaval of having to move somewhere else would concern him more. Besides, she liked the thought of spending some time away. As it was to be an adventure, perhaps somewhere warm.
She had a cousin, Pauline de Westholz, who ran a vineyard in South Africa, about an hour outside Cape Town in the Franschhoek Valley. She had been promising to visit her for years, so perhaps now was the time. She could even help them run the wine-tasting room, or even cook in the new vineyard bistro that they wrote about in this year’s Christmas round robin.
Lucinda was a recent convert to Instagram and was always seeing pictures that Pauline and her South African husband, Greg, were posting about how busy they were with visitors. It had mainly been just English visitors for a long time, but for the last couple of years there had been frequent coachloads of Chinese tourists arriving. Although it made the farm seem a little more commercial, Greg happily pointed out to his wife that while the English rarely bought much more than a token bottle after a wine tasting, the Chinese guests regularly left with a case of his most expensive signature blend. He’d even increased the price of the Pinotage three times now to keep up with demand.
Yes, a few months in the Cape sounded like a good plan, and the very idea made her relax. She rolled over and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and Sophie would be home.
Christmas Eve at Ferryman’s Cottage had followed the same jolly routine for as long as they had been there. After the four of them had supper, they settled in front of the fire to play a game of animal charades. Loosened by the three bottles of claret from Anthony’s collection, in addition to the two bottles of Champagne they had already drunk before supper, they were all suitably amused by the time they left the house and crossed the village green to get to the beautiful medieval church of St James’s for their annual midnight mass service.
Compared to the rest of the congregation, though, they seemed relatively sober. The Turners, who lived in the large rectory on the other side of the village and generally had a party of fourteen or so with various cousins staying, could be counted on for being the most raucous. That was, of course, not including Reverend Peter, who had retired fifteen years ago but agreed to continue to do the service. His life mostly revolved now around his fabulous collection of single malts and his Norwich Terrier, Monty, who accompanied him to the service and even enthusiastically joined in some of the hymns, somewhat bolstering the warbling from the much-admired geriatric “choir”.
Despite the service finishing after midnight, each year the congregation would stay for a glass of celebratory Champagne with Reverend Peter, fearing it might be his last. It never was, and each Christmas morning, most of Castle Acre would wake up even more hungover than they would have been anyway.
This Christmas turned out to follow the usual agenda precisely, and the four of them appeared downstairs for breakfast just after 9am, with heads far rougher than any of them would care to admit.
Sophie helped Lucinda prepare the turkey that had been delivered the day before by a nearby farmer friend, while Anth
ony and Jack cleared up the final bits of mess from the night before and started re-laying the table ahead of the late lunch. Once the turkey was in the oven, and the table was beautifully laid, they wrapped up in their coats and headed out for a stomp.
The River Nar was just at the bottom of their lane, and their walking route had barely changed since they moved to Castle Acre. From the house, they headed straight past the church and then to the ruins of a monastic priory, dating back to 1090. From there, they would reach the River Nar and follow the river downstream until it took them into the ancient woods ahead. The huge branches of the oak trees above cast shadows against the meandering banks of the river. Robins, goldfinches and, on occasion, blue tits, would dart around overhead seeking food morsels dropped on the path by walkers emptying their pockets.
On entering the woods, the ancient oak trees appeared still and silent around them, yet after focussing further it became clear that there was, in fact, a buzz of activity from wildlife and nature everywhere you looked. Lucinda had taken this walk thousands of times since she moved to Ferryman’s Cottage, but each time something was different. That’s what drew her back, time and time again.
You knew you’d come to the end of the woods once you could see the four-storey mill appearing between the opening in the trees. The Mill House dated back to the late 18th century, and had fallen into disrepair until it was bought a few years ago by a surgeon from London.
The surgeon had totally refurbished it with love, taste and not an insignificant sum of money, and it stood proudly once more over the banks of the River Nar. On the other side of the house was a ford, where children would play Poohsticks and dogs would swim before inevitably vigorously shaking dry their fur by an innocent passer-by. Often one activity would interrupt the other, meaning that clear Poohstick victories were becoming increasingly rare, but they all worked it out in the end.
