Sleigh Rides and Silver Bells at the Christmas Fair

by Heidi Swain

  To Oliver

  One for you at last

  Merry Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Most people, at some point during their adult lives, struggle to come up with what to put on their Christmas list, but not me. Asking for the same present every year since I turned eighteen has ensured that I’ve never encountered that particular problem and now, almost twenty years later, it’s still my first choice.

  My longed-for gift of working every day of December, including right through the Christmas holidays, might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for the last two decades it’s proved an absolute sanity saver for me. However, this is one present that I have to sort for myself and it simply has to be wrapped up well in advance of the Big Day. So, to give myself the best possible chance of securing the right post, I begin the search when the first leaves fall in autumn, and this year was no exception. By the middle of November I had the choice of two situations, but it was the isolated location of one of them which left me powerless to resist.

  ‘And just how remotely situated would you say Wynthorpe Hall actually is?’ I asked, during the brief telephone interview with Angus Connelly, the hall owner, who was keen for me to take the temporary job he had to offer.

  ‘Very,’ he cautiously replied. ‘And is that going to be a problem do you think, Anna? Because this really isn’t the sort of place where you can just pop round the corner for a bag of sugar, I’m afraid. It’s more like a forty-minute round trip into town and there are no other houses nearby.’

  Little did he know it of course, but his words were music to my ears. The other job I had been offered was back in central London and although the pay and perks were vastly different, so was the atmosphere at this time of year. The city would already be awash with lights, cheesy tunes and festive cheer and as far as I was concerned that was far too hefty a price to pay for an extra zero on the salary. Hunkering down in the barren and frosty Fenland landscape, without so much as a carol singer in sight, would be a much appreciated soothing balm to my troubled soul and I mulled it over with relish.

  ‘Of course I appreciate that compared to some, we don’t have much to offer in terms of inducements,’ Mr Connelly continued, no doubt taking my hesitation for a refusal, ‘but the work is light and it will be quiet here for most of the time. My wife, Catherine, is recovering well from her surgery now so—’

  ‘And that’s what I don’t really understand,’ I interrupted. ‘According to your email your wife had knee surgery some weeks ago. Surely if she’s up and about she doesn’t need someone to look after her now, especially as you just said yourself you have no grand plans for Christmas this year.’

  I know I sounded blunt, but I needed to secure a position that would keep me busy and occupied. I couldn’t abide wasting time during any month of the year, but especially during December. Twiddling my thumbs would lead to thinking, and thinking when the decorations were out of the loft was the one thing I never allowed myself to do.

  This telephone call was my one opportunity to ascertain that I wouldn’t be besieged by free time, or conversely that I wouldn’t be roped into helping to prepare some grand country-house Christmas either, and therefore I was determined to have everything settled in my mind, every wrinkle smoothed out, before I made my final decision.

  ‘Well, you see the thing is, I can’t help thinking she’s started to overdo things a bit,’ Mr Connelly elaborated, lowering his voice a little. ‘She won’t have it of course, but I think she’s taking on too much. She insists she’s just pottering about, but I’m afraid she’s going to suffer in the long run and she’s come so far. I’d hate to see her slipping back to square one.’

  His voice trailed off, but the tenderness in his tone had penetrated my heart and unexpectedly made my eyes mist up a little.

  ‘If she had someone here she could delegate to,’ he continued with a sigh. ‘Someone discreet and unimposing with whom she could do things, someone who could keep a subtle eye on her . . .’

  ‘Well, I am discreet,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘So you’ll come?’ he quickly cut in. ‘She doesn’t want to let me or the rest of the staff do much for her at all so she may take some talking round to begin with, but you’ll take the job, won’t you?’

  I thought back over the last three contracts I had worked, caring for a succession of rather spoilt under-eights in various cities dotted around the country and the idyll of a child-free, low-key Christmas in the sticks looked and sounded more appealing than ever.

  As an experienced ‘Girl Friday’ I could turn my hand to a variety of jobs including nanny, housekeeper, secretary, companion and carer. I loved all of my chosen roles, most of the time, and this position, according to the advertisement in the recruitment pages of The Lady magazine, looked as if it combined practically all of them, along with the added benefit of avoiding anything to do with a commercial city Christmas of course.

  Even if my charge was initially going to need careful handling, this was exactly the sort of brief and straightforward arrangement I was looking for to tide me over until January when I would be ready to jump back on the treadmill as soon as Twelfth Night was ticked off the calendar.

  ‘All right,’ I said decisively, ‘I’ll take the job. I’ll see you next Friday afternoon, Mr Connelly.’

  ‘Oh that’s marvellous!’ he exclaimed. ‘And please, call me Angus.’

  ‘Angus,’

  ‘And you’re quite sure you don’t want to come and have a look at the place first, just to make absolutely sure you’ll be happy here?’

  I had already had a brief glimpse at Google Maps to confirm the hall really was the perfect spot to see out the silly season for a ‘bah humbug’ like me, and with regards to my happiness, I didn’t think a few weeks was anywhere near long enough to warrant taking it into consideration.

  ‘No,’ I reassured him. ‘But thank you. That really won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Well in that case,’ he sighed, sounding well pleased, ‘we’ll see you next week.’

  The weather had turned foggy and frosty by the following Friday and the driving conditions from my last post in Winchester to my new one bordering the furthest reaches of Wynbridge couldn’t have been worse. I hadn’t planned to stop en route at all, but as the three-hour journey turned into four I began to flag, and knew that if I wanted to present myself in the best possible light at the door of Wynthorpe Hall, I was going to need to freshen up first.

  My heart thumped hard in my chest as I crossed the bridge into the little market town and my eyes fell upon huddles of locals rushing about with clipboards, strings of lights and boxes of enormous baubles. The hall might have been planning a simple festive celebration, but here in town it looked suspiciously like the preparations for Christmas were already in full swing.

  ‘What can I get you?’ asked a waitress wearing a cupcake-patterned apron as I bagged myself a tucked-away table in a place called The Cherry Tree Café. ‘We’re just about to start serving lunch if you fancy something hot.’

  The delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen was enough to set my stomach growling and although I didn’t normally eat a hot meal at lunchtime I thought the chill in my bones justified the extra calories on this occasion. I had only walked a short distance from the car to the café, but my winter go-to ‘first impression outfit’, comprising of a grey pencil skirt and soft cream cashmere jumper, did little to stave off the chill, even though I was still wearing my Burberry quilted jacket.

  ‘We’re launching our special Winter Warmer menu today,’ the woman continued, sensing I was about to crumble. ‘The soup is butternut squash, served wi
th pumpkin bread, and the roasted vegetable quiche comes with a twice baked cheesy jacket potato and winter salad.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll have the quiche please,’ I surprised myself by saying, ‘and a coffee.’

  ‘I’ll have your coffee sent straight over,’ she smiled, watching as I rubbed my hands together and blew on my fingers. ‘It’ll warm you up.’

  It didn’t take long to thaw out inside the cosy café and as I hungrily devoured the delicious quiche I watched with interest as customers bustled in and out, most of them taking with them a slice of something sweet packed inside a cherry-patterned box, doubtless destined for afternoon tea at home.

  ‘Are you always this busy?’ I asked the curly-haired waitress who came to clear away my dishes.

  ‘Always,’ she grinned, ‘but especially on days like this. It’s the grand switch-on tomorrow night, so the market is heaving. Are you going to be in town for the party?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, perhaps a little too quickly. ‘I’m just passing through.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ she tutted. ‘It’s going to be quite a celebration.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said, looking out of the window as two enormous trees were being hoisted into place at either end of the market. I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to be engrossed in something on my phone.

  ‘Would you like another coffee?’

  ‘No thank you, but the lunch was delicious.’ I replied, suddenly noticing the time on the screen. ‘I really should be getting on. I’m expected at Wynthorpe Hall this afternoon.’

  ‘Not passing through far then,’ she grinned. ‘You aren’t Anna by any chance, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I frowned, taken aback. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Angus is so pleased you’ve agreed to take the job,’ she continued, plenty loud enough for everyone to hear and as if we were picking up the thread of a former conversation.

  So much for being discreet.

  ‘He’s been really worried about Catherine rushing her recovery.’

  ‘Which is ironic really, isn’t it, Lizzie?’ added the other waitress, who had tuned into the conversation, ‘because usually she’s the one fretting over him.’

  ‘He’s known around here as Mr Toad, isn’t he, Jemma?’ Lizzie expanded. ‘Because he’s always up to mischief with some crazy scheme or another.’

  ‘But he’s an absolute sweetheart,’ Jemma beamed.

  ‘Completely eccentric of course,’ Lizzie laughed, ‘but thoroughly lovely.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d literally just arrived in the county and already my presence was common knowledge and my employer was being described as a comical, if somewhat exasperating, fictional character. It was an unusual situation to say the least. I was used to the anonymity of city living and working in places where my employers’ idiosyncrasies weren’t commented on.

  ‘Did I hear that right?’ boomed a man’s voice from the other side of the café. ‘Are you the lass who has taken the job up at the hall?’

  ‘Yes, Chris, she is,’ confirmed Jemma, before I had a chance to even open my mouth.

  ‘Then would you do me a favour and take their fruit and veg order with you when you go? I’m rushed off my feet today, what with the deliveries taking twice as long in this fog, and the tree-decorating to oversee ahead of tomorrow night.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed, too shocked to refuse as I fumbled in my bag for my purse.

  I thanked and paid the Cherry Tree ladies for my lovely lunch, then led Chris Dempster, who declared himself the very best fruit and veg trader in the local area, over to my car where he proceeded to dump my suitcase on the passenger seat and stock the diminutive boot with enough produce to feed a small army.

  ‘I won’t ask you to help,’ he said, taking in my outfit. ‘Not in that gear.’

  I picked up a large bag of potatoes and hauled it onto the back seat, keen to show that despite what he may have assumed about me, I was certainly no princess. He chuckled and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  ‘Are you sure this is their order?’ I asked, taking in the bulging bags of carrots and sack stuffed with sprouts when I had got my breath back. ‘There seems to be an awful lot here for so few people.’

  ‘They’re no doubt stocking up ahead of Christmas,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose and making my heart hammer in my chest again.

  ‘But that’s weeks away,’ I said with a squeak, my cool facade slipping a little in my panic. ‘And Mr Connelly told me they’re planning a rather low-key Christmas this year.’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t worry,’ Chris grinned, before adding with a throaty chuckle, ‘this lot won’t last five minutes at the hall. That cook of theirs likes to keep the troops well fed. By this time next week you’ll no doubt be heading back for more of the same.’

  Chapter 2

  Thanks to Mr Dempster’s in-depth knowledge of the local lanes I didn’t approach the hall via what he called the ‘treacherous river road’, but instead drove down a meandering track which, although it took longer than the route suggested by my satnav, was apparently far safer given the increasingly icy conditions.

  It was barely two o’clock when I pulled through the ornate black iron gates and onto the narrow strip of drive, but because of the thick cloud cover it was already getting dark. I slowed down to negotiate a tight right-hand bend and the drive narrowed again, the towering shrubs crowding in to hide the wider landscape and making the approach feel more like an overgrown woodland trail than a journey to somewhere spectacular.

  In the interests of preserving my little Fiat 500’s suspension I slowed to a snail’s pace to negotiate the final bumps and dips and gazed open-mouthed as the darkness thinned and the shrubs were replaced by pillars of towering trees which seemed to take a step back before revealing the secret at their heart.

  ‘Wow.’

  My Internet search had presented me with a plethora of photographs and descriptions, all announcing the hall as an historically important Grade One listed Elizabethan manor house, complete with majestic vistas, landscaped grounds and the obligatory lake, but in reality Wynthorpe Hall instantly appeared to be so much more than what its high-spec online credentials had suggested.

  I let out a long breath and shuddered as something deep within me seemed to stir and shift, and I couldn’t help thinking that for somewhere so grand the hall looked disarmingly comforting and homely. I gazed up at the ornate hexagonal chimney stacks, stone mullion windows and decorative terracotta-coloured brickwork and realised that what had appeared imposing online was comfortably informal close-to, and reassuringly worn around the edges. This hall was clearly a ‘real home’ as opposed to a ‘show home’, and I congratulated myself on making what I already knew would turn out to be the right choice.

  I followed the drive around the side and through a small gate which led to a high-walled stable block. The place didn’t look as if it had seen anything even remotely equine in years, but there were a variety of haphazardly parked vehicles along with various piles of machinery, an ancient cherry picker, some garden furniture and, unnervingly, a set of wooden stocks. The motley collection suggested the area was still in use, but as what I wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps it was some kind of upper-class junkyard, or possibly it was the place where the things that had formed the basis of Mr Connelly’s toad-like schemes went to die.

  A sharp tap on the passenger window brought me quickly back to my senses.

  ‘You can park where you like,’ shouted a man’s voice, ‘as long as it’s not behind the Land Rover.’

  I tucked my little car as far out of the way as I could, swapped my driving pumps for my Manolos and smoothed down my dark hair, ready to meet my new employer.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, smiling up at the man who, judging by his threadbare boiler suit and wellies, clearly wasn’t Angus Connelly after all. Or was he? Given what the ladies at The Cherry Tree Café had said, I wasn’t so sure now. My assumptions about who to expect had taken a bit of a
knock. ‘I’m Anna.’

  ‘I know,’ said the man, whipping the bobble hat from his head, ‘and I’m Mick. I’m the handyman here.’

  Not the boss then, but a friendly-looking face nonetheless. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mick.’

  ‘I’m also the gardener,’ he added.

  ‘Right,’

  ‘And the builder.’

  ‘OK,’

  ‘And I have been known to unblock the occasional drain and build the odd wall.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The job descriptions here are a bit sketchy,’ he laughed, rubbing his stubbly chin before shoving his hat back on his head. ‘You have to be prepared to take on whatever the place throws at you really.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine by me,’ I smiled. I was always happy to adapt to whatever the job required. ‘But thanks for the heads-up.’

  I guessed Mick was in his mid-sixties, but judging from the list of roles he had just reeled off he wasn’t quite ready to retire just yet.

  ‘You’ll no doubt find the set-up here all a bit strange to begin with,’ he carried on, stepping forward and fiddling with the boot catch on my car, ‘but give it six months and you’ll think nothing of it.’

  ‘I’m only going to be here a few weeks,’ I told him, as he began to quickly unload the fruit and veg that had been packed back in town. ‘How did you know I was bringing this lot with me?’

  ‘A few weeks, eh?’ he cut in with a wink.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Chris phoned ahead,’ he explained, returning his attention to the boxes and bags. ‘He told Dorothy, the cook here, that you were on your way. He said he’d sent you the long way round. What were the roads like?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ I said, thinking that what with the grocery delivery and the town-to-country network announcing my arrival, this really was the strangest introduction to a place I’d ever had. ‘A bit icy in places.’

  ‘Would have been far worse if you’d come by the river,’ he said darkly. ‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’

  The entrance to the sprawling kitchen was via a little courtyard and a welcoming porch that housed a muddle of wellington boots, abandoned coats and umbrellas.