Sleigh Rides and Silver Bells at the Christmas Fair

by Heidi Swain

  ‘She’s doing OK,’ said Mr Singh, ‘but with everything happening at the hall over the next few weeks I think there’s every possibility that she’ll take too much on and consequently hamper the progress that she has made so far.’

  I couldn’t help wondering if Catherine had told him about the latest Wynthorpe news with an ulterior motive. Had she perhaps hinted that I was the one who would be making sure she behaved herself? Perhaps she thought cranking up the guilt would stop me deserting my post. If that was the case, she was a very clever woman.

  ‘I’ll make sure everyone at the hall is aware of the situation,’ I told Mr Singh seriously. ‘And I’m sure Angus and Dorothy will have plans in place to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Singh,’ said Catherine who gave no flicker as to whether or not I’d jumped to the right conclusion. ‘I’ll see you in the New Year.’

  As I negotiated my way around the busy ring road system and into the centre of Norwich, Catherine became subdued and quiet and not at all like the chatty passenger who had travelled with me earlier.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked when I eventually parked. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this? We can drive straight home, if you’d rather.’

  ‘No, no,’ she insisted, ‘absolutely not. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since I booked the table. I’m sorry if I’m suddenly not the most loquacious companion, Anna, but I have so much on my mind. I keep forgetting about it all for a little while and then it all comes back and I find myself almost wishing Angus hadn’t gone to all this trouble over—’

  She had stopped just short of saying the word.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘you can say it.’

  ‘But it isn’t just Christmas,’ she tutted, unfastening her seat belt. ‘There’s much more to it than that. Jamie’s decision to come home is wonderful of course and I’m delighted, but I can’t help worrying about why he’s decided to come back now. I hope Angus hasn’t been pressurising him, because that’s no way to go about it.’

  ‘Go about what?’

  ‘Do you know,’ she said, ignoring my question and following her own train of thought, as I helped her out of her seat, ‘Wynthorpe Hall has been in my family for four generations now and securing its future is more important to me than anything. Well, almost anything. It’s a magical place and I adore owning it, but its upkeep and its future are such a massive responsibility.’

  I hadn’t realised that the hall had been passed down through Catherine’s side of the family and I couldn’t really see what the future of the hall had to do with Jamie either. Surely it would be left to Christopher, the eldest son, assuming Catherine and Angus were following tradition of course. Although, given what I now knew of the place, that probably wasn’t the case at all.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose fretting over it all before he’s back in the country will make any difference, will it? Let’s go and enjoy our tea.’

  The gilded Georgian Assembly Rooms in Norwich were a sight to behold, as was the dainty, delicious afternoon tea Catherine ordered. Regimented smoked salmon and ham and Colman’s mustard sandwiches, warm savoury and sweet scones and a variety of miniature cakes and macarons arrived shortly after the pots of delicately fragranced, loose-leaf tea.

  Catherine had been greeted like an old friend by the waitressing staff and told me that she had been a regular at the rooms since she was in her teens and that her mother had insisted it was the only place to take refreshment during a trip to the city. It was all a far cry from the burger, fries and soda I had occasionally tasted courtesy of the golden arches when I was growing up.

  I wasn’t familiar with the city at all, but had caught a glimpse of the famous striped market canopies and the Forum and Millennium Library as we walked around from the car park, and promised myself that I would come back and explore before I moved to some other far-flung part of the country.

  ‘And what about you, Anna?’ Catherine asked, cocking her head to one side as she carefully cut one of the sandwiches into even tinier, neat squares. ‘Do you get to spend much time with your family?’

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks and took a sip of tea while thinking how best to phrase my answer. I had no desire to lie, but blurting out the plain, hard truth wasn’t something I relished under any circumstances, and certainly not when enjoying myself in such lavish surroundings.

  Tea and tears would not be a good way to end the day, but I couldn’t trust myself to say much without becoming either upset or aggressive. My default setting when talking about my family seemed to maraud from one extreme of the emotional scale to the other and it wasn’t something I wished to put on public display among the well-heeled Norfolk diners.

  ‘No,’ I said simply, quickly opting to bring down the wall and drag my professional persona back out of the wings.

  If I played it straight down the line I would hopefully put a stop to further uncomfortable questioning and would be able to enjoy my miniature carrot cake in perfect safety.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any family.’

  ‘None at all?’ Catherine gasped, looking shocked.

  ‘No,’ I said lightly. ‘None at all.’

  Given my aversion to the upcoming season I had assumed that she, and everyone else at the hall, would have put two and two together and reached the only possible conclusion for themselves. After all, the maths was pretty simple – I hated any mention of Christmas, plus I had nowhere to go on the Big Day, equalled no family. It was hardly rocket science.

  ‘But never mind that,’ I said as if it didn’t matter at all and picking up the teapot before flashing a winning smile so she wouldn’t think me rude. ‘Would you like more tea?’

  Catherine pushed her cup across the table and briefly rested her hand over the top of mine.

  ‘You do have family, my dear,’ she said tenderly and not taking the hint that I was doing my utmost to shut the conversation down. ‘Like I keep telling you, you have mine.’

  Chapter 6

  Whether it was pure coincidence or part of some far wilier plan that Catherine had cooked up during the meandering journey home from Norwich I couldn’t be sure, but the next few days leading up to December first flashed by in a heartbeat. The evenings were just as busy as the days and I didn’t even have time to think about looking for another job, let alone setting about making an online search to secure one.

  Christmas was never actually mentioned when I was in the vicinity, but it was obvious that everything we were doing was with an eye, an ear and a nod to that much anticipated celebration. I thought it was a little early to be making a start, but according to everyone else there would be barely enough time now to get everything done. There was a plethora of rooms, bedrooms mostly, to reorganise, clean and then air ahead of the arrival of the rest of the family, and I was assigned as understudy to Hayley in that particular department.

  I have to admit I found myself somewhat surprised by both her knowledge and her skill but when it came to cleaning and conservation she really knew her stuff.

  ‘Dorothy taught me quite a lot,’ she explained, as together we set about wrapping and moving some of the more delicate ornaments from what was to be the grandsons’ bedroom and into another assigned to storage until the New Year. ‘She used to do everything here, until I came along.’

  I was curious to ask how long both she and Dorothy had been a part of life at the hall, but I didn’t because getting to know just the hall was proving dangerous enough. Every corridor revealed yet another room, more fascinating history and another treasure, and as the days slipped by I was feeling more and more attached to the bricks, mortar and wattle and daub. I simply couldn’t allow myself to form that level of connection and sentimentality towards the folk who populated it as well or I would never be able to move on, Christmas or no Christmas.

  ‘And I’ve been on a couple of courses as well,’ Hayley continued.

  ‘Courses?’

  ‘Yes,’ she
said, stopping to carefully run her massive feather duster lightly over some intricate fretwork on the stairs. ‘They were run by some big historical conservation organisation – English Heritage or the National Trust, I can’t remember now – but they specialised in how to properly look after furniture and fabrics. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, looking at my young and usually brash colleague with fresh eyes. ‘Right.’

  ‘I know I said “I fling the Hoover about a bit” the day we met,’ she blushed, ‘but there’s actually more to it than that. Some of the pieces here are older than Angus and need careful handling.’

  She was trying to make light of it, but I could tell how much her job really meant to her now, along with how much she cared.

  ‘And have you ever thought of looking for a position with the National Trust or English Heritage?’ I asked. ‘Would you consider moving to somewhere beyond the confines of the Fens, perhaps?’

  ‘No way,’ she guffawed. ‘They wouldn’t be interested in taking on the likes of me, especially with my background.’

  I didn’t ask what difference she thought her background would make to her employability.

  ‘And besides,’ she said wistfully, ‘I have everything I want right here. I consider myself very lucky to be in the employ of Catherine and Angus.’

  ‘Of course,’

  ‘And so should you,’ she added meaningfully.

  When I wasn’t reassigning rooms or polishing the silver, there were freezers to begin filling, and plenty of them.

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re starting to do this now,’ I told Dorothy, who was carefully counting and cutting out another batch of pastry to make yet more sausage rolls. ‘It isn’t even December yet.’

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ she said sagely, ‘but before we know it there’ll be over a dozen mouths to feed under this roof.’

  I counted up on my fingers just to check she was right and tried not to look at the jars of homemade mincemeat she had lined up to make the first batch of mince pies. I had been adamant when I spoke to Catherine about staying for the week that I wouldn’t be getting roped into baking anything festive, but my resolve seemed to have been magically worn down a little when I was looking the other way.

  At least the radio hadn’t been re-tuned to Smooth Christmas or Classic FM just yet, I told myself. That really would be too much. However, I couldn’t help wondering how my brain was going to react when it caught the once familiar and adored scent of the spices battling to escape from the mincemeat jars.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And if everyone sits down for a snack in the middle of the afternoon, on just one day,’ she said, pointing a floury finger at her handiwork, ‘then that’s potentially an entire batch of sausage rolls gone.’

  I could see her point.

  ‘And that’s even before Angus has come back for seconds and thirds,’ I smiled.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, clearly pleased that I was finally getting to grips with the amount of work involved.

  Not that she looked or sounded like she resented it, of course. None of them did. Staff and family alike, or the entire family I should say, were looking in the rudest of health, all bustling about and thoroughly enjoying the extra work and logistical untangling.

  ‘So,’ said Dorothy, tossing an apron in my direction, ‘I reckon a couple of hundred sausage rolls will be enough to be going on with this afternoon.’

  Oh well, in for a penny and all that and, I reminded myself, sausage rolls weren’t necessarily confined to the ranks of festive baking.

  ‘And if you’re interested,’ I said lightly, while tying the apron in place, ‘I happen to know a great recipe for Stilton straws that freeze beautifully.’

  The first batch of rolls and straws was barely out of the Aga before the hordes descended and Dorothy and I were fending off advances from every corner.

  ‘See,’ she tutted, ‘this is exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Is this sausage meat from Skylark Farm?’ asked Angus, who had seemingly appeared from thin air the second the trays were lined up on the table.

  I hadn’t seen very much of him during the last couple of days, but I had noticed his clothes were getting grubbier and grubbier and I began to wonder if he was up to something specific that required my closer attention. Catherine had asked me to keep an eye on him and, taking in his mucky knees and oily cuffs, I felt she had been right to be concerned. I made a mental note to go and investigate as soon as I could.

  ‘Oh, Angus,’ scolded Dorothy, also spotting the state he was in, ‘please don’t tell me that is one of your new tailored shirts.’

  Angus snatched his hand away from the tray of Stilton straws he had been aiming for and rolled up his sleeves.

  ‘Because I’ll never be able to get the grime out of those cuffs,’ she continued, sounding stern and frankly a little scary. ‘You know full well they were supposed to be for best.’

  ‘I couldn’t find any others,’ he protested half-heartedly.

  ‘Well, you can’t have looked very far,’ Dorothy shot back. ‘Your bottom drawer is full of work shirts and besides, why can’t you wear a boiler suit like Mick? That way I can shove the whole lot in on a boil wash.’

  ‘I know for a fact that he has overalls,’ said Hayley, dobbing her boss in. ‘Brand-new ones with extra pockets, because I gave him a pair for his birthday.’

  It made me smile to hear them talking about him like some naughty schoolboy, rather than the man who paid their wages.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re smiling at, Anna,’ he said, pretending to sulk. ‘Mick wants you outside to help with the log pile this afternoon and you’re going to get filthy as well.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ I told him, ‘perhaps I’ll just ask Hayley to find me the overalls she gave you for your birthday.’

  ‘That sounds like a very good idea,’ said Dorothy, rewarding me with one of the biggest sausage rolls on the tray, ‘and yes, Angus, this is Skylark sausage meat.’

  I took a bite through the still warm, flaky pastry and into the succulent filling.

  ‘Oh wow,’ I mumbled, trying not to spray everyone with crumbs before wondering how many calories stacking a log pile was going to help to burn off.

  As it turned out it wasn’t just moving a few bits of sawn timber from one spot to another that Mick needed help with and I soon burnt off the sausage roll and Stilton straw calories as well as any that had been left over from the afternoon tea with Catherine in Norwich.

  ‘I hope you’re up for this,’ Mick said when I joined him in the stable yard. ‘There’s not much of the day left, so we better get on.’

  I hadn’t seen the quad bike and trailer before, or taken on board the extent of the woods that surrounded the hall, but we were soon weaving amongst the trees, Mick expertly steering and me hanging on to the trailer for dear life. Eventually he came to a clearing in what looked like an almost perfect circle of beech trees and turned off the engine.

  ‘Crikey,’ I said, jumping out as my ears tuned into the cawing crows and the breeze among the creaking branches. ‘Does all this belong to the hall?’

  There were trees as far as the eye could see, and although perhaps not the most spectacular time of year to be taking in the scene, their unashamed nakedness did give me the opportunity to take in their girth. This place was old and, truth be told, a little spooky in the fading light of a winter’s afternoon. I pulled my coat, Angus’s work coat actually, a little tighter around me.

  ‘It does,’ said Mick, sounding like a proud father. ‘It’s hardly ancient woodland, but it’s pretty old. You won’t find anywhere else like it round here for a few miles. Now come on, let’s get to work before it’s dark.’

  It seemed to take as long for Mick to give me the health and safety lowdown as it did to gather the logs, but as he kept reminding me, ‘Where chainsaws are involved you don’t get a second chance.’ I didn’t think it wise to remind him that I wasn’t going to be using the chainsaw
, nor to ask if we could just get on with it.

  Wearing all the appropriate clothing, boots and headgear, he soon carved up the trunk of a tree that had fallen victim to the autumn gales the year before and I, also sporting a hard hat and goggles, collected the more manageable pieces and stacked them in the trailer.

  It was hard work and I was grateful that it was cold, because it wasn’t long before I was working up a sweat, and a thirst to go with it.

  ‘Let’s take a break,’ said Mick, a short while later. ‘We’ll have a drink and then load up these last few bigger pieces together.’

  I was more than happy to agree. My back ached and in spite of the thick gloves my hands felt sore.

  ‘A tot of whisky to go with this wouldn’t have gone amiss,’ I joked as he handed me a mug of steaming tea and a wedge of Dorothy’s moist fruitcake.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Mick with a sniff. ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘What, never?’ I asked, only just remembering that he was the only one who had resisted the charms of the Skylark Scrumpy at the switch-on.

  ‘Never,’ he said firmly. ‘I used to, too much, and it was almost the ruin of me.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t meant to pry. I had enough knowledge about the demon drink to know that talking about the damage it could inflict didn’t come easy.

  ‘In fact,’ he continued after a second or two spent thoughtfully chewing his lip, ‘had I not crashed my car into the hall gates I probably would have drunk myself into an early grave.’

  ‘Did you do much damage?’ It was a stupid question, far too flippant for the admission he had just made, but I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘The car was a wreck,’ he said with a smile, ‘but the crash saved my life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well it was the Connellys’ wall I hit too, wasn’t it? Angus made me rebuild it and Catherine insisted I stayed at the hall until the job was done. By the time the last piece was in place I’d all but given up drinking and found a reason to live, along with a new home and job.’