Snowflakes Over Moondance Cottage

by Rosie Green

  I didn’t know then that I was living in a fool’s paradise . . .

  *****

  For the first few days after The Escape embarked from Falmouth, we spoke to Dad and Janice briefly, relieved to hear how cheerful they seemed. They’d had a problem with one of the battens, which I knew were the thin strips of vinyl supporting the sails, but Dad had managed to fix it and they were in high spirits about that.

  I started tuning in to the shipping forecasts, but they sounded too solemn and they mentioned winds far too often to make me feel reassured. Not being a sailor, I didn’t really understand the jargon, so I gave up listening on the basis that the reports might make me worry unnecessarily.

  I just knew I’d be hugely relieved to hear their voices once they made it to Camaret and dry land.

  On the day they were expected to go ashore, I kept my phone with me all the time, waiting for Dad’s call. I wasn’t really worried. I had faith in Janice’s sailing know-how to get them out of any difficulties they might encounter, and I told myself they’d be fine.

  When they hadn’t phoned Isla or me by the evening, however, we were both getting a bit jittery – especially since each time we tried to contact Dad, it jumped straight to voice message.

  ‘Marion and Jim are supposed to be meeting them off the boat,’ I said, as Isla and I sat in the kitchen of Moondance Cottage, toying with our pasta dinner. ‘I wish to goodness I’d got Marion’s number.’

  ‘Are they likely to know any more than we do?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Any other bright ideas?’ Isla grinned. ‘I think we just have to sit tight and wait. They’re probably just running behind schedule.’

  We lapsed into silence for a while but I couldn’t eat the pasta, and neither could Isla.

  We tried to stay positive. But later, as midnight approached and we’d still heard nothing, I could hold my fears in no longer. ‘Oh, God, Isla, this is bloody awful. What if the weather’s bad and something’s happened to them?’

  The scared expression on Isla’s face made me panic even more.

  ‘It’s that bloody Bay of Biscay that’s worrying me,’ she burst out. ‘Apparently it’s horrendous, especially if the weather’s bad. They’re going to try and avoid it but what if they go wrong and sail off course, right into it?’ She drew in a deep breath and blew it out in frustration. ‘Why the hell did Dad think this was a good idea? Didn’t he realise we’d be sat at home worried sick if we hadn’t heard from him in, like, twenty minutes?’

  I nodded miserably. It was exactly what I’d been thinking.

  I’d heard scary tales of small boats sailing right into the path of massive ocean liners. The Escape was like a tiddler alongside a giant whale - it wouldn’t stand a chance – and every time I thought about Dad and Janice’s boat bobbing about like a cork on the vast grey ocean, my blood ran cold. I’d found out the average depth of the oceans – three kilometres! – and I really wished I hadn’t. It made me dizzy just thinking about it.

  We went to bed but I lay awake for ages, running over every possibility in my head. Their phones might be out of charge. Maybe the weather was bad and they were still sailing and too busy handling the boat to have time to phone? Perhaps they’d checked into the hotel and were so grateful to be on dry land and have real home comforts at last, they’d actually forgotten to let us know they’d arrived?

  At ten past midnight, I heard Isla’s mobile ring.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I held my breath. It would be Jamie, no doubt, phoning to see if Isla had any news about Dad.

  But a minute later, she came running through to my room, the phone clamped to her ear, a huge smile on her face.

  ‘Really? You managed it no problem? Oh, thank God for that. Dad, we were frantic with worry!’ She grinned at me. ‘Here’s Jess.’

  I took the phone. ‘Dad?’ I was breathless and my hand was shaking. ‘You’re all right? And Janice?’

  ‘We’re fine, love. On dry land at last.’ His familiar voice sent a wave of happy relief washing through me. ‘Janice was utterly brilliant.’ He laughed, sounding elated to have done it. ‘That boat of hers is a bloody little star!’

  I sank back against the pillows, feeling weak with relief. I was barely registering what he was saying as he talked on about their experience. I was just so glad they’d made it across and were now safe in the hotel.

  ‘Everything okay back home?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, fine. You don’t need to worry about us. Just . . . take care.’

  He laughed. ‘I will. Although I think I might return three stones lighter. It’s hard work, this sailing business.’

  ‘I need you back in October,’ I reminded him.

  ‘To get the Christmas ball rolling? Yes, of course. You know I’d never miss the chance to work alongside my darling daughter.’

  I smiled. ‘Great. Phone us soon, Dad. Please? We worry, you know.’

  ‘No need. We’re fine, my love. Speak soon.’

  ‘Did Marion and Jim meet you - ? Dad?’

  But he’d already rung off. No doubt eager to have a long, hot shower and a proper sit-at-a-table meal for the first time in days.

  I handed the phone back to Isla and we exchanged a relieved smile.

  We’d both sleep well that night . . .

  *****

  While Dad and Janice were on dry land in France – sampling the delights of their little, family-run hotel in Camaret – we were finally able to relax.

  But the familiar nerves sprang up like clockwork the day they were due to set sail again.

  I knew it was silly. I’d reminded myself a thousand times that Dad and Janice were sensible people. They wouldn’t have embarked on this voyage if they hadn’t felt fully prepared. But whatever I told myself, it didn’t seem to take the fear away.

  Isla said it was only natural to worry. ‘Remember what happened last time?’ We were shopping in our local supermarket, Isla wheeling the trolley. ‘We were so nervous, we were imagining all sort of catastrophes, but it turned out to be absolutely fine. They were just a bit later arriving than they predicted, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  The panic subsided a little. Dad would call later, once they were on their way.

  ‘Phone him,’ she said later, having caught the worry on my face as we unpacked the shopping.

  I shrugged. ‘But they might be busy, doing . . . I don’t know . . . whatever the hell you do to keep a boat afloat in the middle of the Atlantic.’

  She grinned. ‘We should take sailing lessons. Learn a bit about it. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!’

  I fished out my phone but it went straight to message.

  ‘Hi, Dad. Give me a ring when you’ve got a minute?’ I swallowed, then added, ‘Sorry for bothering you when you’re probably doing – um - boat things. You know what a worrier I am. But I’m sure you’re fine and haven’t actually fallen overboard or anything.’ I laughed to show I was joking. ‘Speak to you soon. Love you very much, Dad.’

  I rang off and Isla nodded. She might not often show it, but I knew she was just as worried as I was.

  We didn’t hear anything that evening, but we told each other they’d no doubt set sail and had far too much to think about to remember we were waiting for a call. I fell asleep straight away that night, probably because I was thinking that Dad would probably call later, as he had the last time.

  Even when I woke the next morning and looked at my phone – no messages – I wasn’t hugely worried. He would phone today, for sure.

  But the day passed with no communication from The Escape.

  We started phoning both Dad and Janice, every half an hour or so. Each time, my pulse raced, anticipating a response at last. But each time that we were directed to ‘message’, my heart plunged lower than the time before.

  Now, even Isla was pacing the floor.

  A mobile phone might have been broken or lost overboard.

  But not two . . .

/>   Something bad had happened.

  I could feel it . . .

  CHAPTER TEN

  The bell over the door to The Treasure Box jingles merrily as I walk in.

  ‘Wow, you’ve got the tree up!’ I smile at Hannah and she joins me from behind the counter to stare up into the decorated pine branches.

  She crosses her arms and frowns. ‘Not quite the same, though, is it, without your lovely hand-made glass baubles?’ she says sadly. ‘I used to love it when Jonathan had the Christmas tree in the window so everyone could admire your hand-blown decorations as they passed by. So did the whole village. It was a real focal point during the festive season.’ Then she sees my face and pastes on a smile. ‘But hey ho, I guess factory-manufactured baubles are quite nice in their way!’

  I stare sadly at the tree.

  Dad first taught me glass-blowing the Christmas after Mum moved out. He wanted to teach Isla as well, but my sister, at fourteen, was a tad too cool for that. I guess she was at the age when she wanted to be with her friends, and she was coping with our parents’ separation in her own way.

  Working with Dad in his studio helped us both through that horrible first festive season without Mum. We made Christmas baubles made of coloured glass, and the process fascinated me.

  That first year, Dad and I made dozens of the unique glass baubles in festive colours to sell in The Treasure Box, and Jonathan, the owner, was so delighted at the response from his customers, that we ended up making them every year after that.

  In the end, people were travelling from miles around to buy their Christmas baubles at The Treasure Box. They’d bring the children and make a day of it. They liked that every bauble was unique and that we could personalise them with a name or an initial . . .

  It all stopped, though, when we lost Dad.

  ‘I do love Christmas,’ says Hannah, gazing up at the tree. ‘And Jonathan likes to start early, as you know.’ Hannah, who’s been Saturday girl at The Treasure Box for the past three years, from the age of sixteen, is very familiar with her boss’s ways.

  Jonathan Boyd, who’s a lovely man, took over the shop around five years ago when his grandmother died. For a while, the axe was hanging over the old shop, but much to the relief of the villagers, Jonathan swooped in and saved it, giving up a lucrative career in financial services to do so. Despite the reduced income, he’s always proclaimed it was the best decision he ever made.

  At Christmas, he really goes to town, filling the shop with magical decorations and gifts, and the festive bonanza seems to pay off. Jonathan reckons the takings from October to December keep the shop ticking over for the rest of the year.

  ‘Are you looking for something in particular, Jess?’ asks Hannah, back behind the counter.

  ‘No. Just getting ideas for Christmas presents.’ I grin. ‘Not sure what you buy for the sister who has everything and more besides!’

  ‘Yes, I saw Isla was back. I passed her in the high street yesterday but she was in a bit of a daze and didn’t see me. She seemed . . . older. I almost didn’t recognise her. She looked amazing when she came back last Christmas – the image of a rich, successful businesswoman, who buys her clothes in the fashion capital of the world.’

  ‘That’s Milan, I think,’ I correct her with a smile.

  ‘Oh. Okay. Well, Paris is pretty stylish, too. I can’t imagine they go in for the sloppy tracksuit look that Isla was sporting when I saw her yesterday.’

  ‘Tracksuit?’ I laugh, thinking of the outfit she wore to visit Mum. ‘Wow, she really is going casual these days. I’m not surprised you didn’t recognise her, in that case.’

  We laugh, and Hannah says, ‘I hear you’re renovating Moondance Cottage. All the talk in the village at the moment is of that builder guy doing the work.’

  ‘What?’ I stare at her. ‘Crikey, news gets around.’

  ‘It’s great working in here. People talk to me. I’m the best source of gossip in the village,’ she jokes. ‘And apparently, the laydeez of Lower Luckworth are all of a swoon over your Mr Fix-It.’

  I force a laugh, avoiding her eye. ‘Well, I’m not sure why. I can assure you, he’s not that wonderful.’

  ‘Oh? He looked all right to me. More than all right, actually.’ She flashes me a mischievous smile. ‘He came into the shop yesterday, and let’s just say, he can re-grout my tiles any day!’

  ‘Seb was in here?’

  ‘Ooh, Seb, is it?’ she teases. ‘Very cosy.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m hardly going to call him Mr Morgan, am I?’ Feeling a blush coming on, I start rummaging through my bag as diversion, wondering if I’ve managed to somehow wipe out the last decade of my life. Because I’m definitely acting like a fourteen-year-old around Seb, for some strange reason. A teenager with a ridiculous crush, blushing at the mention of his name, for goodness’ sake!

  ‘He was looking for a jewellery box of all things,’ says Hannah. ‘Lucy from the bakery next door was in here chatting to me during her lunch break, and her jaw nearly hit the floor when he walked in. Of course, Lucy being Lucy came right out and asked him if he lived locally, and he told us he has a flat in Billingsborough, and he’s working on a building project here in the village. Moondance Cottage.’

  ‘Right. Well, that’s him, all right.’ I glance down awkwardly at my feet. So he lives in Billingsborough, about twenty miles away . . .

  ‘He’s not bad for an older man, though. You must admit.’

  ‘Older man?’ I splutter. ‘Hannah, he’s probably not much more decrepit than me. And I’m only twenty-four. Honestly, you youngsters. You think everyone over twenty-one should be drawing their pension soon.’

  She grins. ‘Okay, I didn’t mean “old”. I just meant I could . . . well, I could understand the attraction. Even if he’s a bit too old for me.’

  I peer at her. ‘Hannah Archibald, I do believe you’re blushing!’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ She walks away and picks a beautiful, wooden jewellery box from one of the shelves. It’s inlaid with tiny seed pearls depicting a moon and stars. ‘That’s the one he bought. Lovely, isn’t it? I wonder who the lucky lady is?’

  I turn up my nose. ‘Not my favourite. I prefer that one.’ I point at a box decorated with overblown pink roses, trying not to wonder about the ‘lucky lady’ myself.

  Hannah shoots me a look. ‘I take it you don’t much like your builder? Or is it just the fact that he’s knocking your house to bits that you don’t care for?’

  ‘Both, actually,’ I retort, thinking that Hannah is too sharp for her own good sometimes.

  My eyes drift to the stars and moon box. Grudgingly, I have to admit that Seb has good taste. On reflection, it’s definitely the one I would choose myself.

  ‘So how’s business?’ I ask, as I look around at the gifts on display. ‘I expect it’s picking up now Christmas is around the corner?’

  She frowns. ‘Hm. So-so. I think Jonathan’s quite stressed, actually. He had four strong coffees before he left at lunchtime to go to a trade fayre and that’s not a good sign.’

  ‘Why is he so stressed?’

  She sighs. ‘Business is the very opposite of booming. Customers who came the last couple of Christmases were disappointed they couldn’t buy your gorgeous glass baubles. Lots of them were asking if they could buy them from you direct, but obviously I said they couldn’t because you . . .’ She trails off awkwardly. ‘I mean, I knew you probably wouldn’t even have been thinking about making baubles what with everything else that was happening.’ Her face drops and I can tell she’s going to say something sympathetic.

  ‘Yes, well, life goes on, doesn’t it?’ I say, being deliberately cheery to change the subject. I do this a lot with people who are being kind to me about Dad. If I didn’t, their sympathy would bring me to my knees every day . . .

  Hannah nods sadly.

  To lift the atmosphere, I smile and say, ‘Hey, remember when your Christmas tree was the focal point of the village every year? I used
to love that you could see it glowing in the window, with our baubles on it, from each end of the high street.’

  She nods, perking up. ‘It was starting to be a tradition. Like Selfridges windows in London at Christmas time.’

  ‘I can’t believe our tree decorations made such a difference to Jonathan’s profits,’ I murmur thoughtfully.

  ‘People loved that the baubles were all hand-made here in the village. They made such brilliant gifts.’ She frowns at the perfectly respectable Christmas tree in the window. ‘And now look what we’ve got. A pale imitation. Let’s face it, no-one’s going to put the kids in the car and drive over specially to see that!’

  As I’m leaving the shop, I bump into Jonathan coming back in.

  ‘Jess! Good to see you.’

  I smile up at him. ‘You, too.’

  ‘So how are you?’ he murmurs.

  I shrug. ‘Oh, you know.’

  I don’t need to say any more. Jonathan understands. I remember pouring my heart out to him one day when I was in the shop. I broke down looking at a jewelled-handle hairbrush on the shelf; it was the same design Dad gave me as a gift two Christmases ago, the last festive season we spent together.

  I remembered thinking when I unwrapped Dad’s gift that it was beautiful but a bit impractical. Yet now, I never use anything else to brush my hair . . .

  Seeing I was finding it hard to hold back the tears, Jonathan guided me over to sit on a stool behind the counter. Luckily the shop was empty, and he turned the ‘open’ sign over, locked the door and held me while I sobbed my heart out on his shoulder. When I apologised for soaking his jumper, he said he’d never liked it anyway and if I could make it shrink, I’d be doing him a favour.

  ‘It must be hard,’ he murmurs now. ‘But you’re doing brilliantly. How’s your mum? I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  ‘Erm . . . Mum’s okay. Although she’s convinced Dad is coming back, so . . . I don’t know.’ I shrug helplessly.

  ‘Grief affects everyone in different ways.’

  ‘That’s true. Isla’s the complete opposite of Mum. She’s adamant Dad’s dead and that we all have to accept it and move forward. But . . . I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do that, what with the uncertainty. I mean, if we had a . . .’ I swallow hard. ‘A body.’