The Christmas Pudding Lie

by P. B. Phillips

  Chapter Seven

  Anna packs up the mini minor. The hotel prepared a wonderful traveling basket of cheese, sweet rolls, fruit and mineral water. The concierge mapped a clear route to Somerset. Anna walks out to the center of the street opens the car door and lets out a burst of laughter

  “This is good! I forgot already. The ‘blasted’ driver’s seat is on the right. Doofus! Am I too old for the new? Is this an omen? Get a grip woman. You can do this.”

  Her heart beat is frenetic as the fast paced traffic whizzes past. She tries to exit Grosvenor Square. After three passes around the square, she risks all and cuts into the main stream of traffic. She directs the car:

  “All you have to do is get on Park Lane then through the Cumberland Gate and it’s a short hop over to Shepard’s Bush. Take the A4 to the M4. And then breathe.”

  Closing in on her destination, Anna strains her eyes for the exit. The sun’s rays lengthen. A road sign ahead offers her that shot of courage she needs now: ‘Taunton Road 5 kilometers.’

  “Yippy almost there and not one u-turn!”

  She slows the mini minor to a crawl, looking for Marsh Lane. A stone marker indicates an old bridge to Midwoods, Doddie’s place.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Go over that old bridge? It looks like something the Romans left behind by mistake. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been through here since then either. This can’t be right.”

  She decides to explore the workings of the bridge and yonder on foot. She walks with caution over the bridge. Dowager trees line the car path. Through the trees Anna spies a modest gray stone house, in front of the house, a circular drive and two parked cars.

  “Well the place seems to be inhabited. I wonder if it’s safe to approach on foot unannounced. Best play it safe and proceed with the car.”

  Back in the car, a second thought crosses her mind. “I can still turn back, head on down to Dover. Oh hell, woman, you’ve come this far. For heaven’s sake, it’s only Doddie.”

  Tire wheels rolling over the small stones, awakes the sleeping dog. Anna cusses under her breath, “Damn!”

  A well-worn double door on the side of the house opens. An elegant, tall and lean gent dressed in stone washed jeans and a starched white open collar shirt complete with burnt orange tie-dyed vest steps out. Doc peers over the steering wheel. She smiles as she recognizes Doddie from his signature green snake skin boots. His hair now white is cut close the fashion of the day. His boyish face now features the ever chic five o’clock shadow look. She thinks he has aged gracefully.

  “Go find the badger, you beast!” The dog takes off into the rushes.

  “Park anywhere, Doc.” Doddie strides quickly toward the approaching car. He is all teeth as he opens the car door for Anna.

  “Benevenuto, mi amore. I’ve wondered about you for so long. And now here you are.”

  Pretending this is not a big thing, Anna says, “Well I couldn’t go without seeing you one last time. Thanks mate for the invite.”

  Dodd takes the lead. “I’ll show you to your cottage. You can rearrange, change while I fill you in on the last thirty years. I hope this end cottage will be okay. It’s quiet. As you can see, I’ve allowed nature to have her way with the place. The lazy farmer’s excuse, I admit. I once harbored grand plans for a splendid pastoral retreat with me as the lord. But within a week of buying the place, I learned that I am not the Laird.”

  He opens the door and windows to the one room cottage. “It’s a bit on the Calvinistic side. This area was their stronghold. But I have made one essential concession to modern times. On the other side of that curtain you will find the WC.

  The sea air winds its way through this valley during the early evening hours. Fog often banks on the bridge. Extra blankets are in the armoire.

  Do think of this as your country home across the Atlantic. You will tell me if you need anything? I admit that I gave up on seeing you ever again. I often think about our late night dinner conversations in front of the Taylor burner in your ‘robber baron’ home. You see I have not forgotten you.”

  Anna’s heart skips a beat as Dodd recalls the same images as she. Self-consciously, she replies, “It was a garish house indeed. Your visits were always a welcome interruption to the deadliness of academia. Remember that dreadfully cold winter night you came to stay? ”

  Dodd interjects “A bloody minus five outside. It just snowed and snowed.”

  Anna goes on, “You were worried that the snow would destroy your brand new snake skin boots. I guess that was the last time… oh Doddie, were we ever so young?”

  Dodd clicks up his heels. Anna manages to say “‘I see that the boots survived.”

  He replies, “I put them away after that trip. I never wore them again. But in your honor I’ve resurrected them. I still fancy them even though you thought them barbaric.”

  Anna recalls, “I asked you to stay over. The snow was drifting.”

  Dodd expands, “And I asked you to come to New Orleans.”

  Anna slightly taken aback that he does indeed remember with detail says,

  “I was sorry that you decided to fly out that night,” She stashes her bag in the armoire.

  “Let’s say it was a matter of detachments. I thought that you needed a break. And what’s forty years. You came this time. Now I have a favor to ask.” Dodd needs to change the subject.

  Anna is only too happy to let the past be what it is passed. She answers, “Anything! What?”

  “Call me Dodd.”

  Anna embraces him and looks sweetly into his electric blue eyes, curtsies and replies, “Yes, your grace, Dodd it is. And I’ve left Doc B as well. I’m just plain Anna now.”

  Dodd looks down upon her with a look of concern. But he decides not to make a big deal of a name. He says with a lilt in his voice, “For true, shinny Anna. Shall we go up to the house?”

  Arm in arm they walk out and through the garden trellis overgrown with brilliant royal purple bougainvillea blooms. A hummingbird works diligently even at this late hour of the day.

  “I bought this place after I sold my publishing company. It all came about due to taxes. If I wanted to keep any of the money that I earned in publishing, I had to make a lateral move of some sort. An old mate of mine from Fleet Street put me on to this place. I saw it and as they say, it was love at first sight. That’s always been my way.

  At first, my plan was to conduct writing and publishing seminars from here. It’s going on thirty years now. And I’m still in the planning stage. To tell you the truth, I don’t get out here very much. London makes living on your own quite civilized. All my needs are met within walking distance. I never was one to fuss about the kitchen. And I never got friendly with the laundry works either.

  But enough of me, there is a great pub and convenience store just a half-mile on. The landlady beckons us early tonight for a seafood delight.”

  “Doddie, I mean Dodd, this place is perfect. I love the cultivated man in his uncultivated manor. This place is you, Dodd. Its understated elegance says charming English country gentleman without pretensions.”

  Dodd agrees, “It will do. I do love its brand of mystery and history. Up this path, beyond the algae covered pond, there are peacocks, herons, ravens even badgers and buzzards. Feel free to wander about and explore. You are perfectly safe here, day and night. Solar lanterns illuminate the pathways to the main house and the road. But tonight moonlight will guide you. It promises to be a full moon if the fog will hold to the sea. The farm house is just ahead.”

  As the two proceed to the main house, Anna’s soul aches over the sheer natural beauty of the surroundings: the scent of heritage pines cools the air, the soft cooing sound of evening song from the doves, the gone to seed lawn, the wild thickets of rich red and black berries, the cracked pavers, the peeling paint on the leaning garden shed all say ‘home sweet home.’ Together they tread upon crushed stones and seashells that cover the courtyard separating the farmhouse from the cottages.


  Dodd continues with the introductions, “I knew that this place was mine when I saw this fifteenth century Renaissance fountain. As you can see the salt air is very corrosive. Time has worn away many of the boy’s finer artistic details. But it speaks to me. So I count it as one of my treasures.

  The main house is eighteenth century. It was a working farmhouse to start. When you step inside, you will see that the interior retains much of its original integrity. The house is relatively new for these parts. There is so much history here. The locals tout that their families have lived in these woods and fields since the Stone Age.”

  As Dodd said, the interior is stark with white wash plastered walls offset by the whimsy of a few well-embedded Cornwall stones. Anna’s eyes soar upwards to admire the high ceiling boards made of huge rough hewed planks of cured oak. The heavy cross beams, made of the same oak, are a testament to the sheer will and power of these early builders. The small casements windows to the outside are unadorned to allow maximum light and keep off the cold. The floor is made of well-worn local stone blocks. A long bare trestle table stands alone in the center of the room. Four ladder-back chairs sit against the cool kitchen wall. The hallmark of the kitchen, however, is its walk-in fire pit. Inside, sits a small cast iron pellet stove.

  Dodd observes her curiosity about the kitchen’s workings. “The pellet stove is a necessary innovation, mi amore. Wood is too dear these days. And the dry sink serves as my pantry. And I am proud to point out a modern freezer, microwave and hot plate. It’s far from what you would call a kitchen. But I get by. And I am sure you will too.

  A neighbor supplies fresh eggs, organic cheese and garden greens when I am in residence. The pub has milk, bread and an assortment of meats and dried cod, as well as some other surprises. You’ll see what I mean when we go over. The gentlemen Holmes await us there. They graciously consented to go on ahead. I’m sure that they are pints ahead of us by now. But I just wanted a few minutes alone with you. You know to reconnect. Let’s go into the great room.”

  Wide worm wood beams frame the doorway into the main living area. The great room’s grandness is its lack of embellishment. One long wall is lined with bookcases. Exposed old brickwork adorns the opposite wall. The old ventilation slots are glazed in blue glass. The centerpiece of this room is also a giant fireplace. A cobble stone mantle sits atop its entry. Antique iron works nestle a log the size of a small fig three. There is an overstuffed long couch dressed appropriately in soft dove brown wide wale corduroy. Twin wing chairs in moors brown velvet flank the sofa’s right side. On its left, sit two low saddle brown leather club chairs. A milk glass tabletop sitting upon a mangle of rusted out metal completes the living circle.

  Dodd pours a glass of mineral water for her. “It’s Italian. You kept several cases of it in your wine cellar. Of course your collection of French wines spoke well of your discriminating taste as well. It was always a puzzle to me why you settled for less in your men.”

  She turns her gaze away so as to hide her blushing cheeks. But she has to agree, “If you recall I did keep trying to get it right. I guess I was your proverbial absent minded romantic. But that is all behind me now.

  One of the saving graces of decrepitude is that it puts you out of the running in the love marathon. So I don’t make the same mistakes, as the opportunities just don’t arise anymore. I say let’s drink to maturity,” she lifts her Irish crystal beaker.

  “Anna, to you, forever young,” Dodd makes the toast.

  Feeling ever so self-conscious, an emotionally charged, she attempts to redirect. “Shall we make our way to the pub?”

  “Please, let me warn you ahead of time there will be a crowd. The pub’s seafood regalia pack the house. But you will hear and see, first hand, the lay of the land, its rhythm and its rhyme tonight. I’ll grab a couple of guernsies from the guest rack. There is always a chill in the night air.” Dodd scurries off to the center hall.

  He hands her a blue wooly sweater. He offers his hand and says, “Shall we skid addle. Good company and good cheer await us.”

  In silence, the two walk upon the gravel pathway that leads east towards the Pub. Dodd speaks first, “So what do you think of Mycroft?”

  She focuses, “Mycroft is the perfect emissary. I can see why you two are so tight. And I’m looking forward to meeting his brother, Sherlock Holmes. What’s he like?”

  “Ah, Holmes, he is simply the brightest bloke that I know. I knew that you and Mycroft would hit it off,” Dodd answers.

  Anna decides to jump the polite conversation mode and turn directly to the reason for the trip.

  “About this Lady Banks thing, I should tell you that I am still on the ‘nay’ side. That’s not to say that Mycroft’s brief was in any way wanting. It was rather impressive.”

  Dodd answers, “I think that Sherlock will dispel any reservations you may harbor. But you are under no obligation. We offer our gifts with no strings attached.”

  A two story cobbled stone structure comes into view. Dodd comments,

  “For all the splash and pizzazz of modern architecture with its defiance of the law of physics, I hold dear the work of the old masons. They built for function and durability. Yesterday’s builders used what the land around offered up. And for that reason these buildings live on. Take for example, the simple but decorative stonework in this old building.”

  The soft light of the slowly setting sun accents slivers of sparkling minerals interspersed throughout the cobbled stones. The soft reds, the pale blues, the lightness of the gray stones suggest an Italian mosaic.

  Dodd waxes on, “The locals claim it was erected in 1739 as a tribute to the war effort.”

  She scans the building. There are several barrels of weathered oak overflowing with brightly colored gerbils. Lampposts flaunt hanging baskets of fuchsia. A bougainvillea vine climbs over the slate roof of the barn conversion. Her eyes pop as she spies the oversized shop sign that hangs high above the entry. On a background of green, gold letters outlined in black announce “The Jamaican Inn.”

  Anna stops abruptly. An emotional overload sparks her conspiratorial mind ‘Beware!’ is all she hears. Incredulous of the juxtaposition, she asks, “A Jamaican cold supper joint in the middle of the Stone Ages? Is this a joke? What war? Do you mean The War of Jenkins’s Ear?”

  Dodd hears a tone of hesitation maybe fear in his friend’s voice. He tries to calm her with a bit of history. “That’s right it was the War of Jenkin’s Ear. One among the landed aristocracy in these parts died in that war. There is an old letter tacked on the wall behind the bar that details orders from old King George to a regiment stationed in Jamaica to attack the Spanish in Cartagena. That’s all I know about it.”

  As Dodd talks on about the history of the place Anna feels herself sinking into the quick sands of memory. She can’t help but be spooked. The secret missals signed ‘Jenkin’s Ear’ that mysteriously appeared at her desk at the British Museum many moons ago again…?

  Dodd sees that he is losing her. He remains calm. He continues.

  “However, the landlord enjoys regaling the tourists with tales of how the small island in the Caribbean was part of Somerset County in the time of Atlantis. To this day, Jamaican parishes are fashioned after English counties. It’s local and central governments are very British. It was a part of the Empire till well into the twentieth century, I believe. But of course, you know more about this than I do. After your walk about through Africa, you settled down in Jamaica, as I recall.

  You’ll feel quite at home here I think. The cook is from the Caribbean. He accents all his dishes with a touch of the West Indies, lots of sugar and spice. Shall we go in?”

  The sound of good cheer emanating from every corner of the pub puts Anna at ease. The aged wooden beams and wood paneled walls engender a mellow mood. The soft fir floorboards, polished high with coconut oil, smell of the island. Raffia chairs along the front wall allow patrons to view the coming and goings of their neighbors on the road. Th
e landlady is a picture of pastoral beauty dressed in period costume. Her brocade dress features a tropical vegetation theme. The obvious cinch waist highlights her natural endowments. She signals them to the bar.

  “What a handsome couple… Mr. Dodd, we have your favorite tonight, langoustine in a curry coconut sauce laced with scotch bonnet. The gentlemen are in the Snug. What can I bring you and your guest?”

  “Good Evening, Ivy. May I introduce to you my dear friend, Anna?”

  Anna just smiles.

  Dodd orders, “Make mine the usual, a pint of bitters. And Anna would you like a Shandy, perhaps?”

  “Thank you, but I best stay with mineral water.” Anna forgoes the island’s drink of stout and sweet condensed milk. She needs her wits about her given that her conspiracy radar is up and roaming. Dodd escorts her through the bustling dining room with its busy buffet table laden with eye pleasing displays of foods, fruits and hibiscus. The locals ogle the culinary delights.

  The Snug is an intimate cove set apart for quiet conversation. An oriental rug featuring peacocks softens the seating area. There is a small brick fireplace. Mycroft and companion stand upon seeing Dodd and Anna.

  Mycroft looks the part of the young country squire. He cuts a grand figure in his well-tailored burgundy linen blazer detailed with tropical palms and green monkey emblem. He sports an open collar soft sky blue Oxford shirt. Of course, he has on his staple denim jeans. He is wearing oxblood tassel loafers with no socks. He takes the lead and steps forward embracing Anna for the first time.

  “Good to see you again! How was the drive down? Did you have trouble finding the place?” He babbles.