It was on the tip of Bridge’s tongue to say ‘You must have a word with my ex about the vegan scones,’ but she stopped herself. Why should she give Luke Palfreyman any mention where a possible business venture was concerned?
‘Why are you here then?’ said Mary, trying not to stare too much at Bridge’s face. She thought she was beautiful, with her large hazel eyes and her brave red lipstick. It should have clashed with her fire-flame hair, but quite the opposite. It was amazing what a bit of chutzpah did for you. Her dad had taught her that word. Maybe one day she’d have some too.
‘I’m meeting my husband,’ Bridge said, still washing her hands with the thoroughness of Lady Macbeth. ‘Soon to be ex-husband.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Mary, though she didn’t really.
‘Our marriage took a lot of… deconstructing.’ Bridge chose the word carefully. It was a tame one to use to describe a war. ‘But we got there.’
‘Good that you were able to sort everything out in the end though,’ said Mary with a little smile.
‘We both figured we didn’t want the solicitors creaming off all our hard-earned cash, so we did most of our fighting without involving them, which was hard and probably stupid, but we managed eventually to come to an agreement that works for both. Neither of us wanted to step into another new year without resolving everything, as we both intend to be married to our new partners sooner rather than later.’
‘It’s a bit easier when you’ve both got someone else,’ said Mary. ‘When my aunt and uncle split up, he got himself a young, glamorous girlfriend and my auntie was so bitter and jealous about it. She still is and it’s been ten years since they got divorced. In fact she’s worse now than she was then. She can’t let it go.’
‘Yes, well, neither of us wants to be like that.’
‘Much better to be sensible and cut finally and cleanly,’ said Mary, nodding with a sagacity that belied her age.
Bridge snapped out a paper towel to dry her hands. ‘Do yourself a favour, love, and stay single. The St Georges of today are the dragons of tomorrow.’
Which was an odd thing to say for someone about to get married to a new partner, thought Mary as she followed Bridge out.
Chapter 5
‘Anyone fancy a coffee?’ asked Mary, when they rejoined the others. The fire had taken hold of the logs now, flames licking upwards with golden eagerness. Outside, the snow was falling relentlessly and it all looked very festive on both sides of the bar lounge windows. The whole indoor scene could quite happily have sat on a Christmas card if it wasn’t for the five disgruntled, inconvenienced faces; Jack’s claiming first prize.
‘Yes, I’ll have one, love. Shall I come and help you?’ said Robin.
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Mary. ‘I think I can manage a few coffees.’ It was what she did, after all. She made a lot of coffees in her job, arranged a lot of biscuits on plates. At least Jack always said thank you, however distracted he was, unlike his father Reg.
‘If you can find any biscuits backstage, I’d be awfully grateful,’ said Charlie with a cheeky, hopeful grin.
‘Cholesterol!’ barked Robin.
‘Oh shut up, you miserable queen,’ replied Charlie and flapped his hand at his much younger husband.
‘You can have one, if Mary finds some,’ Robin relented.
‘I’m starving. I saved up my calories for the lovely meal we were going to have in Aviemore tonight. I’ve only had a porridge in the service station. It was supposed to be maple syrup flavoured,’ Charlie explained to Bridge. ‘Tasted of fish to me.’ He pulled a face and she laughed. As people to be trapped in a deserted inn with went, Charlie would have been a good choice, she thought. He had a benign air and twinkly, mischievous bright blue-grey eyes.
Bridge was peckish too. She hadn’t eaten all day because the thought of meeting Luke had wiped away any appetite she might have otherwise had. She regretted not stoking up on breakfast at the Hilton where she was staying. She wondered where he was now. Maybe he was holed up in some service station. Maybe he’d broken down and was currently freezing his nuts off in the driver’s seat of his no doubt very posh and totally impractical car. It would serve him right, just for being Luke Palfreyman. She also hoped he was safe.
‘Well this is very Agatha Christie,’ said Charlie, after a few minutes of them staring silently into the mesmerising, dancing flames. ‘And then there were five. One by one, we’ll be getting picked off by a murderer who sits among us. Or perhaps is presently hiding in the cellar.’
‘You’ll be the first victim, I bet,’ said Robin. ‘We’ll all be queueing to shut you up before too long.’
Charlie chuckled.
‘So what line of business are you in then, Jack?’ asked Robin.
‘Scones,’ came the reply.
‘Ooh, I would kill for a buttered scone right now,’ said Charlie with relish.
‘You’re getting a biscuit with any luck, be grateful for that,’ Robin said in reply, before turning back to Jack. ‘Just scones? Nothing else?’
‘Just scones. Different recipes for home and export and different flavours but all just scones,’ Jack answered him. ‘What about you two?’
‘I was a jeweller before I retired,’ said Charlie. ‘Mainly I dealt in diamonds. I always had an instinctive eye for quality.’ He turned his eyes towards Robin.
‘I was his chauffeur,’ said Robin with a sniff. ‘I’ll tell you before he does, because he will try and insinuate that I married him for his money.’
Charlie hooted with laughter. ‘Anyone who has been in my company for more than five minutes, though, will realise that it must have been my sparkling personality that drew you in first and foremost, before my sparkling diamonds.’
‘Yes, and I’ve been promoted via marriage to general dogsbody,’ said Robin, dryly. ‘Charlie is twenty-four years my senior and we’ve been together for thirty-two years. We’ve had a lot of pleasure out of proving all the cynics who said it would never last completely wrong, haven’t we, Charlie?’
‘Oh, we have indeed,’ Charlie confirmed.
Bridge found herself smiling. They were an odd couple, Charlie so much more refined than Robin, Robin so much younger and yet, from early deductions, it seemed as if they fitted together like a dovetail joint; banter passing between them as if whacked over a net by a tennis racket, back and forth in an endless joyful rally.
Mary emerged from the kitchen behind the bar with a large silver tray set with refreshments.
‘I couldn’t find biscuits so I hope mince pies will do,’ she called out ahead of her arrival.
‘Ooh, mince pies,’ said Charlie.
‘The good news is that we aren’t going to starve, I can assure you of that,’ said Mary. ‘The larder and cupboards are absolutely crammed full back there. And I’ve got the coffee machine up and running, so this is fresh from the bean.’
Jack walked to her to take the weight of the tray and set it down on a table. Charlie immediately reached for a mince pie and Robin slapped his hand.
‘If I weren’t here to steer you, you’d end up crashed on the shore,’ he said to his husband.
‘Robin. It’s medicinal. I need calories,’ came the response.
‘Medicinal my arse,’ said Robin with a humph, but he didn’t stop Charlie’s hand when it reached out the second time.
They all sat quietly, sipping the coffee, biting into the buttery pastry of the mince pies. None of them realised they were as hungry as they were until they started munching.
‘I don’t know if it’s because I was desperate for a coffee and a bite to eat or you’re an angel in disguise, but this tastes divine,’ said Charlie. ‘Thank you, Mary. And what a very Christmassy name you have, may I say. Like my Robin.’
‘That’s because I was born on Christmas Day,’ replied Mary. ‘Mary Holly Clementine Padgett. I’m just glad my parents stopped there. Mum said that Dad wanted to squeeze in a poinsettia as well.’
‘Oh you are funny, Mary,’ s
aid Charlie, having a chortle at that.
‘Is it really your birthday on Christmas Day?’ asked Jack.
‘Yep,’ said Mary, trying not to let her nip of hurt show, that he didn’t even know that fact after she’d been working for him for four full years. She knew his birthday was on the twelfth of February, she always sent him a card that she’d spent time choosing.
‘Well, if we’re still here, we’ll have a party for you,’ said Charlie. It was a joke of course. It was unthinkable that they would all still be there on Christmas Day.
‘What line of work are you in, Bridge?’ asked Robin.
‘Land and property,’ she answered him. ‘I buy derelict houses to renovate, but mostly I buy cheap auction lots of land that no one wants and try to sell them on.’
‘That sounds like a lot of gambling,’ said Jack.
‘It is, but I’m prepared to play a long game for a good profit.’
‘Are you very successful?’ asked Jack in a way that implied he doubted it.
‘Very,’ she replied.
She’d been badly advised in the beginning, at a time when she wanted to prove to the world that she was in control of things, knew what she was doing when she didn’t at all. Buy that plot of land and you will get planning permission on it, trust me, said someone whose word she did trust at the time, until she realised he was a friend of the person who owned the land and the pair of them were laughing up their sleeves when her bid was successful. She’d sunk everything she had into that land. All because she wanted to be the big ‘I am’, and show Luke Palfreyman that she was doing fine without him, had a life plan, was as good at big business as he was proving to be.
Then Derbyshire county council approached her because they wanted to open up the adjacent plot of green-belt land for building, but they’d need her plot to use for access. It had to be a miracle that suddenly she was the one laughing, signing on the dotted line, banking the big cheque. That experience made her a little more savvy as well as rich. From then on, she did her homework properly, trusted no one blindly. Some plots of land were still in her portfolio, useless fields that she rented out for peanuts to people with cows or horses, but she could afford to wait for tides to turn. She had an inbuilt radar for a good investment and she had no idea where it had come from, but she was glad it had been gifted to her.
‘Wonder who owns this place?’ said Charlie. ‘I mean Figgy Hollow. I thought I knew this area, but I’ve never heard of it. It’s most odd.’
‘I hope it isn’t haunted,’ said Robin, throwing another log on the fire. ‘It looks like one of those places that could be.’ He shuddered involuntarily.
Jack went over to the window, clearly frustrated, saw the snow falling. Their three cars were completely covered now, looking like bumps underneath fondant icing.
‘This is ridiculous. The whole bloody country goes to pot when there’s a bit of snow. We export to Finland and they live with snow day in, day out. Doesn’t affect their lives one bit.’
‘In Tromsø in Norway, between November and January, the sun doesn’t even peep over the horizon,’ put in Mary. ‘You have to change your mindset when you live with months of dark and snow. That’s why they don’t get a seasonal depression.’
All eyes turned to her and she felt her cheeks heating up.
‘That would make perfect sense,’ said Bridge, feeling the need to rescue the younger woman, who she suspected wasn’t in the spotlight much. ‘Have you been there?’
‘My mother’s Norwegian,’ said Mary. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time there.’
‘Really, Mary?’ asked Jack, raising a brace of surprised eyebrows.
Something else he doesn’t know about me, thought Mary. But then, why should she be of any interest to him?
‘That explains your colouring then,’ said Charlie. ‘Those lovely light eyes and pale golden hair.’
Mary’s blush deepened, but she carried on speaking. ‘The Norwegians don’t stay in and mope, they go out. One of their sayings is that “there is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”.’
‘They’re right of course, but I’m staying put in front of the fire,’ said Bridge.
Charlie laughed. ‘At least Robin and I have brought plenty of good snow clothing with us. One of our suitcases contains only boots.’
‘They don’t moan about the weather and bring down their mood,’ Mary went on. ‘They go for a walk, breathe in the lovely fresh air, build snowmen, go skating and skiing. Then they come home, kick off their boots, drink hot chocolate and eat cake.’
‘That sounds fun,’ said Charlie. ‘I want to go to Norway now, not Scotland. Have we time to change the booking, Robin?’
‘Don’t be silly, Charlie,’ Robin answered somewhat gruffly, before standing and announcing that he was going to the loo.
‘Poor Robin,’ said Charlie with a sigh, when poor Robin was out of earshot. ‘I drive him mad. He booked the Scotland trip especially for me and I know he’s worried we won’t get there.’
‘Well, we’re going to have to acquire some of that winter Norwegian mindset, certainly until tomorrow,’ said Bridge, her turn to get up and look out of the window now, to try and peer through the falling snow in the hope of seeing a pair of headlights. It was half-past eight but felt like the middle of the night. It was brutal out there now, the road impassable. So why couldn’t she shake the feeling that Luke wasn’t holed up in safe shelter and he was still doggedly on his way?
Chapter 6
Half an hour later, Robin’s phone began to beep-beep loudly in his pocket. He took it out to cancel the alarm then went over to his bag, unzipped it and rifled through it. When he came back to the fire, he had two tablets in his hand that he gave to Charlie, who grimaced.
‘I hate these chewy ones,’ he said.
‘You don’t chew those, you swallow them whole. I’ll go and get you something to eat because you’re supposed to take them with food. Proper food, not mince pies.’
‘The mince pies were lovely and tasted like proper food to me.’
‘You know what I mean, Charlie. I’ll see if there’s anything I can make a sandwich with. Anyone else want one?’
‘I’ll come with you and make some for us all,’ said Mary. ‘The mince pie was very nice but it didn’t fill me up.’
Bridge stood, held her palm flat out towards Mary to stay put. ‘You did it last time so I reckon it’s my turn now.’
Jack stood also, put his phone in his pocket after checking it yet again for activity. ‘I’ll help. I need to do something else rather than just look at a fire. I’m going stir-crazy already. So who’s for coffee and who’s for tea?’
Bridge led the way to the kitchen, sneaking another peek out of the window as she passed it. She wished she knew for certain that Luke was all right, hoped her instinct was wrong and that he was sitting in a service station with a hot meal and the prospect of a bed for the night, but there were no car lights out there, no hint of Luke, nothing but snow.
‘Blimey,’ Bridge said, pushing open the door to the pantry, switching on the light and having a proper look inside. It was like a walk-in festive hamper. There was everything anyone could want for Christmas dinner on the shelves and in the fridges: an alp of sprouts, chestnuts, turkeys, Christmas puddings, brandy butter, rum cream, Christmas cake and a lot of mince pies.
‘I’ll butter some breadcakes, shall I?’ said Jack, lifting up a bulk bag of them.
‘I’ll be on filling duty,’ said Bridge. She peeled the wax off a truckle of Wensleydale cheese and cut it into chunky slices, then she carved some ham, spooned some pickled red cabbage, onions and piccalilli into dishes and set it all on a tray. She thought an accompanying mug of soup might be a welcome addition, and tipped some tins of cream of tomato into a pan. It was cosy fare, the stuff to warm spirits as well as feed stomachs.
‘Am I in a dream or is all this really happening?’ asked Jack, searching around for a jar of coffee. He had taken one look at the large complicated
coffee machine and decided that the ones who hadn’t plumped for tea would have to be grateful for instant on this occasion.
‘No you aren’t dreaming, yes this is really happening,’ returned Bridge. ‘We are cut off from the known universe, about to spend the night with a bunch of strangers.’
Jack gave a long outward breath. He’d had to accept that he was indeed here for the night and frustration was coming off him in waves as a result. He hoped Chikafuji was similarly inconvenienced. Then he thought of poor Mary who had volunteered to drive him to the meeting, and it shamed him a little that he was more annoyed at Chikafuji than he was concerned for her being stranded with all these people.
‘Can’t see any scones in the larder, but I suppose you’ll be sick of the sight of them,’ said Bridge.
‘I never get sick of them,’ said Jack. ‘I can’t say I eat masses of them myself, but they’ve given me a very good lifestyle.’
‘That a private school accent?’
‘Afraid so. St Christopher’s in Cumbria.’
A very good lifestyle indeed, thought Bridge. She knew the area. She’d bought a dilapidated church up there the year before last. St Christopher’s was a boys-only boarding school set in acres of prime ground, exceedingly high fees. There was obviously a lot of cream in scones. She imagined his factory to be one that hadn’t moved on since the 1940s though. There would be a typing pool full of young girls not allowed to wear trousers and fat old leery men who smoked at their desks.
As Jack swooshed the large teapot around to assist the brewing process, a thought came to him, landing in his brain like a bee bumping down onto a flower.
‘Do you know, this will be the first time I’ve made Mary a drink in all the years she’s worked for me,’ he said.
Bridge wasn’t in the least surprised by that. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself then,’ she said, thinking, posh twit. ‘In my office, we have a tea rota and I’m on it along with everyone else. I’ve worked in too many “them and us” places in my life and I vowed I’d never be the sort of boss who didn’t say hello to cleaners or put the kettle on occasionally for my workers.’
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day Page 4
