by Jane Linfoot
I’m already wincing for her. Even if donkey woman gives me a bin bag to sit on, I’m covered – Fliss’s sporty utility vehicle will stink of donkey-do forever more. I know what it took for her to scrape together the deposit, I can’t do that to her.
I’m truly scraping the barrel here. ‘Or we could ask Bill?’
‘Great idea, his Land Rover’s agricultural, it’s designed to be dirty, I’ll ring him on the landline from the cafe.’ Libby’s already half way down the yard. ‘Hang on there, Ivy, I’ll be back.’
Fliss comes in to give me a squeeze, then gets a whiff and thinks better of it. ‘Let’s go in the stable out of the wind, we’ll get a bale to sit on and have hot chocolates all round. And we’ll all wait for Bill together.’
‘Thanks, that’ll be lovely.’ I force out my brightest smile. Somehow I doubt that cocoa is going to take the donkey dung taste away. But however much I’d rather this wasn’t happening, it’s not like there’s a lot of choice.
18.
Looks like rain, dear
‘All on your own, Pom Pom?’
By the time Bill’s face appears around the stable doorway, Fliss is long gone. I can’t fault her solidarity, she’d happily have stayed, but with Harriet and Oscar cold, hungry and howling it was better for us all if I waited by myself.
‘There was no point everyone hanging around, they sped off to a multiplex somewhere.’ Five minutes of Libby’s lot flicking cream at each other off the top of their takeaway hot chocolates was enough for all of us.
As I get up from my straw bale Bill’s shaking his head and wincing. ‘I see why they called for the farm car. Shall we get off?’
‘You might want to see the baby donkey first?’ I should have had enough of donkeys for one day, but I’m up for one last ear rub.
‘If it’s wearing a Santa hat, I already saw it.’
I can’t believe he’s so unenthusiastic. ‘But didn’t you love the bells on his lead rope and how fluffy he is? Did you stroke his ears and feel how soft they were?’
Bill’s looking down at me. ‘It’s a donkey. What else is there to say?’ As if we needed any more proof that this man is a cold hearted Christmas-phobe, he comes out with this. He shrugs. ‘Anyway, I’ve brought you this.’ He tosses me a bag. ‘No need to look that worried, it’s only overalls.’
‘Brown velvet?’ The fabric I’m peering at in the bag is way too similar to a donkey’s nose for comfort.
‘It’s a onesie from stag lost property.’ He pulls a face. ‘To cover up whatever you fell in until we get you into my shower.’
I should be jumping at another chance to get my hands on his scent shelf, but after this morning’s assault, I seriously doubt my nose will ever work again.
‘Antlers attached to the hood?’ I’m shaking out a full Rudolf outfit here and my stomach feels like there are iron hands closing around it. For a moment I just know I’m going to throw up every last griddle scone. And then I get control of my throat, and somehow breathe, and will the vomit wave to go back down again.
‘Everything okay there? I can’t see much of your face, but the bits I can have gone all green.’
The stable’s coming in and out of focus and inside my hat my scalp is prickling with heat. I snort in another breath, and try to smooth out my voice where it’s gone all wobbly. All the onesies he might have picked up, and he had to choose a bloody reindeer suit. When Fliss talks about me being unfortunate she’s truly not joking. Except that’s exactly what I’ve taught myself to try not to think.
I’m resigned to the world always looking like a different place from the one I knew before the accident, and I know I never deserve to be happy again. But there are so many Christmases ahead of me, and however hard it is, I have to try to move on and hold it together. Which mostly I’ve managed pretty damned well, until bloody Bill randomly dropped this suit on me. I pull in another breath. Realistically, apart from having antlers, it’s nothing like the one I was wearing for the Christmas party the night of the accident anyway. I just have to think of it as a way of enveloping the dirt and pull it on.
Bill shrugs. ‘It’ll keep you warm, you must be freezing after waiting in the cold.’
‘Great.’ I’ll put this off for as long as I can. ‘If I’m parading the whole length of the stable yard I’d rather do it as my dirty self than dressed like I’m about to be harnessed to Santa’s sleigh, I’ll put it on when we get back to the car.’ As we make our way to the Landy, it hits me I’m also forgetting my manners. ‘It’s very kind of you to come to pick me up. Milo offered me a lift but his upholstery wasn’t suitable.’
‘Milo the scone baker?’ Bill narrows his eyes and jumps the puddles in the gravel as we head towards the car.
‘Scone baker extraordinaire …’ I look down at Merwyn, pleased we’ve changed the subject. ‘… he’s a dog lover too.’
Bill sniffs. ‘Well, he’s not alone there, we all like dogs.’
I’m so indignant my voice is all high. ‘No you don’t, last week we had to practically beg you to let Merwyn stay.’
He shrugs as he reaches over and unlocks the Land Rover door. ‘Here, I’ll hold onto him while you climb into your overalls.’
I’m exchanging WTF? glances with Merwyn as I hand over his lead to Bill. Then I screw up my courage, swallow down the sour saliva in my mouth, tell myself over and over again it’s only a reindeer suit, and pull the damn thing on. By the time I’m all in and zipping up Bill and Merwyn are both looking down on me from the bench seat in the front of the Land Rover. As I clamber in and slam the door Bill’s looking even more superior than usual.
‘Being prissy about his seats, it’s exactly what I’d expect from someone like Milo. I bet the car’s not even his.’
Whatever’s got into Bill, I have to stick up for Milo. ‘That wasn’t his fault, it was Libby who didn’t want me to wreck his interior.’
‘And so what, the guy bakes scones. Scone baking’s not that special.’
I give Bill a look across the dashboard. ‘You obviously didn’t taste them or you’d know they were …’ … all that … And more.
He pulls down the corners of his mouth. ‘I’ll take your word for it. From where I was standing it looked a lot like showing off.’ He looks at me as we come to a T junction. ‘You do know you’ve still got your hat on.’
I send him a look. ‘Is there a problem with that?’
‘There wouldn’t be normally …’ it sounds like there’s a but coming ‘… but as you’ve got donkey droppings dangling off your pompom, not to mention the other random crusty bits clinging to the woolly parts, maybe you best jump out while we’re stopped. You can shake off the worst and put it in the bag too.’
‘Shit, sorry.’ Here’s me thinking it can’t possibly get any more embarrassing or impossible, then it does. My heart’s tumbling in my chest because I’d really rather not go without my hat. But I can’t exactly sit here with donkey crap all over my head.
‘If you’re cold you can turn up the heater, or put your hood up instead.’
‘Great suggestion … I’ll do that … like right now.’ I’m stalling. It’s not going to be anything like as sure as my bobble hat for holding my hair in place, but at least it’s the cleaner option. And sitting with my antlers up is the last thing I’d choose, but there’s no dodging this one. I fling the door open and jump down to do the switch. I pull off my woolly hat and a second later, I flip the hood up. Then I shake the worst off the woolly hat, clamber back in and push it into the bin bag with my jacket. Now all I have to do is to hang onto the neck of my onesie so the hood doesn’t slide down, and hold down my breakfast until we get back to the castle.
The umpteenth time Bill glances my way, I challenge him. ‘And what the hell’s so interesting over here?’
‘Nothing.’ He’s completely lying.
‘What’s wrong with my antlers?’ That’s where he keeps glancing.
He’s smiling to himself now, as if he’s very far away. ‘Th
ey just reminded me of another time, that’s all. How cute they are.’
I’m going to have to tell him. ‘Bill, I’m only going to say this once. Don’t ever put the word cute and me together in the same sentence, okay?’
‘What, even if you are?’
I drag in a breath. ‘Especially then.’
‘But antlers always look …’ As he takes in my searing glare he shuts up.
I’m clutching the fabric under my chin, totally oblivious to the sun glistening off the sea and how pale blue it is today as we head along the road by the beach. And talking randomly to fill the space when it hits me. ‘You didn’t call Merwyn cute when he was wearing his antlers the other day. You’re thinking about Gemma aren’t you?’
The way he jumps at the sound of her name, he has to be. ‘Actually you’re wrong, I’m not.’
‘So why did she rush back to London?’ It’s out there before I know. And jeez knows why, when I really have no interest other than not thinking about bloody reindeer costumes. I mean, it seems idyllic here. If you had the choice, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to stay here forever.
‘It’s a very long story, remind me to tell it to you some day when we have a few hours to spare.’
My heart sinks, because I’m really not up for details. ‘Can we please just get back to the castle and forget we ever had this conversation.’
He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, wrenching it around the last corner. ‘Fine. In that case you can tell me why you mixed up all the aftershaves last time you were in my bathroom.’
To think I thought my biggest problem was being covered in donkey dung and having the worst flashbacks yet. Now I’m going to have to think of an answer for that.
Wednesday
18th December
19.
Have a banging Christmas …
As shitty days go, they don’t come much shittier than yesterday. I actually stripped most of my clothes off outside when we got back to the castle. When Fliss saw the onesie hit the floor she swore under her breath, squeezed my hand so tight my fingers almost went numb. Then she picked it up and marched off inside. She put the clothes through four hot washes before they were anything like clean. Meanwhile I wolfed down three reindeer cupcakes from a tray Fliss had picked up on the way home, simply because the icing was so delicious it seemed like the best way to get my sugar rescue. Which seemed somehow ironic and therapeutic at the same time, as if I was eating my phobia. Then I persevered with Bill’s shower on full power, helped by a plastic crate brimming with stags’ leftover bathroom products.
I began with a peppercorn scrub, and worked my way through everything from guava to maca root. Past very fragrant bergamot and pear to Scandinavian snowdrop. Then ended up with something called Cowshed Bullocks splash and according to Fliss I still wasn’t smelling great.
When Willow passed in a huge bottle of her special organic tomato ketchup from the kitchen, even though Fliss and I were grateful for any help at all, we were still exchanging disbelieving glances. Then she came rushing back in again with sage, muttering about how alarming my aura was and the state of my chakras. Truly, she has no idea. But however much it sounded like she’d got it from some new-age bullshit generator, after sloshing on a whole bottle of ketchup followed by the sage oil, the smell of donkey did actually fade from my skin.
So this morning when Merwyn and I come in from our early morning beach blast and find the table full of baking, it feels like a banging start to a whole new and better day. And I’m peering at the humungous piles on the trays while Bill watches from where he’s filling the coffee pot.
‘Let me guess – white chocolate chip muffins with raspberry?’ They’re criss-crossed with snowy white icing dribbles, and the cracks in the golden tops are just wide enough to catch a glimpse of pale gold sponge with scarlet raspberry splashes. And they smell so delectable, I’m sucking back my drool.
He pushes me a plate and a mug of coffee. ‘And the darker ones are rum and raisin. Here, grab a knife and tuck in.’ In spite of all the cash Libby’s paid, Bill’s still acting like he owns the place. And despite my growling at him yesterday, he’s still giving all the kids dead eyes, especially Harriet and Oscar. As if grumpy kids aren’t enough to deal with, it isn’t exactly helping the Christmas jolly having him glowering at the kitchen island twenty-four seven.
I’m on the sofa, Merwyn at my feet, munching my way through my third muffin, when we hear the distant sound of Milo coming down the back stairs. As he pushes through the door, he’s looping an apron over his neck. He’s got a pinny string in each hand when he spots the muffin pile and comes to a sudden halt by the table.
‘What’s this? You’ve done breakfast baking already?’
I’m nodding. ‘This must be another batch from whichever of Bill’s talented friends is the mystery baker?’ I give Bill a searching stare.
His eyes flash open. ‘Yeah … right. Another delivery from the Super Surfer Home Bakery.’
Which is a lot less hilarious than the twist of his smile suggests. In fact I can’t see the funny side of that at all, but whatever.
Milo punches the air. ‘Aw shucks, I was going to make Irish soda bread too, I got a special recipe from Los Angeles.’
Bill raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m no expert, but aren’t you confusing your culinary credentials there?’
‘Worldwide fusion is very current, they’re huge on sourdough in LA now.’ Milo’s overlooking how much of an arse Bill’s sounding, flashing me a wide smile, and going in for the argument.
I’m waving my muffin trying to diffuse the testosterone cloud. ‘For what it’s worth, these have got currants in.’
Milo grins at me. ‘That’s a completely different kind of current.’
Bill’s really channelling his Mr Superior this morning. ‘They’re actually raisins.’
Milo’s sounding less conciliatory, more like he’s decided the opposition’s talking too much bollocks to bother about. ‘It’s all good, I’ll do my soda bread for lunch instead then.’
At which point Fliss and the kids come in, then Willow and co., so I ignore Bill’s even deeper frown, wave at the table and put on my extra bright voice. ‘Everyone help yourselves to muffins.’
As far as the Twiglets go, if I’d offered them donkey droppings I’d have got a better reaction. They do a group face pull, then a co-joined shudder and finish with a perfectly choreographed head shake.
Willow’s almost transparent, in the palest green silk wrap. ‘Thanks all the same, Ivy, but it’s important we get our fuel from more natural sources, especially in the morning.’
‘Great, lovely.’ I’m nodding, but at the same time I’d hate to be one of her kids. I mean, what can be more natural to eat than cake? And I can’t help thinking if she ate a tray of muffins she might have more colour. Whenever I’ve seen pictures of those ridiculously pretty plates full of edible flowers and three calories I’ve always asked myself who the hell would ever order one, let alone subsist on them. But I bet they’d suit Willow down to the last petal.
Her forehead furrows and she pulls her arms across her chest and stares around the room. ‘Oh my, I’m picking up on a lot of negative energy in here, as soon as we’ve had breakfast I’ll bring down a cleansing candle.’
As Fliss looks at me, she’s holding in her smile. ‘See, very spiritual and intuitive.’
I hiss at her under my breath. ‘And definitely a pansy eater.’ I glance round at Bill and Milo on the stools by the island, looking daggers at each other. ‘You don’t have to be the psychic chef to pick up the bad vibes in this kitchen, you just need eyes.’
Then Tiff, Tansy and Tarkie shuffle in, which reminds me I need to grab some pictures before the Christmas muffins disappear. As photo opportunities go, this one’s a gift. When the kids’ mouths are crammed with muffin it’s impossible to tell they’re scowling not smiling. So, watched by a row of solemn Twiglets over the top of their bowlfuls of gluten free Morning Zen cer
eal, covered in macadamia milk, I get enough ‘happy kids stuffing their faces with delicious Christmassy breakfast’ shots against a blurry backdrop of fairy lights and gingerbread on the tree to keep Libby going until mid morning at least.
And before I get chance to send them to her, she’s sweeping in, arms waving. ‘Okay, this morning we’re all heading down to the beach, everyone be back here ready in fifteen minutes. AND DON’T BE LATE!’
You can tell why she’s gone so far in business. Her tone’s so kick-ass, a second later the kitchen’s empty. Fifteen mins on, it’s bustling with bodies zipping up their puffa jackets, stamping their bright coloured wellies while she snaps her fingers and counts heads.
‘Okay, that’s all of us except Miranda and Ambrose who are AWOL yet again, no surprise there.’
Tarkie pipes up. ‘As we came downstairs Granny was calling out.’
Fliss gives me a nudge and mutters. ‘Ambrose really is unstoppable.’ Then she looks up at Tarkie. ‘No need to take any notice of that.’
Tiff’s frowning. ‘She was actually shouting.’
Libby’s eyes go wide. ‘Holy smoke, what are those two like?’ She turns to Willow. ‘I do hope yours weren’t upset?’
Willow’s beaming around at her three. ‘It’s fine, we all know –’ she stops to make some inverted commas in the air with her fingers ‘– when “souls touch” it’s very fulfilling, but it sometimes gets a bit squeaky, doesn’t it?’ Three Twiglet heads nod in wholesome agreement.
Tarkie nods, like he knows too. ‘That’s the bit with the clingon isn’t it.’
Tiff rolls her eyes. ‘You mean the clitoris, Tarkie.’
Libby lets out a squawk. ‘Tarkie, Tiff …’
‘Souls TOUCHING? Really?’ Tom’s choking into his sleeve. ‘Well these souls had the volume on full, they were literally banging … like really, REALLY LOUD!’
Libby’s scowl is fierce enough to turn him to dust. ‘ENOUGH, TOMAS!’
