by Lily Graham
Emma nodded. ‘I know.’
‘Talking about ancient history, I see that you and Stella are on fabulous terms as usual. I ran into her at the butcher’s and she was spreading her usual charm.’
Emma frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s just say the things she has been saying about you aren’t very nice. I think she blames you for breaking her and Jack up, but that was over a while ago, or at least so I heard.’
Emma found herself blushing.
Maggie’s mouth fell open. ‘It’s not true is it – oh Emma!’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s just always this way, isn’t it? You, and Jack, and…’
‘And Stella,’ Emma said, blowing air out of her cheeks. She didn’t need reminding.
Stella had always been there in the background, waiting, perhaps, for Jack to choose her. She was the girl his mother approved of, the girl who, sometimes, Emma wished she’d been – how much easier would her life have been had she been her? Though she couldn’t help thinking how dull it would have been without Evie, her aunts and this cottage.
She didn’t want to think about Stella Lea, or the way her face had looked when she’d seen them together the other day.
So she changed the subject, asked Maggie about how her work was going, and got a lengthy earful about the tricky route she had to plot from Rotterdam to Vienna taking out a key road because of a collapsed bridge, which had been pretty stressful and involved incredible skill and organisation to keep everything running smoothly.
‘So, tell me, did the MD finally get it on with the sexy mechanic?’
‘Bert?’
Emma grinned. Was there a less sexy name than Bert?
‘Yeah. Last time you said they danced at the office party and there was some real fizz…’
‘Tell me about it. It’s worse. Actually there’s a bet going on that it’ll happen by around Christmas. Poor thing, she finds any excuse to go down to the yard, making goggle eyes at him, while he rolls up his sleeves, looking all James Dean – well, for a man in his sixties with a bit of a paunch.’
Emma laughed. ‘That’s cute though.’
‘Yeah,’ said Maggie. ‘So you want in on the pot?’
Emma snorted. ‘Okay, here’s twenty,’ she said, opening her purse. She liked hearing about the internal office politics and dramas in her friend’s job; as a freelancer she’d missed out on a lot of these over the years.
Later, after Maggie had left, she sat and looked at The Book, thinking about the recipe that had gone wrong and why it always seemed that history repeated itself, no matter how hard they tried.
Chapter Nineteen
In the corner of the kitchen stood the new Christmas tree, which Sandro had helped Harrison Brimble to deliver earlier that day. Emma had stood beneath its branches breathing deeply, but she still couldn’t smell anything.
As night deepened, she had made a start with the decorations, but hadn’t yet finished, and so she was still busy past midnight when Sandro got home, bringing with him a blast of the icy cold air and a glimpse of the snow that had begun to fall, cresting the tops of the garden gate.
His beanie-hatted head popped round the kitchen door. ‘You’re listening to one of the books I got you, eh, Pajarita?’ he asked, pulling it off and rubbing his gloveless hands together.
She gave him a grin, pausing the CD player, a little wooden nutcracker in her hands. ‘It’s great, thanks.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
She was tired. It had been hard trying to concentrate enough to thread the decorations on the tree with her hazy vision and she had a pounding headache, but she was determined to finish it; besides, she loved putting up the decorations.
He came over to give her a blue mug with a sleepy Snoopy on it, and to help. ‘From tomorrow, or I suppose now really,’ he said, checking his watch, ‘it’s twenty-five days till Christmas.’
She returned his grin. ‘I know, crazy hey? That’s why I’m doing this now – you see the tree is always up by the first in Hope Cottage,’ she said in a slightly misty voice.
‘But most people follow that tradition too.’
‘Oh good, it’s nice to find one area of normalcy here,’ she joked.
He laughed. ‘You’re pretty normal.’ Then he laughed harder at her raised brow, and said, ‘Why didn’t you ask Evie or your aunts to help with this?’ He’d clearly noted that she was struggling to get the decorations exactly where she wanted, and had dropped one. He told her to simply point to where she wanted the last bits so that he could hang them for her.
‘I should have, probably,’ she sighed. ‘But this was always my job, I’ve always liked doing it.’
He gave her a soft smile as he looked at the tree. ‘These are lovely. So much nicer than the shop-bought things,’ he said of the handmade decorations, many of which she’d made as a child with her Aunt Aggie.
‘Thanks, it was always fun. Christmas has always been my favourite time of year.’
His eyes were warm. ‘Ah me too, the food, a cosy fireplace, hot chocolate, presents, bliss.’
She grinned. Exactly.
Afterwards, he took a seat on her bed, next to Pennywort and the CD player, which earlier had been playing one of the audiobooks he’d given her.
‘Which one were you listening to?’
‘Midnight in Prague.’
‘Ah, okay.’
‘I’ve just started this one. The other was a bit too…’
He pulled a face. ‘Gory?’
She nodded.
‘Well, don’t let me stop you,’ he said, leaning back and getting comfortable. Pennywort grunted, then went to lay his head in Sandro’s lap.
‘Any point in telling you to bugger off?’ she asked him, sitting down next to the dog.
He shook his head, his dark eyes amused. ‘Nope.’
She snorted, and hit play.
He settled a blanket over them both, which mercifully didn’t cause Emma’s skin to confuse it with something else, so it felt just as it should, cosy and warm. Then a few minutes later, he asked, ‘So… it’s about two bank robbers?’
‘Not exactly. He’s on a secret mission for MI6, she’s an undercover agent for the KGB, they’re both on a mission in Prague.’
‘But she has a flower shop – there was all that faff about the roses.’
‘Just a code. I’ll rewind it, shall I, so you can start at the beginning.’
‘Okay,’ he said, getting even comfier.
She rolled her eyes.
* * *
She felt tired when she went to the greenhouse the next morning. Snow had fallen during the night, making a white carpet that she shuffled through with her crutch, her foot covered in a rather lurid pink legwarmer that had once belonged to her Aunt Dot, to stop her bare toes from getting frostbite.
‘Hola, Jane Fonda,’ he greeted her, with a twinkle, and she couldn’t help laughing as she closed the door behind her, her breath billowing out in puffy white clouds. The heater was on already and she shuffled closer to it, her teeth chattering. She had a pink and green bobble hat on, and her uninjured arm was in its fluffy mitten.
The heater was blazing out warmth, but she was still chilly a few minutes later so she put a soft green blanket over her, stretching out with her broken leg on the garden bench. Sandro made her a coffee, which he placed on an upturned paint can.
‘Thank you,’ she said, picking up the cup gratefully. She was in need of one of his rather intense coffees today, more than ever.
Sandro, despite having had very little sleep, looked fresh and energised. His curly hair was slightly damp from the shower, and he was wearing a royal blue hoodie that made his dark eyes sparkle in the early-morning light.
They started work on her latest column, about the history of Christmas food in Europe. He paused as she dictated.
‘So, wait, Christmas wasn’t celebrated in England until the Victorian era?’ He looked amazed.
Emma grinned. ‘Well, it was, but it was more of a feast, and not this big family celebration like it is today. Businesses didn’t really give their workers the day off, we didn’t have a Christmas tree or decorations…’
‘Really?’
Then a short while later: ‘Wait, so just because there was a photograph of Queen Victoria decorating a tree, after she married Albert, suddenly everyone wanted to have one?’
Emma shrugged. ‘We do love our royals, you see – and if it was good enough for the queen…’
He grinned, gave a little shrug.
A little later he paused again.
‘You’re serious? It was actually against the law to make gingerbread?’
‘Well, ginger was seen as something holy – it’s a spice that we got during the Crusades, from areas that had been mentioned in ancient times in the Bible, plus it was really expensive, so in some parts of Europe in the sixteenth century only guildsmen were allowed to make it. But the rules were relaxed over the holidays, and as a special treat people were allowed to make them at home. During this time the making of gingerbread cookies evolved. They were then made into Christmas decorations as well.’
‘Incredible, you know I used to make them as a boy, with my abuela – she had this tiny kitchen that looked over the mountains. It was because of her that I grew up wanting to cook.’
Emma grinned. She could picture him standing in his granny’s kitchen. He was probably really cute with all that curly hair and dark eyes.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Well, because of Evie.’
His dark eyes lit up. ‘We should make some sometime, don’t you think? Some Christmas biscuits, eh? Compare?’
She blinked. ‘Um, not with my hand, you know?’
She hadn’t baked anything, not for years, and she wasn’t about to start now.
‘We could work around that. I can help,’ he said, warming to his idea.
‘I’d rather not, okay?’
He frowned, staring at her in confusion. ‘It’s just biscuits, what’s the worst that could happen?’ he asked, as if he guessed, as if he knew what she feared.
‘Just drop it please?’
His eyes widened. He was taken aback. Their easy camaraderie from earlier dissolving at her tone. His face tightening. ‘Fine.’
They carried on for a while, but things were strained between them. When his phone started to ring, he looked at her a little coolly.
‘Are we done? I’ve got to get going.’
She nodded, feeling a bit ashamed of how she’d snapped at him – but why did he always have to push things? ‘Yes, I think so, we can finish later.’
‘Good,’ he said, closing the laptop and departing. There was no friendly, ‘Adios, Pajarita,’ either, just the too-quiet stillness of the greenhouse, and Emma’s regret. Why had she made such a big deal out of something so small? She put her head on her knees, thinking, then again, when was cooking or baking ever simple at Hope Cottage?
* * *
‘Will you grease the tins for me, please?’ asked Evie as Emma took a seat at the kitchen table next to Pennywort. He was watching the sisters as they mixed together the third layer of the Good Cheer Christmas Cake, Evie muttering the words of hope and good tidings, Dot mixing in the currants and allspice, symbols of the hope and cheer, with the rum. It would be baked, then soaked in port over the following week, before it was added to the other layers in the giant green tin.
Emma hesitated, but gave in at Evie’s impatient scoff. ‘It’s just greasing some tins, you aren’t giving up your firstborn.’
On the radio, Louis Armstrong was singing ’Baby it’s cold outside’, and the blustery cold beyond the kitchen windows seemed to agree, as people bustled past wrapped up in heavy layers, bobble hats and heads down.
‘How are your hand exercises going?’ asked Dot, getting flour on her cheek as she pushed her jam-jar glasses up her nose, pulling a sympathetic face.
‘Okay.’ The truth was they hurt like hell. But there was no use complaining about it – it just made it worse when you actually had to do them.
The phone began to ring and Evie answered it. It was mustard yellow, one of those old-fashioned ones that attached to the wall. It had been there for decades.
‘It’s for you,’ said Evie, with a frown.
Emma got up, crossing the flagstone floor and wiping her buttery fingers on a nearby dishcloth.
‘Hello?’
‘Emma?’ said a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, this is Jessica Flynn – I’m the station manager for the local radio station. I do the news broadcast at six o’ clock as well.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘Jessica – hi, yes.’
‘I’m a big fan of your column. I heard that you were in town for a while, and I was wondering if you’d ever thought about doing a show of some kind? Perhaps we could meet for a coffee if you’re keen, have a chat?’
‘I’ll tell you what – I’m not very mobile at the moment…’ Emma explained a little about her accident. ‘But if you don’t mind coming here?’
‘To Hope Cottage?’ Jessica’s voice sounded breathy, excited almost.
‘Yes, if that’s all right?’
‘That would be great! I mean –’ she laughed – ‘I’ve always wondered…’
Emma laughed. She knew that a lot of the local residents – those who hadn’t ever come for a recipe – wondered about what it was like inside. They would probably be a little surprised at how normal, if a little old-fashioned, it was. ‘I’ll give you a tour.’
When she hung up they were all looking at her in expectation.
‘That was Jessica Flynn, asking if we could have a chat about my column and the radio—’ She looked at Dot, then Evie, somewhat suspiciously. ‘Did either of you put her up to this?’
They all seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Not at all!’
The next morning, Jessica came past. Emma welcomed her inside, taking her navy wool coat, which had a fine dusting of snow on the shoulders.
She was tall, with dark hair and a long, patrician nose. Her dark eyes lit up when they saw the kitchen. Her mouth opened slightly, when she saw The Book.
‘May I?’ she asked, shrugging out of her coat, which Emma took from her and placed on a hook behind the door.
‘Sure,’ said Emma. ‘Just – well…’
‘Off the record?’ Jessica guessed.
Emma nodded, gave her a small, embarrassed smile. ‘If you don’t mind – there’s enough that’s been said about this family, don’t want to stir up any more.’
Jessica nodded. ‘I can appreciate that.’
‘Tea?’ said Emma.
‘Please.’
Emma turned to make it as Jessica had a look through The Book.
‘Remarkable – I mean, as an object of history alone…’
Emma nodded as she popped a bag of Yorkshire Tea into a blue and white striped mug. ‘It’s funny – I had this discussion with my friend, Maggie, the other day as well. I think it’s partly why I became a food writer myself – I’ve always been fascinated with the history of food. Evie always used to say that ours was an edible history.’
Jessica smiled. ‘I like that. Well, it’s why I wanted to talk to you – about your column. I wondered if you’d be interested in coming on, sharing some of your research – something about Christmas food – as we go into the season?’
Emma handed her the mug and Jessica continued, ‘Ta. Well, as I was saying, the Halloways always play such an important role in Christmas in Whistling, you know, with their traditional Good Cheer Christmas Cake – is it true that it takes four weeks to prepare?’
‘Six,’ said Emma, biting her tongue so she didn’t elaborate more, or tell her that she thought the elaborate tradition was nothing more than hokum.
Jessica’s eyes widened. ‘Six, well! It’s such an institution; people really believe in it – I heard Sally Bradley say that she missed it the one yea
r and nothing went right for her. Failed her exams, her flat was flooded, she had a fall-out with the people at work…’
Emma shook her head. ‘I doubt it was because she didn’t have it, but—’
Jessica grinned. ‘You never know, right? Well, I’ve never chanced missing it since –’ she laughed – ‘just in case.’
Emma laughed too.
‘Anyway, it would be really interesting to have you on board, talking a little about your own history and that of Christmas food. We were thinking maybe a two-week special just before Christmas, and thereafter perhaps a weekly slot the following year, if it all works out? We’ve got a slot open on Tuesday afternoons, and I thought a well-known resident could be good – the pay wouldn’t exactly be grandiose; as you know, we’re a tiny station run out of a barn.’ She laughed again.
‘You’re thinking of a regular slot?’
‘Yes, I mean, we could do it on a trial basis, perhaps? How long are you in town?’
Emma shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, a while still, I suppose. But I’d be happy to do the Christmas special – it’s always been my favourite time of the year. As you said, we could decide later about something more regular down the line if it works out. She went on to explain more about her health, and how she’d probably need Sandro’s help to prepare the material.
‘Alessandro – from the Tapas Hut?’ Jessica’s eyes lit up.
‘Yes – he’s been helping me with my column, he’s a friend.’
‘Oh?’ Jessica said. Her eyes were shining with the light of an idea. ‘Do you think he’d be willing to do one of the shows with you? It might be nice to get a European perspective – as well as a bit of flavour with him owning the most popular restaurant in town?’
Emma shrugged. ‘I can ask him.’
‘Great.’ She beamed. ‘Well, here’s my card, let me know. We can meet at the studio – you know that old barn at the back of Jeff Hogson’s house, right? – and discuss the details and prep for the show.’
Emma took it, and then said. ‘Thanks, that sounds great. You know I read one of your articles in the Whistling News – about the bicentenary. It was really fascinating.’
