by Lily Graham
‘Oh yes – did you see the photograph with Grace Halloway and her daughter?’
Emma nodded. ‘Yes, actually, I wanted to ask you about that – I mean, the man in the photograph, John Allen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it was funny because –’ Emma laughed awkwardly – ‘Well, I mean…’
‘There’s been a long-standing feud between your families.’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, glad it was Jessica who’d said that, and not her. ‘Well, I’ve always been interested in finding out what really happened – there’s so much speculation, and rumour, as you can imagine. It’s silly but looking at that photograph I saw a slightly different story…’
Jessica nodded. ‘John Allen had his arms round Alison Halloway?’ she said.
‘Yes, exactly, and well, I thought that was a bit strange.’
‘So, did I – I remember asking about it too, when I saw. I thought you knew?’
‘Knew what?’ asked Emma.
‘That they were engaged.’
Emma gasped. ‘Engaged – are you sure?’
Jessica nodded. ‘Quite sure. I wanted to fact-check it after I heard, and I found an old announcement in the paper. I’ll send it to you if you like – I have it scanned somewhere.’
‘Yes, please,’ Emma said, then frowned as she thought of something. ‘You said you heard about it though? Who told you?’
‘Oh, Dot, of course. She’s the one who gave me the photograph.’
Chapter Twenty
It was midway through the first week in December when Emma heard a loud bang, and then a curse, from the kitchen. She shuffled inside from the alcove, Pennywort at her heels.
‘Everything all right?’
There were Christmas cards strung up with string on the old blue Welsh dresser, and already some of the villagers had begun to send their small gifts of appreciation for Evie and the aunts’ help over the year. Some of these, like a set of garden gnomes with rather soppy expressions, or the lurid pink lava lamp sent by the retired hippie John Adams, Emma thought they could really have done without.
Evie turned to her with wide eyes. Her salt grey hair seemed to pulse around her shoulders. ‘Not really – I just noticed that I’m out of cream for the Stand By Me Soufflé. It’s for Alfred Bright, the butcher, he’s been having trouble with his business; he’s riddled with anxiety, poor lad, now that the new supermarket has opened up, which has been killing his profits. I’m going to have to pop down to the Brimbles’ store.’
Poor Evie had been run ragged these past few weeks with the number of villagers who’d come past looking for recipes to solve their problems.
Before she could overthink it, Emma said, ‘I’ll keep an eye on it if you like?’
‘Would you?’ asked Evie, looking relieved. She bit her lip. ‘It needs to be stirred every few minutes.’
Emma shrugged. ‘That’s fine.’
Evie hesitated, then, ‘And you need to keep your intentions firm – calm, as you say the words,’ she said, pointing to the instructions on the open page.
Emma sighed, rolling her eyes. ‘Do I really have to do that?’
‘Yes, he really needs this. If you don’t want to, I’ll have to call Dot, but there’s not a lot of time and I’d hate for him to be disappointed, he’s going through such a rough time.’ She looked so worried that Emma’s heart finally melted.
‘Okay, fine. I’ll do it. What do I have to do again?’
Evie beamed at her. ‘Just stir it every few minutes, clear your mind of any negative thoughts and think of peaceful things.’
‘Peaceful things?’
‘Anything that conjures up serenity – water, the moors, whatever.’
Emma nodded. ‘Okay.’
Evie still looked worried, so she gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’ve done this before. Don’t worry.’
When Evie was gone, she looked at the pot, shook her head, hearing Dr Norton’s voice in her mind: ‘I don’t have to tell you how cooking feeds the soul…’
‘Well, here goes,’ she said aloud, lifting the ladle and giving it a gentle stir. She breathed in and out, clearing her thoughts of all but her most peaceful thoughts. She pictured the sound of a waterfall, the ocean, the moors, Sandro’s eyes. Her eyes shot open. She blinked.
‘Peaceful thoughts,’ she told herself firmly and concentrated on Pennywort’s soft fur, deciding that dark, beautiful, Spanish eyes had no business swirling around inside her skull, particularly as they didn’t conjure up a whole lot of peace, she thought with a giggle. Then, ‘Stop it! Ocean waves… waterfalls…’
* * *
‘You know, it’s funny being back here. I’ve started to remember things, things that I thought I’d forgotten,’ said Emma the following afternoon. She couldn’t help reminiscing now that Christmas was drawing steadily closer. It was the start of the second week in December.
Evie was making plum jam, which would be used as an accompaniment for the roast turkey for the Christmas Day feast down at the Tapas Hut, which she and her aunts were helping to cater. There were little glass jars lined up on the scarred wooden table, around Pennywort, who watched with one eye open, his nose sniffing the air hopefully. She gave the old dog a pat and said, ‘Like what?’
Emma glanced at The Book; looked to a corner of it, at the char mark that she’d noticed earlier. ‘I remembered that you said my mother tried to burn The Book, you told me when I was little. Aggie told me later that it was after Janet Allen started a rumour about her.’
Evie spooned a little of the jam onto a spoon, blowing onto it till it cooled, then popped it into her mouth. She frowned, then swallowed. ‘Oh, it was more than a rumour, more like a campaign, really. She had half the town believing Margaret was evil incarnate, it was hard for her – she started to really resent where she came from, so in a fit of rage, she tried to burn it. Luckily I was there in time to save it, mostly.’
‘Mostly?’ asked Emma, with a frown.
‘Oh, well, I think she managed to tear out one of the recipes…’
Before Emma could ask more, though, the phone started to ring. Evie crossed the flagstone floor to answer. It was Dot. ‘Keep your hair on, I’m coming,’ she said with a sigh.
It was Thursday afternoon, which always meant poker.
When she hung up, she sighed at the mountain of jam she still had to decant.
‘Don’t worry – I’ll do it, you go.’
‘You sure?’ Evie asked. Emma shrugged. ‘It’s only jam. Say hi for me.’
She spent the rest of the afternoon decanting the jam. Sandro popped in to get changed, his eyes widening when he saw her busy in the kitchen.
He took a seat and started to help. Despite their disagreement the other morning, they were still mostly fine around one another, if a little stilted.
‘Don’t you have to get back?’
He shrugged. ‘It can wait.’ He tried a little bit of the jam, closed his eyes in bliss.
‘Is it good?’ she asked, staring at the pot a little mournfully.
He nodded. ‘Try some.’
She did, sighing deeply. Still nothing.
He smiled. ‘It’ll come soon, I’m sure.’
She nodded, hoping he was right.
‘It’s amazing what they did for that old man, eh Pajarita. Mr Grigson – did you hear he proposed to the old librarian? They came round to book the Hut for their wedding in the spring.’
Emma made a little noise, a kind of snort.
He frowned. ‘What?’
‘You don’t really think one of their mad recipes would make that happen, do you?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Some things you just can’t explain by coincidence, you know?’
‘Actually, I think you can.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Ay, Pajarita,’ he muttered, but he let it go.
They spent the next hour putting the jam in the containers, working together companionably.
‘How about some Midnight in Prague?’ he
asked.
She grinned. ‘Really?’
‘He was just about to diffuse the bomb, before you started snoring the other night.’
‘What? I don’t snore,’ she said, blushing.
‘O-kay,’ he said, walking over to the alcove, out of harm’s way, and putting the audiobook on.
An hour later he glanced up and saw the time. He jumped up. ‘Ay, Pajarita, I better go – I lost track of time, Nico said he needs to catch a train today.’
‘Oh,’ said Emma, feeling a little disappointed that he was leaving.
‘See you.’
After he’d left, the kitchen was too quiet, and still, and she felt a little lost.
She started putting the jam in the pantry and then took a break, by flipping through The Book, looking at old recipes, pausing when she found again the section of torn bits of paper where recipes had seemingly been ripped out.
Evie had said though that there was a recipe missing – which was rather specific; she knew that Evie would know all the recipes in The Book – but still, something about the way she had said it had made her think that one particular recipe was important. If her mother had tried burning The Book and failed, why tear out just the one recipe? Unless, perhaps, it was one she deemed more important than all the others.
* * *
Dot was in her reading chair, a glass of wine and a plate of mince pies next to her, when Emma came past to see her that Saturday afternoon, her red hair clashing magnificently with the pink bobble hat she was wearing, her bare toes, on the leg with the cast, icy cold despite the lime green knitted sock she had on.
The countdown to Christmas had really begun now in the village, and all through the streets people had put up their lights and wreaths. Some were more garish than the others, like the house next door, which had reindeer, a giant Santa who said, ‘Ho ho ho’ when she walked past the front garden, and a cascade of angels pasted inside all the open windows.
The short walk up the cobbled street had tired her out, and she sank gratefully onto the sofa, resting her crutch alongside it.
Uncle Joe was asleep next to her, his crossword at his side.
She gave his bald head a kiss. ‘Aggie showed me this,’ she said, giving her aunt the article that Jessica Flynn had written, which she’d pulled out of her jumper pocket. Dot pushed up her thick lenses and nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, reading it. Her nail polish, though chipped as usual, was a bright and festive rose gold.
‘Well,’ she said putting it down after she’d read it. ‘I was wondering when you were going to ask me about the founding members of the Halloway clan and what went wrong. Evie, bless her, told me not to say anything – but I said you had every right.’
‘Dot,’ said Uncle Joe, slightly warningly, from the sofa, his eyes still closed.
‘Well, she does. Anyway she’s older now, so…’
Jo sat up, gave them a meaningful look and then took himself off to his bedroom.
‘He doesn’t want me to dredge up old ghosts – wants to protect you, old dear, always had a soft spot for you.’
Emma grinned. ‘That’s sweet, but why would it be dredging up old ghosts?’
Dot frowned. ‘Did Evie ever tell you about your great-grandmother Alison Halloway?’
‘Not really.’
Dot nodded. ‘Well, you know of the recipe that went wrong between the Allens, the Leas and the Halloways, obviously.’
Emma blinked. ‘The Leas too – I didn’t know they were involved.’
‘Oh? But of course they were, they’ve always been at the heart of it, right from the start. Well, it’s why it keeps repeating itself – the others don’t want to hear it, but…’
‘What?’ asked Emma. ‘What keeps repeating itself?’ Her heart started to beat faster, though a small part of her knew, had always suspected.
‘The same cycle – it began all those years ago and has played itself out once again with you, and Jack… and Stella.’
What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know the story of Grace Halloway, yes? How she came to the village of Whistling, some two hundred years ago, with nothing but her child and a set of old recipes to her name, but was given the tenancy of Hope Cottage anyway.’
‘By who?’
‘The Allens, of course.’
Emma gasped in surprise. ‘What?’
‘Oh yes, many years ago they were the most prominent family in these parts, and old Geoff Allen owned much of the town. Grace scrimped and saved and bought the cottage outright a few years later, but it must be said, he gave her a very good deal. Like I said, they were great friends. Grace’s husband had passed away, and she was bringing up her child alone, the same age as his boy – John.’
Dot continued. ‘The vicar, Angus Lea, had taken over the parsonage, and all three became very firm friends. They helped start the school, where all their children went.’
Emma shook her head. No one had ever told her that.
‘Suzette Lea, the vicar’s child, fell in love with young John Allen – he was rather a dashing figure I believe, bit of a ladies’ man, though if he loved anyone it was Alison. Times were different then though, you see, and it had long been promised that John Allen and Suzette were to be wed. John, of course, defied his father, and asked Alison for her hand. Geoff said he’d write him off without a penny if he did, nothing personal against the Halloways, but to old Geoff a promise was a promise, see.
‘It caused untold stress on all of them. John started gambling, drinking. Soon he’d racked up so many debts that he was in danger of being sent to prison or killed by the people who he owed money to. Geoff settled these, but the cost was great, it put his entire business at risk, which was when they came to Grace for help.’
‘For a recipe,’ said Emma.
Dot nodded. ‘Grace made it, she said the old words, “I make no promises.” She warned them that it could go wrong, and it did – spectacularly, horrifically wrong. They lost everything.’
‘But I mean, surely Grace couldn’t be blamed? It’s not like she could have controlled it.’
Dot nodded. ‘I think Alison felt differently, like they could have done more, so she risked it all for love. Some say that she dug up the savings that the Allens had handed over for the recipe, and she gave it to John. They were going to run away with it, you see.’
‘No!’ cried Emma.
‘I’m afraid so. Well, when she did that, I believe it tainted it – there has to be a cost, in some way or another, and it fell on all of us.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘John was found, and robbed by one of the debt collectors who’d been looking for him. He hadn’t got the memo that John’s father had paid his debts, perhaps, or maybe he didn’t care, perhaps he saw that there was more money to be taken. Either way, John died of his injuries, and thereafter Suzette was sure Alison Halloway had done everything in her power, even killing the man she loved rather than let him be with her.’
‘Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this?’ cried Emma.
‘Because no one could prove it. Margaret tried, of course.’
‘My mother?’
‘Oh yes. She was determined to find that recipe.’
‘To put things right?’
‘In the beginning, yes. Later I think to ensure that Janet Allen and Neil, I suppose, stayed cursed for the rest of their lives. I’m not sure she realised it would continue to affect us, no matter how hard she tried to run away from it all, that it would just keep finding us all.’
Chapter Twenty-One
The dark tells stories about the night, making monsters out of shadows and ghosts out of whispers. It tries to convince you of its power, it tells you things it would like to believe – that it can snuff out the stars, and hold the world in its fist – but no matter how hard it tries; it cannot hide from the light.
It takes so little to banish the dark, thought Emma the next morning as she watched the first light come in from the window, the colour of pale lem
on, transforming all that it touched. Making the silver baubles on the Christmas tree by the hearth glow and shimmer. It fell upon her bed, onto her arm, and as she stared, she marvelled at the colours of her skin, the smooth lines and freckles, the pale hair, all in sudden, sharp relief.
When Sandro brought her a cup of coffee in a clear glass mug sprinkled with little snowflakes – her favourite Christmas mug – and placed it on the little three-legged stool by the side of her bed, he paused, and then looked at her in concern, dark eyes wide.
‘You’re crying.’
She turned to him and smiled. ‘I am.’
‘You’re happy about this. I don’t understand, Pajarita,’ he said softly, taking a seat at the edge of her bed. ‘It’s just a Christmas mug.’
Her pulse started to rise from how near he was, the intensity of his dark gaze, and she swallowed as he peered at her.
‘It’s because I can see… well, properly now.’ She gave a shaky, amazed sort of laugh. ‘Everything used to be in double and now – it’s not.’
‘It’s a miracle,’ he said.
She nodded. There would have been a time when she would have laughed at him for saying that word, but now, she thought, surely that’s what this was? After weeks of unfocused vision, to wake up and just be able to see so clearly and easily – what other word described it as perfectly?
She looked at the mug of coffee he’d put on the stool. It was steaming slightly, the picture of domestic bliss, so simple, and so wondrous, all on its own.
‘I don’t think I realised just how beautiful things can be.’
‘Like what?’ he asked.
‘Everything. There’s so much colour, so much detail. Take you, for instance,’ she said, then blushed.
He grinned, and she saw the dimples in his cheeks, the white and even grin. ‘So, you think I’m beautiful?’ he teased.
She blinked, buried her face in her hands for a second. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Oh God,’ she said, grinning despite her blush. ‘I meant only that I thought I could see you before…’ She looked away, didn’t explain, couldn’t explain really, how, or why he’d seemed to stand out so sharply in relief. Perhaps because he’d been so different – and, at first, so unwelcome here in her childhood home, where so few things had changed.
