The Little Village Christmas

by Sue Moorcroft

  The next segment dealt with the stories from the audience. A lady old enough to be Alexia’s grandmother had been ripped off by a bogus holiday-bond company to the tune of £18,000; another had been deceived by his wife who, rather than divorce him and divide their assets in the usual way, had waited until he’d inherited from his parents, grabbed all the money and run. He’d been left with a house mortgaged to the hilt and a car on which she’d let payments lapse. Alexia was astounded by the cruelty and the man’s blank shock even now, a year after the event. Each story earned a round of sympathetic applause.

  The experts let Kelli lead them through a spirited commentary, and then contributed advice on how others might avoid their fate, and then there was another filming break. Alexia shifted on aching feet, the base of her back beginning to feel compressed. A few of the audience squatted down or even sat cross-legged on the floor so she obviously wasn’t the only one, but she felt too keyed up to follow their example.

  Filming recommenced with a woman relating how she’d been conned by someone claiming to guarantee the granting of a green card to work in America. The result had been nothing more than a few official-looking documents that proved to be counterfeit. ‘I parted with thousands,’ the woman kept saying, lips set grimly.

  The panel began by pointing out kindly that instead of clicking a link in an ad on the Internet she should have searched through recognised channels and pretty much ended by saying that good conmen were hard to find when they didn’t want to be found but when you only dealt with them electronically you were moving up a level from ‘hard’ to ‘nearly impossible’.

  Alexia quite wanted to say, ‘FFS! What were you thinking?’ to the woman instead of clapping, but apart from it no doubt getting her thrown out, her butterflies were bouncing off the walls of her stomach. She could quite clearly hear the ker-BOOM in her ears.

  Then suddenly a figure in studio black handed Alexia a mic and Kelli was smiling caringly, introducing Alexia to the ‘experts’ and the viewers at home. She commenced drawing out the whole sorry tale of The Angel.

  Though her palms sweated and her voice held the tiniest tremor, Alexia managed most of the interview calmly.

  Kelli made the tiniest shift in her upper body, which Alexia had noticed her doing as she went to ask the final question to each guest, as if to signal her withdrawal. ‘Alexia, what I’d really like to know is how has this deception affected you going forward?’

  All the brooding on the car journey suddenly flooded back. ‘They’ve taken the future I’d planned,’ she burst out. ‘After adding The Angel to my portfolio I was supposed to be recommended for a job by a so-called friend, Elton –’ she had a fleeting regret that she’d outed Elton by name but, hey, he’d earned it ‘– to the property investor he works for. I was lined up to work on both the folders in her property portfolio: the money-making refurbishments in trendy up-and-coming areas of south and east London, and her altruistic affordable rental property scheme in Kent.’

  ‘I really hope something else comes along for you.’ Kelli made another tiny turn away.

  But the runner had left the microphone with Alexia, probably to allow her to say ‘thank you’ and shut up.

  Alexia ignored the hint and Warren’s earlier instructions to let Kelli wind things up and carried on. ‘My friend dumped me instantly. He refused to even tell the investor what had happened. He was too frightened of my victimhood –’ she wasn’t sure that was even a word ‘– contaminating him, like lice.’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ Kelli repeated firmly, then turned to the police officer on the panel and the runner wrested the microphone from Alexia’s hand.

  The members of the panel had plenty to say on how other people could avoid the same fate. The police officer, a big burly bald bloke whose name, amusingly, was Bill, managed to get in a comment about the police force having very limited resources.

  Then it was over.

  Lots more clapping. Alexia joined in automatically, adrenalin draining abruptly away. A few of members of the audience said ‘Well done’ or ‘Hope you get sorted’ or just patted her arm as they filed past.

  Depleted by being keyed up for so long, Alexia couldn’t wait to get back in the taxi and be driven back to safe old Middledip. Especially once she had retrieved her phone from her handbag and could read a text from Ben.

  Ben: Were you brilliant? Did you enjoy it? Want to be dropped off at mine and stay tonight? xx

  Alexia: Gah! Think I came over as an over-emosh female who walked into a trap set by a smarter man. Would love to stay at yours. Please have whisky ready. xx

  She must have fallen asleep as the wheels of the car turned soporifically because she jolted awake as the driver called, ‘Sorry to disturb you, love, but I need to know how to find this place you want dropping and then get off home before the snow sets in.’

  She sat up and blinked to see that he’d paused the car at The Cross – and that tiny snowflakes were shimmering in the light from the street lamps. ‘Oh, pretty,’ she yawned, then woke herself up enough to provide directions, gazing at the snow as they bumped up the track that branched from the back entrance to the Carlysle estate to the rear of Woodward Cottage.

  ‘Blimey,’ said the driver. ‘A wicked witch doesn’t live here, does she?’

  Still yawning, Alexia felt for the door handle. ‘No, a wizard.’

  She scrambled from the car on stiff legs. The taxi turned round to lurch back the way it had come. Alexia caught sight of Barney on a branch in his aviary on the back of the cottage but, attracted like a moth to the light streaming from the cottage windows, she made straight for the front door.

  It opened before she could knock. Ben stood there in a sweatshirt and jeans.

  He opened his arms and she stepped into them. ‘I made a proper tit of myself. If anyone ever wants to put me on TV again remind me to know my limitations and just stay home with a glass of wine.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Ben laid awake feeling Alexia’s sleeping breath stir his body hair and mulling over her simple ‘Glad that’s over’ reaction to her evening. He knew Imogen would have sought endless reassurance. Alexia, after recounting events at the TV studio, had curled up beside him to watch the snowflakes through the window, her arm lightly across his chest and her cheek on his shoulder, and dropped soundlessly into sleep.

  He hadn’t even had a chance to tell her that Carola wanted to order enough invitations to the 23rd December opening of The Angel Community Café to put through the door of every house in the village. That the date depended on things like the screed being dry enough for Alexia to tile so the kitchen fitter could fit, she’d waved away. ‘Alexia says we’ll do it! Don’t fret.’ The invitations were to be ‘as sparkly and Christmassy as possible’ and she had already bought decorations, tinsel and a tree with the necessary baubles for the opening, so great was her faith.

  Finally, lulled by Alexia’s breathing, he closed his eyes. His last thought was that this was the first time they’d slept together and just slept.

  In the morning they rose before the late-November sun. Alexia had to go home to ready herself for her day. Ben needed make the most of the daylight to top a load of conifers that had been planted to create a windbreak for Carlysle Hall’s kitchen garden but were now spoiling the view and casting shadows. Just enough snow had fallen to make the landscape glitter like a Christmas card.

  After a quick slice of toast each, Ben unlocked the truck but Alexia hung back. ‘Can we say good morning to Barney? I haven’t seen him much lately.’ Barney was completely at home in his aviary now, hopping up and down the branches and stumps Ben had set out for him as a sop to having lost his superpower of flight.

  But Ben could hear a vehicle approaching from the direction of the estate, which almost never happened unless he was in the vehicle as it wasn’t a right of way. ‘You do that while I see who this is.’ He strode off through the trees, his work boots crunching the crust of snow. Narrowing his eyes against the mor
ning mist rising off the lake, he watched in astonishment as a small white van hurried up, backed up to the water’s edge and, from the other side of the vehicle, a white and blue plastic carrier bag flew into the air.

  It landed in the water with a splash.

  The van accelerated swiftly away but Ben’s attention was on the bag.

  No doubt water was already seeping in but, tied at the top, enough air had been trapped to allow it to float for the moment. As he stared, the bag seemed to shiver. Perhaps because it was a still and frozen morning, a high-pitched noise reached him where he stood.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he roared, charging towards the lake. Without hesitation, he performed a shallow dive into the sparkling khaki water.

  Its iciness took his breath away but it was too late to wish he’d thought things through. Still, in an inelegant flat crawl that was the best he could manage, hampered by his coat, he struck out for the bag, which was half-submerged now. Weeds dragged at his legs and he slowed his efforts to try and slide clear. And failed.

  Shit. He’d made a mistake.

  Anger had taken over and he’d disregarded everything he’d ever been taught. Now he was finding it hard to draw air deep into his lungs. It seemed to reach the base of his throat and then freeze, the cold water pressing on his chest and his shallow gasps ringing in his ears.

  His coat was trying to pull him down but his hands were already too cold to unzip it. The weight of his work boots increased with every kick he tried.

  The bag would probably be under water by the time he reached it. If he reached it. He wouldn’t have the puff or use of his limbs to dive down and bring it up.

  He’d been an idiot.

  Pausing to tread water, he tried to suck in a proper lungful of air. All he could manage was a series of shallow pants. His legs tried to pedal harder but were losing the unequal fight with his boots and the weeds. And the cold. It was numbing. He had to tip his head back to keep his mouth clear of the surface.

  He was in trouble.

  Then came the sound of an engine and he blinked water from his eyes in time to see his truck being driven along the edge of the lake to the point closest to him.

  Alexia scrabbled out, slipping in the snow. ‘Are you stupid?’ she bellowed.

  He didn’t have the breath to acknowledge that he was. He devoted all his strength to keeping his mouth above the surface, one eye on the carrier bag riding low in the water and the other on Alexia as she grabbed one of his ropes from the bed of his truck, looped it around the tow ball and, taking a dramatic, cowboy-like circle or two above her head, flung the rope out towards him.

  It fell short.

  Before he could even try to reach it, she was hauling it in again.

  This time she whirled it underarm, screaming, ‘Get there!’ after it, to urge it on its way.

  It almost made the distance.

  Three floundering strokes and he was able to tangle it around his forearm, kicking as best he could while she leant back and heaved on the rope with him flopping on the end like a half-dead fish. His passage took him within arm’s length of the carrier bag and he took one hand off the rope to wind his frozen claw into its plastic folds.

  Then his knees were colliding with the muddy bed of the lake, his arms in the slushy margin. If it hadn’t been frozen solid, his heart would have hammered with relief.

  Alexia waded in, dropping the rope in favour of hauling on his arm. ‘You are the stupidest, most moronic man I’ve ever met,’ she gasped, tears – probably of fury – on her cheeks, slipping and splashing as she tried to keep her feet. ‘Can you get up? Then GET UP and GET IN THE TRUCK!’ With a strength he didn’t think she’d possess, she somehow dragged and heaved his numbed and shivering self to the passenger door and shoved him through it, his hand still tangled with the carrier bag, then slipped and slid around to the driver’s seat. Twisting to look over her shoulder, she reversed the truck the way she’d come, zigzagging inexpertly as the wheels struggled for traction.

  She backed over his climbing rope and dragged it along in their wake but he decided that now was not the time to mention it. Instead, he fumbled with numb hands at the bag, freezing lake water pouring down his freezing legs. ‘Kit-kittens,’ he managed, through chattering teeth.

  Alexia spared a glance for the sodden, feebly moving mass in his lap. ‘Some people need shooting.’ And the engine complained as she recommenced the wavering backtrack to Woodward Cottage.

  There, she half-dragged Ben out of the cab again, although he’d almost got his breath now and was able to stagger under his own propulsion. Flinging his front door open, in grim silence she pulled him across the sitting room, up the stairs and into the bathroom. Turning the shower onto hot, she shoved him under the spray, swiping the carrier bag full of kittens out of his hands in passing.

  Content that Alexia had rescued his rescue attempt he closed the shower door and gave himself up to the bliss of hot water raining down on him. It took minutes to thaw sufficiently to get himself out of his clothes and boots, wiping portholes through the steamy glass in order to watch Alexia gently dry kittens with his bath towels, laying them in a row on the bathmat like toys. ‘Five,’ she said, with a tiny shake of her head at a world where kittens could be hurled into icy water to perish.

  She left them briefly to rummage in his airing cupboard, locating sufficient handtowels and tea towels to make each kitten a cocoon.

  ‘May I have a towel, too, please?’ He’d been under the shower long enough that his voice emerged almost without his teeth chattering.

  Alexia threw him a darkling look. ‘You stay there and get warmer, moron. I need to ring your uncle for emergency kitten care.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned her back on him. He decided to obey because she hadn’t passed him a towel to wrap up in and she was right. Morons had to prioritise getting their core temperature up.

  As she talked rapidly into the phone he surveyed his saturated work boots, which would take days to dry out, and sighed as he noticed the bump in his jeans pocket that he knew to be his mobile phone. He took a smidgeon of comfort from the fact that it might be dead but the kittens were alive.

  Finally Alexia fetched him a towel and opened the shower door. ‘Gabe says to take the kittens to him. He’s hand-reared litters before and he’s boiling the feeding bottles ready for when we get there. He’ll give them dilute milk for now but one of us has to go to the pet place and buy some formula stuff.’

  Ben turned off the shower and began drying himself, realising, now Alexia was standing up, that her jeans were soaked to mid-thigh. ‘You need to get warm and dry, too.’

  She nodded impatiently. ‘Get dressed and you can drop me off on the way to Gabe’s.’ She didn’t look at him.

  He grabbed her hand as she turned away. ‘You were fantastic.’

  ‘You were a moron.’

  ‘I was.’ He pulled her against him, realising that she was shaking. ‘I think you just saved six lives.’

  ‘One of them risked his.’ She pulled away. ‘We’ve got to get those kittens to Gabe.’

  He fell in with her plan, fumbling into a thick fleece pulled over his clothes and taking the driver’s seat while she held what had been Barney’s tub, now cradling five well-wrapped kittens. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ he asked as they pulled up outside her cottage.

  ‘No, I think you should get the kittens to Gabe. It would be ironic if you took that stupid risk and let them die anyway.’

  ‘The irony to me seems in being in the doghouse for saving kittens!’ But he received no answer. She was already climbing out of the vehicle and wedging the tub full of kittens into the footwell. Ben glanced into it. ‘I hope you guys are grateful.’

  Then he drove off to deliver them to Gabe’s tender care.

  Indoors, Alexia stripped off her horrible wet jeans that clung, freezing cold, to her legs. She jumped into the shower, as hot as she could bear it, thinking how much worse it must have felt for Ben, to b
e soaked head to toe.

  Idiot.

  She’d nearly had a heart attack when she’d heard his bellow of rage and rushed to the front of Woodward Cottage, only to see him trying to swim through that frosty murk. Her legs gave as reality melted her bones and she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor of the shower.

  Ben could have died.

  She trembled to remember the blank horror on his face and his obviously restricted movements. In a moment of stark terror she’d feared she’d have to stand there and watch him go under – until she’d forced her shocked brain to work, and she’d run for the truck on legs that didn’t feel as if they belonged to her. Thank goodness he’d already put the keys in the ignition and hadn’t dived in with them in his pocket. Then she would have been reduced to grabbing the rope and running.

  It would have wasted crucial seconds.

  A great hand squeezed her chest. Then a sob burst out of her, followed by another and then a whole series more. It’s the shock, she told herself, heaving convulsively. Give yourself a minute and you’ll be fine.

  It was several minutes, as it turned out, plus getting dried and dressed. Even then she had to sit and drink two cups of strong tea, the words Ben could have died circulating endlessly in her mind. Ben could have died. And apart from the horror of bearing witness she’d have lost a lot more than she’d been admitting, she realised.

  They might be keeping things light, just enjoying the zing.

  But it was zing she didn’t want to lose.

  Eventually she was sufficiently recovered to drive around the corner and up Gabe’s track, careful over the slippery ruts and potholes. By the time she let herself into the kitchen she was her normal brisk self – at least on the surface. ‘I’ll drive to the pet shop in Bettsbrough for the formula stuff. I’m working on a costing today so I’m pretty flexible.’

  Gabe looked up from the tabby bundle of fluff on his palm that was sucking at what looked like a doll’s bottle. For the first time in ages, his eyes had some life in them. ‘That would be grand. These little fellows will need a lot of TLC for a day or so. I’m guessing they’re about four weeks old.’ A box lined with newspaper and towels was already standing near the range and three kittens, now freed from their individual cocoons, were cuddling up together. Judging by the fact that they were fast asleep, they’d already been fed.