The Magic of Christmas

by Trisha Ashley

  Polly had staggered backwards through the concealing tomato plants, where she’d presumably been drowning her sorrows with the surfers and Mummers. She regained her balance with an effort, turned, and then fixed her dark-ringed, sunken eyes on me. ‘Lizzy! Not so much the grieving widow, I see! Maybe you’re even celebrating, because it wouldn’t surprise me if you loosened that wheel on purpose, and then told Tom to borrow your car!’

  ‘Polly, that’s entirely stupid. And you watched me walk off into the woods that morning, don’t forget! When would I have done it?’

  ‘You could have come back. You were probably hiding, waiting for me to leave.’

  ‘Do you all know Polly Darke?’ I said resignedly. ‘You can probably spot without my telling you that she’s a novelist of the raunchier kind, but she was also Tom’s mistress.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Juno exclaimed incredulously. ‘Was she really?’

  ‘More, much more, than that, Tom loved me! He had to get Lizzy to move out, so the split looked like her fault, and then Roly would leave him the cottage; but after that we were going to get married,’ Polly cried, looking about her wildly, as though expecting a sympathy vote and not getting it.

  ‘You are quite mad — a fantasist!’ Leila said, looking her up and down disgustedly. ‘He would not have even a tiny affair with a woman such as you.’

  ‘I’m afraid he did have a mistress, but I’ve only just found out that it was Polly,’ I told her. ‘It was a shock to me, too!’

  ‘And me,’ Unks said drily. ‘Revelations, indeed!’

  Leila narrowed her eyes at Polly, like a snake. ‘What could you possibly have to offer him?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ I said darkly. ‘I certainly was.’

  ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ Mimi said brightly, but no one took any notice.

  Leila drew herself up. ‘She is lying. It is true that Tom had a lover, yes — but it was me!’

  Nick’s hand closed in a vice-like grip on her arm. ‘But you swore you’d never been more than friends with him! And you wouldn’t agree to a divorce.’

  She shrugged. ‘He planned to move in with me eventually, but it is as this woman says: he wanted to keep in with his great-uncle, who is fond of Lizzy, and inherit the cottage, so he was forcing her out. She deserved it; she was still having an affair with you! Tom said even in hospital when Jasper was so ill, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other.’

  ‘That is so not true,’ I said hotly.

  ‘No, Lizzy isn’t like that in the least,’ Annie agreed loyally, ‘and neither is Nick.’

  Polly, who’d been quiet, rallied again: ‘Oh, I knew he had an old mistress who wouldn’t accept that their affair was over. But it was me he loved — and me he spent his last night with!’

  ‘I don’t believe you. He was with me only a few days before he died, and he swore he loved me and soon we would be together always,’ Leila declared.

  ‘Presumably after I had obligingly died, and he had inherited the cottage?’ queried Roly mildly.

  ‘You are ninety-two, Roland,’ Leila said defensively. ‘In France we are more practical about these things.’

  ‘Not practical enough, my dear. I was leaving the cottage to him for life only, then to Jasper after him, not outright.’

  ‘And you were going to tell me all this when, exactly?’ Nick demanded of his wife in a voice that reverberated through the greenhouse like thunder. ‘And why refuse me a divorce?’

  ‘I knew that you would try and take half my restaurant that I’ve worked for so hard — half my money. Why should I give you what is mine? I thought once Lizzy was free, you might be more reasonable about it, and I would wait. And I will fight you through the courts for every penny!’

  ‘I don’t want your money — I don’t want anything of yours, just my freedom!’ Nick said furiously. ‘I’ll sign a statement to that effect any time you choose — would have done before, if I’d known what was worrying your mercenary little heart. You and Tom seem to have been made for each other!’

  ‘No they weren’t. She’s a lying cow and it’s me he loved and wanted to spend his life with!’ Polly said, quivering with rage. Then she entirely lost it and lobbed her plate of food at her rival. Half a scone daubed with cream and red jam clung to the side of Leila’s face like some exotic wart, before sliding slowly down her cheek and dropping off, smearing her expensive suit on the way.

  Mimi giggled, but Leila gave a scream of rage and lunged at Polly with her long, sharp red nails. I was just thinking that I’d put my money on Leila, when Nick seized her arms from behind and two of the surfers, who must have followed Polly through the tomato plants, leaped forward and grabbed her too.

  ‘Put them out!’ Unks snapped. ‘You!’ he said to Polly. ‘Whatever the truth of the matter, you should have had the decency to stay away. If you don’t go now, I’ll have you removed.’

  Polly went limp and started sobbing, and the two surfers let go of her arms. She stumbled towards the door on her extremely high heels and, as the crowd parted to let her through, I realised we had unwittingly been providing entertainment for everyone within ear-and eyeshot — which, in a greenhouse, is pretty well everyone who could cram in.

  The only good thing was that the police and the vicar seemed to have left before the floorshow.

  Nick, still grasping Leila’s arms, snapped in my direction, ‘Excuse us! Back later, Roly — hope your horse won.’ And he marched her off. I would have liked to have been a fly in the car on the way back to London: Nick’s invective can be quite inventive when he’s in a rage.

  Unks looked pleased. ‘Well, she was always a bitch,’ he remarked happily. ‘Don’t know why he took up with her, except she was beautiful, I suppose, and they had the cooking stuff in common. Once he’s over her, he can start again — with a sensible Lancashire lass this time, perhaps?’

  ‘They’re both lying old bags!’ quavered the small, pathetic voice of the drippy girl from the Mummers right next to me, and it was quite lucky from her viewpoint that neither of them was there to hear that description, because it would have been tantamount to staking a kid to attract tigresses. ‘He loved me — and what’s more, I’m having his baby!’

  White as a sheet and naturally rather pop-eyed, Ophelia Locke seemed an unlikely candidate for Tom’s attentions, so I was probably the only person who believed her. Still, it was another reason to be glad the other two had gone. There was clearly a general feeling among the onlookers that this was a scene too far and we were into the farce; but then, before anyone could rally enough to say so, Ophelia fainted backwards.

  Caz Naylor stepped forward and caught her neatly, then slung her over his shoulder, where she dangled limp as a shot rabbit. ‘Not right in’t head, Mr Pharamond,’ he said tersely.

  ‘Evidently, poor girl,’ agreed Unks, looking rather taken aback.

  Hanging upside down must have sent the blood rushing to Ophelia’s head, for she revived enough to beat weakly on Caz’s back and whimper, ‘Put me down, you big bully!’

  Caz ignored her and carried her off, the crowd parting to let them through. There was a spontaneous spatter of applause.

  Unks unscrewed the top of his cane. ‘Anybody want a shot of brandy? I certainly do! And wasn’t that the girl I let an estate cottage to — makes handicrafts, or some such stuff?’

  ‘Barbola work?’ suggested Mimi. ‘And is Caz walking out with her?’

  ‘Smocks,’ I said. ‘Yes, Unks, that’s the girl.’

  ‘Nobody does barbola work these days,’ Juno said. ‘And I shouldn’t think she’s Caz’s type.’

  ‘Oh? Well, that was all just like a play!’ Mimi said, still clapping her hands. ‘Was it a play, Juno? Is that the end?’

  ‘Yes, time for us to go home,’ she agreed. ‘Come on, that gardening programme you like will be on by the time we get there.’

  Mimi whirled the chair about with no more ado. ‘Lovely party — thank you for having me!’ she called politely over
her shoulder. The remains of Polly’s jam scone squidged under the wheels.

  The excitement clearly over, some of the remaining guests followed them out, though the last two Mummers were still obliviously droning on in the background and I could see one of Tom’s surfing chums stretched out under the trestle tables, snoring.

  ‘Jasper,’ I said, as he finally came in, closely followed, nose to heel, by the little dog, ‘Unks says we can live at Perseverance Cottage for as long as we want to. Isn’t that kind?’

  ‘Really? Thanks, Unks. I was worrying what would happen to Mum when I went off to university, but now I won’t need to any more.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me at all!’ I said indignantly. ‘I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.’

  Jasper eyed me uncertainly. ‘Are you all right, Mum? Only you look a bit strange.’

  ‘Strange? Why on earth should I look strange?’ I demanded, though I could feel hysteria trying to tweak my mouth into an idiot’s grin.

  ‘I think we’re all tired and a bit overwrought,’ Annie said quickly. ‘What an exhausting day! All these scenes and revelations.’

  ‘What scenes and revelations?’ asked Jasper, looking from one to the other of us.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I promised, which I would have to, even if only the edited lowlights. ‘I wonder how we can get rid of the last of the guests.’

  ‘I’ll send Joe back to turf out the stragglers,’ promised Unks, hoisting himself to his feet with Jasper’s help. ‘But most of them will go when they see me leaving.’

  He advised me, before Joe drove him away, not to dwell on recent events, but instead remember Tom as he once was. He looked frail and tired, so I hoped it all hadn’t taken too much out of him.

  I was fine — too numb and full of elderberry wine and brandy to feel anything except a desire for oblivion.

  It was early evening before Joe Gumball loaded the last drunken surfer into the back of the taxi called to take them to their B&B in Mossedge, and finally persuaded the two Mummers to go away. They had been too drunk to notice the scene with Ophelia, or even question where she had vanished to. (And what had Caz done with her?)

  The urns and crockery had long been efficiently removed by the WI ladies, with my grateful thanks, and Marian and Clive Potter had supervised the local Cubs and Brownies in carrying the trestles and chairs back to the village hall, so that was that.

  Annie saw to the poultry, and then cooked us a meal we none of us really felt like, except the dogs, before going home.

  Finally alone with Jasper I felt almost too exhausted for the effort of explanation, but when I told him that he really was Unks’ great-great-nephew he just said, ‘Yes, I know. Unks told me ages ago, when I asked him why I looked more like Uncle Nick than Dad.’

  ‘You did?’ I stared at him. Then I sighed tiredly, and decided to tell him about the other pretenders to the throne of love and get it all over with at once. ‘Did you also know that your father was having an affair with Leila as well as Polly? They nearly came to blows this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s what she and Nick were arguing about when they left! He pushed her into his car and roared off, and then Polly came out and drove away too, though she didn’t look fit to be behind the wheel. And another thing,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘why was Caz giving that Mummer girl a fireman’s lift? She didn’t seem to appreciate it.’

  ‘She fainted — right after declaring that it was really her your father loved, not the other two. And, Jasper, she says she’s pregnant!’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘She does?’

  ‘I hope it isn’t true, because goodness knows, things are complicated enough without that.’

  ‘Well, look on the bright side,’ Jasper said, with the breezy insouciance of youth. ‘At least there’s no chance the baby’s mine!’

  Chapter 11: Popped Corks

  Ginger Beer

  Let me give you a few words of wisdom culled from many years of making the stuff. (And you will find the recipe for making a ginger beer culture in Book 1 of The Perseverance Chronicles.)

  1. Ignore the Quatermass-experiment effect once the yeast starts working — whatever it may look like, the ginger culture will not take over the world … yet. And isn’t it amazing that water and a bit of yeast and ginger scum can turn into something so delicious?

  2. Ask everyone to save their screw-top plastic pop and water bottles for you, because if you go the traditional route of glass bottles and corks, expect your house to explode at frequent intervals.

  3. Even with screw-top bottles, it is not a good idea to transport large quantities of ginger beer about, especially in a car. Nor should you be tempted to celebrate any special event by shaking the bottle before opening.

  The Perseverance Chronicles: A Life in Recipes

  I was woken early next morning by a thirteen-gun salute, which proved to be half my remaining stock of ginger beer exploding.

  After cleaning the sticky mess up and loosening the rest of the caps so I wouldn’t lose all of it (Jasper and I are very partial to ginger beer), I went out to see to the poultry.

  There appeared to be fewer quail. Presumably Caz had taken the opportunity the previous day to cull the male ones again, though I wasn’t sure how he found the time, unless he’d popped back after taking Ophelia to … well, where had he been heading? So long as it wasn’t to his giant freezer, I didn’t suppose it really mattered. Perhaps he had just put her in a Mummer’s car and left her to it. Or carried her home to her estate cottage, which is not far from his, protesting all the way? (Though I didn’t think most local girls would protest if he wanted to carry them off, the foxy sheikh of the western Lancashire world.)

  I hadn’t really thought of him in the knight-errant role before, even if he appeared to have been protecting me against the ARG activists. Perhaps he’d got something going with Ophelia. But then, that did seem a bit unlikely too, since he was definitely carnivore and I remembered Tom telling me once that all the other Mummers were vegan and wouldn’t even wear leather shoes.

  The quail, in their little pens, all made identical cheeping sounds. I’d never managed to tell one from the other, which was lucky since I didn’t actually get attached to them, like I did to all the Honeys and Myrtles, and even the ducks. But sometimes even they were so nasty and vicious to each other that I stared to feel maybe their real destiny was to be on a plate with stuffing and gravy, or orange sauce. Nature is red in beak and feather, as well as tooth and claw — someone should tell ARG that.

  But after wrapping a couple of dozen quail eggs in onion skins during the sleepless night watches before the funeral, I really didn’t care if I never ate another one, let alone a quail itself … so I thought I’d get rid of them; find them another home.

  The duck population was here before me and was pretty self-sufficient, but the hens could just naturally reduce as they died of old age — so long as I found the eggs before they hatched. After all, it was just going to be me here at Perseverance Cottage most of the time, and if I didn’t produce much more food than I could eat, with the bit extra for barter, then I’d have time to throw myself into helping Annie expand Posh Pet-sitters, and earn some money. Barter worked well up to a point, but not with electricity bills and the Inland Revenue.

  Yes, even the enormous, aluminium-framed glasshouse — relic of a doomed attempt at market gardening by a previous tenant — could go. There was a small one behind the cottage that did well enough for my needs. I decided to get Jasper to put it on Freecycle, where you can advertise anything you want to get rid of — but also get things you need, for free. I expect someone will want it. But what I was to do with Tom’s workshop contents I couldn’t imagine …

  Back at the cottage I was surprised to find Jasper up and getting ready to go to the dig, which on the whole I thought a good idea (though possibly not in the Diesel jeans that had cost me a fortune). I think we both had that spaced-out, anti climactic feeling, and the alternati
ve was sitting about thinking unproductive thoughts.

  ‘Do you know how many eggs I had to sell to buy those jeans?’ I demanded, but he took the question as rhetorical and carried on cutting multilayered doorstep sandwiches.

  I couldn’t drive him there, since, even if the van hadn’t been down at the garage, now it had done duty as a hearse neither of us fancied ever getting in it again. But Dave Naylor was coming that morning with the ancient but, he assured me, very practical Land Rover I had in a rash moment agreed to swap it for.

  So Jasper cycled off to the dig with the furball (now called Ginny, short for Guinevere, though anything less like a Guinevere I never saw) in the carrier, together with a bowl and a big bottle of water. He said there was plenty of shade to tie her up in and he could walk her at lunchtime, though from what I could make out of her shape beneath the fuzz, rolling her about a bit would probably do just as well.

  Dave brought my new old car about an hour later, after I’d drafted the advert for the quail. His son Gary, who played Jesus in the Mystery Play for the first time last year, followed him down the track in Tom’s van, to save him the quarter-mile trek back. That damned van with the horribly apposite ‘Board Rigid’ logo seemed to be a recurring motif, and I’d be glad when it was resprayed and sold on, preferably away from the area. I’d managed to find the paperwork for the van, which I expected would soon reappear for sale on the garage forecourt after a quick makeover.

  The Land Rover had obviously had a hard life, being battered, dented and with high mileage, but Dave assured me they lasted for ever and, as soon as I had mastered the rather unyielding clutch pedal, I would be fine.

  Jasper thought the vehicle swap was a good idea and was looking forward to driving the Land Rover. It was fortunate I have a son who prefers antiquities. I tootled it around the yard and up the track, and it certainly felt more solid than my 2CV ever did. Later I steered it cautiously down to the post office and handed Marian the quail advert for the parish magazine. She said I was just in time for the next issue, which would be out at the end of the week, but that was sheer luck, since their publication dates are erratic and entirely depend on how Clive feels about it.