The Magic of Christmas

by Trisha Ashley

  This morning the members of the CPC all went to Faye’s farm again for the meeting, since she wanted us to taste the Christmas ice creams she was developing — and it turned out she had also managed to produce the perfect brandy-butter one, too! I think it will be a lovely change with the Christmas pudding and we have all ordered a tub each.

  ‘Thank you all for helping me with the buffet for the funeral too,’ I said, when we had settled down to the coffee and gossip part of things. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’

  ‘That’s all right — what are friends for, if not to help each other?’ Marian said, and the others murmured agreement.

  ‘There were certainly a few eye-opening revelations about Tom, weren’t there?’ Miss Pym said forthrightly. ‘Neither that French wife of Nick Pharamond’s nor Polly Darke appear to have any moral code whatsoever!’

  ‘Or Ophelia Locke,’ Faye pointed out.

  ‘I don’t think you can entirely blame Ophelia — she’s obviously a sandwich short of a picnic,’ Annie said generously.

  ‘No, and I do feel a bit sorry for her, even if she is exasperatingly silly,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve persuaded Unks not to evict her from her estate cottage.’

  ‘It’s a pity it’s not in his power to evict Polly Darke from her house though, isn’t it?’ Marian suggested. ‘She’s been seen everywhere, dressed in weirdest widow’s black, playing for the sympathy vote.’

  ‘Well, she won’t get it from any of us,’ Annie said. ‘In fact, she’s not at all liked locally.’

  ‘She asks me every year if she can take part in the Mystery Play,’ Marian said, ‘and I turn her down. She’s just attention-seeking.’

  ‘I’m glad my part is small,’ Faye said, who was currently playing Mary Magdalen. ‘I hate getting up in front of all those people.’

  ‘Me too,’ I agreed. ‘I saw Gary Naylor the other day and he said he was going to be Jesus again.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Marian said. ‘He made quite a good job of it last year, once we’d persuaded him out of wearing black during his scenes, especially those big boots with all the metal studs.’

  ‘Jasper says he’s an Emo,’ I explained.

  ‘What’s an Emo?’ asked Faye.

  ‘Sort of a gloomier Goth, I think.’

  ‘Only a year older than Jasper, isn’t he?’ Miss Pym said. ‘Expect he will grow out of it soon. He was a good boy at school … and speaking of which, term starts again next week, so I will soon be rehearsing the little animals for the Noah scene.’

  Miss Pym must be long past official retirement age and they are too afraid to tell her, but though she now only works part-time, she is still very much in control of the small infants’ school and, I suspect, always will be.

  Jasper and I agreed that there was nothing to beat a supper of globe artichokes with a little pot of melted butter for dipping, and fresh bread and cheese, with blackberry fluff and cream to follow.

  One afternoon I was out in the garden waging a Canute-like attempt to assert my authority over Nature, when the vicar visited me.

  While Gareth ostensibly came to see how I was going on and offer comfort and a shoulder to cry on, should I need it, I quickly discerned that he really wanted to talk about Annie. So I told him all about our long friendship, dating back to our schooldays at St Mattie’s, where she was hockey captain and my best subject was Nature Studies, and the French cookery course we did afterwards in London.

  ‘Neither of us was academic, you see. After the course we worked for a party catering firm for a couple of months, until I married Tom and she came home to live in Middlemoss.’

  ‘And now she has her own pet-minding business?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s very successful,’ I said, and told him what a lovely, trusting person Annie was, even after being jilted practically at the altar several years ago, when her fiancé ran off with one of the prospective bridesmaids. Then I pointed out her many activities within the parish.

  ‘Of course,’ I added casually, tossing a handful of weeds into the wheelbarrow, ‘the way to Annie’s heart is through her love of dogs. She even puts in several hours a week as a voluntary helper at the RSPCA kennels.’

  Gareth left carrying bags of salad vegetables and runner beans, and looking thoughtful, so I hoped I’d planted some idea of how to win her affections: now the ball was in his court.

  He was very nice in a serious and terribly good way, so I thought they would be very well suited. I couldn’t give my best friend in marriage to just any old eligible bachelor, he had to be Mr Right. Or, in this case, Mr Bright.

  This could be just the right moment for him to make his move, too, for I’d got the impression lately that Annie was finding Ritch Rainford disconcerting, now her initial bedazzlement was wearing off. She’d never had one of her fantasy men become flesh before.

  If Gareth played his cards right, she could very well rebound quite happily into his arms.

  Annie had managed all the Posh Pet-sitting stuff herself since the funeral, but I told her I could cope now if she needed help. So the following morning I walked Delphine Lake’s three little dogs, who were very glad to see me, because Delphine’s idea of a walk is from the car into the house.

  Then I went to collect a cat from the vet’s surgery and returned it to the owner — or rather, the owner’s au pair, who didn’t seem very pleased to have it back. But I expect once it had got over its indignant rage at being confined in a carrying box it would soon calm down. How weirdly vocal Siamese cats are!

  On the way home I popped in at Annie’s little terraced cottage again to see if anything else needed doing, and found her making a chart of her Posh Pet-sitting for the next fortnight, with different coloured stars for the regular customers and fluorescent spots for the one-offs — very organised. Even the keys for houses where she lets herself in were starred and spotted to match.

  ‘I see Ritch Rainford’s bagged all the gold stars,’ I commented, having made us each a cup of coffee.

  ‘Well, he is our major celebrity so far,’ she said defensively. ‘And he seems to be turning into a regular customer, though he doesn’t give me much notice. He’s terribly casual — handed out the keys and the code for the burglar alarm to me and his new cleaning lady before he really knew us at all.’

  ‘Who has he got cleaning for him?’

  ‘Dora Tombs. She’s a Naylor — niece or great-niece of Ted, the gardener up at the Hall.’

  ‘We Naylors get everywhere, like Mile-a-Minute.’

  ‘I think you’re more of a rambling rose than a Russian Vine,’ she said kindly.

  A brazen strand of hair fell into her eyes, and she pushed it back and clamped it down with a white Scottie dog hairslide. She has no taste: even the smock she was wearing over her cord trousers and T-shirt had dogs stencilled around the bottom and made her look like a pregnant bun loaf.

  ‘What on earth are you wearing?’ I demanded. ‘Isn’t that one of Ophelia Locke’s little creations?’

  ‘Yes. The big pockets are really useful and it wasn’t expensive. She sells most of them at those historical re-enactment fairs, but she printed one with dogs as a special order for me.’

  ‘It does nothing for your figure,’ I told her frankly.

  ‘I haven’t got a figure.’

  ‘Yes, you have, an hourglass one with a very small waist. But that thing doesn’t go in in the middle at all. You look entirely globular. Take it from me, it’s a mistake.’

  ‘It’s very practical, which is why I wanted it,’ she said defensively. ‘Anyway, no one is interested in my figure.’ Then she blushed underneath all the little freckles.

  ‘Come clean, obviously someone’s interested! Tell Auntie Lizzy,’ I said encouragingly. Had Gareth actually made his move already?

  ‘They’re — he — he’s not really, it’s just that he can’t seem to take his eyes off my bust when I’m wearing a T-shirt,’ she confessed. ‘So I feel happier covered up.’

  ‘What, the vic
ar?’ I exclaimed.

  She looked at me as if I’d run mad. ‘The vicar? Of course not, Lizzy! No, I meant Ritch Rainford. I thought he was lovely at first, so charming and amazingly handsome. Only there’s something in his eyes when he’s talking to me and everything he says seems to have some kind of innuendo in it … and … well, I’m simply not used to that kind of thing. It makes me feel very gauche and uncomfortable, though I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by his manner, it’s just his way.’

  ‘Oh? So he’s turned out to be mad, bad and dangerous to know?’

  ‘It’s just me being silly and not knowing what to say back, I expect. For instance, when I was bending over patting Flo the other day he walked into the kitchen and stared at my chest, then said, “You don’t get many of those to the pound!” I simply didn’t know where to put myself.’

  I choked. ‘Oh dear! That was very rude and un-PC of him.’

  ‘Yes, but you would have known what to say to him, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Probably. Or socked him one.’

  ‘I find I just — just don’t want to go there any more in case he’s in, although Flo is a very nice dog.’

  ‘Then don’t go! I’ll do his pet-sitting instead. He knows you’ve got an assistant, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But, Lizzy, he might be even worse with you, because you’re so pretty!’

  ‘I’m not pretty at all, you daft lump,’ I said, surprised. ‘My hair is a really boring light brown colour and I’m way too tall! So don’t worry, I can deal with him, no problem. Some of Tom’s friends were rather oddball too, don’t forget. So hand over his keys and pass on any requests for pet-sitting — I’ll sort him.’

  ‘Well, actually, Lizzy, he wants me to go in to walk and feed Flo tonight, because he’s out at some party until late. But then Gareth — the vicar — suddenly asked me to dinner and I said yes without thinking, so now I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘He has? There, I knew he fancied you. I could tell at the Mystery Play Committee meeting, and he made a beeline for you at the funeral feast!’

  ‘No, of course he doesn’t fancy me,’ she protested, blushing again. ‘I can’t imagine how you got that idea!’

  ‘So, why has he invited you to dinner, then?’

  ‘We just sort of got chatting earlier. He was admiring Trinny and said he would love another dog — his last one died of old age just before he moved here. Isn’t that sad? Only he’s out such a lot he doesn’t feel it would be fair just at the moment. So I told him about the kennels and the rescue dogs and how they always needed people to walk them, and he said he would come with me whenever he has time. So then he asked me if I would have dinner with him and help him understand what he’s supposed to be doing with the Mystery Play and village things like that. There’s a lot for him to take in, coming into somewhere like Middlemoss.’

  ‘There certainly is,’ I agreed, ‘especially pitchforked straight into a stranger’s funeral, poor man. But he’s quite right; who better than the former vicar’s daughter to help him make sense of it? But don’t wear the smock.’

  ‘Of course not!’ she protested, then added thoughtfully, ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?’

  While I was glad to see she’d stopped mooning over Ritch Rainford and transferred her interest to Gareth, I couldn’t help but feel that calling him good-looking was pushing it a bit, unless you particularly fancied knobbly, flame-haired, blue-eyed, lanky men who didn’t seem to be fully in control of their limbs.

  If something comes of this, their children will all be ginger-nuts (though perhaps they will raise a family of rescue dogs instead).

  ‘He’s delightful,’ I agreed, hastily banishing my mental picture of their possible progeny. ‘And don’t worry about Mr Rainford: I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf.’

  When I got home the latest Mosses Messenger with my advert in it had been pushed through the door, and there were two messages on the answering machine. I seemed very popular, suddenly.

  The first was from Nick, saying he was finally returning from London, though why he thought I would be interested in his movements I don’t know. Or what he thought I would do with the postcard of Camden Lock, with ‘Sorry!’ and a recipe for jellied eels scrawled on the back, which arrived the other day. I couldn’t possibly eat eels — they’re too snaky. And what was he sorry about? Leila and the permanently absent Tom are the ones who should be sorry!

  ‘Hi, Lizzy, I’m on my way back,’ Nick’s deep voice said. ‘Things took longer than I expected because I couldn’t persuade Leila I really didn’t want any of her precious assets, even after her solicitor drew up an agreement for me to sign, until I stuck his ebony paperknife in my thumb and signed in blood. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but it seemed to do the trick.’

  There was a pause, then his voice resumed with just a hint of rueful laughter in it, ‘OK, very melodramatic. And the solicitor didn’t seem to want the knife back — said I could keep it as a souvenir. Anyway, the divorce is on its way, a clean split, and no claims on each other’s property or earnings. We never shared anything anyway, so that makes it easier. Oh, and it’s all given me an idea for a recipe. Got any raspberries, or am I too late?’ The message clicked off.

  Raspberries?

  The second message, from my agent, Senga McDonald, was short and to the point. After drumming her fingers and humming a brief snatch of ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ she said, ‘Lizzy? Can you send me the new Chronicle, pronto? Only Crange and Snicket want it right now, and your sales figures aren’t so good that you can afford to miss your deadlines. You did say you’d finished it and it just needed a polish, so slap it into the post right this minute!’

  Well, don’t stop the carnival on my account, even if I have only been widowed for five minutes! I thought.

  Still, it was as finished as it would ever be. I only needed to read through it and make final corrections before it went off. But I was starting to wonder if I would ever finish another Chronicle, because I was not exactly hitting my target of four pages a day any more and said as much to Senga when she rang me back later to make sure I’d got her message, and was obeying orders.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry your wee head about that one just now. I’ve had a brainwave and sold Crange and Snicket on the idea of a collected book of your recipes and hints, with the odd anecdote thrown in. They think it’s a great idea — they’re going to call it Just Desserts. Shouldn’t take you too long to do, should it? Toss in some new recipes to liven it up.’

  I stared at the receiver as if it had bitten me, while her voice rolled inexorably on.

  ‘What? When? I mean, when do they want it?’ I broke in urgently, when she stopped for breath.

  ‘Oh, not until early next year — January, say. Loads of time. Now, have you put that manuscript in the post?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I promised. ‘I’m just making final corrections and I might have to reprint a few pages later.’

  ‘See you do — I’ll be expecting it. Send a copy directly to Crange and Snicket, too.’

  ‘I’ve got my own computer now and I’m getting going with it, so I’ll be able to email the next book to you, instead of posting it,’ I told her, because she’d made it pretty plain that she and the publishers would prefer my books that way, rather than printed out and posted. I’d simply have to move with the times if I want to stay published.

  ‘Well, welcome to the twenty-first century at last!’ she said sarcastically and rang off.

  It was just as well I would be able to print my own pages off, too, because I’d just remembered that Jasper wasn’t going to be home until late. He was going straight to Liverpool with a friend after he finished work at the dig.

  Not, of course, that he’d ever objected to my using his laptop and printer; it had just seemed like a personal intrusion to use them when he wasn’t there.

  I wandered rather aimlessly round the kitchen for a few minutes, then dolloped clotted cream and raspberry jam onto some meringu
e halves I made yesterday with leftover egg whites.

  They were so yummy I ate six, and I think I’ll put them in the latest Chronicle and Just Desserts as an alternative to scone cream teas.

  I did try to read through the manuscript, but I just couldn’t concentrate and found myself staring blankly at the same page. Eventually I gave up temporarily and went to do a bit of gardening instead. I picked loads of strawberries and even a few raspberries — everything was still burgeoning forth like nobody’s business. I wished someone would tell my garden it was time to start winding down into autumn and taking it easy.

  As I worked I thought about Ophelia Locke, also burgeoning forth with a baby that might just possibly be Tom’s. But whoever the father proved to be, the poor little thing was trying to grow on a vegan diet and I wasn’t sure Ophelia was capable of seeing it got enough of the right nutrients.

  With a resigned sigh I fetched a big wicker basket from the outbuilding, and began to pack it with fresh fruit and salad vegetables, a bunch of baby carrots, eggs and ripe tomatoes. Then I set off up through the woods to Ophelia’s estate cottage.

  Like me, she lives right next to the boundary wall of the estate, so it would have been quicker to walk up the road, but not as pretty as the woodland paths, or as cool. The sky was a brazen blue and it was Indian summer hot.

  Ophelia had attached a nameplate to her front door that said ‘Whitesmocks’, but whether she meant that as a name or a description of her way of making a living, was unclear. There was unlikely to be any passing trade interested in purchasing antique-style clothing down here anyway, since her only next-door neighbour was the old and very deaf gardener who was Mimi’s sparring partner and occasional accomplice in plant larceny, and I couldn’t see Ted taking to smocks. Caz’s cottage was quite nearby, only set further back in the woods in isolation, on the other side of a small stream bridged by mossy, ancient slabs of stone.