The Magic of Christmas

by Trisha Ashley

  There was a smell of singed wool, and also, possibly, singed me.

  I turned over slowly, dazed and winded, then sat up in time to watch him jumping up and down on my coat. I knew it was ghastly, but it didn’t quite merit that treatment.

  ‘Lizzy, are you all right?’ Marian cried, running over and trying to haul me to my feet, only my knees seemed to have given up and I was a dead weight.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I gasped, reinflating my lungs and trying to wipe the mud and grass from my face.

  Clive appeared out of the darkness and declared vengefully, ‘I don’t know who threw that firework, but if I find him, he’ll wish he hadn’t!’

  ‘No one would be stupid enough to throw it in this direction on purpose. It must have been an accident, Clive,’ Marian said. ‘Those boys just wouldn’t be told!’

  I looked around suddenly. ‘Ophelia? Is she all right? Only we were talking together just before the firework went off.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about her, she was well out of range and that Caz’s with her,’ Marian said soothingly. ‘You were closest: did it burn you anywhere?’

  Nick picked up my mangled coat and examined the limp and ruined remains with satisfaction. ‘There, that’s out. Only just caught it, though.’ Then he bent down and hauled me effortlessly to my feet, though he had to keep one arm around me to stop me falling over again.

  When he realised I was trembling violently from a mixture of shock and cold, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and wrapped it around me, the silk lining warm and slithery.

  ‘I think Lizzy may have singed the back of her legs a bit, Nick,’ Marian pointed out worriedly. ‘Her jeans are charred in a couple of places.’

  ‘Yes, and I can’t seem to stand up,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Shock,’ Marian said. ‘Stand back, everyone, and let her get some air!’

  Until that moment I hadn’t even realised that the ring of spectators was pressing close, watching avidly, including Polly Darke, a half-smile on her lips like a slightly warped Mona Lisa. Then her eyes shifted sideways to Nick and she slowly took first one step back, then another, until she vanished into the darkness.

  I blinked. Maybe I’d imagined her …

  ‘Drink’s more likely than shock, the way she was knocking the punch back,’ Nick was saying unsympathetically. ‘I don’t think there’s much harm done, but I’ll take her home.’

  ‘Perhaps you should bring her to the post office first and Marian can see if she’s burned?’ suggested Clive. ‘It might be bad enough for Accident and Emergency.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Nick said, ‘but if it looks worse than I think it is when I’ve got her home, I’ll phone the doctor.’

  ‘You do that,’ Marian agreed.

  ‘Your voices sound strange,’ I commented, and so did my voice, too — frail and far away. And then everything seemed to be shifting dizzyingly …

  ‘I expect the blast deafened you a bit,’ Clive suggested.

  ‘No, I think I’m going to—’ I began, and then the darkness closed over my head like water.

  I woke in Perseverance Cottage lying on my own sofa in front of the glowing fire, with Nick wiping the mud from my face with a wet flannel. A cold wet flannel: I expect that’s what brought me round.

  His face, concerned and intent, was very close to mine. ‘At last!’ he said with relief when he saw my eyes open muzzily. ‘I was starting to get worried.’

  ‘What … happened?’

  ‘You fainted.’

  ‘I never faint!’

  ‘Then maybe my first guess was right, and you passed out from all that punch you were knocking back, then,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t have that much, and there’s usually very little alcohol in it,’ I said, attempting to sit up and feeling strangely disconnected.

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘All right — a bit shaky.’

  ‘I expect that’ll go off. There are two small burns on your leg. I’ve put some antiseptic and dressings on them, but I don’t think they’re much to worry about.’

  Actually, I was more worried by the sudden realisation that he’d removed my jeans! Under a concealing blanket, all I was wearing on my lower half were my sensible cotton pants.

  My face burned and I sat up straighter and primly tucked the blanket around my legs. ‘I think I ought to thank you for — well, for putting me out. That’s why you threw yourself on top of me, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry about that, but I could see your coat was catching and it was the quickest way of smothering the flames.’ He got up and came back holding the sad remains of my coat. ‘I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess of it.’

  ‘You certainly have — and Annie knitted it for me. Now I expect she’ll make me another even more hideous one, because I told her I loved it.’

  Then I had an evil thought: perhaps I should tell her he jumped on it because he was jealous, and then she might knit him one, too? She whips them up in no time, on giant needles.

  ‘You ought to go to bed. Do you want me to carry you up?’ he offered.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I said firmly, shivering again. ‘But I’d like you to fetch the bottle of damson gin from the kitchen and then lock the door behind you when you go.’

  ‘I don’t think you should drink any more alcohol! You’re in shock and would be better trying to go to sleep, and you don’t have to be nervous, because I’ll stay here tonight on the sofa. Go to bed and I’ll make you some cocoa.’

  ‘I’m not nervous, I don’t need you to stay here with me, and I don’t want cocoa — I want gin. And if you aren’t going to get it for me, then I’ll get it myself,’ I said, attempting to rise from a tangle of blanket on slightly wobbly legs.

  Nick sighed and got up. ‘OK, but don’t blame me if you feel terrible in the morning.’

  My hand trembled so much that the glass rattled against my teeth, so he had to sit down with his arm around me and hold it. But it did the trick and I soon began to stop shaking and calm down — or maybe ‘go comatose’ is a better description. The warmth of the fire and the soft pink light from the table lamp were very soothing …

  ‘I think Polly might have thrown the firework,’ I said drowsily, relaxing against his broad chest, which was invitingly close. Anyway, it was that or fall over sideways.

  He’d put the empty glass down, but hadn’t removed his arm from around my shoulders and now he rested his chin on top of my head. ‘I was looking at you so I didn’t see where it came from. Polly was there, but the chances are she wouldn’t do something that stupid. It was just boys messing about, and you were unlucky.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, but she looked so … so pleased afterwards …’ I yawned hugely.

  ‘Come on — you’re all in, so I’ll carry you up to bed.’ He gathered me up as though I was a loose-limbed doll, but before he could rise to his feet, some compulsion made me slide my arms around his neck.

  He went quite still and our eyes met and held, his like unfathomably deep, dark pools in the lamplight. Then he gave a resigned sort of sigh, tightened his grip and kissed me.

  His lips tasted of inevitability: there was never anything of the minty mouthwash about Nick Pharamond.

  Chapter 24: Flambé

  I don’t know why, but whenever I need a little comfort I find myself mixing up a batch of the quick and easy confection I call Choconut Consolations. They couldn’t be easier to make: simply melt some good-quality chocolate (milk or plain, according to your preference) and stir in unsalted peanuts until it is a thick, lumpy mixture. (Those nuts that have been roasted in their shells give the best flavour, I’ve found — but remove the shells and then rub the red skins off before using, of course!) Spoon into petits fours cases, or onto a tray covered in baking parchment and leave to go hard in a cool place, though not in the fridge.

  The Perseverance Chronicles: A Life in Recipes

  Next morning I awoke slowly, with that languorous, totally sated
and exquisitely guilty feeling you get after a really bad chocolate binge — blissed out.

  But when I opened my eyes to find I was not lying in my bed but on the sofa, I instantly remembered it wasn’t chocolate I’d pigged out on last night. In fact, I recollected every single moment only too clearly, right the way from Nick knocking me flat and battering me into the mud, to our kiss and more than make up … though I suppose that at least had the advantage of not involving icy wet earth.

  For a woman whose memory span was normally similar to that of a goldfish, this was quite something, though the action replay going on in my head could have done with some soft-focused editing around the edges to hide all that urgent hunger — which surely hadn’t been all on my side, even if I’d started it, had it?

  The curtains were still drawn and the lights were off, though the fire was burning brightly enough behind the brass firescreen for me to see that I was alone. But that was no surprise, for I’d instantly sensed on waking that the cottage was empty apart from me — long empty. Slowly I heaved myself to my feet and, clutching my blanket, tottered into the kitchen on my singed legs, wincing at every step.

  Propped against the kettle was a brief note in Nick’s distinctive handwriting:

  Lizzy, it’s six and I’m supposed to be in London at ten for the shortlist photoshoot for Cookery Writer of the Year. I’ll phone you later. Mud brown suits you, by the way — you should always wear it.

  Nick

  And that was it! I read through it twice, as though some hidden message might reveal itself, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it with some force at the wall opposite. It bounced off and fell behind the fridge.

  Then I slumped down on the chair, feeling humiliated and angry. This was worse — much worse — than when I confided in him at the hospital, because this time I gave him more than my secrets and Spudge recipe — and all he could think about was some stupid cookery award!

  But so be it, I resolved: from now on, let him eat cake. I know what I’ll be eating — Humble (or should that be Humiliation?) Pie. Here’s one I prepared earlier:

  Mix just enough alcohol with a bad shock and a dash of unadulterated essence of lust.

  Put in a warm, dark place.

  Remove any inhibitions and stir a little.

  The leftovers can taste bitter if eaten cold next day.

  I’ve changed my mind about Nick being like spicy curry. Now I think he’s more like that rich, dark chocolate that’s been spiked with extra-hot red chillies, and one chunk is definitely enough.

  Annie, receiving news from the milkman at the crack of dawn about those parts of my sizzling evening that were common knowledge, hotfooted it round the second she’d finished the first dog-walking session.

  She found me slumped in the kitchen in my dressing gown over a plate of Choconut Consolations, though I’d roused myself enough earlier to stagger out into the painful daylight and let out the disgruntled hens, before showering off the last traces of mud and Nick’s subtly intrusive aftershave, while singing ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair’ through gritted teeth.

  While she was applying some of her Girl Guide first-aid skills to re-dressing my singed leg, I confessed to her that the most sizzling part of the evening hadn’t been the firework-throwing incident.

  She stopped heartily slapping on the Savlon, which was a relief, and stared up at me, blue-grey eyes round and startled. ‘You don’t mean you and Nick…?’

  ‘Yes, me and Nick!’ I confirmed gloomily. ‘I can’t imagine what got into me, apart from a little too much of Miss Pym’s damson gin. Perhaps the shock of nearly being blown up sent me temporarily insane?’

  ‘There you are,’ she beamed, ignoring this suggestion, ‘I knew you were in love with each other all the time!’

  ‘Love had nothing to do with it,’ I said tartly. ‘I don’t know what it was — shock, gin, propinquity, comfort, hormones, a substitute for chocolate … whatever.’

  ‘Oh, no, Lizzy!’ she protested. ‘I’m sure Nick—’

  ‘Nick was gone long before I woke up, so I don’t know what his excuse was, but he kindly left me a note making it plain some trashy award is far more important than I am. Read this!’

  She finished pressing a huge Elastoplast into place and I handed her Nick’s terse little note, now crumpled and looking slightly the worse for wear.

  ‘Why’s it got cobwebs on it?’

  ‘Because it’s been behind the fridge. Read it and tell me if it sounds even remotely lover-like to you.’

  She did, lips silently moving, then looked up uncertainly. ‘Well, I suppose he had to go to the photoshoot if he’s been shortlisted for Cookery Writer of the Year, Lizzy.’

  ‘Big deal,’ I said sourly. ‘But never mind, at least he makes it clear that food is still much more important to him than I am, just in case I was harbouring any illusions.’

  ‘Yes, but food is pretty important to you, too.’

  ‘Maybe, but I still put relationships first.’

  She sighed. ‘Then perhaps men see things differently and he thought you’d understand.’

  ‘He was wrong, then, wasn’t he?’

  She pored over the note again. ‘It’s very Nick, isn’t it? You couldn’t describe it as romantic.’

  ‘Not by any stretch of the imagination, and it’s short to the point of being terse,’ I agreed.

  Annie was still trying to find excuses for him. ‘I expect he was in a rush, but you’ll be able to see him at the award ceremony on the telly on Monday.’

  ‘No I won’t, because I’ve sold Tom’s and the one in here is on the blink.’

  ‘You can come and watch mine, then.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll stay home for a couple of days. My leg is very sore and I’m covered in bruises from Nick throwing himself on top of me. I had to hobble out in my dressing gown to let the hens out and I’m going stiffer by the minute.’

  She went pink. ‘Lizzy! Too much information!’

  ‘When he was putting the flames out,’ I explained patiently. ‘He rolled me in the mud.’

  ‘Oh, how quick-witted and brave of him! He’s a hero!’

  ‘Don’t start going all dewy-eyed and romantic again: it’s pointless. I only wish I never had to see him again, because it’ll be even worse than when I babbled my entire life history to him at the hospital, while Jasper was ill.’

  ‘You’ll feel differently after he’s talked to you,’ she suggested, ever the optimist. ‘And he will phone you up — look, he says here in the note that he’s going to — and then you’ll see he really cares about you.’

  ‘He’ll find that difficult, since I don’t intend answering the phone. I’ll let the machine take the messages.’

  ‘Come on, you know you won’t be able to resist answering, in case it’s Jasper.’

  She’s quite right, I do tend to snatch it up at the first ring — and it rang right then. We both froze and stared at it.

  At the sixth ring she gave in and lunged for the kitchen extension that hung on the wall by the fridge. ‘Hello? Oh, Nick, it’s you! Yes, Annie … No, I’ve just put a fresh dressing on it. It’s not too bad, but it’ll be sore for a couple of days … I’ll ask her.’ She covered the phone and held it out towards me enquiringly.

  ‘Tell him I’ve got much more important things to do than talk to him,’ I said loudly, and started hobbling round the kitchen, opening the cupboard doors and slamming things about.

  ‘I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone at the moment … Oh, you heard?’ She looked up. ‘He says, what’s more important than talking to him?’

  ‘Food, of course — he should understand that,’ I said pointedly. ‘I’m making some giant rum truffles to send to Jasper. They’re one of his favourites.’

  After a moment she put the phone down. ‘He says he’s sorry he had to dash off, but he’ll come and see you when he gets back, and to be careful. Careful of what?’

  ‘I suppose he means careful in ca
se the thrown firework wasn’t some stupid adolescent prank last night, but Polly stepping up her campaign.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m sure even Polly wouldn’t do anything so dangerous.’

  ‘No … perhaps not. She’s only done petty, spiteful things so far.’

  ‘I still find it hard to believe anyone could be so nasty. Couldn’t it all just be coincidence, after all?’

  ‘The ARG stuff was certainly her idea and, besides, when I told her I knew what she was up to, she didn’t deny it.’

  ‘Then I expect she’s stopped now and the firework was an accident,’ Annie said.

  ‘Speaking of accidents, I’m afraid I was wearing that lovely coat you knitted for me last night, and by the time Nick had finished trampling it into the mud, it was beyond repair.’

  ‘Never mind the coat, at least you’re OK, that’s the main thing. I can always knit you another.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I agreed, then added, lying through my teeth, ‘Nick said it was such a shame it was spoiled because it was wonderful, and he wished he had one just like it.’

  ‘Did he? Then I’ll knit him one, too,’ she said kindly. ‘Well, I’d better be off — take it easy for a day or two, won’t you? I can manage all the pet-sitting until you’re fit again.’

  ‘I’m just a bit stiff really, there’s nothing wrong with me.’ To prove it I got up again to see her out.

  ‘When I arrived, Caz was in the barn doing exercises and Ophelia was sitting on a bale of straw watching him,’ she said, pausing on the doorstep to look across the courtyard. ‘But it looks like they’ve gone now, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a pity he wasn’t here early enough to let the hens out. You know, I’m beginning to think I might as well convert all the outbuilding into accommodation, so everyone can just move in with me,’ I said a little sourly.

  Despite what I’d said earlier, I walked down to the village later, thinking the exercise might help loosen me up a bit. I still felt as though I’d gone three rounds with a gorilla.