Twelve Days of Christmas: A bestselling Christmas read to devour in one sitting!. Trisha Ashley
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was an accident … eight years ago on Monday.’
This was an anniversary I usually marked quietly and alone, though the way things were going, that would not be an option here unless I stopped answering the door and took the phone off the hook.
‘What sort of accident?’
‘He fell through the ice on a frozen lake.’
‘I keep thinking my parents are going to fall through the ice in Antarctica and a killer whale or something will eat them,’ she confessed.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so, I’m sure they know what they’re doing.’
‘Yes, but Mum tends to keep walking backwards with the camera.’
That did sound a bit dodgy.
‘A lion nearly got her once – I saw it. If they’re not home during the holidays I usually fly out to wherever they’re working, only I couldn’t really do that this time.’
‘No, I don’t think it would be very easy to get to Antarctica,’ I agreed. ‘By the time you got there it would probably be time to turn around and come back, too. You go to boarding school, don’t you?’
‘Yes and I quite like it really – I’ve got lots of friends.’
‘I used to get bullied because I never fitted in and I was always taller than my classmates, even the boys. There was a group of girls who made my life a misery – I was really self-conscious about my height.’
‘I get that a bit sometimes, but we all have a sixth-form mentor we can talk to and they sort it out for us.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. I wish we’d had something like that.’
We’d arrived at the village by now and Jess decided to offload the cheese straws first, starting with Old Nan, who when she answered the door was the size of a gnome and wrapped in a crocheted Afghan shawl. On her feet were fuzzy tartan slippers with pompoms and a turn-over collar that fitted snugly round her ankles.
Jess introduced us and said, ‘We’re not stopping, Nan, because we’re going to the shop and then the pub for lunch, but Granny sent you some more cheese straws.’
Old Nan took the parcel without much enthusiasm. ‘A body could do with something a bit tastier from time to time,’ she grumbled.
‘Well, you should try living at the lodge – it’s all lumpy mashed potato, tinned rice pudding and not much else at the moment,’ Jess said. ‘At least you all get to go over to Great Mumming tomorrow in a minibus for the WI Senior Citizens Christmas dinner so that will be a change, won’t it?’
‘If the weather holds, because there’s snow on the way. Not that it’s like dinner up at Old Place anyway. They use those gravy granules and tinned peas, you know.’
‘So does Granny. But I hope you’re right about the snow, because I’ve never seen really deep snow.’
‘Be careful what you wish for. And be off with you, if you won’t come in, I’m letting all the warm air out standing here like this.’ And she shuffled backwards and closed the door firmly.
‘She gets a bit grumpy when her rheumatism is playing up,’ Jess explained, stepping over a low dividing wall and knocking on the next door.
The retired vicar, Richard Sampson, was a small, wiry, white-haired man with vague cloud-soft grey eyes and an absent expression. He came to the door with his finger in his book to mark the page, and seemed to struggle to place Jess for a minute, let alone take in her introduction to me. Then a smile of great charm transformed him and he shook hands. Unlike Old Nan, he seemed genuinely pleased about the cheese straws.
‘He forgets to eat and I’m sure he hardly ever cooks,’ Jess explained, leading the way to the third and final door. ‘He does have something hot in the pub occasionally, though, if Henry calls for him on the way there.’
‘Speak of the devil,’ I muttered, because the old gardener had presumably heard the knocking next door and come out from curiosity already.
‘Afternoon,’ he said to me and then added to Jess, ‘if those are more of Tilda’s blasted burnt offerings, then you can keep them!’
‘These aren’t burnt,’ Jess said. ‘And if you don’t want them, just give them to Richard, he seems keen on them. Oh, and remind him about the Senior Citizens lunch tomorrow and don’t let the minibus go without him.’ She thrust the package at him. ‘Right, now we’ve got other things to do. Bye, Henry.’
‘Women!’ Henry muttered, closing the door.
We passed the little church in its neat graveyard. Next to it was a dark-green painted corrugated iron building, little more than a shed, that according to a sign was the parish hall, but the rest of the village was across a small stone bridge over the stream, where we were nearly flattened by a big, glossy four-wheel-drive vehicle taking it too fast.
It stopped and reversed, nearly getting us again, and the side window slid down to reveal a pair of annoyed, puzzled faces.
‘Where’s the Great Mumming road?’ demanded the driver, who was shaven-headed and seemed to have been designed without a neck, since his chin just ran away into his chest. ‘The SatNav says we can turn down to the motorway from there.’
‘This little lane can’t be it, can it?’ said the woman next to him, resting a handful of blue talons along the window. ‘We must have missed the turn.’
‘No, this is the road to Great Mumming – but only if you’re a sheep,’ Jess said. ‘That’s why people keep following their SatNavs.’
‘Are you being cheeky?’ the man said belligerently.
‘No, she’s simply being truthful,’ I said quickly. ‘Apparently it isn’t much more than a track so the SatNav has an error. You’d be better off turning round and going back down the way you came.’
‘Left at the bottom of the hill and you’ll get to Great Mumming,’ Jess put in.
‘Oh, bollocks, what a total waste of time!’ he said.
Without a word of thanks the window slid up, the car shot forward, turned noisily in front of the church, and then streaked past us going the other way again. But we were ready for it and had run across the bridge and onto the pavement.
‘Charming,’ I said.
‘People following the SatNavs are just like sheep,’ Jess said. ‘At least most of the lorry drivers take one look at the lane down by the junction and realise there’s a mistake, though once one did turn into it and got stuck on the first bend. They had an awful job getting it out, Grandpa says, and had to rebuild a bit of the dry-stone wall.’
The small shop next to the shuttered Merry Kettle café had overflowed onto the pavement with a stand of fruit and vegetables, bags of potatoes and carrots and netting bags of firewood.
‘I love this shop! Mrs Comfort’s got everything.’
‘It certainly looks like it,’ I agreed. ‘What shall I do with Merlin?’
‘There’s a hook in the wall to tie him to and a bowl of water,’ she pointed out. ‘There, under the table.’
There was, too, and Merlin, tethered, sat down on a piece of flattened cardboard with a look of patient resignation. I think he’d been there before.
Inside, the shop proved to be a Tardis, since it went back quite a way into what had probably originally been the second room of the cottage. In America I think they call this sort of shop a Variety Store and there was certainly an infinite variety of stuff crammed into this one.
Mrs Comfort was plump, with a round face and high cheekbones that turned her eyes to slits when she smiled – rather attractive, in a Persian cat sort of way. Her straight mouse-brown hair was pulled back