Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

‘They will be doing it for love — and it makes you think, doesn’t it? Christmas is always hard work for women.’

‘That’s not what I meant. . though I suppose you have a point,’ he agreed grudgingly.

I was about to tell him that I had no intention of charging him for anything other than the house-sitting, and would have a word with Ellen about it, but something seemed to hold me back. He probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

‘Did you want anything else, or did you just ring me to complain about the Homebodies charges?’

‘I phoned for the sheer pleasure of hearing your voice,’ he said sarcastically and then I was listening to the empty air: he’d gone.

I fell into bed, exhausted and irritated in equal measures and wasn’t much soothed by the next few pages of Gran’s journal, since I could see ominous signs of where things were heading:

Sister caught me laughing with N this morning and hauled me over the coals for it. I was very upset by this, and was lucky not to be moved from that ward. N was sweet and said he would make it up to me once he is well again, though he didn’t say how. .

Still, at least I might get the chance to find out more about Ned Martland from Noël over Christmas, so every cloud has a silver lining, even if it is slightly tarnished.

Yesterday’s snow had half-melted by evening, but it froze overnight and then a fresh covering over the top made things pretty treacherous outside. I was worried about Lady on the cobbles and rang Becca to ask if I should still let her out.

‘Of course,’ she said, and she was quite right, because Lady walked across to the paddock with small, cautious steps as if she’d been doing it all her life — which actually, I expect she had.

Becca had also said she was looking forward to Christmas Day. I seemed to be the only one who wasn’t. I’d caught her on the way to church, because apparently the vicar comes over from Great Mumming once a fortnight to hold a service here and today was the day: in fact, I could hear the distant peal of the bell as she rang off.

The brandy-soaked fruit for the Christmas cake smelt intoxicatingly delicious when I fetched the bowl into the kitchen and then began assembling and weighing the rest of the ingredients, which is the most time-consuming bit, along with greasing and lining a cake tin. Luckily there was a good selection of those in all shapes and sizes and I had found a suitably large one in the cupboard yesterday.

Once the cake was safely baking, as well as some mince pies to offer what I now foresaw would be a permanent flow of famished visitors, I had a sit-down with a cup of coffee to brace myself for another bout of the hated cleaning, this time of the bedrooms.

I was getting heartily sick of it — not to mention of Jude Martland, the cause of all this extra work! So when Jess turned up again, this time I was much more remorseless in making her help me.

She told me which rooms her grandparents and Becca usually had and said she herself always slept in the old nursery. The rooms didn’t seem to have been used since the previous Christmas, so that apart from a coating of dust and needing the beds made up with lavender-scented linen from the big cupboard at the end of the passage by the stairs, they didn’t actually take a huge amount of time to do — much less than I expected.

Jess showed me the cupboard full of old toys in the nursery, though some of them were more recent, mainly miniature instruments of mass destruction that had probably belonged to Guy and Jude. The room was at the back of the house and, like mine and Jude’s, afforded an excellent view of the horse figure on the side of the folly-topped Snowehill, which was certainly living up to its name today. The red horse was now white and practically indistinguishable, much like Lady in the paddock below, though Billy was a small dark blob.

By the time we’d finished upstairs, the scent of fruit cake from the slow oven had wafted gently through the house to tantalise our nostrils and I took the cake out and tested it with a skewer while Jess wolfed down the first batch of mince pies I’d made earlier.

She watched me curiously. ‘Why are you poking holes in it?’

‘One hole, just to see if it’s done. If it isn’t, the cake mix will stick to the skewer.’

‘Oh, right. These mince pies are much nicer than shop ones,’ Jess added, with an air of discovery.

‘I’ve made them the way I like them best, with lots of filling and thin pastry, but the shop ones tend to go the other way. There’s a box of them in the larder that the Chirks left, but I don’t like the look of them.’

‘I could take them back with me,’ offered Jess. ‘Grandpa would probably be glad of them, because they have to be better than anything Granny whips up, even though he always says he enjoys everything she cooks.’

‘How is she today?’

‘Quite lively — she said she was going to make a batch of rock cakes, though I don’t suppose they’ll be any nicer than the cheese straws.’

‘I’ll give you some soup to take back for lunch, I’ve made a lot more.’

I’d found one of those giant Thermos flasks earlier with a wide mouth for soups and stews, so I scalded it out and ladled the soup into that.

‘There, thick enough to stand a spoon in, as my Gran would have said.’

‘It smells lovely. I’d better take it back now, because they’ve probably decided to have rock cakes for lunch and that’s not enough to keep them going. Meals at the lodge are getting weirder and weirder by the minute.’

When she’d gone I had a bowl of the soup myself, with a warm, buttered roll (luckily there was a good supply of bread in the freezer too, and also several of those long-life part-baked baguettes in the larder), then I covered the end of the kitchen table with newspaper and sat there with a pot of tea to hand, polishing up the tarnished silver from the dining room.

When I was coming back from replacing them on the sideboard, I glanced out of the sitting-room window and spotted a tractor coming up the drive with a snowplough contraption on the front. It swept gratingly around the turning circle in front of the house, narrowly missing my car, then vanished up the side, but not before I’d caught sight of Henry in the passenger seat next to the fair-haired driver.

I presumed he was being dropped off at the back gate and, sure enough, by the time I got to the kitchen he was stumping across the courtyard to the door and I could hear the roar of the tractor departing again.

‘Hi, Henry,’ I said, ‘was that George Froggat, the farmer from up the lane?’

‘That’s right, Hill Farm. Gave me a lift, he did.’

‘That was kind.’

‘Nay, he was coming up anyway, seeing the council pays him and his son to plough the lane to the village, and Jude pays him to do this drive and Becca’s. He makes a good thing out of it.’

‘Oh yes, I think Tilda and Noël mentioned something about that.’

‘Saw you at the window, did George. Said you looked a likely lass. I said you were none too bad,’ he conceded grudgingly.

‘Well. . thank you,’ I said, digesting this unlikely pair of compliments.

‘I told him you were a widow, too. He’s a widower himself.’

I glanced at him sharply, wondering if he was about to try a spot of rural matchmaking and saw that he looked frozen, despite wearing numerous woolly layers under a tweed jacket obviously built for someone of twice his girth.

‘Look, come in and get warm,’ I ordered and, despite his protests, I thawed him out in the kitchen with tea and warm mince pies. The first batch had almost gone already, so it was just as well I had loads more baking, which I intended to put in the freezer.

‘The weather’s turning worse and I might not get back up over Christmas, so I’ve come to show you where the potatoes are stored, and the beetroot clamp and suchlike, in case you need to fetch any more in,’ he said, when he’d drunk his tea and regained a less deathly complexion.

I was touched by this kind thought and we went out to the walled garden, once I’d donned my down-filled parka and gloves.

I returned half an hour later with a basket of potatoes and carrots and a string of onions, leaving Henry to retire to his little den in the greenhouse, though I told him to tell me later when he was leaving. His daughter couldn’t fetch him today, so he’d intended walking home, but I would insist on driving him back, however icy the road down was.

The drive was slippery, but someone (presumably George) had sprinkled grit over the steepest bit of the lane below the lodge, so we got down that all right.

Going by the leaden sky I thought we might be in for another snow fall, and it was a pity the shop was closed because I would have bought yet more emergency supplies while I had the car with me, especially now I was having lots more visitors!

I pulled up outside the almshouses and Henry clambered out, clutching his usual bulging sack of booty.

‘Her at the end’s wanting you,’ he said with a jerk of his thumb and I saw Old Nan was waving at me from her window with surprising enthusiasm. But this was soon explained when Jess shot out of her cottage, still fastening her coat, and climbed into the passenger seat next to me.