Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

‘I expect you picked up more information than you think you did. Mo said she was very easy to look after and all the instructions were written down.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I expect the elderly couple in the lodge can advise you if there’s any difficulty. And there’s a cleaner and a small village nearby with a shop, so it isn’t totally isolated. What do you say?’

‘Well. . I suppose I could. But I’m a bit worried about the horse. I—’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ she broke in quickly. ‘I’m sure the horse won’t be a problem, it’s probably in a field and you only have to look at it once a day, or something. And the good news is, Mo and Jim felt so awful at landing the job on someone else at such short notice that they left all their supplies for Christmas behind for whoever took it on. Though actually, I suppose they could hardly take a turkey and all the trimmings out to Dubai with them!’

‘No, but it was a kind thought. Where exactly is this place, did you say?’

‘I didn’t, but I’ll email you directions and all the details now. It’s a bit off the beaten track, but you usually like that.’

‘Yes, especially over Christmas. That aspect of it is perfect.’

‘I don’t know what you’ll do up there, because apparently the TV reception is lousy and there’s no broadband.’

‘I’ll be fine — I’ll take my radio and lots of books.’

Clicking off the connection, I turned to find Laura looking at me reproachfully. ‘Oh, Holly, it would have been such fun to have you here for Christmas!’

‘Believe me, it wouldn’t: it would have been like having the Grinch. And I’ll enjoy myself in my own way. There are only two animals to look after, so I’ll have lots of time to experiment with recipes and write that last section of the book. If I’m going to go ahead with the baby idea, I need to get it finished and find a publisher!’

Laura sighed and cast her eyes up in mock resignation, but she knew me too well to try and persuade me out of it.

‘Now, what can you remember about horse management?’ I asked hopefully.

I printed out Ellen’s instructions as soon as I got home and she was right — it was in a remote, upland spot, near a small village I’d never even heard of.

Getting ready that night was all a bit of a scramble, though I couldn’t resist continuing my nightly reading of a page or two of Gran’s journal, which was getting more interesting again now she wasn’t talking about the past, but engrossed by the present. By November of 1944, she was evidently well enough to go back to work:

I read on a little further as she made new friends and settled in, but really I was way too tired to keep my eyes open and there would be lots of time to read the journals over Christmas — in fact, I would take the whole trunk of papers with me to sort out.

Early next morning I loaded the tin trunk into my car along with everything else I usually take with me on assignments — boxes of herbs, spices and other basic ingredients, general food supplies, a cool box of perishable stuff, vital utensils, cookery books, laptop, house-party recipe book notes and my portable radio. . It was pretty full even before I added a suitcase, holdall and my wellies.

Laura, resigned now to my decision, had driven over to give me my Christmas present (she’s the only person who ever gives me one). In return I gave her a bag of little gifts for the family, some of them home-made and edible.

She also gave me strict instructions to call her daily, too. ‘Tell me all about it. Old Place sounds terribly posh, somehow, and I’ve never even heard of the village — what did you call it again?’

‘Little Mumming. It’s near Great Mumming, apparently. I’d never heard of it either, but I’ve found it on the map.’

‘It’s all been such a rush — are you sure you’ve got everything you need?’

‘Yes, I think so — most of it was still packed up ready to go. And I’ve put in my wellies, jeans, dog-walking anorak. .’

‘A smart dress, in case the local squire’s lady leaves calling cards and you have to return the visit?’

‘You need to stop reading Jane Austen,’ I said severely. ‘And I think this Mr Martland might be the Little Mumming equivalent of the local squire, in which case, if there is a lady, he will have taken her away with him, won’t he?’

‘Unless she’s upstairs in Bluebeard’s chamber?’

‘Thank you for sharing that unnerving thought.’

‘You’re welcome. But the house can’t be that big, can it? Otherwise there would be some live-in help.’

‘Not necessarily, these days,’ I said, drawing on my long experience of house-party cooking, where sometimes the only live-in staff had been myself and the family nanny. ‘Ellen mentioned a daily cleaner. It’s big enough to have a lodge though, because the owner’s elderly uncle and his wife live there and I’m to call in for the keys on my way up to the house.’

‘I can see you’re dying to go, but I still don’t like to think of you marooned in a remote house all on your own over Christmas,’ Laura said. ‘Have you got your phone and charger, and enough food and drink in case you’re miles from the nearest shop? I mean, the weather report said we were in for a cold snap next week and the odds on a white Christmas are shortening.’

‘Oh, come on, Laura, when do they ever get the long-term forecasts right? And come to that, how often does it snow here, especially at Christmas?’

‘But it’s probably different in East Lancashire, up on the moors.’

‘It might be a bit bleaker, but I’ll believe in this snow when I see it. And Ellen said Jim and Mo have left me all their food, since they won’t need it — they were only stopping at home long enough to fling some clothes in a suitcase and get their passports before they flew out to Dubai. I’m hardly likely to eat my way through a whole turkey and all the trimmings over Christmas, even if I do get snowed in.’

I gave her a hug — but cautiously, because of the very prominent bump. ‘I’ll be fine, you know me. Give my love to your parents and have a great time and I’ll see you on Twelfth Night!’

I climbed into the heavily-laden car and drove off, Laura’s small figure waving at me in the rear-view mirror until I turned the corner, realising just how fond of my best friend I was.

Now Gran had gone, was there anyone else in the whole world who really cared about me? Or who I really cared about? I couldn’t think of anyone. . and it suddenly seemed so terribly sad. I’d had other friends, but mostly they’d been Alan’s too, and I’d pushed them out of my life after the accident.

But soon, if my plans for a baby came to fruition, I would have someone else to love, who would love me in return. .

My spirits lifted as I drove further away from home, just as they always did, for the joy of each assignment was that no-one knew me or my past, or was interested enough to find out: I was just brisk, capable Holly Brown from Homebodies, there to do a job: the Mary Poppins of Merchester.

Little Mumming lay in a small valley below one of the beacon hills that run down East Lancashire, where a long chain of fires was once lit as a sort of ancient early warning system.

On the map it hadn’t looked far from the motorway, but the poor excuse for a B road endlessly wound up and down, offering me the occasional distant, tantalising glimpse of Snowehill, topped with a squat tower, but never seeming to get any closer.

Finally I arrived at a T-junction that pointed me to Little Mumming and Great Mumming up a precipitous, single-track lane — though rather confusingly, it also pointed to Great Mumming straight ahead, too. All roads must lead to Great Mumming.

I took the sharp left uphill turn, sincerely hoping that I wouldn’t meet anything coming in the opposite direction, because although there were occasional passing places, there were also high dry-stone walls on either side, so I wouldn’t be able to see them coming round the series of hairpin bends.

I passed a boulder painted with the words ‘Weasel Pot Farm’ next to a rutted track and shifted down a gear. Was there ever going to be any sign of a village?

Then I crossed an old stone humpbacked bridge, turned a last bend past a pair of wrought-iron gates and came to a stop — for ahead of me the road levelled and opened out, revealing Little Mumming in all its wintry glory.

It was a huddled hamlet of grey stone cottages, a pub, and a small church set around an open green on which sheep were wrenching at the grass as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did. Winters were presumably a lot bleaker up here.