Читать книгу The Great Christmas Knit Off - Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 13

Leaning back against the plum-coloured velvet headboard with Basil snuggled up on a blanket beside me, his front left paw on my thigh as he snores softly, I snuggle into the enormous squishy bed in my ditsy floral-themed bedroom.

After Clive and I had made it back down the tiny stairs and into the saloon bar area earlier, the woman in the poncho, who it turns out is called Molly and has a pet ferret which she walks around the village on a lead – it was under the pub table apparently, and I didn’t even notice – anyway, she’s Cooper’s wife, and she kindly rang the only B&B for miles around. It’s located in the valley on the far side of the village and doubles as a hair salon too, apparently. As luck would have it, there was one room left, and dogs are very welcome, so Pete, who I later found out farms cattle – ‘three fields over near Cherry Tree Orchard which supplies apples to all the major supermarkets’ – loaded me, Basil and my suitcase into the cab of his tractor, I kid you not, and then trundled us all the way down the hill in the snow and right up to the front door that doubles up as the B&B and hair salon reception.

So now I’m wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe trying not to think about the contents of my suitcase. All of my clean clothes, pyjamas, underwear – the whole lot’s soaked in red wine. Ruined. Even my almost-finished knitting project, a lovely little Christmas pudding, is now stained a vivid claret colour and stinks like a barrel of rotten grapes. The top on the bottle wasn’t screwed on properly so had come off and seeped wine into everything. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, in my rush to escape London and the wrath of Mr Banerjee, I left my make-up bag and hairbrush behind on the hall table, so I will now have to spend the whole weekend wearing my super warm, fleece-lined Ho Ho Ho jumper and snow-sodden jeans.

I say good night to Basil and switch off the lamp – the electricity in the village flicked back on, just like magic, as Pete and I left the Duck & Puddle. I was climbing into the tractor when the festive fairy-tale scene literally took my breath away. The pretty red, gold and green Christmas lights twinkling all over the tree on the village green before cascading the length of the High Street, with a grand finale – the cross at the top of the tall church steeple illuminated in silver as if bathing the whole village in a ray of tranquillity and spiritual peace.

I lie in the silent night of the countryside, except for the intermittent ter-wit-ter-woo of an owl and try to let everything wash over me: Jennifer Ford, Mr Banerjee, Mum and her ‘make do with whatever’s left over’ implications, Luke the tool, Star Wars, Princess Leia buns, Chewbacca and, worst of all, the betrayal by my very own twin sister. I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive her; men come and go, I know that, but my own sister? How does one deal with that? It’s not as if I can just cut her out of my life! What would that do to Mum and Dad? And it would certainly make things very awkward at family events. But then again, Sasha did this, not me. And I can’t help wondering if she has difficulty sleeping at night too!

I breathe in and out, desperately trying to slow my racing thoughts, in the hope of actually getting to sleep and making it through to the morning without waking up for once. It’s been ages since I managed to get a proper night’s sleep. Soon after the wedding-that-wasn’t, my GP prescribed sleeping tablets, saying they would help with the ‘overwhelming feelings of sadness too’ and they do, a bit, I guess. Which reminds me. I sit bolt upright and switch the lamp back on. Basil stirs before settling again at the end of the bed. I reach over to my handbag and check the inside pocket, but I already know the answer; the packet of tablets are on my nightstand at home. I’ve forgotten them too.

Sighing, I lie back down and focus on breathing in and out, desperately trying to evoke a sense of calm. Basil moves up the bed and snuggles his chin onto my shoulder as if willing me to relax too, but it’s no use. I fidget and plump the pillow over and over, dramatically, like they always do in the films, and resign myself to yet another restless night.

*

Satisfied that I won’t scare the other guests with my appearance – I’ve managed to tease my curls into some kind of normal-ish state, which given that I had to use the flimsy little plastic comb from the complimentary vanity pouch in the bathroom, was never going to be easy – I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab the Tindledale Herald (I must have gathered the newspaper someone had left in the carriage in amongst my stuff when I got off the train last night), pull the bedroom door closed behind me, and head off in search of breakfast. I’ve decided to keep the bathrobe on after flicking through the B&B’s brochure (at about four o’clock this morning when I gave up on trying to actually sleep) and saw a picture of a couple wearing theirs in what appeared to be the dining room. Let’s hope it’s OK, otherwise I’m going to look like a right fool, yet again. An image of me in the Princess Leia dress and buns flashes into my head like a still from a Hammer horror film. I shudder and instantly shove the sorry sight away. Years ago, Cher told me that she read in one of those psychology magazines that a Buddhist monk said it can take a whole year to get over a break-up. Hmm. So by that reckoning I have another five months of these dark thoughts. Oh joy.

‘Welcome to Tindledale.’ A very tall, fifty-something, debonair man with a shaved head, clad in a gorgeous soft grey cashmere cardigan (handknitted) over a checked shirt and chinos, walks over to where I’m standing by the breakfast cereal table. Underneath his stylish black-framed retro glasses, he’s wearing diamanté-tipped lash extensions. ‘I’m Lawrence Rosenberg,’ he says, sounding very polite and stately in an old school gentlemanly way, with the faintest hint of an American accent. He holds out his hand, the nails of which are painted a glorious pearly plum colour.

‘Oh, um, hi, I’m Sybil,’ I say, trying not to stare. It’s not every day you meet a man wearing lashes and nail polish, and it’s certainly not something I expected to find in this sleepy little village from a bygone era. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

‘Do excuse the …’ He circles an index finger around his face. ‘I’m an actor. I run the Tindledale Players.’ I must look bemused as he quickly adds, ‘Amateur dramatics, musical theatre, that kind of thing. It’s my passion, and we had a dress rehearsal last night for the Tindledale Christmas pantomime – I’m the fairy godmother. In addition to being the scriptwriter and chief gofer.’ He smiles, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

‘Well, I think you look fabulous,’ I say, instantly warming to him. He smells of toasted almonds mingled with cigar smoke, and has sparkly blue eyes. ‘How did the rehearsal go?’

‘Thank you.’ He does a gentlemanly bow. ‘Very well, considering we had no electricity in the village hall, so it was very much “he’s behind you” and “oh no he isn’t!” and all the other pantomime catchphrases that we love, albeit by candlelight.’

‘Sounds fun,’ I say, remembering the Brownie pantomimes – Cher and I had loads of laughs one Christmas playing Happy (me) and Dopey (Cher) in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

‘It is. You should come to a show, it’s Puss in Boots and His Merry Band of Santa’s Elves this year and I wrote it myself. Tickets include a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine. First proper performance is a week before Christmas Eve, so not long to go, but we have another dress rehearsal tonight so you’re more than welcome to pop along,’ he says brightly.

‘Oh, I might just do that. If I can bring Basil too,’ I venture, wondering if the same dogs-allowed-in-the-village-pub rule applies to the village hall as well.

‘Sure you can.’ Excellent. ‘And what’s your name, little one?’ Lawrence strokes Basil under the chin.

‘Meet Basil, and thanks for letting him stay too,’ I say.

‘It’s our pleasure to look after you both.’ Ah, how nice.

‘Thank you. And it is OK to wear …?’ I lift the collar of the robe.

‘Of course, anything goes round here, hadn’t you noticed?’ Lawrence says, raising one eyebrow, which makes me smile.

‘And I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I might take him to …’

‘Follow me.’ Lawrence leads the way to a utility room by the back door. ‘You can just pop in here and let him out here whenever he needs to go. Did you bring his food?’

‘Yes!’ At least I remembered Basil’s pouches. I pull one from the pocket of my robe and waggle it in the air as proof.

‘Well done. You’d be surprised at the number of our guests who forget. That’s why I keep an emergency supply in the cupboard; I can’t see the dogs going hungry.’ Lawrence shakes his head and selects two dog bowls from a shelf next to the sink. He fills one with water and places it on the floor before taking the pouch from me and squeezing it into the other. ‘I’ll meet you back in the breakfast room.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I call after him, thinking how nice he is – nothing is too much trouble, it seems.

After Basil has finished eating and had a dash around the garden, we head back to where Lawrence is waiting.

‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down by the window and I’ll fetch you a nice cooked breakfast,’ he says kindly. ‘All the trimmings?’ I nod and grin before making my way over to the oval-shaped two-person table he’s gesturing towards. It has an exquisite festive orange-and-clove pomander arrangement set in a crystal glass bowl, and underneath the table is a faux suede bed for Basil to lie on. Wow, this place is just like a dog hotel.

Fluffing a crisp white napkin over my knees, I gaze out through the big bay window to watch the snow. It’s just started falling again, a light sprinkling like icing sugar, swirling all around as if somebody has just shaken a giant snow globe. I feel a swell of excitement, a magical fairy-tale feeling that only a pristine duvet of crisp, clean, white snow invokes. Untouched, it stretches out before me like a virginal safety blanket across a rolling field and up to an interesting-looking building with a huge circular chimney that has smoke spiralling from it up into the white sky, like candy floss in a breeze. And there’s what looks like an adjoining double-fronted shop. It’s really cute with a little white picket fence around the garden although it seems odd to have a shop in the middle of a field. I can’t imagine they get much business being so far away from the centre of the village.

‘Marvellous view, isn’t it?’ Lawrence is standing next to me, gripping the edge of an enormous dinner plate with a blue-and-white striped tea towel. ‘That’s Hettie’s place you can see. The Honey family have been in Tindledale for centuries and her father used to own the hop farm before he passed away. It was sold on, but Hettie kept the oast and all the land around it. And her House of Haberdashery shop next door, of course.’

‘Oh, it sounds fascinating! I love knitting and needlecraft,’ I say, a surge of excitement rising within me.

‘Then you should call in, I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I don’t think she gets many visitors – which reminds me, I must pop over and see if she needs any groceries. She does a weekly trip on the bus up to the village store, but it’s not quite the same as having Ocado deliver,’ he laughs. ‘Plus, I’ve heard she buys barely enough to feed a sparrow. Please be careful, the plate’s hot,’ he adds, sounding warm and mumsy as he places my breakfast in front of me, and for some bizarre reason that I can’t fathom, tears burst onto my cheeks. ‘Well, this is a first – I know our breakfasts are good, award-winning, in fact, but I’ve not had one evoke this sort of emotion before! Sybs, what’s the matter?’ Lawrence dips down into the chair opposite, concern darting from one eye to the next and back again, both slender hands clasping the tea towel that’s pressed to his chest. He’s clearly not used to his guests crying for no apparent reason, talking of which, a group of ramblers arrive, clad in check shirts and corduroys tucked into chunky knee-length socks (handknitted, by the looks of them). They take one look in my direction and beetle off to a large table on the opposite side of the room before whipping up menus to hide behind. Oh God! And how does Lawrence even know that I like to be called Sybs? He checked me in very quickly last night, seeing as it was so late, saying I probably wanted to get off to bed right away, and as Cooper’s wife, or ‘the funny woman with the ferret’ is what Pete called her, had already vouched for me in any case … well, it was all very laid-back. He didn’t even ask for a credit card to do the usual pre-authorisation checks in case I stayed the night, nicked all the bathroom products and coffee sachets and then ran off without paying. It’s like another world here in Tindledale.

‘Um, I don’t know. I, um, er … just feeling a bit overwhelmed and …’ My voice fades as I think of the plans, the dream I had to have my own haberdashery business just like Hettie. I rummage in my pocket in search of a tissue, getting flustered when I can’t find one. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Lawrence hands me the tea towel instead.

‘Thank you.’ Dabbing at my face with the soft cloth that smells of bluebells, I press it to my nose and inhale. It reminds me of day trips to the forest in springtime, the ground carpeted in a layer of delicately scented flowers that stretched for miles, swinging between my grandparents, one on either side, gripping my chubby, little-girl hands as they whispered tales of fairies and angels hiding in amongst the sun-dappled trees. Feeling happy, loved, and long before Luke and Sasha broke my heart. And Sasha hated those walking trips, preferring to stay at home and look at her pony annuals or whatever. The moment vanishes and I take a deep breath, willing myself to get a grip.

‘Maybe you’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.’ Lawrence reaches a hand across the table to gently pat my arm. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. If you don’t mind me saying, you do look very tired.’ He smiles gently, the corners of his eyes tilting upwards. I manage a half-smile.

‘You’re very kind,’ I say, in a wobbly voice, feeling embarrassed. ‘And I really am so sorry to cry on you like this. I don’t know what came over me.’ I hand the tea towel back to Lawrence before picking up a knife and fork as a diversion tactic.

‘Well, eat up and try not to be sad, you must look after yourself.’ He scrutinises my whole face in one quick scan. ‘And just so you know, I’m here if you ever want to chat. I’m a very good listener.’

Lawrence leaves, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as he goes and I think about what he said as I prong a chubby sausage and cut it in two, before dipping one end into the filmy egg yolk. A complete stranger spotting how tired and fed-up I look. Well, it isn’t good, but I have been feeling so down since everything happened with Luke. And then turning into a recluse and not going out very much, apart from to work and back, and then with all the cock-ups, culminating in the cock-up-to-end-all-cock-ups, well, Lawrence has a very good point. I am tired. Exhausted, in fact, from all the worrying. Which reminds me, I must check online and see if there have been any developments in the hunt for Jennifer Ford or, indeed, Mr Banerjee’s investigation into the ‘bungling employee’.

After finishing the scrumptious breakfast, I put the napkin down, push the chair back and I’m just about to stand up when Lawrence appears again with something hidden behind his back.

‘Now, we’re not going to have any more tears, are we?’ he asks hesitantly.

‘Oh, I hope not.’ I paint a half-smile onto my face. ‘And I really am very sorry about earlier.’

‘Ah, it’s fine. Please, there really is no need to apologise, these things happen. We all get emotional sometimes,’ he says, very graciously.

‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask earlier …’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows inquiringly, ‘how do you know that I like to be called Sybs?’

‘Well, I probably shouldn’t have been so nosey, but I noticed it there on your newspaper.’ I stare blankly. ‘The message.’ And he taps the Tindledale Herald on the table next to the pomander. I pick the paper up. ‘See, right there.’

And I do.

Sybs, give me a try x

There’s even a phone number next to the message that’s scrawled in black marker pen. A feeling flits through me. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. A fluttery, flattering feeling. I glance up into Lawrence’s diamanté-tipped eyes and then cast a glance around the room, half expecting someone with a smartphone to pop out from under one of the tables to Snapchat me and scream ‘gotcha’ in my face. Things like this don’t usually happen to me.

‘Oh.’ I hesitate, unsure of what to say and much to my dismay, I see that my hands are trembling slightly. I really need some sleep.

‘Sorry.’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows in concern. ‘See, you’ve got me at it now. Have I embarrassed you? Only you look a little bit taken aback.’

‘No. Not at all. I – just – I – well, I didn’t see the message before now.’ I shake my head.

‘Not from someone you know then?’

‘No, definitely not. No chance of that,’ I say wryly.

‘Well, this is rather exciting. It’s very flirty,’ Lawrence says.

‘It sure is.’ I quickly rack my brains to work out how it came to be there and then it dawns on me – the guy sitting next to the window on the train. He had a newspaper. Yes, it has to be the guy in the duffel coat with the glasses and nice eyes and the curly hair peeping out from under his beanie hat who didn’t seem to mind when Basil tried to snaffle his Costa cake. Because there wasn’t anyone else in our carriage, which means that he must have left the message while I was sleeping. And he was quite cute. My head goes into overdrive trying to fathom it all out. But what does he mean ‘give me a try’? It’s a bit forward, and with a kiss too. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy to be like that, not at all; he was very unassuming with his polite smile. No, flirty swagger is much more Luke’s style – he was very cocky – I used to think it was cheeky, in an appealing, banter-type way, but looking back now it really wasn’t. Hmm, funny how things can seem so different at the time. Lawrence coughs discreetly.

‘I have to say that it’s very intriguing! Are you sure you don’t know who the message is from?’ Lawrence asks.

‘Weeeeell, there was a guy on the train, but—’

‘Then I urge you to call the number, Sybs! It’s like a modern day Brief Encounter. You must find out who your secret admirer is, but before you do, I thought one of these might cheer you up!’ And he brings a four-tiered wire cake tree out from behind his back. And I gasp. I’ve never seen anything quite so spectacular. It’s bulging with cake – slabs of lemon drizzle, chocolate brownies the size of doorstops, delicate pastel pink and white fondant fancies, sugar-dusted squares of stollen and loads of gorgeous festive red and green cupcakes with jaunty reindeers and snowmen piped over their bulging mounds. And the smell is heavenly; a cocoon of warmth and sweetness surrounds me instantly, lifting my mood another notch.

‘Wow, they look amazing,’ I grin, helping myself to a wedge of stollen, my favourite festive treat, and even Basil stirs from under the table to see what’s going on, his little nose twitching as he licks his lips in anticipation of a cake somehow rolling off the table and into his salivating mouth – ha ha, dream on, Basil! ‘Did you make them?’ I ask, scooping a sliver of icing sugar off with my fingernail before popping it into my mouth.

‘Sadly not. Kitty is the baker in Tindledale.’ He pauses before adding, ‘And some of the other villagers bake too – the WI ladies’ Christmas cake sale in the village hall is legendary and always gets a good turnout, but Kitty owns the café called The Spotted Pig and she takes orders for special occasions and does all the village birthday, christening, and wedding celebration cakes.’

‘Ah, yes, I saw her café yesterday when I first got here. The menu looks amazing,’ I say, remembering the panettone bread pudding and rum custard Christmas special.

‘Oh, you really must try her food while you’re here, it is to die for.’ He stops talking abruptly, and glances away. ‘Oh God, I really shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Is everyone OK?’

A flash of sorrow shoots into his eyes.

‘Yes, yes fine,’ Lawrence shakes his head, sounding flustered. ‘It’s just that, well, the whole village was devastated when it happened, and she’s such a lovely, warm, kind person, and everyone knew him – his family has lived here in Tindledale for generations too, still do – that’s why she moved here, to be closer to them as she doesn’t have any family left of her own.’

‘What happened?’

‘Her husband, Ed, he died, you see. Recently too, and he was only twenty-nine. It was insensitive of me …’ his voice trails off.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, immediately realising what a close-knit community it is here. Back home in London I’m not sure I would even know if my next-door neighbour had died, unless it was Poppy, of course, and even then I might only realise that something was amiss because she hadn’t been downstairs to fetch Basil. ‘Was he ill?’

‘Oh no! No, nothing like that – he was a soldier in Afghanistan. A landmine. It was terrible, he was due home on the Sunday, a gloriously sunny day and the village square had even been decorated with banners and balloons for his homecoming – but then Kitty got the visit – she was pregnant too at the time, with little Teddie. Dreadful, dreadful business it was – she was in the café and the vicar heard her screaming all the way from the pulpit at the far end of the church. He was conducting a wedding rehearsal for Gabe and Vicky from Pear Tree Cottages and they all stopped and ran across the village to the café.’ I clasp my hands up under my chin. Lawrence looks down at the floor. Silence follows.

‘I, um, I don’t know what to say.’ And it’s true. Poor Kitty, I don’t even know her, yet I feel bereft on her behalf. To have the person you love snatched away without a second’s warning … I only have an inkling of what that feels like because when I think of Luke I know it’s absolutely no comparison: at least he’s still alive, even if he doesn’t want to be with me, but in that moment at the altar when I realised, it was as if he had died and taken all my dreams and hopes for the future with him. Disappeared in an instant – just like the flame of a candle snuffed out between a thumb and index finger. And then I remember the column candle burning brightly in the snow beside the memorial. A scratchy sensation forms in my throat as a cold shiver trickles down my back. I wonder if Kitty left the candle there for Ed. Oh God, that’s so sad.

‘Sometimes there just aren’t any words,’ Lawrence sighs and another momentary silence follows. ‘Would you like to take the rest of the cake upstairs?’ I nod solemnly. ‘I’ll get you a plate and bring you up a nice mug of hot chocolate with squirty cream too.’

*

Back in my room, having polished off the truly scrumptious cake and settled Basil on the complimentary dog bed, I lean back in the armchair next to the window and close my eyes for a few seconds, letting my mind wander. Crying earlier, what was that all about? I know I’m exhausted, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling so emotional and then, with Cher not being here, well, it’s another let down, and on top of everything else that’s happened, I’ve just had enough, I suppose. And I need to break out of this rut of sleepless nights – keeping going on practically no sleep doesn’t help, it makes me extra emotional. I have to find a way to stop the dark thoughts and pity parties for one. I want to sleep all night long and feel invigorated and excited about life, and do my knitting and needlecraft for fun, just like I always used to before May the flaming fourth.

Opening my eyes and pushing the chiffon away from the window, I stand up and look out towards the puffy sky and watch the snowflakes sprinkling down like tiny diamonds against an almost Tiffany blue backdrop. The same sky that everyone around the world can see, and it makes me think of all the happy couples doing happy things, and I really want to be happy too – what’s that old adage? Love like you’ve never been hurt. But it’s hard, really hard. I think of Kitty again, and her husband Ed, and how the whole thing with Luke just pales in comparison. And I make my decision. I’m going to call the number on the newspaper. Why not? What have I got to lose? Nobody will know, not even Lawrence if I don’t tell him, especially if it turns out to be a big joke.

And then when I’ve done that, I’m going to venture over to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and see what treats she has in store. I’m going to buy loads of wool and some needles and knit something just for fun, like I always used to, and I might even get the material to start a new quilt. A lovely, cosy Christmassy one. Ha! I could even sell it online. Oh yes I could! I can still have my dream; I’ll just go about in a different way, tweak it a bit and see what happens. And I can worry about Jennifer Ford and Mr Banerjee on Monday morning, but until then I’m choosing happy!

I pick up the newspaper and wander over to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and take a deep breath. OK, I can do this. It’s just a phone call. The number is ringing. One, two, three, four bbrrrrring-bbrrrrrrings. And then I get cold feet and quickly end the call. I sit on the bed. Basil is staring at me with his head tilted to one side as if to say, ‘You big wimp, get a grip, Sybs!’ So I do, and lift the receiver back up. This time I’m going to speak – I’ll just say ‘Hi, it’s Sybs,’ in my best breezy voice, and the man with the kind-looking eyes will say, ‘Hi, I’m so pleased you called,’ and we’ll have a laugh about Basil trying to pinch his Costa cake, and it’ll be brilliant. Yep, of course it will.

The phone stops ringing.

There’s a pause.

And then: ‘Tindledale Books, how may I help you?’

It’s a woman’s voice, which completely throws me, so I promptly slam the phone down.

Basil is right. I am a big wimp – but at least I now know where to find the mystery man from the train.