Читать книгу Wish Upon a Star - Trisha Ashley - Страница 9

I drove Stella up to Sticklepond a few days before Christmas with a boot full of hidden presents, the cake, turkey, mince pies and pudding – in fact, most of the ingredients we’d need for the festive season. Left to her own devices, I’m very sure Ma wouldn’t treat the day any differently from the rest of the year, but she went along with it all.

As usual, I had the emergency numbers for Ormskirk Hospital and Alder Hey (the big children’s hospital in Liverpool) just in case – but I hoped we wouldn’t need them, because I was determined that this was going to be the best Christmas yet.

‘Toto has very sharp elbows,’ Stella said from her child seat in the back, as the dog adjusted himself into a sort of meagre fur lap rug. ‘Did you remember to bring his presents, Mummy?’

‘Yes, they’re in the boot.’

‘Will Father Christmas remember we’re staying with Grandma?’

‘I’m sure he will: he knows everything by magic.’

‘Like God,’ she agreed sagely. ‘Hal says God knows everything.’

Hal is under-gardener at Winter’s End, the historic house just outside Sticklepond, and lives in a cottage on the edge of the estate, across the lane from Ma. A taciturn man with a bold roman nose and a surprising head of soft silvery-grey curls under his flat tweed cap, he’s been moonlighting as Ma’s gardener ever since she moved up there, and they seemed to have become increasingly friendly …

‘I like Hal,’ she added. ‘He makes me sweet milky tea in a special blue cup when he brews up in his shed and last time we came he showed me a dead mole he found in the woods.’

‘That was kind of him,’ I said. Hal had created a cosy den in the old shed next to Ma’s studio in the garden, with a little Primus stove where he brewed up endless enamel pots of sweet tea for them both. Just like Dad, Hal seemed to wander in and out of the studio, or sit reading the paper in the corner, without appearing to bother Ma in the least.

Despite looking so morose he was really a very nice man – and what’s more, he’d slowly brought Ma out of herself a little bit, to the point where, as well as the library, she went with him to the monthly Gardening Club, and the occasional game of darts at the Green Man with the other Winter’s End gardeners.

Ottie Winter occasionally visited her too, because over the years her early patronage and help had turned into friendship. I’d often met her at our house in Hampstead, and Ma had taken me to one or two exhibitions of her sculptures, which are bold and figurative … sort of. You could say the same about Ma’s paintings.

Her only other regular visitor seemed to be Raffy Sinclair, the Sticklepond vicar, despite her not being a churchgoer.

‘Are we nearly there yet? I wish we lived in Sticklepond. It’s much more fun than home,’ Stella said from the back seat.

‘Do you?’ I asked, startled and glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. ‘Wouldn’t you miss Primrose Hill and the zoo?’

‘No,’ she said firmly.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that she was only three and a half going on a hundred … But I was just grateful we’d left the tricky subject of God behind and were not again pursuing the question of where people went when they were dead like we had the previous week, after I’d had to tell her that she wouldn’t be seeing one of her little friends from hospital again …

While I chatted to Stella as we trundled north up the motorway, part of my mind was occupied with how I was to raise the astronomical amount of money it would take to get her to America and to pay for the operation. It seemed near impossible – but how different her life would be if I pulled it off and the operation was a complete success … which it surely must be. If only she stayed well enough, till then …

But if she didn’t, if things took a turn for the worst and the need for the operation became urgent – which, please God, they wouldn’t – then I had a contingency plan to raise the money quickly, one that I’d need Ma’s agreement to. It would be a big ask and even though I’d already declined her generous offer to mortgage the cottage to pay for the operation, I wasn’t quite sure how she’d react to it.

Will had already started the process of setting up a fundraising website, Stella’s Stars, having had experience of doing something similar with his and Celia’s greyhound fostering one. It proved to be quite a complicated affair: I’d never have managed it on my own. He’d promised it would be up and running by the New Year, though.

Turning off the motorway as the short winter’s day grew towards dusk, I clicked on the Bing Crosby White Christmas CD that was Stella’s surprise favourite and resolutely turned my mind to having a merry little Christmas with a bright yuletide and jingle bells all the way.

Ma’s house was a long, low building made of slightly crumbly local sandstone, once a tied cottage on the Almonds’ farm, Badger’s Bolt. From what I’d gleaned, Ma had a fairly solitary childhood there, with parents who didn’t mix much with the local people. But it sounded like the Almonds had always been clannish before they emigrated after the war, so I suppose when Ma’s parents came back, they would feel isolated. Ma didn’t like to talk about the Almonds much, but that could be because, apart from her father, she didn’t really remember them.

I do dimly recall visiting Grandma Almond: a small, plump, silver-haired woman, who only ever seemed to have a real conversation with her hens. The cottage had still belonged to old Mr Ormerod, the farmer who’d bought up the Almonds’ land and buildings, so it was a very different place now from how it was originally. A few years before, he’d sold off the buildings he didn’t need, including this cottage, and the new owners extended upwards and out at the back, giving Ma an upstairs master bedroom with ensuite over the light airy garden room, as well as a garage at the side.

The big barn nearby has been converted into a smart house, but the old Almond farmhouse at the top of the lane was currently uninhabited and for sale, since there had been some trouble with the last owner a year or two back and it had lain empty ever since.

Stella and I had the two small downstairs bedrooms just off the old sitting room and next to the family bathroom, and Toto and Moses, Ma’s cat, fight it out for the rag rug in front of the wood-burning stove in the kitchen.

Ma seemed mildly pleased to see us, but it was just as I thought: she hadn’t remembered to get a tree, or find the decorations, and was even hazy on which day of the week Christmas Day fell. But we quickly settled in and next morning I decided to leave Stella with Ma after breakfast while I went into Ormskirk to do a huge supermarket shop for basics: anything else I needed I intended to buy in the village, which has a good range of shops now.

I would take Toto with me, since he was always happy to go anywhere in the car and it took him and Moses the cat two or three days of wary circling and jostling before they settled down happily together, so time apart was good.

Ma and Stella were going to go up to the studio and, since it was a Sunday, I was sure Hal would also be about to keep an eye on her. Stella, though, saw things differently and promised to look after Grandma while I was out.

‘I’ll tell her off if she puts her paintbrush in her mouth,’ she assured me. ‘And Grandma, you shouldn’t smoke.’

‘I’m down to two Sobranies a day now, so have a heart, love,’ Ma said, guiltily laying down the jade holder she had removed from her mouth for long enough to eat her breakfast and which she’d been about to replace. It seemed to be a comfort thing, a bit like the thumb-sucking Stella still resorted to in times of stress. Today’s Sobranie was the same green as the holder.

Stella made a tut-tutting noise and shook her head, so that all her white-blond curls danced.

‘You leave Grandma alone,’ I told her. ‘I’m sure she doesn’t breathe the smoke in.’

Ma looked even guiltier, and Stella unconvinced, but I left them to it and went to brave the pre-Christmas shops: with only a few days to go a kind of feeding frenzy was taking place in the aisles and a near-fight erupted over the last family-sized deluxe Christmas pudding.

There was no sign of anyone at the cottage when I got back so I put away all the shopping in Ma’s almost empty fridge, freezer and cupboards – though she was big on packets of coffee, Laphroaig whisky, Plymouth gin and frozen microwave dinners – and then went up to the studio, where I found Stella and Ma painting at adjacent easels. Hal was sitting in an old wooden chair reading the Sunday paper, which in her painting Ma had origamied into a newsprint winged creature trying to escape from his hands.

Stella’s painting seemed to be an angel of a more traditional sort. ‘Look, Mummy – this is a dead person’s angel from the graveyard. Me and Grandma went there to draw and there are lots more.’

‘I hope you fastened your coat up, because there’s a cold wind out,’ I said, admiring the picture.

‘They went in the car and she was wrapped up warm. They were only out half an hour or so,’ Hal assured me. ‘They both had a hot cup of tea when they came back, too, and a couple of garibaldi biscuits.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said gratefully. It was certainly warm enough in the studio, where an electric stove in the corner radiated fake flames and heat.

I went off to get lunch ready, but Toto jumped onto Hal’s knee, so I left him there. He’d probably be immortalised in oils too, winged or otherwise.

Stella’s health usually seemed better in Sticklepond and, as always on our visits, we soon settled into a pleasant routine. I pushed Stella in her buggy to the village most days, sometimes with Toto when he would deign to come with us, since he always ungratefully attached himself to Ma. We would do a little shopping and feed the ducks on the pond by the village green, or go on a longer walk up towards the Winter’s End estate and back round the right of way used only by locals.

It was all very familiar from previous visits, though it had changed a lot in the last few years since the discovery at Winter’s End of a manuscript purporting to have been written by Shakespeare. The village had flourished and turned into a thriving tourist destination and now there was an almost cosmopolitan hum about the place. Several long-empty shop fronts had suddenly sported new signs and opened their doors for business.

I’d been visiting the village for so long that many of the inhabitants were also familiar and it suddenly occurred to me that Sticklepond now felt more like home than London ever did, what with everyone so friendly when I was out and about with Stella.

Ma might keep to herself, but of course she knew who everyone in the village was, and they knew who she was before she married. And I couldn’t hide who I was even if I wanted to, because just like Ma I have inherited the typical Almond looks: very fair curling hair and slightly wide-apart clear blue eyes, with a tiny gap between my front teeth.

Occasionally some elderly villager would look at me closely and then tell me I was an Almond and, when I told them yes, my mother was Martha Almond before she married, he would nod and walk away; but though I knew that my distant cousin Esau had blotted his copybook, no one ever told me how, and my mild curiosity remained unsatisfied.

Stella still needed a long nap every afternoon, she got tired so easily, but once awake again we had a lovely time preparing for Christmas: sticking together paper-chain garlands, setting up the Nativity crib, decorating a quick chocolate Yule log, and baking star-shaped spiced biscuits, which we threaded with red ribbon and hung on the modest Christmas tree we’d carried home from the Spar in the village, partly wedged down the side of the buggy.

Later, I wrote up the Yule log for my ‘Tea & Cake’ page.

To whip up a quick and easy Yule log, cut out the fiddly task of making your own Swiss roll and instead buy a large one – the brown kind with a white creamy filling looks best. Cover with a thick coat of chocolate butter cream, roughly spread with a knife to give the effect of bark. Decorate with a robin and some holly, or whatever takes your fancy and keep in the fridge until you need it.

While we were back in the Spar buying the hundreds and thousands and little edible silver balls to decorate the trifle with, Stella told the friendly middle-aged shop assistant that we’d just been to visit the angels in the graveyard again (which was unfortunately becoming a habit, though at least it didn’t seem to be a morbid interest). The assistant asked if we’d been into the church to see the Nativity scene, which was apparently well worth viewing.

Stella remembered this later, and badgered Ma into agreeing to go and see it with us next morning. I hoped Stella wouldn’t be disappointed, because I was expecting no more from the Nativity than the usual dustily thatched crib and battered plaster or plastic figures, but they turned out to be the most beautifully carved wooden ones. Stella was enthralled by every tiny detail.

‘The Winter family brought them from Oberammagau before the war. It’s where they have that there Passion Play,’ said a voice behind us, and when I turned round I saw a small, wrinkled, lively-looking woman regarding us with sparrow-bright eyes full of curiosity.

‘This is Florrie Snowball, who has the Falling Star at the other end of the village,’ Ma introduced us. ‘She was at school with your grandfather.’

‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen you about,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t know who you were.’

‘And I’ve seen you – and I’d have recognised you for an Almond, with that hair and those eyes, even if I hadn’t already known you were Martha’s girl.’

‘Yes, everyone says that.’

Her eyes rested on Stella who, ignoring us, was still rapt with enchantment by the Nativity. ‘And your little girl, too – the Almond blood is clear in her veins.’

‘Well, we’re not trying to hide that we’re related to the Almonds,’ Ma said slightly snappishly.

‘And why should you?’ Florrie demanded. ‘I said to that old fool Pete Ormerod that what’s past is past and it’s only us ancient relics that remember what happened. And in any case, it was nowt to do with you, was it?’

Ma looked at her. ‘I suppose you’re right and no one cares much about the old stories now.’

‘You should come to the pub,’ she invited me. ‘We have a coffee machine what makes any kind you fancy, and my son, Clive, will show the little ’un the meteorite.’

‘The meteorite?’ I repeated.

‘That’s how the pub got its name,’ Ma said.

‘What’s a meatyright?’ Stella put in suddenly, having finally torn her gaze away from the Nativity scene.

‘It’s a big rock that fell out of the heavens,’ Florrie explained.

‘God threw a rock at you?’ Stella gasped, impressed. ‘You must have been really naughty.’

Florrie gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Not me, lovey – this was last century … or maybe the one before that. But there it sits in the courtyard now, right in the way, but bad luck to move it.’

‘I’d like to see it,’ breathed Stella, and I had to promise to take her next day.

‘Good. I’ll make you a charm, poppet, too,’ Florrie promised obscurely.

On the way home, I asked Ma what old stories Florrie knew about the Almonds. ‘Is this Granddad’s cousin Esau that you never want to talk about? Did he do something very bad?’

‘Nothing that matters now,’ she said, and wouldn’t be drawn. I’m not sure if she even knew exactly what it was.

‘And what did Florrie mean when she said she was going to make a charm for Stella?’

‘Rumour has it that she’s a witch, one of Gregory Lyon’s coven that has the witchcraft museum opposite the Falling Star.’

‘Really? How do you know?’

She shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Hal tells me stuff, and anyway, there’s always been a history of witchcraft in the village. Ottie says the Winter family are distantly related to the Nutters, and her sister, Hebe, dabbles in the dark arts, though really I think she’s more of a herbalist.’

‘The Nutters?’ I repeated.

‘A famous witch family, further north. Didn’t you read the information boards at Winter’s End when you visited?’

‘No, mostly we were in the gardens, but maybe I should.’

‘Well, you’ll have to wait till it reopens for the season at Easter, if you can come up then.’

‘That would be lovely,’ I agreed, then ventured tentatively, ‘I … don’t suppose Esau’s disgrace was anything to do with witchcraft …?’

Ma gave a derisory snort. ‘Don’t be daft! Strange Baptists, the lot of them.’