Читать книгу A Winter’s Tale: A festive winter read from the bestselling Queen of Christmas romance - Trisha Ashley - Страница 10

Now Thomas is somewhat recovered it is pleasant to have such a sweet-natured companion little older than myself, for he is not yet twenty. We play at Glecko in the evenings, or I read to him. In truth, I read better than hee, for my mother’s father was a great scholar and taught her well, and in turn she has taught mee. Other skills she had from her own mother, and though some may whisper of black arts, she does only good, not ill.

From the journal of Alys Blezzard, 1580

When Mr Hobbs had gone I tore up the letter to Lucy, which was still lying unposted on the table and, blowing the expense, phoned her.

I was then under orders to give her every minute detail from the moment I got to Winter’s End, and not make any major decisions without consulting her. She also, like Anya, said Jack sounded clever, devious but attractive—just my type, in fact—and I was not to promise him anything until she got home and OK’d it.

I didn’t know why either of them should jump to conclusions about poor Jack like that—nor did I know why my daughter turned out to be such a bossy little cow. She even tried to organise my life for me, just as I did for my own feckless mother, only with much less justification…

‘Great-Grandfather left Winter’s End to you, not Jack,’ she said, ‘so there must be a reason. The least you owe him is to go back and look at the place.’

‘Yes, I know, and I feel quite differently about him now that I know he never really gave up looking for your granny and me. And Mr Hobbs said he took quite a shine to you, Lucy, and thought you would be great for Winter’s End.’

‘Well, I rather liked him, too,’ she said, then, changing the subject, enquired in a bored voice that didn’t fool me in the least, ‘How is Anya? And I suppose Guy has sent me all kinds of messages?’

‘Actually, no, he hasn’t, though Anya was asking after you. He’s on the road with her at the moment, now he’s finished his degree, but he’s job-hunting.’

‘I suppose that accounts for why he hasn’t emailed me for ages,’ she said, sounding a bit miffed, ‘though there are internet cafés.’

‘I expect he’s been busy and he will catch up with you later. Anyway, you always said he emailed too much and he should get a life,’ I pointed out mildly.

‘Well, he’s such a nerdy little geek—but he’s still one of my oldest friends.’

‘You haven’t actually seen him for a couple of years, Lucy—you were both always off doing things in the university holidays whenever Anya and I met up. But take it from me, he doesn’t look remotely like a nerdy little geek any more. He’s all grown up.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ she said.

I only wished she could see it right then, and all my maternal urges were telling me to send her some cash and tell her to get on the next plane home…except that I hadn’t got any money, of course. But Jack had, and I was sure if I accepted his offer to buy Winter’s End he would advance some to me straight away, when he knew what it was for.

But I simply couldn’t rush into a decision that would affect many more lives than mine, even though I realised that if I was mad enough to take on Winter’s End I would still have the same money problems I’d always had, only on a much, much grander scale.

It took me a while to think what to say to Jack, but in the end I only got his answering service. I left my mobile number and a message telling him that, now I had spoken to the solicitor and read my grandfather’s letter, I felt a responsibility to at least go to Winter’s End and see how things were for myself, and I hoped he would understand.

But if he did, he didn’t tell me so…unless that was the series of phantom text messages on my phone? I usually manage to delete them before reading them. They just slip through my fingers and vanish.

I have a disease called Technological Ineptitude; I’m some kind of throwback to the Stone Age, but I’m not proud of it.

I managed to lose three more text messages before Jack got the idea and phoned me instead. He has a voice like melted Swiss milk chocolate—smooth, rich and creamy; my knees went quite weak. He was so sweet too, and said he quite understood.

‘That’s such a relief. I thought you might be cross!’ I blurted out, and he laughed.

‘Now, why should I be cross? In fact, I’ll come down myself and show you what needs urgently doing to the house, and I’m quite sure that when you’ve seen the scale of the problems—not to mention the sheer costs of running a place like that, and paying back the bank loan—you’ll be more than happy to let me buy it. After all, it will still be your family home, where you will always be sure of a welcome, but without all the expense and hassle of trying to keep it from falling into a ruin,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘You’d be in a win/win situation.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ I said, feeling a warm glow at the thought of being part of the extended family again. Since he was being so nice about it, I asked, ‘Do you think it would be OK if I had our belongings sent down there to store? Only, whatever happens I don’t think I will be coming back here to live, and it will be easier to pack them up now.’

‘Of course—there’s loads of room. Give Hebe a ring and tell her when your stuff is arriving—unless you’ve already spoken to her?’

‘No, I will do, of course, but I am feeling a bit nervous about it. I don’t know why, because she was always very kind to me, in her way.’

‘Oh, old Hebe’s all right—you give her a ring,’ he said cheerfully, then added, his voice going deeper and sort of furry, ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you again, Sophy! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we met,’ and my insides turned to a mass of quivering jelly. I was rather looking forward to seeing him again too.

Our meagre possessions, including a few small bits of good furniture culled from local auctions or given to me by Lady Betty, were dispatched to Winter’s End as a part-load with a furniture removal firm. I just don’t seem to accumulate things like most people do, except books, which I buy second-hand like other people buy sweets. I keep my absolute favourites in a little shelf unit built into the camper van because, deep down, I think I’m always expecting to move on. In fact, I keep all my treasures in the van.

I didn’t know what Aunt Hebe would do with our stuff when it arrived; when I nervously rang her to warn her of its imminent appearance, I suggested she stack it all in an outhouse somewhere for me to sort out.

‘Oh, I expect Jonah will find somewhere,’ she said vaguely.

‘You don’t mind my coming back to Winter’s End, do you, Aunt Hebe?’

‘Not at all, for how else can things be settled satisfactorily? And I’m sure we’re very happy to welcome you back to the fold, Sophy,’ she added, in a voice that suggested that she was anything but, ‘though of course I always thought Winter’s End would go to Jack, and it’s very hard on the poor boy—’

Then she broke off and said again that I would be very welcome, but it was clear that as far as she was concerned, my advent was a very mixed blessing.

When I spoke about Lucy, I feared my own voice had the very same doting tone in it as Aunt Hebe’s when she uttered Jack’s name: bewitched, besotted and bewildered. But that didn’t stop me feeling slightly jealous. I had always thought that she was fond of me, in her way, yet evidently my absence had been more than compensated for by Jack’s arrival, the cuckoo who’d taken my place in both the nest and her affections.

When I finally managed to see Lady Betty before I left for Lancashire, it was clear that she had all but forgotten me too.

I had been to the stiff and starchy care home once before, and the same white-overalled woman was on the reception desk. She asked me for my name and then checked a list while I undid my coat. It was hot in there and smelled of air freshener and surgical spirit.

‘I’m afraid you are not on the list of permitted visitors,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘though you have been before, haven’t you? I recognise that funny little brooch you’re wearing.’

‘My bee?’ I said, taken aback but thinking fast. ‘Yes, it is unusual, isn’t it? Lady Betty gave it to me—and I won’t be on the list of visitors because I’m just an employee. Mr Conor Darfield asked me to bring in a few things that she wanted.’ I lifted the carrier bag to show her.

‘Oh, right,’ she said, ‘perhaps if you leave—’ She broke off as an elderly gentleman, who had been shuffling about the foyer in a desultory sort of way, suddenly made a determined, if hobbling, sprint for the front door.

‘No, no, Colonel Browne, come back!’ she called—but too late, he’d gone. ‘Oh, blow—I’d better catch him before he vanishes,’ she said distractedly, lifting up the flap in the counter and coming out.

‘That’s all right,’ I assured her, sincerely hoping the poor colonel made it to wherever he was going, ‘I know where Lady Betty’s room is—I’ll just pop up.’ I don’t know if she heard me because she was off in pursuit, but I seized the opportunity to run upstairs.

I tapped gently on the door of Lady Betty’s room before going in, finding her in bed. As soon as I saw her I realised that this would be our last goodbye, for she seemed suddenly to have grown smaller, as if she was already shrinking away into death, and there was no recognition in her clouded eyes.

I sat quietly with her for ten minutes, feeding her bits of ratafia biscuits and sips of whisky and water from the supplies I had smuggled in (both of which she had always loved), and she took them with greedy eagerness, opening her mouth like a baby bird. She seemed to become slightly more alert then, and I talked to her, trying to raise some spark of recognition, but there was only one brief moment when her eyes focused on my face and she said my name and smiled. Then she closed her eyes and to all intents and purposes went to sleep.

I left the remainder of the biscuits in the bedside cabinet, but took the whisky bottle away with me. I had a feeling that anything remotely pleasurable would be banned in this sterile place.

The receptionist, looking distracted, was on the phone and only acknowledged my departure with a wave of the hand. ‘Yes,’ she was saying, ‘he’s gone again. Must have had a taxi waiting outside—and God knows which pub he’s gone to this time…’

I only hoped the colonel had a good time before they caught up with him.

The exterior of the VW was painted in time-faded psychedelic flowers, just as it was when my mother drove it, but I had made the interior over to my own tastes. Now, it was more like an old-fashioned gypsy caravan than a camper—deep, glowing colours, brightened with lace and patchwork and painted tables, ingenious shelves and cupboards, all sparklingly clean and smelling of roses.

There was a place in it for every item that was essential to me, so I felt as reassured as a snail in its shell once I was driving down to Lancashire, even though I was nervous about actually arriving.

But after all, if I got cold feet, I could always just get in my van and vanish again, couldn’t I? Though come to think of it, that’s what my mother always did, and that’s really not a pattern I want to repeat.

It’s a long way from Northumberland to west Lancashire, especially when you don’t drive at much more than forty miles an hour, and since my heater wasn’t working very well my fingers were frozen to the wheel most of the time. But the autumn colours were very pretty coming over the Pennines, and I noticed that, as I dropped back down towards Brough, all the bushes were covered with scarlet berries—supposed to be a sure sign of a hard winter to follow.

I made one overnight stop soon after that, near a village with a wonderful bakery, and then set out early next morning on the final leg.

It was just as well that Mr Hobbs had given me directions to Winter’s End, for I was lost as soon as I took the Ormskirk turn off the motorway and then drove into a maze of small, hedged lanes. And although as I reached the large village of Sticklepond everything looked vaguely familiar (except that the general shop had turned into a Spar and the village school into a house), I don’t think I would have easily found the right narrow road leading off the green.

I paused to consult the Post-it note I’d attached to the dashboard: ‘Half a mile up Neat’s Bank take the first right turn into a private road, by the white sign to Winter’s End. Fifty yards along it, you will see a car park on your left and the main entrance gates to your right…’

The tarmacked road had a ridge of grass growing up the middle and the walls seemed to be closing in on me. Surely they couldn’t get coaches up there?

I slowed right down and, sure enough, here was the sign and an arrow—but set back into a sort of clipped niche in the hedge so as to be almost invisible unless you were opposite it. I’d overshot a bit, so I reversed slightly and started to turn—then slammed the brakes on to avoid the tall man who leaped athletically down from the bank right in front of me and then stood there, blocking my way.

The engine stalled, and while we stared at each other through the windscreen a bird dropped a long series of sweet, high notes like smooth pebbles into the pool of silence.

The tall man had eyes the cool green of good jade, deeply set in a bony, tanned face with a cleft chin, a straight nose and an uncompromising mouth. His floppy, raven-black hair looked as if he’d impatiently pushed it straight back from his face with both hands and his brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl.

If he wasn’t exactly handsome he was certainly striking, and I had a nagging feeling that I’d seen him somewhere before…especially that scowl. A warning dream perhaps, half-forgotten?

Since he showed no sign of moving I reluctantly wound down the side window and, leaning out, said politely, ‘Excuse me, do you think you could let me past?’

‘No way,’ he said belligerently, folding his arms across a broad chest clad in disintegrating layers of jumpers, each hole showing a tantalising glimpse of the other strata beneath. ‘And you can go right back and tell the rest of them that they’re not welcome here. This is private property.’

‘The rest of them? Who?’ I asked, tearing my eyes away from counting woolly layers with some difficulty.

‘The other New-Age travellers. I’ve had trouble with your kind before, setting up camp on land I’d cleared for a knot and making an unholy mess.’

A knot? Wasn’t he a bit big to be a Boy Scout?

‘Look,’ I said patiently, ‘I’m not a New-Age traveller and—’

‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,’ he said rudely. ‘You’re not welcome here, so if you’re trying to scout out a good spot for the others you’d better turn right around. Tell them the car park’s locked up for the winter and patrolled by dogs, and if they come up the drive they’ll be run off!’

‘Now see here!’ I said, losing patience, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I’ve had a long journey and I’m too tired for all of this. My name is Sophy Winter and—’

‘What!’

He took an impetuous stride forward and I started nervously, banging my head on the top of the window frame. ‘Sophy Winter and—’

‘Good God!’ he interrupted, staring at me in something like horror, then added unexpectedly, in his deep voice with its once-familiar Lancashire accent, ‘Blessed are the New-Age travellers, for they shall inherit the earth!’

‘I’m not a New-Age traveller,’ I began crossly. ‘I keep telling you and—’

But he still wasn’t listening. With a last, muttered, ‘Behold, the end is nigh!’ he strode off without a backward look. I know, because I watched him in the wing mirror. His jeans-clad rear view was quite pleasant for a scoutmaster, but I still hoped he’d get knotted.