Home is Just a Feeling

by Lesley Hudnott

  An hour or so later, in the warmth of Lucy’s flat, we mulled over recent events. Somehow, a close bond had developed between the six of us that afternoon and evening. Something had happened earlier, at the pasty-throwing tribute and, as we chatted over mugs of cocoa, it seemed we were all aware of it. Certainly, some of us were long-term friends with, perhaps, one or two others, but now we all shared a special moment in our lives, and for that each of us would always be grateful.

  ~~~

  The Friday morning after Honeysuckle’s return to Heatherbridge was surprisingly warm and sunny; one of those Heaven-sent days that lulled folk into a false sense of security just before Winter barrelled in. Brenda, a self-confessed homebody, now acutely aware of her own mortality, had decided to join in a few village activities. While she helped arrange flowers in the church, Jack and I enjoyed morning coffee in my small patio garden. We had all been invited to spend Christmas at The Lion, in Heatherbridge. As expected, Trish had declined but Lucy, Jack, Brenda and I were all looking forward to the break. Jack’s sister, Beth, had also been invited.

  “So, Jack, what does next year hold for you? Any ideas?” Languidly, I batted away a late, lazy bee with the newspaper.

  “That depends on Honeysuckle’s plans for Four Lawns, I suppose. Although, I could always take charge of my own destiny; start my own business, perhaps. Mrs. Patterson’s been very generous to me in her will. Has Honeysuckle discussed any plans with you?”

  “No, nothing. Mind you, I think this has knocked her for six. I couldn’t really see her organising orgies, though!” We both laughed. “Fancy another scone, Jack?”

  “You slather on the butter and I’ll make fresh coffee. Do you know, Cassie, I could really get used to mornings like this; coffee and homemade scones out in the garden with you. Delicious. And the scones.”

  Once more in the sunshine, we discussed travel arrangements for Christmas. Jack and Beth would break their journey, overnighting at Summerlea. The four of us, including Brenda, would then collect Lucy, and travel on to The Lion. Jack assured me we would all fit comfortably in his car.

  “Oh, easily I would think. That’s certainly one monster of a car. Gorgeous.”

  “No, not that one, Cass. My own car. Exactly the same model, but mine’s navy instead of black. It’s beautiful to handle, you’ll have to take the wheel sometime. You’d love it. Anyway, I’d like us to talk. I mean, really talk.”

  ~~~

  By the time the phone had rung, twice, Jack’s desire to really talk had gone. Beth was now going to spend Christmas skiing with some friends. A dozen of them were renting a chalet for a few weeks somewhere in France, meaning she would also be away for New Year.

  “A bit much, if you ask me. I mean, Christmas and New Year. It’s just, well, I’ve always looked out for her, Cass.”

  “I know, but she’s certainly not a kid anymore. She has her own life to live, Jack, the same as you. She’ll be fine and, after all, you’re only ever a phone call or email away.”

  We suddenly stopped, in the middle of the village green, on our way to Brenda’s for lunch. Her invitation had accounted for the second phone call. Jack smiled down at me. “Do you know, Cassie Harrington, that when I’m with you everything always seems so much better. You say a few words and worries just disappear. You’re, what’s the word, soothing, and so lovely to be around.”

  Blushing like a beetroot, I raised my eyes to meet Jack’s as he drew me close.

  We spent a very pleasant lunchtime at Brenda’s, learning all about her newly-discovered flower arranging skills, as well as a few new friendships. Jack and I were glad for her. It would do her good to get out and about a bit and (even though I felt a little guilty thinking it) away from Elfie’s shadow.

  Later, Jack and I sauntered back across the green, fingers entwined.

  Later still, we finally had the conversation that Jack had hoped for earlier.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Come on, woman, spill the beans! You’re dying to tell me something, so, out with it.” Lucy bolted the shop door and we trudged upstairs. We had worked flat out all day and just wanted to kick off our shoes and unwind.

  “You set the table, Cass, and I’ll dish up. Beef casserole and mash. Homemade. Aren’t freezers wonderful?”

  “They sure are. Goodness, that was one busy day. Oh, that smells delicious, Lucy. It was really good of you to invite me. Jack’s returned to Four Lawns for a few days, some business stuff to wind up. Honeysuckle called yesterday evening; she’s decided to sell. She’s going to start the planning permission process for housing, in the new year. Better her than me, that’ll take forever.”

  We chatted throughout the meal, mostly speculation as to whether the place would be knocked down or turned into flats. Whilst I favoured flats, Lucy was more inclined to raze the place to the ground and build new housing. We both, though, favoured luxury accommodation.

  “Jack. Come on, Cass, tell me everything. Honestly, you’re positively glowing. Whatever it is, it has to include Jack.”

  “It might,” I teased. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but we seem, well, we seem to be in love. To be honest, Lucy, I can scarcely believe it. I keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. I just never thought, after Scott…”

  In the firelight, Lucy’s eyes were glittering with tears as she hugged me. “Oh, Cassie, I’m so very, very happy for you. Both of you. Jack’s a lucky man. Does Honeysuckle know yet?”

  “Yes, I told her yesterday, over the phone. She screamed and whooped so much I thought my eardrum would explode!”

  Laughing, we hugged some more, and then the phone rang. “It’s for you, it’s Honeysuckle.” Handing over the phone, Lucy tactfully left the room, returning about ten minutes later with chocolates and wine.

  “You okay, Cass? She didn’t sound her usual, cheery self.”

  “George Shepherd’s died. Honeysuckle said he’d be lucky if he saw Christmas. I’m sad, of course I am, but I think it’s a happy release for him and at least his suffering’s over. It’s just a shame that I’ve only recently discovered that he was my father. Dear Lord, it’s just been one thing after another this year.”

  Having dumped the wine and chocolates on the table, Lucy hugged me yet again. “You poor old thing. Up one minute, down the next. I’m really sorry, Cass.”

  ~~~

  George Shepherd’s funeral was at ten-thirty on the fifteenth of December. Respecting his final wishes, just four of us attended; Honeysuckle, Robbie, Jack and myself. My father, never one for fuss, had requested no hymns and no flowers. He had wanted, in his words, “A single ticket to the crematorium, a few words of blessing, then, on my way.” So, that was precisely what had happened.

  Back at The Lion, in George’s office, Robbie charged four glasses with champagne, proposing a toast to “George Shepherd, a true gentleman who lived his life graciously, circumspectly, and in the service of others. A friend and inspiration to all who knew him.”

  We clinked glasses and partook of a small buffet, kindly prepared by Honeysuckle’s staff.

  ~~~

  Once again in the Rose Room, I lay on the bed as a thousand or more thoughts jumbled around in my aching head. Jack had escorted me to our room post-buffet, kissing my forehead tenderly before going to explore Heatherbridge. I must have slept deeply as it was dark when I awoke to the sounds of a party in full swing in The Orangery. Looking across from the bedroom, I smiled indulgently, half-wishing I was amongst the merrymakers. This year someone, Robbie I supposed, had organised a massive Christmas tree for the garden. It was lit up and partygoers danced around it. Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw, as clear as day, George Shepherd. Looking away from the dancers, he smiled broadly up at me, waving and giving the “thumbs-up” sign that used to serve as communication between us when, rushed off our feet, there was no time to chat.

  “Hello, darling, who are you waving to?”

  “Oh, my goodness, Jack, you made me jump! I didn
’t hear you come in.” Chuckling, I crossed the room, into his outstretched arms. “How did you enjoy your stroll around town? Bet it didn’t take too long.”

  “Fine. It’s a really decent town; lots of little shops to poke around in. I enjoyed myself. Mind you, I encountered a weird woman in a bookshop. Cherry Something-or-other.”

  “Oh, you mean Cherry Walters. She and her husband Joe run Coolridge’s. Nice couple, friendly and helpful.”

  “And weird. Well, she certainly was. She reckons she’s seen me before, going to some parties here. I assured her she hadn’t, but she was adamant. God, Cass, like I haven’t had enough of parties at Four Lawns! Anyway, who were you waving to this time of night, out in the garden, hmm?” Jack snuggled me close to him and it felt so good.

  “I know you’ll think I’ve lost the plot, but it was George Shepherd, believe it or not. He was watching party-goers dancing around the Christmas tree out there, when he just looked up and we waved. Really.”

  “Oh, I believe you Cassie. It’s often thought that spirits can visit loved ones. I’m not too sure about the Christmas tree in the garden, though. Look.”

  We returned to the window. No tree, no dancers, and no George. The party in The Orangery, however, showed no sign of finishing anytime soon.

  “It’s the staff “do.” Honeysuckle brought it forward about a week. Given George’s situation, teetering on the brink, as it were, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. By the time she knew it would clash with his funeral, the caterers were unable to reschedule. That’s Christmas for you.” Jack grinned, looking at his watch. “Still early enough to show your face and catch up with a few faces from the past, if you fancy. Non-deceased faces, I mean.”

  “I wish Beth was here, she’d have me ready in under five minutes. But yes, I’d love to go. Give me ten minutes.”

  Jack chuckled. “Seven.”

  Accepting Jack’s challenge, I quickly pulled my trusty black evening dress from the wardrobe and over my head. Stretchy fabric, truly one of my best friends. A little primping and preening, a quick slick of lipstick, a spritz of perfume, and I was ready.

  “Six minutes, precisely. I’m impressed.”

  “Why thank you, kind sir; and so you should be.”

  Having decided to take the bull by the horns, as it were, I headed for the disc jockey’s microphone as soon as Jack and I entered The Orangery. Briefly, I confirmed that George Shepherd was indeed my father and that I now owned The Lion. Also confirming that livelihoods were safe, and that Honeysuckle and Robbie would be running the place, I then wished everyone a Merry Christmas, insisting that George would want the party to be the best ever.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The week before Christmas was hectic, to put it mildly. Jack and I pitched in; he waiting tables as I peeled, chopped, and generally assisted in the kitchen. My admiration for Honeysuckle, and her staff, knew no bounds. Over the years I had never witnessed her at full pelt in her domain. Usually she would emerge, still daisy-fresh, and we would catch up over a bottle of wine. Occasionally I would cook her something-and-chips for a late supper, clean up and ensure all was pristine for the next day. Now though, I was experiencing, for it was an experience, the Honeysuckle Ellis her staff knew. Never shouting or swearing, Honeysuckle knew exactly what her staff were doing at any given time. Starters, mains, and puddings came together as though by magic to be speedily transported through to The Orangery. That week, besides breakfasts and lunches, The Lion catered for five evening parties, all of which included four-course meals. There were also two children’s afternoon parties, the W.I. Christmas Luncheon, and a christening buffet.

  Then, suddenly, it was December the twenty-third.

  Robbie poked his head around the kitchen door. “Well done, girls. I’ve just waved off the last guests. Mind if I join you?” He sat, with Honeysuckle and myself, like worn-out zombies, at the chef’s table in the bomb site masquerading as The Lion’s kitchen. Honeysuckle, in particular, was exhausted, the relentless festive catering clearly having taken its toll.

  “Come on, you two, we can do better than this. Follow me.” We meekly followed Robbie into the smaller lounge bar, where a welcoming fire blazed behind the spark guard and a box of assorted luxury biscuits on a coffee table invited us to dip in. “I’ll be back soon,” Robbie assured us, as we all but burrowed, once again, into the large velvet fireside chairs. Returning shortly, Robbie bore a small silver salver upon which were two large Irish coffees. “Not joining us?” Honeysuckle enquired. Robbie said he had one or two things to do and that we were to just relax, drink our coffees, and chatter away the remainder of the morning.

  “Is he always like this, Honeysuckle? So considerate?” Gratefully savouring my coffee, I continued. “Not that you don’t deserve it. He’s totally smitten, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, it certainly seems that way. I love him, Cass.” Honeysuckle blushed. “We’re, you know, in a relationship.” Honeysuckle had whispered the last word with utter joy. Leaning conspiratorially across the coffee table, eyes sparkling, we were not just the cats who got the cream. We were the cats who owned the creamery.

  ~~~

  Jack had booked a table for one-thirty at the pub along the street from the Lion, where the six of us had enjoyed lunch. No-one had much to say, so, replete, we decamped to the fireside where we lingered over coffee, liqueurs, and little chocolate mints whilst a recording of Christmas carols and songs played softly in the background.

  Predictably, Brenda and Lucy loved The Lion; Brenda, in particular, fulsome in her praise of the kitchen. Unbeknown to Honeysuckle and myself, Robbie had washed the dishes and tidied up earlier whilst we had lazed by the fire with our Irish coffees and about half the luxury biscuits.

  Thankfully, since we were all a little tipsy, the walk back to The Lion was a short one. The men coaxed the slumbering fires back to life, Honeysuckle and Lucy wandered out into the garden, and Brenda and I made teas and coffees. I smiled at the collection of carrier bags perched on the kitchen table.

  “Two boiled fruit cakes from Lucy, two puddings from me, my grandmother’s recipe hasn’t failed me yet, and a few other bits and bobs we thought might be useful,” chuckled Brenda, without turning around. “I can hear you rustling those bags, girl!”

  ~~~

  Christmas Eve dawned bright and clear, with the unmistakeable scent of frost in the air. Well-rested as we trooped downstairs, we made plans for the day over breakfast. Brenda announced that she was “hijacking” Jack for the morning, and Lucy “wanted a word” with Robbie.

  “Do you two know anything about this?” asked a bemused Robbie. Assuring him and Jack that we did not, I offered to drive Honeysuckle over to Shangri-La to visit old Mrs. Ellis, thus leaving Robbie and Jack to Lucy’s and Brenda’s tender mercies.

  On the way to the nursing home I remembered past Christmases at The Lion; the extravagant decorations, and the huge Christmas tree taking up most of the reception area. Honeysuckle and I had always decorated it, Mr. Shepherd chuckling away as he passed us tinsel and baubles. Since the Orangery had been built, the largest tree was now placed there each year, with a smaller one at reception. Any staff, including myself, not going home for Christmas, used to make up a house party. I recalled plenty of good-natured whispering in corners as people sought advice on what to buy others. We limited the budget and there was always a prize for the funniest gift, presented by George Shepherd after Christmas lunch. Everyone pitched in, decorating, preparing, cooking etc., and later, I used to visit Ivy and Albert, hoping that Annie and the others did not see me passing their house.

  ~~~

  “Poor old mum, Cass. She doesn’t really know whether it’s Christmas or Easter. She’s gone downhill so quickly, and she needs twenty-four-hour care now. I didn’t want to put her in a home, truly I didn’t, but if I left work to look after her, I wouldn’t be able to afford any practical help. As it is, I visit every other day and can spend quality time with her. Still, she remembered you, though!”


  “Ah, once seen, never forgotten, that’s me.”

  Later, parking back at The Lion, Honeysuckle suggested a saunter around town and a light lunch.

  “What are you hoping Santa brings you, Cassie? I’ve dropped one or two subtle hints for a lovely dress I’ve seen in that new boutique down near the station. Pale cream chiffon with lovely washed-out pink roses on, and thin straps; although God alone knows where and when I’d wear it!”

  “Sometimes, it’s just enough to own something so pretty, although I’m sure Robbie would appreciate the view!” I winked. “Come on, let’s go and have a look at it.”

  The only size remaining was far too small for either of us. I was unsurprised, though, as the dress was exquisite and would have sold like hotcakes.

  “Wow, Honeysuckle, it’s gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind one myself. Great minds, and all that. You can tell we’re related!” Honeysuckled looked nonplussed. “Well, George was my father and Elfie your mother. I know we were adopted out, but it still makes us first cousins, by bloodline, anyway.”

  My friend grinned broadly. “Well, if that isn’t the best Christmas present ever, being told you’re related to your best friend! Do you know, I’d never even given that a thought.”

  Laughing, we linked arms, trudging back up the road in the now bitterly cold late-afternoon. We had stayed out much longer than intended, just mooching around and absorbing the Christmas atmosphere. Now, looking in brightly decorated windows as last-minute shoppers milled around, we could not possibly have imagined what awaited us on Christmas Day.

  TWENTY-EIGHT