Snowflakes Over Moondance Cottage

by Rosie Green

  Then we fell, sobbing, into each other’s arms.

  *****

  Due to the investigation and autopsy, it was many weeks later before Janice could be buried.

  Isla and I managed to hold it together during the funeral service, although I had a bit of a sticky moment when we all left the church. I hadn’t been able to face breakfast that morning and I suddenly felt really light-headed. I felt myself swaying, and a man behind me managed to catch me as I fainted.

  I felt embarrassed, but my rescuer - who turned out to be Janice’s ex-boyfriend, Eddie – instantly put me at my ease, sitting me down on a bench and staying with me until Isla arrived. I was so grateful to him.

  I remember thinking that if he hadn’t caught me, I’d probably have cracked my head open on a gravestone.

  *****

  In the days after Janice’s body was washed up, we braced ourselves to hear the news that Dad had also been found.

  I felt sick every time the phone rang. But the weeks passed and there was nothing from the police.

  Isla and I started to hope again. We had conversations constantly along the lines of, ‘Surely, if Dad had drowned with Janice, he would have been found by now? Maybe Janice fell overboard in a storm and now Dad’s lost at sea in The Escape.’ It wasn’t a heartening thought, the idea of Dad trying to sail The Escape alone, without Janice’s expertise. But at least it meant that he might still be alive . . .

  Deep down, we knew we were clutching at straws, and as the weeks turned into months, our hope died again. I started to feel that any news – even the very worst kind – might be better than being in this unbearable limbo.

  The coroner had recorded a verdict of ‘misadventure’ on Janice’s death. It was assumed she’d fallen overboard, after the boat – which had never been found, despite an extensive search – got into difficulties. The police assured us that the search for Dad was ongoing.

  And then, two months after Janice’s funeral, the police phoned with news.

  Remnants of a wrecked boat had been washed up on a beach fifty miles north of where Janice was found.

  It was The Escape.

  And there was something else that crushed all our hopes of Dad being found alive. Washed up on the sand among the wreckage was a piece of personal property. The French police had sent a photo of the item for us to identify.

  Isla and I both drew in a long breath as she paused, her finger hovering over the photo icon on her laptop. When she opened it, we breathed out in unison.

  It was the gift we’d given Dad on his departure.

  The little St Christopher medallion.

  *****

  It seemed impossible that we could carry on without Dad.

  But life, against all the odds, was trundling on.

  I had a painful chasm in my heart, but we were surviving, Mum, Isla and me. The tragedy drew us closer. We talked about Dad and even found ourselves laughing sometimes. Life was far from getting back to normal, but we were starting to accept what had happened, and carry on.

  At least, that’s what I thought.

  And then came the night that Isla cooked Mum’s favourite pepper steak and invited her around to Moondance Cottage for dinner with us . . .

  *****

  ‘I’m moving to France.’ Isla, dishing up the steak and roasted vegetables at the stove, stayed focused on the task in hand, which meant we couldn’t see her face.

  Mum shot me a look of alarm and my expression must have mirrored hers.

  ‘But you can’t, love.’ Mum looked stunned. ‘We . . . we need you here. Jess and I.’

  ‘Have you got a new job out there?’ I asked, as a dancing duo did a tap dance in my stomach. ‘I thought you were happy working at the bistro.’

  ‘I am. I just . . . I don’t know.’ She set down our plates. ‘I feel like a change of scene. And actually . . . well, Jamie’s got the chance to transfer to the Paris office for a couple of years and he wants me to go with him.’ She plops down in her seat with a bright smile. ‘So I said yes.’

  There was a stunned silence.

  ‘But what will you do over there?’ began Mum. ‘There’s no guarantee you’ll get a job.’

  Isla sighed. ‘I knew this would happen. I knew you’d try and stop me.’

  I shrugged. ‘Mum’s just worried that it might not work out, that’s all. And . . . well, isn’t it all just a bit . . . too soon?’

  ‘Too soon? In what way?’

  My throat was suddenly clogged with emotion. ‘Too soon after . . . Dad?’

  She looked down at her plate, and I could see her mouth tremble. Then she lifted her chin and said firmly, ‘But isn’t what happened to Dad and Janice the best reason of all for me to want to strike out and do something different? Life is short and I want to make the most of it. Because you really don’t know what might be around the corner.’

  ‘When will you go?’ Mum asked, looking horror-struck.

  ‘Within the month. In time for Jamie starting his new job.’

  A month? And then Isla would be gone?

  I knew there was no point trying to change Isla’s mind on this. Isla had always been stubborn as a mule. If someone told her she couldn’t do something that she’d already made up her mind about, it would only make her doubly determined. But to say I felt dismayed at her sudden announcement would be a huge understatement.

  Our food forgotten, Mum and I listened in silence to Isla’s plans.

  ‘I’ve had an idea about opening a little bakery, specialising in the best of British baking. There’s a lot of ex-pats out there who would love a taste of home, and I’m damn sure I could lay out a shop window that would lure even the most traditional French customer into sampling the delights of a sticky toffee pudding or a carrot cake with frosting.’

  Her eyes were bright, her face flushed as she talked on.

  ‘It sounds good,’ I said at last. ‘I just can’t believe you’ve been planning all this without a word to either of us.’

  She shrugged. ‘I knew you’d hate the idea. I suppose I feel guilty, leaving you behind. It’s just knowing that Dad’s gone . . . I don’t know . . . I feel the need to do something different. Something exciting. And Jamie’s offered me that opportunity.’

  ‘Well, if it’s what you really want, then hey, I really hope it works out for you.’ I mustered a cheery grin and received a grateful smile from Isla in return.

  ‘That’s all very well, Jess,’ Mum burst out. ‘But what about when your dad comes home? What happens then, Isla? You won’t even be here to welcome him!’

  She grabbed a paper napkin and started dabbing at her eyes, as Isla and I stared at each other in shock.

  ‘But Mum. Dad isn’t coming back.’ Isla’s voice was gentle. ‘That’s the whole point.’

  I knew she was right. But I wished she hadn’t stated it so matter-of-factly.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Mum’s eyes sparkled with angry tears ‘Your dad could walk through that door at any moment. And where will you be? In France, of all places!’ She rummaged for a hanky and blew her nose, while Isla and I looked at each other helplessly.

  I desperately wanted to believe that Dad was coming back. Of course I did. I sometimes allowed myself to imagine that he would one day walk back through the door, alive because of some extraordinary twist of fate. Some sort of lucky escape. But I knew it was only a fantasy.

  But it seemed as if Mum really believed that it was only a matter of time before Dad came back to us.

  ‘She’s convinced herself he’s still alive,’ Isla murmured after Mum had driven off, back to Martin.

  ‘It must be giving her comfort.’ I glance at her sadly. ‘I’m going to miss you. We both will.’

  Isla tossed her head. ‘Oh, I’ll be back all the time. And you can come out and visit, and I’ll show you the sights.’

  I tried to be happy for her but it was hard. I’d lost Dad and now I was losing my sister as well.

  And what about Mum?

 
We’d somehow managed to cope - the three of us together. But now that Isla was leaving with Jamie, the future looked more uncertain than ever. Could I really give Mum the support she needed without Isla and her down-to-earth common sense here to help?

  Deep down, I still couldn’t quite forgive our mother for walking out on us when Isla and I were so young. The close tie that had been broken fourteen years earlier still seemed impossible to mend.

  Yet now, with Isla jetting off to France, it looked as though the responsibility of making sure Mum was okay had fallen squarely on my shoulders . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The morning after the apple-picking, I arrive at Moondance Cottage almost as early, sneaking into the studio before Seb has even arrived.

  Walking in, the familiar, earthy scents fill my lungs and I’m immediately whisked back in time. It was enjoyable then, with Dad there.

  But can I really do this on my own?

  Then I think of Jonathan and how good he’s been to me, and determination takes over. If there’s even a small chance that making Christmas baubles for his tree could get him out of a financial tight spot, then I have to at least try.

  I owe him a lot. As well as my friend, he’s also my landlord.

  After Isla left for France, Moondance Cottage felt empty without her. With no-one there to understand and sympathise when I was down about Dad (and vice-versa), I began to retreat inwards and I shut myself off from the world. The house began to feel more like a prison than a home.

  My social life petered out and my work suffered because misery was sapping my motivation. I knew I needed to go out and find more freelance editorial work but it felt so much easier just to stay in and binge on boxsets, and pig out on all the foods that made me feel even worse.

  I knew I needed to revitalise my life – but how?

  Then one day I was in The Treasure Box, chatting to Hannah, and she told me that Jonathan was moving out of the flat above the shop and intended renting it out. I’d been in that flat a few times, delivering baubles with Dad. It was small but it had a lovely view over the quaint high street to the hills beyond, and optimism surged through me for the first time in ages. I could live there. It would be perfect. Much cosier than rattling around on my own in Moondance Cottage.

  I told my friend, Amy, when I next phoned her. She’d been working in London for the past year and I missed having my bestie close by, but we made up for it by talking and texting regularly. Amy was adamant I should forget the extra expense and just move into the little flat.

  A week later, it was all sorted, with Jonathan charging a ridiculously reasonable rent. Amy was right and I’ve never looked back. And now I have a chance to do something for Jonathan.

  I look around at the equipment, feeling a little surge of excitement.

  Time to get creative.

  When I asked Jonathan when he’d need the baubles, he grinned and said, ‘Yesterday?’ He was smiling but I could see the tension in his eyes. So I stuck up my thumb and did my best to look positive.

  Now, my heart is beating fast as I look around at the equipment. What if I’ve forgotten the skills needed to blow a perfect glass bauble? I need to find out – and quickly, too. But first, I need to fire up the kiln, which can be a long, slow process.

  *****

  The following morning when I arrive back at the studio, the numbing cold has been replaced by a delicious heat that completely envelops me. The kiln has been firing up since the previous day and as I take off my coat, I’m hoping it will soon be at the perfect temperature, thanks to the computerised system Dad set up.

  I was surprised at how nervous I felt, starting the firing process, but it helped that Dad’s voice was in my ear the whole time, guiding me through it.

  The most important thing, while the kiln is operating, is to make sure the studio is well ventilated. Have you turned the air vent system on?

  Yes, Dad. Check.

  Safety glasses and gloves?

  Check.

  Make sure you stay a few feet away from the kiln, especially when it’s firing up at the highest temperature?

  I will, Dad.

  And Jess . . . . please make sure all your equipment is secure, especially the propane gas and oxygen tank? I need you to be safe.

  Don’t worry, Dad. I’ve checked everything at least three times. It’s all in order, just the way you taught me.

  The kiln has been heating on low overnight, but now it’s going through the gradual process of firing to the perfect temperature to make the glass. I’ve brought a book with me and I plan to sit in Dad’s old chair and read for a while until it gets there and I’m ready to start.

  I settle down and my mind turns to coffee. I’ve brought supplies with me because I’m going to need to be here all day if I’m going to produce enough baubles to decorate the tree. If I can take them into the shop tomorrow afternoon, Jonathan will be able to start putting out the word that the hand-made glass baubles are once more available.

  A little thrill runs through me, thinking how proud Dad would be that I’m continuing the tradition he established. Then I wonder if I’m perhaps getting a bit ahead of myself. What if I’ve promised all this to Jonathan and I can’t deliver?

  My insides turn over like cement in a mixer at the thought of letting him down.

  Coffee! That’s what I need!

  With a big shot of caffeine to stimulate me into action, I’ll be able to meet the challenge head-on, as if I hadn’t had a break of three years. I’ve already dreamed up some gorgeously festive colour combinations.

  Heading for the kitchen with my bag of supplies, I put the kettle on and stand waiting for it to boil, staring out over the lawn. Frost glitters on the hedgerow and a robin perches on the old water barrel, making me smile. The forecasters are saying it will snow soon and I can’t wait. Snow makes everything so magical.

  After the warmth of the studio, it’s freezing in the cottage and I shiver, rubbing my arms briskly. The kettle is boiling far too slowly. I wanted to nip in and get back to the studio as quickly as possible, to avoid the spectre of Seb arriving while I’m in here.

  But I manage to get my coffee made and even toast a teacake under the grill – and still no white van has surged into the lane. Perhaps he’s actually having a day off?

  I enjoy my breakfast, curled up in the warmth of the studio. But as I lick my finger to collect the toasty crumbs from the plate, resolve is surging inside me.

  It’s time . . .

  *****

  I work solidly all morning and through lunchtime, reacquainting myself with the amazing medium of glass-blowing.

  I have a few false starts, but I was expecting that after all this time. I knew I’d be a bit rusty. But I can feel Dad’s comforting presence in the studio with me, and I’m sure it’s this that makes the day go well.

  Getting used to the small but powerful flaming torch again and the protective glasses and gloves is the easy bit. And I’ve no problems heating the tip of the blow-pipe with the torch then dipping the pipe into the molten glass in the kiln and ‘gathering’ it so that it glows in a small red clump on the end of the blow-pipe.

  It’s the actual blowing that holds me up a little. It’s tricky at first until you get used to it – blowing just enough so that a beautiful clear bubble forms. The baubles need to be a similar size, which is tricky. Of course, if they’re hand-made, they’re never going to be exactly the same dimensions – that’s part of the charm of a hand-made product. But they do need to be roughly similar, to look good hanging on the tree in The Treasure Box window.

  My favourite part of the process is adding the colour. Dad taught me to do this by rolling the molten glass on the end of the blowpipe in something called ‘frit’ which looks like a dust of tiny fragments of coloured glass.

  I’ve decided to go for three different colour combinations to start with - a very traditional, striped red and green bauble that will really stand out, a pink and white globe that’s almost transparent an
d sparkles beautifully in the light, and another in gorgeous cobalt blue (my favourite colour of all).

  After a few attempts, I manage to blow a pretty perfect bauble. Excitement ripples through me as I use the flaming torch to carefully melt some glass, before using the special tweezers to form the semi-molten substance into a hook, through which twine can be strung, to hang the decoration on the tree.

  I’m so absorbed in the task that I even forget about what’s happening in Moondance Cottage. It’s only when I stop to check the time and glance out of the window that I realise eight whole hours have passed and the light is beginning to fade.

  My stomach growls, protesting it’s had nothing since the toasted teacake first thing. But the display of baubles laid out on the work bench – fifteen in each colour design –make my long day very much worthwhile.

  Going outside for a breath of air, away from the now oppressive heat of the kiln, I’m surprised to see there are no lights on in the cottage. All the time I was working, I had it in the back of my mind that Seb would have arrived and would be in there, beavering away as usual. But it looks as if he hasn’t been here at all today.

  Maybe he was out last night and was enjoying himself too much to leave. He works such long hours, I’m assuming he’s not a family man. He doesn’t wear a ring. Not that that means anything.

  Maybe he is actually married. Or engaged . . . ?

  I give my head a little shake.

  Why am I wasting precious time wondering about Seb Morgan’s relationship status? I’m sure he never gives me a single thought, except when I’m standing there in front of him!

  It’s time to call it a day, make sure everything is safe and switched off in the studio, and head home.

  My insides shift slightly, contemplating yet another evening in alone, in front of the TV. It’s strange because it doesn’t usually bother me. But I push away the panicky thought that I might always be on my own. I’m fine with the way things are right now. There may come a time when I’m willing to try dating again. But at the moment, that time seems a long way off.

  People might think I lead a boring life but I don’t care.