Christmas at Carol's

by Julia Roberts

  ‘Carol,’ I say in response. ‘I would shake hands but you probably don’t want paint all over you. Thanks for the heads-up about Rick.’ I contemplate telling her that it’s irrelevant as I’m on a dating break but decide that’s too much information to be sharing with my new neighbour.

  ‘What are you going to do about the brush?’

  I consider the question. Do I fish it out? It seems a bit pointless. I wouldn’t be able to use it without cleaning it up and I would get my hands covered in paint.

  ‘I’ve almost finished so I think I’ll just get another brush out of the packet and retrieve it when I’m done. I started early so the door will have dried enough for me to shut tonight without sticking when I try and open it in the morning.’

  ‘Good thinking. Can I make you a cup of coffee or tea or something? You must be freezing out here.’

  At the mere mention of refreshments my stomach rumbles again.

  ‘I’ll bring some cookies round too, I’ve just taken some out of the oven.’

  ‘That’s really kind of you. Coffee would be lovely. Milk and one sugar please,’ I say, reaching for a new paintbrush, spurred on by the promise of a sweet treat.

  ‘Coming right up. You know, I didn’t believe Matt when he told me the cottage had been bought by someone who bore a striking resemblance to Leanne, but he was right. He’s not usually that observant.’

  I wait for her to elaborate. I have no idea who either of the people she just mentioned are.

  ‘Same dark hair, porcelain skin and intense blue eyes, but yours have a twinkle where hers always looked so sad. Even so, you could easily be sisters. You’re not, are you?’

  ‘I do have a sister but her name is Noella and funnily enough she’s as blonde as I am dark. Who’s Leanne?’

  ‘She was our previous neighbour. She was only here a few months and kept herself to herself, despite my attempts at making her feel welcome. Then, around this time last year, she simply disappeared. Matt and I weren’t worried at first. We thought she’d gone away on holiday or to visit family for Christmas but when she still hadn’t showed up by the end of January I rang the police to check that she hadn’t been reported missing.’

  I pause mid-brushstroke. ‘Had she?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘How odd.’

  ‘I don’t want to give you the impression that we’re nosy neighbours, or noisy for that matter, we were just concerned is all.’

  I smile, hoping that she’s telling the truth on both counts. I will probably be spending a good deal of my evenings at home now that I’m on my self-imposed dating break.

  ‘The police made me feel quite guilty, as if I was wasting their time, so we left it after that. Maybe she changed her mind about living in Little Whitton? I don’t think she knew anyone here and there’s not much nightlife apart from the pub and Botticelli’s, the Italian restaurant. It’s more for couples and families really, so not everyone’s cup of tea. Speaking of which, let me get you that coffee before you freeze to death.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  For the first time since I picked up the keys to my new home a week ago, a seed of doubt has been planted in my mind. Maybe Mum and Dad were right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been quite so hasty in signing on the dotted line and committing my foreseeable future to a village I know so little about. My little bubble of happiness has been temporarily punctured and I fervently hope that I will find more happiness in my new home than the previous occupant apparently did.

  Chapter 4

  I’m standing back admiring my handiwork when Sally reappears at my newly painted front door carrying a tray laden with a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven, and two mugs of milky coffee.

  ‘What do you think?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m usually a fan of purple but it was a bit garish, if I’m honest. I was wondering what colour you were planning for the gate,’ she laughs. ‘The grey is much more in keeping with the character of the cottage and you’ll have plenty of purple around your door when the wisteria flowers in May.’

  ‘Is that what the twiggy thing is? I’m not bad with a paintbrush but completely useless in the garden.’

  ‘Me too. I’ll have to give you Darren’s number. He’s been tending both of these gardens for years. He was pretty upset when the “For Sale” sign went up and the original estate agent told him not to come any more. It was a bit premature, if you ask me. No wonder the house took a while to sell with the garden so overgrown.’

  I think back to my first glimpse of the cottage in August. It was almost as though it was hiding behind a mass of greenery, although someone had had the foresight to clear a path to the front door so that the estate agent and I could actually get in to view.

  ‘That would be really handy if he’s not too expensive.’

  ‘He’s such a sweetheart, he’d probably offer to do it for nothing. We give him twenty pounds, which is supposed to be for two hours’ work but he always stays at least three or until he has got everything finished. I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous by bringing my coffee round too,’ Sally says, following me into the hallway. ‘I would have invited you round to ours but I guessed you wouldn’t be happy leaving your front door wide open with nobody home.’

  ‘You guessed right, not that there’s much that anyone would want to steal. Go through and take a pew,’ I say, indicating the door to my front room, ‘while I stick this brush in some white spirit. I haven’t mastered the art of lighting a fire yet and I can’t work out the timer on the central heating so it’s a bit nippy in there but warmer than the kitchen. Do you want to flick the fan heater on? I’d do it but I don’t want to touch anything in the living room with paint all over my hands.’

  The clean-up took slightly longer than anticipated. I retrieved the missing brush, plunging my hand into the gloopy pot of paint before wiping the excess off both it and my hand on several sheets of kitchen roll, then cleansing properly with an old rag soaked in white spirit, and washing my hands with a fancy liquid soap that Mum bought me to try and get rid of the smell.

  ‘I hope it’s still hot,’ Sally says, when I finally show my face. ‘I put the plate of biscuits over yours to try and keep the heat in.’

  How thoughtful, I think, picking up my mug of coffee and sinking on to the chair opposite the two-seater sofa she is perched on. The room is already starting to warm up thanks to the fan heater. I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip.

  ‘Lovely,’ I say, savouring the sweet warm coffee, ‘and these cookies are divine. Did you make them from scratch?’

  ‘Yes. I like baking. These are a new recipe: spiced orange and sultana. I’m trying it out before the village Christmas fayre. You’re my guinea pig; even Matt hasn’t tasted them yet.’

  It’s the second time she has mentioned Matt.

  ‘Matt?’

  ‘He’s my fiancé. We’re getting married in June.’

  I must confess to feeling a slight twinge of envy.

  ‘A June bride,’ I manage to say with a smile. ‘Very traditional.’

  ‘Nothing to do with tradition. He plays football and they’re not allowed to get married during the season.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I should probably ask what team he plays for but unless she says Arsenal, who my dad supports, or Manchester United, who everyone has heard of, I will be none the wiser.

  ‘Of course, he’s only semi-pro, the rest of the time he’s at Fellows and Webb. They’re not crazy about him having every Saturday off but they put up with it because his sales are so good.’

  I’m racking my brain, trying to think why I know the name Fellows and Webb, then I get it.

  ‘They’re the agents I bought the house from.’

  Sally gives me a strange look. ‘I know. It was Matt who sold it to you. We’re very grateful because the commission from the sale helped us reach our savings goal so that we could set the date for our wedding.’

  The penny drops. Matthew, the estate agent, and Matt, S
ally’s boyfriend, are the same person. No wonder he had been so confident showing me around the cottage, it’s probably a carbon copy of theirs. He even made suggestions for possible renovations, perhaps ones they have already done. And that’s when he must have noticed my similarity to Leanne. I’m quite relieved, actually, it’s better than the thought of him spying on me from behind their wooden shutters.

  ‘As you’ve played a part in us being able to announce the date,’ Sally was saying, ‘we’ll have to add you to the guest list, always assuming you don’t do a “Leanne” on us. Just you, or should I add a plus one?’

  I know she’s fishing but I don’t really mind. She’s just trying to get to know me and I’m going to need friends in the village if I’m going to settle in.

  ‘Just me,’ I say, plastering a fake smile on my face.

  ‘Well, a lot can change in six months. We’ve got quite a few single friends that I can introduce you to.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Sally, but I’m on a dating break. I’ve had enough of men for the time being.’

  ‘You just haven’t met the right one yet. Trust me, you’ll know when you do.’

  I admire her faith in my ability to recognise ‘Mr Right’. Unfortunately, I don’t share it, and for the moment I’m determined to stick with my resolve not to go looking.

  Sally is busy placing her crockery back on the tray.

  ‘Well, I’d better let you get on. What are you planning on painting next?’

  ‘I thought I’d do the hallway. I may as well while I’ve got the front door open. It may dry more quickly and it will lessen the smell.’

  ‘Good luck with it. I’d offer to help but I’m as hopeless at decorating as I am with gardening. It’s a good job I can cook or Matt might have second thoughts about marrying me. Anyway, I’ve stacks more baking to do for the Christmas fayre on Saturday. Two more batches of cookies, some iced snowman biscuits and four dozen mince pies.’

  It sounds like my idea of hell. She stops on the doorstep.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d be able to come and give me a hand on the stall, would you? Matt’s got football and I wasn’t looking forward to manning it all by myself. You could come round to ours for a casserole on Saturday night as a thank you,’ she adds, as though she has already worked out that the way to coax me to do something is to offer me food.

  She has a slightly mischievous expression and I’m not sure why, although I suspect it may have something to do with introducing me to a member of the opposite sex. Despite this, I agree. I want to integrate into the community and what better way than to help out at the village Christmas fayre raising money to repair the church roof.

  Chapter 5

  17th December

  I had thought I was cold painting my front door on Thursday, but that was positively tropical compared to standing around in the village square for four hours selling not only Sally’s produce but also cakes, biscuits, scones, bread and puddings from several other cooks who unfortunately ‘already had plans’ for the penultimate Saturday before Christmas. Sally had the foresight to ask me if I was wearing thermals and when I said I didn’t own any she very kindly offered to lend me some of hers, saying I would need them. She wasn’t joking. The conditions have been arctic since we arrived at nine this morning to set up the trestle tables and decorate them with tinsel and battery-operated fairy lights before laying out the delicacies and their price tags. The phrase ‘too cold to snow’ has been uttered dozens of times by customers wearing thick winter coats, with scarfs wrapped around several times to keep out the draught and woollen hats pulled down over pink-tinged ears. Most of them were too cold to stop and chat so Sally hadn’t really been able to introduce me to many people other than to say, ‘This is Carol, my new next-door neighbour.’ At least she used the word new, rather than single.

  Every time I think we’re running low on stock and will be able to pack up early, Sally disappears under the holly-printed tablecloth and retrieves another tin or Tupperware container of home-baking for us to sell. I’m very grateful that she brought two flasks of tea, even though it’s not my favourite tipple, and at least the time is passing quickly as we have been rushed off our feet from the moment the vicar declared the fayre open at 11am. Unfortunately, it has meant that I haven’t yet had the chance to ask Sally if she knows anyone with a forwarding address for Leanne.

  After Sally left on Thursday morning, I went to fetch the pale grey matt emulsion paint, and the roller to apply it with from the small shed in my back garden. When I got back, the post that Rick had propped up on the shelf in the hall was scattered on the floor, probably as a result of me opening the back door while the front one was open. As I picked it up, I noticed that among the bills from utility companies welcoming me to my new home, and Christmas cards from a couple of my fellow teachers at school, there was a card addressed to Leanne Sykes. Obviously, someone was unaware that she had moved away a year ago. I moved it, along with the other post, into the kitchen, fully intending to ring Fellows and Webb later to see if they had a forwarding address for Leanne and then completely forgot about it until last night. The pink envelope is now propped back on the shelf in the hall so that I won’t forget about it again.

  In fairness, I have been pretty busy. Along with the decorating, I also went out yesterday to buy my first-ever Christmas tree which is currently standing in a bucket of water outside my back door. I bought a fancy holder to stand it in and I haven’t figured out how it works, so Dad is coming tomorrow morning to help me with it and also to show me how to light a decent fire and programme my heating. There have been a few times this past week when I have seriously doubted my ability to live on my own, but I guess everyone has to start somewhere. Mum asked me over for Sunday lunch but I declined as I went last week and I don’t want it to become an expected routine. Besides, once Dad has set my tree up for me, I’m really looking forward to decorating it and maybe even wrapping a few presents to put beneath it.

  ‘Did you hear me, dear? I’d like half a dozen of the iced snowman biscuits please.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I manage, ‘I was miles away.’ I carefully place the biscuits into a shallow box and tie it with festive ribbon as Sally had shown me. ‘That’s five pounds please.’

  ‘No extra discount for pensioners?’

  I look across at Sally, my eyebrows raised in question.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hambleton, you’re already getting one free,’ she says, smiling. ‘We’re trying to raise as much money as possible to get the church roof repaired. We wouldn’t want it dripping on you in the middle of Sunday morning service, would we?’

  Briefly, it looked as though Mrs Hambleton was going to respond but then thought better of it. She handed over a five-pound note and snatched up her box of biscuits, muttering under her breath about the young people of today having no respect for their elders.

  ‘Don’t be fooled by her poor pensioner routine. She lives in the big house on the right as you come into the village. She and her husband have just had an extension done to house a sauna and swimming pool.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why rich people are rich. They watch every penny.’

  ‘There’s a difference between watching the pennies and being mean, and those two fall into the latter category, I’m afraid. I know you shouldn’t judge, but when the collection plate is handed around she rarely puts in more than fifty pence.’

  ‘Do you and Matt go to church every week?’

  ‘We do at the moment. It’s a gorgeous old building and I want to get married there so we have become parishioners. It’s quite good fun. The vicar is young and his sermons are relevant to the modern day. Come to think of it, he’s also single. What are you up to tomorrow morning?’

  ‘My dad’s coming over to help me with a few things,’ I say, shaking my head at her.

  ‘Not to worry, there’ll be plenty of other opportunities. You will come to the service on Christmas Eve, won’t you?’

  ‘Only if you promise not to
introduce me as Carol, your single neighbour.’

  ‘Deal. Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that there are no more tins of goodies stashed under the table so when we’ve sold this lot we can pack up and go back to mine to tot up how much we made.’

  The thought that we are on the final stretch brings a smile to my numb face that seems to attract even more customers. Either that, or the realisation that there isn’t going to be any stock left at the end to reduce in price. Within fifteen minutes, every last crumb has been sold and we are packing up when Sally calls me over. She is talking to a man in his early forties and although he has a kind face he’s not my type at all. I hope she’s not going to embarrass us both.

  ‘Carol, this is Darren. Remember I mentioned him to you when we were talking about gardening the other day?’

  Relief washes over me. I’m cold, tired and not in the mood for being polite to men that Sally views as prospective boyfriend material.

  ‘When would you like me to start on the garden?’ he asks, eagerly.

  ‘Once Christmas is out of the way,’ I reply.

  ‘That’s a date,’ he says, pumping my arm up and down before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas, it’s definitely not!’ I say to Sally.

  She just smiles and raises her eyebrows. I can see I’m going to have a job on my hands when it comes to stopping her attempts at matchmaking.

  Chapter 6

  It was no surprise that Sally had invited a fourth person to supper to ‘even out the numbers’, as she put it. Rob is a team-mate of Matt’s and they arrive back from their match around seven, already the worse for wear, having celebrated a crushing victory over their local rivals Nexton United in the pub on the way home.