Wickham Hall: Part Four - White Christmas

by Cathy Bramley

  I shook my head. Full of surprises, our Jim; he lived a quiet life in a tenanted cottage while other members of his family lived a life of luxury. ‘Betty’s sister sounds like she was quite well-to-do.’

  ‘So was Betty when I met her.’ He nodded wistfully. ‘Elizabeth Charlotte Simpson Jones as she was then. Her father was less than impressed when I asked his permission to marry her. Refused point blank and told Betty that if she married me he’d cut all ties with her.’

  ‘Why?’ I huffed. ‘I would have thought any man would be proud to welcome you into his family.’

  ‘Albert Simpson Jones was a judge.’ He shrugged. ‘I was just Jim Badger, handyman at Wickham Hall. He thought I was beneath her.’

  ‘She must have really loved you.’ I felt a pang at the thought of the young woman torn between her lover and her family.

  ‘Why? Because she put up with being called Betty Badger? Go on, you can laugh; I don’t mind.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I giggled, clamping a hand over my mouth. ‘No, actually, I think that’s a very sweet name. I meant giving up her family and her wealthy lifestyle.’

  ‘What can I say?’ he smirked, leaning back and resting his hands behind his head. ‘I was worth it.’

  We laughed for a moment before his face grew serious.

  ‘I did tackle her about that,’ he said, ‘because I was worried that one day she might regret it. But you know what she said?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘She said that when you fall in love with someone, you fall in love with the person they are and not their job or their bank balance and that people are people and we shouldn’t put one above another.’ He sniffed. ‘So I married her and we’ve been together for over fifty years.’

  ‘Oh, Jim. That is the sweetest thing I ever heard.’ I reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘And did her family ever forgive her?’

  ‘Yes. Old Albert was quite a decent chap in the end. So all was well.’

  ‘A happy ending,’ I said, standing to leave. ‘I’m glad. I’d better be off; our celebrity chef is due any second and I want to check that Jenny doesn’t flirt with him too outrageously.’

  ‘Hold on, aren’t you going to tell Santa what you want for Christmas first?’ He settled his red hat on his head and rested his hands on his tummy. ‘Go on, I’m ready.’

  ‘Oh gosh,’ I chewed my lip. ‘Let me think.’

  I wanted to be Ben’s girlfriend, I wanted Lady Fortescue to be overjoyed for us and I wanted the airmail letter from Italy to bring good news . . .

  My shoulders lifted in an almighty sigh. ‘I want the impossible, Santa.’

  ‘It’s Christmas, Holly, anything can happen.’ He laughed, tapping his nose. ‘You might get lucky.’

  I kissed Jim’s cheek and said goodbye, pausing in the workshop to stand on a stool and fix Andy’s mistletoe posy to the ceiling with a pin.

  Let’s hope Jim is right, I thought, maybe this Christmas I will get lucky . . .

  Chapter 6

  I left Jim in his cosy grotto and scurried across the courtyard to the café, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the icy wind. But despite the cold, I paused for a moment at the door.

  Decked out in its festive finery, the café looked delightful. Jenny had suggested that all the decorations in here should be in keeping with the Elizabethan food event she was running today. So we had held back on the silver glitter, making use of the abundant greenery from the grounds instead. Swags of bay, laurel, holly and ivy ran along the serving counter and around the ceiling beams, adding traditional festive charm. Tall fat candles encircled with rosemary and thyme coronets created a gentle glow and the overall aroma when I opened the door was rich and pungent.

  The usual café tables and chairs had been put into storage for the day and the space had been set up theatre-style around a demo table near the kitchen doors. Jenny had purloined a couple of electric hobs from somewhere although they didn’t have an oven out front, so one of her helpers would be on hand to ferry food to and from the kitchens. Rachel, Jenny’s sous chef, was at the table arranging a series of ceramic dishes full of ingredients for Daniel’s menu.

  And there, sitting at a table to the side of the demo area, almost concealed behind a pile of cookery books, was Daniel Denton himself.

  Our celebrity chef had arrived.

  I had watched three episodes of his series Kitchen Secrets last night back-to-back, so I thought I knew what to expect. His TV persona was of an enthusiastic octopus on speed; he waved his arms endlessly, darted from cooker to fridge to workbench as though his pants were on fire and he could crack an egg with one hand while stirring cheese sauce with another. Even his blond floppy hair seemed to be in constant motion. I felt exhausted just watching him and to top it off the show was set to music with a constant dance beat that he nodded and twitched his shoulders to. He didn’t talk much, but he had a habit of winking at the camera just before slamming something in the oven.

  But when I crossed the Coach House Café, I was quite taken aback. Daniel Denton was hunched over his coffee, scowling at a coiffured redhead who was brandishing a clipboard. He didn’t look at all like his on-screen personality.

  Jenny was at my side instantly.

  ‘Come and meet Daniel and Portia,’ she said breathlessly, grabbing my arm. ‘Isn’t he divine? And those pale eyes, so beguiling; I’ve been a total fan girl ever since he arrived. And yes, I do know he’s married, but I can’t help myself. Come and say hello and please pinch me if I say anything inappropriate.’

  I did as I was told and followed Jenny to where Portia was arranging copies of her husband’s books in a fan shape on the table.

  ‘Will you sign one of your books for me now in case we run out?’ Jenny asked once the introductions had been made. She delved into her pockets for her money.

  I bit the inside of my cheek to hide my smile; she was so star-struck that she could barely meet his eye and her face had turned a deep shade of pink, which toned beautifully with her aubergine-coloured hair.

  ‘Sure,’ Daniel replied flatly, picking up a black pen.

  ‘And we’ve bought DVDs as well,’ said Portia. ‘Don’t forget to sell those too, Daniel.’

  He sighed by way of response.

  ‘So what do you think of Wickham Hall, Daniel?’ I asked, undaunted by his lack of interest.

  ‘Yeah, great,’ Daniel muttered.

  ‘It is sweet,’ Portia conceded, casting a glance around the café. ‘Although, you’re lucky to get Daniel at a venue like this. We’re only here for some practice in front of a live audience. This time next year we’ll be aiming much higher.’

  Charming.

  I heard Jenny exhale through her nose and I was slightly concerned she was going to say something that we all would regret when Daniel’s chair gave a screech as he pushed it back and stood up.

  ‘I need some air,’ he grunted before stomping out of the café.

  Jenny and I exchanged looks but Portia just smiled smoothly and handed Jenny her change.

  ‘My goal, our goal,’ she corrected herself, ‘for next year is to break into the live food show circuit – London, Glasgow, Manchester. They all have a big reach and I think they’ll build his brand in a more experiential way than TV. His public need to meet him in the flesh.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. Whatever experiential meant.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Portia with a tight smile. ‘I’ll go and retrieve him.’

  Jenny and I watched her leave the café and scan the courtyard for her errant celebrity husband.

  ‘He’s a bit . . . well, sullen,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Jenny, biting her lip. ‘At first I thought he was just remaining aloof, like stars do, you know. He was more responsive when we had a run-through of the schedule and he was very complimentary about the ingredients for today’s dishes. He said he’d never seen such a plump goose.’

  ‘She’s got him, look,’ I said with relief, as Portia and Daniel, han
d in hand, arrived back. They looked frozen.

  ‘Phew,’ Jenny breathed. ‘We’re supposed to be starting any minute.’

  Tickets to our celebrity chef demonstration had included a tour of the Wickham Hall Christmas decorations first so that all guests, including my mum, would arrive at the café at the same time and right on cue, at twelve o’clock, Marjorie opened the door that led from the hall’s main corridor and Daniel’s audience flocked in.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ cried Jenny, extending her arms, ‘to Wickham Hall’s first ever celebrity cooking demonstration. Please put your hands together for Daniel Denton.’

  I waved at Mum who’d managed to be one of the first in, and everyone began to clap as Daniel dragged himself up from his chair, raised a hand briefly and sat back down abruptly.

  Jenny’s eyes flicked over to me and I shrugged discreetly. I sincerely hoped that he would perk up when he donned his pinny, or this could be Wickham Hall’s last ever celebrity cooking demonstration too.

  ‘Refreshments are over here, ladies and gentleman!’ Jenny indicated the table at the back of the room, which was laden with tea, coffee, water and a selection of Wickham Hall biscuits.

  The crowd immediately surged towards the refreshments and I noticed Portia jabbing a finger at Daniel’s book.

  ‘Ooh yes,’ giggled Jenny, picking up her signed copy. ‘I’d better put this somewhere safe.’

  Portia looked as though she was about to erupt and shook the book harder.

  I cleared my throat and bellowed in my loudest voice: ‘And don’t be shy; Daniel will be signing copies of his new book, Kitchen Secrets, which will make a perfect Christmas present, or a treat for yourself.’

  ‘Bugger,’ Jenny whispered with a grimace. ‘I was meant to say that.’

  ‘No harm done.’ I patted her arm and made a beeline for my mum.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’ I kissed her cheek. ‘Having a good time?’

  ‘Best event I’ve ever been to here, love.’ She beamed. Her hair was tumbling out of its bun and she had sparkly Christmas tree earrings in. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

  I shook my head with a laugh. ‘Jenny organized this one; Daniel Denton is her contact.’

  ‘I’m proud of you anyway.’ She pointed to her bag. ‘I’ve bought one of his books and had it signed for Steve for Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, nice.’ I arched my eyebrows. ‘Is Steve a keen cook?’

  ‘Well,’ Mum’s face coloured and she pressed a hand to her hair, ‘to be honest, Holly, I don’t really know. But a bit of encouragement never hurt anyone, did it?’

  I left her to her cup of tea and wandered off to find Jenny; time was ticking on and we really needed to seat the audience.

  It takes time, I supposed, to find out everything about the one you love. That’s part of the fun of those early days. Now that I thought about it, I knew all sorts of random things about Ben: he liked mustard on his sausages, often kept a paintbrush behind his ear and, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time, he was coming home in four sleeps . . .

  ‘Psst, Holly!’ Jenny hissed at me, bringing me out of my daydream.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Give me strength,’ muttered Jenny, dragging me into the kitchen. ‘Where’s his celebrity charisma? Where’s his stage presence? I’m tempted to grab him by the lapels of that denim jacket and yell, “Cheer up, it’s Christmas!”’

  I sucked in a worried breath. ‘I know what you mean, Jenny. But at least he’s here. I thought for one awful moment that he had left for good when he stormed off.’

  ‘Most of the ladies have been here before to one of my demos. They’re expecting something special. And they’ve paid handsomely for a ticket. I hope this doesn’t all go belly up, chick.’

  ‘Give him a chance, Jenny.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘He was probably up with the lark this morning to get here on time from Manchester. And from what I saw of his on-screen persona, I doubt he could keep that enthusiasm up for long. I imagine he saves the “crazy chef” routine until the last moment to preserve his energy.’

  She eyed me doubtfully. ‘But all his emails and tweets have been so chatty and bubbly.’

  ‘He’s probably just working himself up to it slowly; I’m sure this will be the best Christmas event the Coach House Café has ever seen. If it’s any consolation, my mum thinks it’s great.’ I smiled.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she sighed, smoothing her whites down neatly, ‘because right now I’m feeling less than festive myself.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, that’s probably because you aren’t wearing a Christmas jumper.’ I raised an eyebrow and flicked at her chef whites. ‘Didn’t you get the memo?’

  She snorted and undid the poppers on her jacket. ‘I thought I’d be too hot, but my bra’s got jingle bells on. Watch.’

  We both giggled as she shimmied and tiny bells tinkled along the top of her bra.

  ‘Perhaps that’s the answer to Daniel’s depressed face,’ I suggested. ‘Give him a flash. I defy anyone to keep a straight face looking at that cleavage.’

  Jenny shuddered. ‘Portia would kill me with one of her stares. I wouldn’t dare!’

  At that moment, the kitchen doors swung open and Portia appeared, her forehead creased and her lips pressed together sourly. ‘Sorry to barge in, but have either of you seen Daniel?’

  After five seconds of staring at each other in sheer panic, the three of us split up and went looking for our incredible vanishing chef. Portia decided to brave the men’s toilets, Jenny ran along the corridor to the Great Hall and I went outside.

  I found him in about thirty seconds.

  He was sitting astride Jenny’s Harley-Davidson, making revving noises under his breath.

  ‘Daniel!’ I exclaimed breathlessly. ‘Did you get lost? We’ve all been looking for you. Portia’s beside herself.’

  He glanced up at me for a second. ‘I can’t do it.’

  I honestly think my blood ran cold as I imagined having to face a disappointed audience in the café. Not to mention Jenny.

  ‘Look, these people are your fans. Surely you don’t want to let them down?’

  ‘I never wanted to come in the first place,’ he said morosely. ‘I was supposed to be having a day off Christmas shopping with my brother today. Portia kept it as a surprise.’

  I was confused. ‘But you’re a celebrity chef; aren’t you living the dream?’

  ‘I love to cook,’ he said, climbing down off the bike. ‘Big difference.’

  I frowned, remembering the tweets and emails that Jenny had proudly shown me over the last few months.

  Daniel lowered himself onto the step of the kitchen service door and I squeezed next to him, shivering as the cold shot up my spine.

  ‘But you accepted Jenny’s invitation on Twitter. Why do that if you never intended to come?’

  ‘Not me; I’ve never even been on Twitter.’ He shook his head, staring down at his feet. ‘Portia does all that . . . social media stuff. She says it’s important for profile-building.’ He shrugged. ‘I just want to be in the kitchen, cooking. I never wanted to be a celebrity.’

  My heart sank as I looked at my watch. The audience was expecting the demo to start in seven minutes. And I had a celebrity chef who didn’t even want to be a celebrity, let alone cook.

  I scrabbled around for something motivating to say, but before anything profound came to mind, Daniel turned to me and blinked his solemn grey eyes.

  ‘You know my show Kitchen Secrets?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That started as a joke because I never let anyone else in the kitchen with me. I’m quite a private person; I cook for myself, for relaxation. I crank up the music, throw myself into my cooking and lose myself in my own world. My wife pushed me to audition for TV. Sometimes I think she gets more out of it than I do; it’s certainly given her career a boost.’

  ‘But you look completely at home behind the camera, why don’t you want to do this demo?’ I asked, attempting to keep the
frustration out of my voice.

  ‘A camera – yes. Just me and a cameraman in the kitchen.’ He gulped and his face seemed to drain of all colour. ‘Not several hundred pairs of eyes all staring at me, waiting for me to make a mistake.’

  I sighed inwardly; Jenny, our very own chef, could not only cook, but was a great entertainer too. She would jump at the chance to be in his place. What a shame that all these people had come to see him and not her. Unless, of course, they could work as a double act . . .

  I jumped to my feet. ‘Just wait there, don’t move a muscle.’

  Ten minutes later Daniel, Jenny and I were assembled in the kitchen, waiting while the audience settled themselves into their seats. Portia was at the book-signing table trying to flog DVDs.

  ‘Jenny will do most of the talking,’ I soothed. ‘You just do the cheffy bits.’

  He nodded nervously.

  Jenny winked at me. ‘And Daniel, if you start to panic, just hum “Jingle Bells”.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  His jaw dropped as Jenny ripped open her top and wiggled her chest at him. ‘Every time you hum, I’ll come to your rescue.’

  A smile spread across his face and he shook his head. ‘I’ve seen it all now.’

  ‘Not quite all.’ She grinned. ‘I’ve got matching knickers. Now come on, we’ve got an Elizabethan Christmas dinner to dish up to a hundred hungry fans.’

  She linked arms with him and the two of them strode into the café singing ‘Jingle Bells’ quietly to themselves.

  ‘So now that the roast goose is in the oven, we’re going to crack on with the potted pheasant. I’ll start the cider reduction, while Daniel prepares the pheasant.’

  I hovered at the side of the demo area, completely entranced. I know she’s my friend and I know I’m biased, but Jenny Plum really was a star; not only was she able to slice onions at speed whilst making eye contact with the audience, but she was also full of trivia and titbits of the origins of the dishes the two of them were creating. What’s more, she was brilliant at drawing Daniel into the conversation . . .