A Winterfold Christmas

by Harriet Evans

“Yes,” she said, still with her eyes closed. “Sorry, I do, yes.”

  “Why have I never heard it before? It’s magnificent.”

  “Because I’ve been too shy around you. Too—silly.”

  “Around me?” He sounded completely flabbergasted. “Why on earth around me?”

  “Orlando—oh, you lovely man. You lovely, sweet man who looks like a handsome owl man.”

  “What?” he said, grinning at her. “I think that rum’s gone to your head too.”

  She put her hand on his knee. “I fell for you the first moment I walked into the office and saw you wrestling with the printer,” she said, smiling gently at him. “Honestly, I did.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. But I thought you were too ascetic, or whatever the word is, to take a wife.” She stopped, horrified. “I mean, not that I thought about it like that. Wives, and everything. I mean—you know.” She waved her hands. Stop saying “wife.” “Never mind. I just mean, I always thought you were sad. And that you weren’t interested in . . . in girls, or love, or romance, or anything. That’s why I asked you to live with me. I knew you’d be a great flatmate, and I was so sure by then that you wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off.

  “That’s terrible. I was so downcast when you asked me to live with you, because I knew it meant you only wanted to be friends. And I’ve been in love with you for months.” He was blinking at her, utterly surprised. He took her hand in both of his. “Well. This is something of a turn-up for the books.”

  His hands rested on her lap as she sat on her knees. She reached to clasp them both—warm, sensitive, long fingers, the stubby chewed nails—and kissed him again.

  “Listen,” said Lucy suddenly. “Come to Winterfold for Christmas. I’m going tomorrow. You’re off tomorrow, aren’t you? Please come.”

  “Isn’t that a bit—”

  “I’m not asking you because we’ve just kissed,” she said, flushing brightly. “Only because you can’t be with your aunt and your family, who are awful. Better to be alone with a good book and some telly than with them. Or with us. Really, we’d love to have you. I’ll call my grandmother and check in the morning. But she’ll be fine, I promise.”

  Orlando rubbed his nose and poured her another glass of rum, which was next to them on the floor. He leaned forward and kissed her. “Can I really come there with you? Isn’t that a bit weird?”

  “No, honestly, everyone’s welcome there. There’s always extras. Only if you promise you’ll never make me eat beef,” said Lucy seriously. “I absolutely hate the stuff, and that’s the one part of your story I have to comment on now, okay? I hate beef.”

  “Well, it’s just as well I’ve given up being a cattle farmer, then,” said Orlando.

  Lucy laughed. “Absolutely. Better throw your lot in with me. I’m going to move to the countryside and have a massive garden and two dogs and be a freelance journalist who runs a bespoke present-wrapping service on the side.” She chewed her lip. “I’m only half-joking.”

  “Brilliant. Can I come with you then, please? When are we off ?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said, kissing him again. “First thing tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and more tomorrows after that.”

  Orlando’s Hot Buttered Rum

  Makes 1 thermos

  1 stick of butter (125g)

  5/8 cup (125g) soft brown sugar

  2 cups (500ml) dark rum (not spiced rum or coconut rum—get out of here if you’ve got coconut-flavored rum)

  ½ tsp. each of cinnamon, allspice, and nutmeg

  a little hot water, about ¼ cup (50ml)

  Melt the butter slowly. Add the sugar and stir, taking care to mix in. Add the rum slowly, and bring to a very gentle simmer, then add the spices. Finally, add the hot water and mix together. Leave to cool just a little. Pour into a thermos flask and serve around a bonfire.

  Very important tip 1: Make sure the thermos lid is screwed on tightly (otherwise you’ll have buttery rum all over everything).

  Very important tip 2: Shake well before pouring.

  Winterfold

  Christmas Eve

  The house was built for Christmas: thick stone walls that took an age to heat up when you came back from being away but that, once warmed up, stayed that way for months. Lights twinkled outside, and through the sitting-room window the flare of the golden fire glinted on the leaded windowpanes.

  Lucy and Luke stood with their noses pressed up against the window, looking out over the garden. The morning’s hard frost had eased off a little, but upon the grass and on the birdhouse and the shed you could see the last of it, glinting slowly in the sinking rays of the sun. In the kitchen, Carols from King’s rang out loudly on the radio, loud enough to be heard by them. Joe was in there, crossing brussels sprouts, helped by Martha.

  “Zach says Santa is only halfway here at the moment. Zach’s dad has an app to track him on his phone. He says he’s only reached Africa. He’s got ages to go yet. What if he doesn’t make it in time?” said Luke, hopping from one leg to the other.

  “He’ll get here,” said Lucy. “It’s Father Christmas, Luke, not Santa.”

  Luke looked at her blankly. “What?”

  “Never mind. Why don’t you come and help me in the kitchen?”

  “No, thanks,” said Luke, extremely politely. “I would, but I don’t want to.”

  “Okay, well, thanks for your honesty,” said Lucy. She went into the kitchen. “Um . . . where’s Orland—hey, Flo! When did you get here? Jim, hello! I didn’t hear the car!” She kissed her aunt and Jim, Florence’s partner.

  Jim said, “We parked at the top of the drive. Where’s Orlando?”

  “Yes,” said Flo. “Where’s Orlando?” She looked around eagerly.

  “Subtle, guys, subtle,” said Lucy. “I don’t know where he is, actually. He disappeared after breakfast this morning. Have you seen him, Joe?”

  Joe was covering the goose in oil, star anise, fennel seed, and salt, rubbing the puckered skin evenly, an expression of extreme concentration wrinkling his brow. “No. What? Don’t know.”

  “How about you, Gran?”

  Martha looked up from her enormous earthenware bowl of greens. She topped and crossed a fresh sprout deftly without looking down. “I don’t know, darling.” She looked over toward Joe. “Oh, the—” she began, then stopped and sucked in her lips.

  “What?” said Lucy curiously.

  “She’s trying to tell me politely that I’m overloading the circuits,” said Joe evenly. “She’s worried the electrics will blow. Because I’ve got the dishwasher on, as well as the Aga and the mixer and the kettle, and the lights keep flashing on and off.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” said Martha in a thin, expressionless tone. “Right, Joe, these sprouts are done. What do you need next?”

  “Nothing, thank you so much, Martha. Why don’t you go—”

  “And relax. I don’t want to. I’d rather be kept busy.”

  “No, honestly, Martha . . .” Joe swung a tea towel over his shoulder, inadvertently hitting Lucy in the eyes.

  She winced, leaning forward. “Ow!”

  “Sorry, oh shit!” Joe said, appalled. “Lucy, are you okay?”

  “It’s fine—”

  “I’ll get the eyewash,” said Martha.

  “She’s fine,” said Joe brusquely.

  Cat, who had appeared in the doorway, said sharply, “Joe! Don’t talk to Gran like that!”

  “I’m not talking to her like anything,” said Joe with a weary note in his voice. He gritted his teeth. “Can’t you all please clear out and let me get on with it?”

  “That’s the problem with you, Joe,” Martha told him, wiggling her forefinger at him. “You think cooking’s a lone sport. It might be in your restaurant, but the Christmas meal isn’t like that. If we don’t all hel
p, then it’s worthless, it’s just an exercise in timed presentation skills. So tell me,” she said, and there was a terrible silence, “what needs doing?”

  “I said,” responded Joe angrily, “I don’t need any help, so why don’t you, all of you—”

  BOOM!

  A huge phutting spark burst out of the socket on the wall, cracking round the room, and flames shot after it. The kitchen went dark and the burglar alarm went off.

  “The electrics!” Martha yelled, as Florence pulled her mother away from the Aga and the socket. “The damned electrics, you’ve bloody blown them! I told you, Joe—”

  “You should have had them fixed,” Joe heard himself shout above the wailing of the alarm, realizing he was talking to the wall and that he couldn’t see properly, as acrid smoke filled the room.

  “Out,” shouted Cat decisively. “Everyone out! Where’s Luke?”

  “In the sitting room,” said Lucy. “I’ll go and get him.”

  “Thanks, Luce.”

  “Everyone out!” yelled Florence, rising to the occasion. “No, Ma, no time to get a coat! Out, out, out!” She picked up the fire extinguisher and deftly pulled the pin. By now the flames had engulfed a wooden shelf, melting a plastic chopping board and a bag of flour, and were spreading across the counter, growing in strength with every second. Florence held the base and sprayed wildly as Cat, standing by the door, pushed the others out one by one.

  Lucy yelled from the front of the house, “Got Luke! Going outside!”

  “Raaaahhh!” yelled Florence, a female Indiana Jones with an extinguisher instead of a bullwhip, as the foam covered Joe’s sausage rolls, his mince pies, the crust on the beef Wellington he’d made for tonight, and the goose, covered in spices and seconds away from having foil placed over it, just seconds. . . .

  An hour later, it was pitch-dark, and candles flickered in the kitchen as two firemen poked gingerly at the offending socket, by now a burned-out hole in the wall. Foam dripped sadly onto the floor, and Joe surveyed the scene. It was total devastation.

  “Yep, this is proper burned out,” said one of the firemen. He turned to Martha. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Winter. There’s no way you’re having a Christmas meal in this kitchen tomorrow.” His eyes roamed the scene before him. “We’ve had to turn off the Aga as well, I’m afraid. The oil might be dangerous.”

  The Aga, the source of warmth in the house, turned off: it was like taking down the sign in front of the house.

  Martha nodded, shoving her hands in her pockets. She turned to Joe. “I’m the one who should be saying sorry, Joe. Your beautiful meal is ruined.”

  “What are you apologizing for?” Joe said, his face half in shadow from the candles. “I’m the one who’s ruined your Christmas, your kitchen—I’ve wrecked the wiring, God knows how much damage it’s caused.”

  “Any of this salvageable?” asked Florence, picking through the dripping, foam-soaked parboiled potatoes. “Gosh, I am sorry. I’ve completely ruined everything.”

  “Not you too,” said Jim, who was in the doorway.

  Joe and Martha looked at each other. “Let’s blame Flo,” said Martha. “Darling, it’d be easier if we all just agreed it was your fault. Then we can overlook that it’s really our fault and we’ve both been behaving appallingly badly. How does that sound?”

  “Fine by me,” said Florence. “Oh dear, though, oh dear.” Her voice broke a little. “There’s absolutely nothing left.”

  “Even if there was,” Martha said quietly, “there’s no way of cooking it.”

  “Don’t you have gas?”

  “No, just the Aga, darling, and they’ve made us turn it off. It’ll take ages to warm back up again—a day or so.”

  Silence fell on the group, as foam dripped steadily onto the counters and the floor. In the darkness of the always-warm kitchen, it felt as though the world had ended.

  The reverie was broken by the back door swinging open and banging hard against the dresser. Joe jumped as Cat and Luke entered, arms laden with logs from the log pile outside and with huge smiles plastered on their faces.

  “Look who we found outside,” said Cat.

  “Dad!” a small voice called. “Dad! Why didn’t you answer the doorbell? I’ve been ringing for ages!”

  “Jamie?” said Joe, totally confused. He raced past the others to the doorway, wondering if he was seeing visions in the darkness of the house. “Jamie, son? Is that you?”

  “Yes!” said Jamie, unwinding his scarf. “I told you! I’ve been ringing the doorbell for ages!”

  “You said you’d be—” came a voice behind Jamie, and Joe froze. “Oh, my God. What’s happened here?”

  It was his ex, Jemma, carrying a bag on her wrist and jingling some car keys. She looked around her.

  “There’s been an electrical fire. The power’s gone off,” said Cat. “Jemma—what are you doing here? How great to see you. I wish we could give you a proper welcome—” She dropped the logs into the basket that Joe slid over toward her feet. “How can we make tea?” she said helplessly to Martha.

  “Stoke up the fire in the sitting room,” said Martha decisively. “I’ll take out the big old metal fireplace hanger, and we can hang the kettle and pots on that. We can boil water in no time—we can even cook pasta on it! We don’t need electricity. We just need a bit of thought. Hello, Jamie,” she said, leaning down. “It’s lovely to see you, old chap.”

  “Thanks,” said Jamie. “’Lo, Luke.”

  “Hi, Jamie! Jamie, come and see our room, because I put a train set around the edge of the beds, and under the beds, and we can do a thing where we make the trains leap over the beds, comme ça, you understand?” He mimed a fish-leaping-out-of-the-water gesture.

  Jamie looked at his father in resigned despair. “Dad,” he said, “tell him to stop talking for a bit, eh?”

  “It’s fine, Jamie. But you two can’t go upstairs till after the firemen have looked around. Go and help Cat in the sitting room. Scoot!” He turned to Jemma. “I didn’t know Jamie was here for Christmas?”

  “I rang you three times this morning, Joe. Didn’t you check your phone?”

  “Not really,” said Joe. “Reception here’s rubbish, and I was working—I mean, cooking Christmas lunch.” He corrected himself before realizing that maybe that was why the whole enterprise had been so fraught—it wasn’t work, shouldn’t be work; it should be more fun than that. “Sorry, Jemma. What’s up?”

  “Ian’s dad’s really ill,” she said. “We have to go to Bournemouth to see him.”

  “I’m so sorry. Is Ian in the car? I’ll go and—”

  “He’s gone on ahead. Joe, I’m sorry about this. His dad’s in the hospital, his mum’s no good with kids. And what fun would it be for Jamie, stuck with them, when he could be at Winterfold, having the time of his life like he always does?” She looked around the kitchen doubtfully. “At least, that’s what I thought. Perhaps—”

  “No,” said Joe. “Leave him here. Of course you should leave him here. It’d be wonderful to have him. Make my Christmas. That’s all I want, to be with my boy at Christmas.” He realized how tactless that sounded, and added, “Jemma, I’m sorry if that means—”

  “Bournemouth’s only an hour and a half away,” she said. “How about if I come over on Boxing Day for lunch? Maybe Ian too, if he thinks he can leave his dad. I don’t know how long we’ll be down there for.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Broken his leg,” she said. “It could have been worse, but he’s eighty-seven, you know. It’s not great.” She smiled. “I had such a lovely Christmas planned, too. Don’t want to go on about it, because it sounds so selfish. Not with all this.”

  He put his arms around her. He and Jemma had had their differences, but he’d always worked as hard as he could to have a good relationship with her. Ian, her husband, was okay too.
How awful, to have this on Christmas Eve. He kissed her hair almost paternally. “Chin up, kiddo. We’re here if you need us, all right?”

  “Sure,” said Jemma. “What the hell are you going to do?”

  Joe shook his head. “No idea.” A grim thought crossed his mind and he looked at his watch. “It’s almost five. Shops’ll be shut soon and all.” He shook his head, wanting to laugh. “Somebody up there really wants me to fail at Christmas, I tell you.”

  “So you’ve no Christmas dinner, no electricity, and the shops are shut.”

  Cat came in again as Jemma was saying this. “I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she said. “We can always raid the pub if necessary, Joe, can’t we? Is Sheila in?”

  “Of course we can. We won’t starve. How many are there of us?”

  Cat counted. “Two, four, five, eight. Eight of us.”

  Just then they heard Lucy calling out from the other room: “Orlando? Orlando, are you there?”

  “Nine,” said Cat, half-apologetically. “I keep forgetting about him. He’s a strange one, isn’t he? Looks as though he’s going to pull his sweater vest over his head and cry if you ask him a question.”

  “I think he’s nice,” said Joe. “We had a good talk yesterday. He knows a lot about foraging and local customs. Grew up on a farm. Proper country boy.”

  “Orlando!” Lucy was yelling.

  “I’d better go,” said Jemma. “You sure this is okay?” She swung her expensive bag over her shoulder. “Can we FaceTime later?”

  “Course,” said Joe. “You want to say bye to Jamie?”

  “I’ll just pop through there now,” she said, and kissed Cat good-bye.

  Alone in the wreckage of the kitchen, Cat put her arm around Joe’s waist and kissed him. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured. “It’s only one day. We’ll sort it.”

  Suddenly very calm, Joe said, “We will, won’t we?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t matter, any of it. We’re all right, Gran’s cheerier, Jamie’s here. It’s still going to be a wonderful Christmas.”

  “But what the hell are we going to actually eat?”