Comfort and Joy

by Cathy Bramley

  Comfrey and Sage bounced up for some fuss, endeavouring to lick my face as I bent down to stroke them. They quickly detected the bag from the butchers and it took me a good few seconds of fending them off while I got the shopping to safety in the kitchen to realize that there was gentle music coming from the living room. Joy fizzed up inside me; Tom was home after all and he was playing my Christmas playlist by the sound of it.

  ‘Hello?’ I poked my head round the door and with impeccable timing, a switch was flicked, the darkness vanished and twinkling lights lit up a delightful Christmas tree in front of the sash window.

  ‘Ta-dah!’ Tom crawled out from underneath it, where presumably he’d just plugged the lights in. ‘Surprise!’

  ‘A tree, you got us a Christmas tree!’ I exclaimed, clapping a hand to my mouth. ‘Oh, my favourite thing about Christmas. I’m so happy.’

  ‘Not just a tree,’ he said, in that musical Irish accent that I could listen to all day. He waved his arm around the room.

  He’d made it all so cosy and comfy and gorgeously festive.

  There was a garland of holly and ivy over the fireplace, logs were burning in the grate, a bunch of mistletoe hung from the ceiling and more lights were strung around the windows. On top of that, the gentle tones of The Pretenders singing ‘2000 Miles’ filled the air.

  ‘You remembered!’ I said, feeling ridiculously emotional. ‘My all-time favourite Christmas song.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a Christmas hero.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, thank you,’ I said, swallowing a lump in my throat. ‘It’s magical. And you’ve worked so hard.’

  As ever the sight of him sent tingles down my spine. His dark hair was tousled and sexy, a shadow of stubble lined his jaw and those eyes, as warm and intoxicating as brandy, were dancing with happiness. But now, it was his efforts to secretly decorate the room for me that completely stole my breath away.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said with a grin, switching on two more sets of lights, battery-operated this time: one strung across the mantelpiece and another over the mirror by the dining table. ‘I couldn’t have that forlorn little face of yours sighing over the lack of Christmassy-ness in our cottage a moment longer. So I bought the last tree in the shop off Pete the greengrocer, plus all that green stuff and cleared the mini supermarket out of fairy lights and batteries while I was at it.’

  My heart swelled with love for him. ‘And that is why I adore you, Tom MacDonald.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart.’

  He rubbed a hand through his hair, causing a shower of pine needles, and we both laughed.

  ‘Merry Christmas to you too,’ I murmured, stepping closer and tugging the front of his shirt. ‘Let me say thank you properly.’

  I kissed him as he wrapped his arms round me and we stood for a moment, enjoying the feel of our bodies melting into each other.

  ‘Two whole days of no work and the end of the Christmas menu,’ said Tom with a satisfied sigh. ‘No more turkeys to roast, no more dealing with tipsy office parties and their scandalous behaviour outside in the smokers’ shelter.’

  ‘No more “How to create the ultimate Christmas lunch”, no more “Festive Feasts”,’ I said, joining in.

  As much as I enjoyed Christmas, and loved the start of the season when everyone was excited to get into the Christmas spirit, now I was looking forward to the new course schedule I’d put together at the cookery school. Things like ‘Fresh and Fruity’, and ‘Sow, Grow and Glow’, entirely different to the indulgent courses of December. My jeans would thank me for it too; they’d been feeling a bit snug of late with all this lovely calorific food.

  ‘Christmas in Plumberry. Just you and me.’ He paused to brush his lips against mine, ran his hands down to my bottom and squeezed it playfully. ‘I’m loving it already; I think it’s going to be perfect.’

  ‘It will be, Tom.’ I threaded my arms around his neck and kissed him back. ‘It will be.’

  We kissed in the firelight, with the dogs snoozing on the floor beside us. The only sounds were the patter of rain on the windows, the crackle of the fire and the Christmas playlist, which added a festive soundtrack to the moment. This year was going to be a quiet one and if I was totally honest, quiet ones weren’t normally my favourite. I pushed aside all thoughts of family and the mayhem of Christmas mornings gone by, and the steamed-up kitchen as Mum and I tried to get all the vital parts of Christmas lunch ready at the same time. This year would be different, that was all, but it would be equally special. I had a lovely cosy home, tons of delicious food and a wonderful man who loved me, and really, who could ask for more than that?

  Later on I made dinner – a comforting dish of mac and cheese, flecked with crispy pancetta – watched beadily by Comfrey and Sage, their bright eyes ever hopeful for scraps, while Tom festooned more battery-operated lights around the stair banister, the kitchen cupboards and even our bed.

  The rain had begun to ease up but we had the radio on quietly in the background while we ate and according to the weather forecast, there were more showers on the way. We listened with dismay to the stories of people whose Christmas had already been ruined by the worsening floods.

  ‘I hope Plumberry escapes the worst of it; I’d hate for the restaurant to be flooded’ said Tom, adding a twist of black pepper to his last mouthful of pasta. ‘Hawthorn Cottage certainly won’t be affected. Well done, us, for choosing a home at the top of the hill.’

  ‘Yes, although lots of people’s travel plans have already gone awry. Look at Harriet. And Jack is devastated,’ I said with a pang of sadness. ‘His children mean so much to him. I don’t know how he and Annabel will celebrate the day tomorrow now. He really wanted a family Christmas.’

  I let out a sigh and Tom reached across the table to take my hand.

  ‘And you?’ His dark eyes held my gaze. ‘You’re not fooling me, Verity Bloom. I know you wanted to visit your family in Canada this year. I’m sorry I couldn’t make that happen for you.’

  ‘Oh no, please don’t be sorry!’ I squeezed his fingers. ‘Of course I miss everyone, but with moving in here, and you starting up Dinner at Tom’s there was no way we could afford flights to Canada right now.’

  Tom frowned. ‘I guess we could have gone back to Ireland to be with my folks.’

  I pushed my chair back from the table and wiggled my way onto his lap.

  ‘Tom MacDonald,’ I said as I wrapped my arms round his neck, ‘we both needed to work on Christmas Eve, therefore we couldn’t have gone anyway, so stop torturing yourself. And tomorrow, I get to have you all to myself for the whole of Christmas. I count myself extremely fortunate. Besides, we’re spending New Year with your family and I’m really looking forward to that.’

  Tom’s family had come over from Northern Ireland to celebrate the opening of his restaurant last month and I’d clicked with his mum instantly. They had invited us to spend a few days with them in Ballyrush only a few miles from the Giant’s Causeway next week and were throwing a party in our honour on New Year’s Eve. It would be great to see all the places that meant so much to Tom when he was growing up and by the sound of it, his family farmhouse was enormous, so there’d be plenty of room for us.

  ‘I’m glad you think that,’ he said, pressing a tender kiss to my lips, ‘because I feel the same. Now why don’t you get cosy in front of the fire and I’ll bring you through an Irish coffee?’

  ‘Deal,’ I said, returning his kiss.

  Because that should give me enough time to quickly wrap his gift and stash it under the tree with the other presents without him noticing.

  I didn’t quite make it. Five minutes later he carried a tray into the living room and found me on my hands and knees under the tree, seemingly snooping. I gave a yelp and jumped to my feet.

  ‘Busted!’ He smirked. ‘Step away from the Christmas presents, naughty girl.’

  ‘Just looking at the ones with the tartan ribbon; I hadn’t spotted them before, that’s all,’ I said, hop
ing he didn’t notice my blushing face in the flickering light of the fire.

  ‘A likely story,’ he teased, setting the tray down on the side table. ‘You weren’t searching for a gift from me, then?’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head rapidly and crossing my fingers behind my back. I so was. ‘Absolutely not.’

  I mean, I know we’d said ‘no presents’ because we’d spent so much money moving house. But honestly, who ever sticks to silly rules like that? I’d been bursting to break the rule ever since we made it two weeks ago. I’d almost managed it, but seeing that set of whiskies in Annabel’s shop, and thinking about Tom not having anything to open from me tomorrow … I just couldn’t do it. And I was sure he felt the same. True, I hadn’t seen anything to me with his handwriting on the tag, but he was probably hiding it.

  He handed me my Irish coffee. He’d made them in tall latte glasses and I watched as the cream swirled and blended with the coffee: a marriage of two delicious flavours. I sipped at the top and felt the liqueur-infused coffee warm the back of my throat.

  ‘Scrumptious,’ I said, twinkling my eyes at him and hoping for a change in conversation. ‘Did you use that special coffee?’

  He wasn’t buying it.

  ‘Tell me you’re not one of those who say, “ooh, let’s not do presents” and then get disappointed when your other half does what he’s told?’ he said with a smirk.

  It occurred to me briefly that Tom MacDonald was completely his own man and had little interest in doing what he was told. But I kept quiet and gulped at my coffee again, swallowed too much and the alcohol brought tears to my eyes.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said in a high-pitched voice. I glanced worriedly at the present I’d just put under the tree for him. Just to be on the safe side, I’d nip down in the night and change the label on it, to avoid any arguments. Although I was still convinced he’d have got me something, wouldn’t he?

  ‘Good.’ He chinked his glass against mine. ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I chimed merrily. Damn. Looks like I’d underestimated his resolve.

  ‘In my family,’ I said, kneeling in front of the fireplace and adding another couple of logs to the flames, ‘it’s tradition to cut into the Christmas cake on Christmas Eve. Shall we do that?’

  ‘Later,’ said Tom softly. He kneeled beside me on the rug and lifting the neck of my shirt aside, began a trail of kisses along my collarbone and down towards my cleavage. ‘But I’ve been thinking that we might start a new tradition for Christmas Eve of our own. Right here.’

  I found that I rather liked our first new tradition.

  Christmas morning at home

  Early the next morning, I was having a brilliant dream. I was on stage in an Irish dancing outfit, a short green and white dress edged with tinsel and lined with petticoats that swirled as I kicked, tapped and leapt into the air to the hypnotic beat of an Irish bodhrán. The sound of an entire dance troupe, with me in the centre, feet clattering in unison, hammered in my ears. The audience cheered and urged us on with their clapping as our feet flew faster and faster. I kicked high – higher than I’ve ever kicked in my life – my legs almost doing the splits in the air and then a gorgeous man, with his shirt undone to his waist stepped forward and called my name and beckoned me towards him.

  ‘Verity? Verity?’

  I jigged on and on until the man shook my arm, harder and harder until I couldn’t ignore him any longer. I opened my eyes to find Tom grinning at me in the grey dawn light, the duvet hanging off the bed and Comfrey and Sage giving me dirty looks from the floor.

  ‘You just kicked us,’ he whispered. ‘I managed to stay in the bed but the boys got catapulted off.’

  I blinked at him, my heart still racing and the rhythm of the drum still pounding in my ears.

  ‘I was dancing,’ I said, confused. ‘Can’t you hear the beat of the Irish music?’

  ‘No,’ Tom chuckled and pulled me into his arms. I snuggled up to him, my head on his chest as he tugged the duvet back in place. ‘It’s just the rain drubbing on the roof,’ he said, kissing the top of my head. ‘But I like your description much better.’

  ‘The rain? Jeepers!’ I strained to listen; Tom was right. It was chucking it down out there. I sent up a silent prayer, hoping that all my friends were OK, and turned my attention to my lovely man who had closed his eyes again.

  ‘Anyway, Happy Christmas, gorgeous,’ I said, wriggling upwards to kiss him properly. ‘I’m sorry I kicked you but you’re awake now and you know what that means …’

  His eyes sparked with interest. ‘What?’

  I gave him a little shove. ‘It’s your turn to make the tea.’

  The dogs squeaked softly to be lifted back on the bed and we had a little cuddle while Tom, my Christmas hero, went downstairs to put the kettle on. I giggled to myself. We’d only been living together officially for a short time but we’d already fallen into an early-morning routine: Tom always made the tea while I lay in bed snatching a last few minutes of sleep. The he’d get back into bed and read out snippets of news from the BBC website to me as I sipped my tea and gathered my thoughts for the day. Now, Comfrey settled on my chest and Sage stretched out along my legs and I patted them both absentmindedly, while congratulating myself for remembering to sneak downstairs and change the label on Tom’s Christmas present. The set of three whiskies was now addressed to the dogs, but only in a tongue-in-cheek way; I was sure Tom wouldn’t really mind me breaking the no gift rule and, in truth, I still held out a glimmer of hope that he’d broken it too.

  Ten minutes later Tom appeared at the bedroom door carrying not tea, but a tray of champagne and croissants.

  I snapped on my bedside lamp and sat up instantly. ‘Just when I didn’t think I could love you any more.’

  ‘I thought we should celebrate our first Christmas morning in style,’ he said with a grin, pouring us a glass each.

  ‘Can this be another new Christmas tradition, please?’ I said, sipping at the bubbles. ‘This is my new favourite way to wake up on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Definitely.’ He gazed at me quietly for a moment. ‘Until one day maybe we’re sharing Christmas morning with our baby and need to act more responsibly.’

  My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t imagine a more idyllic start to Christmas and I loved that we both had the same hopes of having a family together.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I said, not even bothering to hide my beaming smile.

  We spent a delicious few minutes with our breakfast in bed until Tom wiped his hands on a napkin decorated with holly – seriously, the man had thought of everything – and reached for his phone.

  ‘Right, let’s hear the latest news about the flooding this morning.’

  I snuggled up against his chest and listened as he scrolled through the headlines. The flooding had hit York terribly: city centre roads were under water, Christmas decorations floating down the street, fire crews and army rescuing people from their homes. My heart ached for them.

  I got out of bed and crossed to the window. Outside the sky was still grey and cloudy. All the plants in next door’s front garden had been battered by the rain and water ran down past our house in streams at each side of the road.

  I turned to Tom, frowning. ‘I think we should get up, walk into the village and check on the restaurant. There’s a good chance it will be flooded, possibly the cookery school too.’

  He nodded, flipped the duvet back and joined me at the window. Just as he wrapped his arms round my waist there was a clunk throughout the house and my bedside light snapped off.

  ‘Power cut,’ muttered Tom, after trying the lamp on his side of the bed.

  I groaned. ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘We’ll have to go and check on both businesses.’ He stepped closer and smirked. ‘On the other hand, we’ve got candles, a log fire and each other. This fits my plan for a romantic morning perf—’

  Before he got to the end of the sentence there wa
s a sharp knock at the door. I looked down out of the window to see a shape huddled under a big pink and black umbrella.

  I stared at Tom. ‘Harriet?’

  The power cut

  I pulled on my dressing gown, ran down the dark staircase – followed closely by the dogs who were yelping with excitement – and opened the door.

  ‘Hello! Merry Christmas! Oh!’ I took in the smudges of purple beneath her big grey eyes, her pale face and downcast expression. ‘Is everything OK?’

  I looked past her to see if her boyfriend was with her, but there was no one else in sight. I did, however, spot the same carrier bag in her hand that she’d had last night, plus a couple of others. Comfrey and Sage spotted them too and began bouncing up at them.

  Harriet lifted the largest bag out of the dogs’ reach and gave me a rueful smile.

  ‘If you call finding out that your boyfriend is actually engaged to someone else and you’re completely on your own at Christmas and that your entire family is furious with you for not bringing them the turkey, then, yes,’ her chin wobbled ominously, ‘everything’s marvellous.’

  ‘Oh Harriet, you poor thing.’ I stood aside and gestured for her to come in. ‘I’ll get the kettle on and you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘Thank you, I could do with a hot drink.’ She lowered her umbrella, left it to drip on the doorstep and I pulled her into a hug. ‘I’m sorry to gatecrash today of all days, but so far this has been hands down my worst Christmas ever.’

  I held her bags for her while she eased her feet out of her wellies and then took her coat from her.

  ‘We’ll have to do something about that straightaway,’ Tom put in, bounding down the stairs, tightening the belt of his dressing gown. ‘I lit the fire earlier; we can heat some water on the flames in no time.’

  ‘The power cut!’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Harriet with a sob catching in her throat. ‘And I was hoping to buy myself an invitation to lunch with you by bringing round my mammoth turkey for us to share.’