The Great Christmas Knit Off

by Alexandra Brown

  Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.

  ‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’

  ‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of Heartbeat so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.

  ‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.

  ‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ I grin.

  ‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just £4.’ He gives me a helpful look.

  ‘I see. And does the bus go from the stop in the village square?’ I ask, wondering if it’s walkable from the B&B. Last night, Pete drove the tractor in a loop round the top of the village, past the country club, before dipping down a long snowy tree-tunnel winding lane, so I’ve kind of lost my bearings a bit. Lawrence slowly places the map down on the desk and nods his head like he’s deep in thought, before lifting the hatch up and walking around the counter until he’s standing square in front of me with his hands resting on his slim hips, and a big kind smile spread across his face.

  ‘That’s right. Did you spot it on your way here?’

  ‘Yes, last night, and I met a man – a shepherd, um, er, sheep farmer,’ I correct. ‘He was waiting in the shelter for his wife who gave me a flashlight when she turned up. So kind.’

  ‘Ah, that would be Lord Lucan,’ Lawrence says with a deadpan face. It takes me a moment to cotton on.

  ‘Ha ha, you’re winding me up. Come on, I know there’s been speculation for years over the whereabouts of Lord Lucan – I saw the docudrama on TV not so long ago, but I think someone would have noticed if the actual Lord Lucan was hanging out in a bus stop in a snowy rural village late at night,’ I snigger.

  ‘Don’t laugh, Sybs, it’s true. That’s his name, Lord Lucan. Well, Lord Lucan Fuller-Hamilton to be exact. He and Lady Fuller-Hamilton live in Blackwood House – a breathtakingly beautiful Queen Anne mansion set in the grounds of the Blackwood Farm Estate.’

  ‘Wow, really?’ Well, it just goes to show how first impressions really can be very deceiving.

  ‘Yes, really. There’s no grandstanding in Tindledale – doesn’t matter who you are, or if you have an ancestral home here or not, we all rub along together. Did you call the number, by the way?’

  ‘I sure did,’ I grin, feeling light and enjoying our chat; it’s as if I’m somebody else, or another, more relaxed, version of me and not the tetchy, can’t-be-arsed, worn-out Sybil that I am at work in London.

  ‘And?’ he asks, looking intrigued.

  ‘A woman answered and said Tindledale Books, so I hung up.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ he frowns.

  ‘I don’t know – what if she was his wife? Or girlfriend? You never know … she sounded very stern, as if she was far too busy to be trifling with mere phone calls. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that she was quite snappy. I panicked, I guess.’

  ‘Ah, no need to panic, that’ll just have been Mrs Pocket, a retired headmistress – she ran the village school for years – and you’re right, she is very stern, sits on the parish council, and between me and you, thinks she’s the boss of us all, that someone put her singlehandedly in charge of Tindledale.’ He smirks and shakes his head. ‘She volunteers in the bookshop on Fridays, cataloguing all those musty old books. Lots of them detail the history of the area which she’s very keen to preserve – she’s a stickler for heritage and is into all that family tree stuff. Apparently, she’s charted the whole village and can prove that most of the villagers are actually related in one way or another – going back centuries, of course,’ he quickly adds, ‘that would just be weird otherwise. But I can’t imagine for a single second that she would leave a flirty message on a newspaper. Absolutely not.’ He tuts in a way that makes me stifle another snigger. ‘So that leaves Adam. It has to be him who left the message.’

  Lawrence rests an elbow on the counter. ‘Now he is a dark horse. I know hardly anything about him though unfortunately, other than that he bought the bookshop just a few months ago when old Alf Preedy retired and moved into the purpose-built annexe in the garden of his daughter’s house in Stoneley. Adam is very mysterious, keeps himself to himself, and is hardly ever there. One of the Tindledale Players said that he travels a lot searching for rare books – some of the tomes in his collection are worth a mint, apparently.’ He stands upright and folds his arms.

  ‘Interesting,’ I say, liking the sound of Adam because, after all, there is just something about a man who loves books.

  ‘So are you going to see him then?’ Lawrence probes, even slipping his glasses off and letting them dangle on the chain around his neck as if to scrutinise me further.

  ‘Well, I thought I might pop in after I’ve been to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery,’ I say, trying to sound casual and like I do this kind of thing every day – sashay up to secret admirers. Eek! ‘If it’s not too far.’

  ‘Wonderful. You can walk to Hettie’s from here – the snow has stopped, so perfect timing – and then right opposite Hettie’s is a bus stop; time it right, on the hour every hour, remember, and you can hop on a bus that’ll take you all the way up the hill. Jump off in the village square and you’re right there. How exciting!’ He puts his glasses back on and gives me a quick up-and-down look. There’s a short silence before he adds, ‘Will Basil be OK on his own for a bit? Or you could always fetch him down if you like.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine; he was asleep when I left my room, snoring away – it’s his favourite pastime, apart from eating – why do you ask?’ I say, casually.

  ‘You’ll see. Give me five minutes – I just need to make a quick phone call to Ruby who has a clothes shop in the village and I’m sure she’ll have something you can borrow to visit Adam in.’ And he disappears behind the curtain. I busy myself by thumbing through a copy of the Tindledale Parish News, a lovely A6 pamphlet; it has a pencil line drawing of St Mary’s church on the front, and costs just fifty pence to buy with profits going towards ‘community projects’. Ah, that’s nice. It has a selection of adverts in the back – chiropodist, handyman, undertaker, Indian takeaway in Stoneley, wedding-dress shop … hmm, on second thoughts … I place the pamphlet back in the rack.

  Lawrence returns.

  ‘Right. Now follow me.’ He grabs my hand and gives it a quick squeeze before gliding me up a small flight of stairs towards a door marked Private Staff Only.

  Inside, I stand for a moment to take it all in. The scent from an enormous Yankee candle, called Christmas Cookie,
floats over from a side table giving a glorious festive welcome to the room. There’s an elegant mink suede chaise longue running the length of one wall that’s covered in framed photos, stills from Lawrence’s stage performances by the looks of it, and a cosy log burner set in the centre with a tiled hearth surround and a pavé chandelier hanging from an exposed beamed ceiling, bathing the room in a glittery sheen. Wow, it’s a pretty impressive hair salon – the Tindledale villagers are very lucky indeed. No need to get the bus, on the hour, every hour, to Market Briar when they can trundle down the lane for a cut and blow dry with Lawrence. And reasonably priced too – there’s a laminated list on the wall and it’s only £35 for a full head of highlights!

  The entire length of the opposite wall houses a clothes rack crammed full of costumes for the Tindledale Players, I presume. Agatha Christie-style Thirties silk dresses and fur stoles, Jersey Boy crooner suits and puffy prom dresses – they’re all here. There’s even a plastic watermelon hanging on the end of the rack in a big Cellophane bag.

  ‘Dirty Dancing! We did the musical in summer 2010.’ Lawrence informs me as I instinctively cup both hands around it.

  ‘I carried a watermelon!’ I say, and we both laugh.

  But seriously, it’s like having a Hollywood dressing room in your back bedroom. A large, open-shelved cupboard is stacked full of shoes, hats and all kinds of fluffy, puffy-looking accessories. In the corner is a sink, a proper hair salon one, the kind you can lie back in to have your hair washed before wafting over to sit in front of the enormous gilt-edged mirror framed in a circle of miniature light bulbs. A shiny glass shelf on the wall to the side of the mirror houses a dozen polystyrene mannequin heads, each displaying a different, seriously big, bouffant-style wig. And the biggest collection of lash extensions I think I’ve ever seen: every conceivable colour, design and sparkly type lash imaginable. Crazy Horse, Paris … eat your heart out; this is serious show girl territory. Moving towards the costumes, I let my fingers trace a line along the exquisite fabrics as I walk the length of the rack.

  ‘This is amazing.’ My eyes widen and my pulse quickens.

  ‘Why thank you.’ Lawrence laughs and waves a dismissive hand in the air. ‘Now, settle yourself down and let’s sort your hair out first. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s looking a bit, hmm, well, snowswept.’

  ‘Is that next up on the scale after windswept?’ I laugh, lifting a limp wedge of sausage curls away from my face.

  ‘Yes, something like that. I can wash and style it for you if you like. I’m a trained stylist with years of experience – good job too as it was something to fall back on when the acting work dried up, and I used to own a hair salon, many moons ago. That was before I grew tired of having to do everything at breakneck speed and retired to Tindledale for some much needed R&R.’

  ‘In that case I’d love you to, if you’re absolutely sure?’ I can’t remember the last time I went to the hairdresser’s, certainly not since the wedding showdown because I haven’t really felt like it, but it’s different now. ‘But what about your other guests? Don’t they need you?’

  ‘You need me more right now.’ Lawrence pats a red leather chair by the basin, and I don’t need telling twice. I sit down and he shakes out a black nylon cape before securing it at the nape of my neck, scooping my hair back and turning the hand shower on. ‘How’s the temperature?’ He lets the warm water gently seep from my hairline and down over my scalp, protecting my face with his free hand.

  ‘Perfect.’ I close my eyes, savouring the relaxing sensation.

  ‘Hey, are you sure? You look a little anxious, clutching the armrests like that.’ He moves the water away from my head and I open my eyes.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I’m fine, honestly. This is such a treat, I just didn’t realise – being tense has kind of become second-nature these last few months.’ I release my grip and place my hands in my lap instead.

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, then try to relax. You’re going to look great, I promise.’ He brushes his hand over my shoulder reassuringly.

  Lawrence finishes and wraps my hair up in an enormous sunshine-yellow fluffy towel.

  ‘Make-up time, and then I’ll blow out your hair,’ he says, leading me over to a chair in front of the mirror. He opens a drawer as I sit down. ‘Now, shall I do the honours or would you prefer to do your own?’ I open my mouth, and then quickly close it again. In the drawer are billions of pots, tubes and tubs of all kinds of lotions, potions and scrubs. I’ve never seen so many beauty products in one place before, except the beauty hall at Selfridges, but even then I reckon Lawrence’s drawer could be a very serious contender on the hugeness scale.

  ‘Blimey, that’s quite a collection.’ I smile. ‘I don’t tend to wear very much make-up so I’ll just borrow some blusher and a touch of eye shadow, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course, help yourself and I’ll get some tea. Posh or normal?’ he says, his eyes dancing.

  ‘Er, what’s posh?’ I ask, hesitantly.

  ‘Well, we have peppermint, camomile, rooibos, Earl Grey and Lady Grey – now that’s really posh.’ Lawrence cocks an expectant eyebrow.

  ‘Camomile please.’

  ‘Good choice. Coming right up.’ He takes a bow, laughing as he leaves the room. I take the opportunity to look more closely at the pictures on the wall – they’re mostly of Lawrence in a variety of Shakespearean-looking costumes; velvet and brocade jackets with big billowy sleeves and a serious look on his face, with famous actors such as Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart and Helen Mirren. The last one is him hugging Dame Judi Dench and they’re laughing like they’re best pals. How lovely! Lawrence has obviously had a wonderful career.

  Lawrence returns a few minutes later with a silver tray holding a teapot, covered in a lovely spotty pink and purple cosy (handknitted), and two fine bone china cups on saucers. ‘To Sybs, and her mysterious secret admirer,’ he says, pouring the tea and handing it to me before carefully chinking his own cup against the side of mine. I glance up at him. ‘Oh dear, what is it? You’re not going to cry again are you?’ he says, pulling a face to lighten the mood.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ I say, sipping at the grassy smelling liquid before glancing away.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I lie. So much for my grandstanding and feeling of lightness earlier on; I’m never going to make it through to the end of my year of heartache at this rate. I’m all over the place, upbeat one minute, then miserable for the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes in the day. And hot, boiling hot; maybe that’s the lack of sleep sending my hormones haywire. Or perhaps it’s just because I’m exhausted. How on earth do parents with new babies function? If I were the Queen, I’d put them all on the honours list followed by a nice long rest in a super king bed somewhere very, very quiet. Or maybe it’s the menopause, come early, just to hack me off even more.

  ‘Well, it must be something. Tears before breakfast and now you look like you’re bracing yourself for the first day of an IKEA sale instead of Tindledale’s hottest newcomer. Apart from your good lady self, of course.’ He winks and places his cup back on the tray before pulling up a chair alongside me.

  ‘Ah, thank you Lawrence.’ I manage a smile. ‘You mentioned a doctor earlier?’ I need some sleeping pills because there’s no way I’m going to make it through the weekend without them. This must be how inmates in dodgy prisons feel after months of sleep deprivation torture, only much, much worse.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not ill are you?’ he says, his face clouding with concern.

  ‘Well, not exactly, not physically anyway.’ I’m not sure a broken heart counts as an actual illness. ‘I’m just finding it hard to sleep at the moment.’ I take another sip of tea before glancing away.

  ‘And why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Oh, I, um, I’m not really used to talking about it.’ And it’s true, I’m not. Cher has tried to make me open up, but I didn’t want to drag her down
with my self-loathing and angst and perpetual analysing of my disastrous relationship with Luke. I must have gone over and over our time together a trillion times in my head looking for clues, something I missed, or didn’t do, or did do but did it wrong because if I did screw up, then how do I know the same thing isn’t going to happen again? I’ll go mad and be like Miss Havisham, cloistered away, wringing my hands over yet another ruined wedding breakfast! And let’s face it, nobody likes a Debbie Downer, so I figured it was best just to bury all the dark thoughts into my knitting instead of burdening my best friend with the metaphorical wah-wah-wah of a muted trombone sounding out after everything that comes from my mouth.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,’ Lawrence says gently.

  ‘It’s OK.’ I turn to look at him and take a deep breath. ‘It’s just been this way for quite a long time now …’ I hesitate.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Um, ever since my boyfriend failed to turn up to his own wedding.’ I smile wryly. ‘To me, I hasten to add.’ I pull a face and take another sip of tea, willing my bottom lip to stop trembling – what am I? Five years old? Sweet lord of heartache, I really need to get a grip, I can’t keep crying all over the place.