A Winter Flame

by Milly Johnson

  ‘When did you last hear from your mum?’

  ‘My birthday last year. Except she rang on the twenty-second of December.’ Once upon a time, Eve had doubted that anyone could forget their only child’s birthday, then she started watching Jeremy Kyle. She half expected her mother to be on that one day, drifting on stage with a kaftan, being lectured by JK not to smoke as much wacky baccy. That thought was replaced by one of Susan, who still sent her a home-made birthday cake.

  ‘I just don’t know how your mum turned out the lovely way she did,’ Eve said, not for the first time. Violet gave her cousin an affectionate nudge. She didn’t know herself, to be honest. Life hadn’t been easy for her mum, brought up in a loveless household, expected to play a parental role in the raising of her sibling whilst Pat gallivanted off with her fancy men as a kick-back for Grandad Ferrell running off with a young barmaid. Then, when happiness eventually came to Susan in the form of the lovely Jeff Flockton, he was taken away from her much too soon with a stroke.

  ‘How’s your mum doing with Mr Sausage?’

  That was their pet name for Patrick, the big, friendly butcher who was courting Susan.

  Violet chuckled. ‘She’s very loved up.’

  ‘Good,’ said Eve.

  ‘It’s so nice to see you, Eve,’ said Violet, her voice suddenly flooded with affection. ‘You’ve been a stranger for too long. Mum would be delighted if you just called in. She was only saying the other day how we should force you to come for Sunday lunch.’

  ‘I know,’ nodded Eve, feeling a stab of shame. After all Auntie Susan had done for her over the years, she shouldn’t have shut her out. She loved her cousin and her aunt. Spending time with them was a pleasure she had denied herself for too long, and she intended to do something about it.

  ‘Ladies, is everything all right?’ asked the tall, dark-haired man in an apron appearing at their table.

  ‘No,’ said Violet. ‘I need to complain to the manager.’

  ‘I’m so sorry about that. I’d bring her over to hear your complaint, but she’s too busy sitting around and eating,’ he replied. He winked and touched Violet’s cheek with the back of his finger before going back behind the counter again.

  ‘You look as if you’re melting more than your ice cream,’ said Eve, looking at the dreamy look on her cousin’s face. ‘How’s Pav doing these days?’

  Violet looked across at her handsome partner being charming to a couple of small children who wanted tubs with all the trimmings.

  ‘He’s good,’ said Violet quietly. ‘His chest still aches when he lifts anything heavy though. He’ll never go back to working on building sites again, but I’m kind of glad about that, if I’m honest. He loves being in the shop and he’s got loads of painting commissions. He still works too hard, though, and tires himself out. I despair sometimes. He doesn’t rest as much as he should.’ She sighed and shook her head at him. But there was love and pride in her eyes as she did so.

  Pav was Polish and came over to England to work as a builder with his brother. Violet met him when she advertised for an artist to paint fairground horses on the walls of her ice-cream parlour, Carousel. She had nearly lost him in a fire the previous year but miraculously, he had survived. She loved him so much it hurt sometimes. His merry ways and warmth constantly made her heart sing. She only wished Eve could find someone who had the same effect on her. She had been in limbo for so long, Violet wondered if she would be permanently trapped in the state. She was too young and lovely to still be so sad. But Eve was resolutely stuck in the past and would not be budged out of it.

  Violet tentatively voiced what was in her mind.

  ‘You could do with a Pav yourself,’ she said.

  Eve smiled. ‘He’s lovely. You’re lucky. But then so is he.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll end up falling madly in love with your new business partner.’

  Eve ha-ed at that. ‘I haven’t met the man yet who could fill Jonathan’s shoes. And if I have, I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t be Jacques Glace and his cheesy line in banter.’ And his big soggy flying gloves, she added to herself.

  ‘The newspapers are awash with stories of those who have fallen in love with people they once disliked,’ said Violet, sticking her spoon into her ice cream.

  ‘Yeah well, I’m okay being single, thank you.’

  ‘Has no one taken your eye in the past few years, Eve?’ asked Violet, knowing she was straying onto dodgy ground. She and Eve might have been related, but Eve’s broken heart and subsequent empty love life had always been off-limits.

  ‘I haven’t even looked. Anyway – to business,’ said Eve, changing the subject quickly. ‘I want you to supply the ice cream for Winterworld. What do you think?’

  Violet’s big violet eyes rounded with delight. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Eve, thinking how beautiful her cousin was – more so because she hadn’t a clue how lovely she looked.

  ‘Jeez, Eve, that’s just fab.’ Then a sensible thought tugged at the sleeve of her elation. ‘Won’t you have to clear it with Mr Glace first?’

  ‘I suppose,’ replied Eve, with a snarl playing on her lip. ‘But I can’t see there being a problem. No one makes ice cream like you.’ And like he would dare to override her on this. Or anything else come to that.

  ‘I’ve got some lovely Christmas flavours,’ said Violet. ‘And they’ve got edible glitter in them as well.’

  ‘Winter,’ corrected Eve. ‘Try and keep Christmas out of it as much as possible.’

  ‘Oh Eve, if it’s a winter theme park, people will expect it to be Christmas-heavy.’

  ‘Well, they’re going to be disappointed then, aren’t they?’ said Eve, licking the last of her ice cream from her spoon. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve spoken to him on Monday.’ She imbued the word ‘him’ with all the charm of a disease-ridden clown. ‘You’ll be able to run a second parlour, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ said Eve. ‘Janet wants full-time work rather than part-time so I’ll increase her hours, get her some part-time help and then Pav and I will set up the new place.’

  ‘I see it just like this,’ said Eve, looking around her at the beautiful horses painted on the walls. It was ice cream heaven as far as she was concerned.

  ‘Only with a Christmas theme, I presume,’ Violet put in.

  ‘Winter,’ amended Eve. ‘Yes, just like this.’

  ‘Pav would be delighted to paint more horses on walls,’ smiled Violet. ‘He loved doing these. I can safely speak for him on that score.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ said Eve. ‘And now I must be off.’

  ‘So soon?’ said Violet. But she knew she was lucky to see Eve at all these days. She was always working, never stopped. Never gave herself time to relax – or think. Or grieve properly as she should have done.

  Violet hurried across to Pav to tell him the good news about having a new parlour in Eve’s theme park. He was delighted, as she expected, that there would be more horses to paint. White ones, he envisaged. Like Christmas horses made of snow. And Violet knew they would look wonderful.

  It didn’t look as if there would be any more customers that day, so they decided to finish early. Pav turned the sign around on the door to read ‘closed’. Then he crossed over to Violet, put his big arms around her, pulled her close to his chest and kissed her long and softly. Violet still felt butterflies inside her stomach flutter their wings with delight when his fingers threaded into her long silver-blonde hair. To think once she had been about to marry a man whose kisses and touch she avoided at all costs and would have committed herself to a sad, dry life. She sometimes dreamt that she was still in that stifling, choking relationship, and woke up in a cold sweat only to see the sweet form of Pav at her side. She had always thought love like this happened to other people, not to her.

  ‘Marry me,’ said Pav. ‘I want you to have the same name as me. I want you to be Mrs Nowak, not Miss Flockton. I’m an old-fa
shioned boy.’

  Boy. It was the loudest word in the phrase.

  Violet laughed and prepared to fob him off as usual. ‘One day. What’s the rush?’

  ‘Always you say the same thing,’ said Pav, releasing her from his hold and throwing up his arms into the air. For the first time, Violet detected that there was none of his usual humour in the gesture.

  She loved him so much. And of course she wanted to be Mrs Pawel Novak, but she was afraid of her own happiness. He might have looked like a man, but he was so much younger than her – nine years. She feared that he would wake up one day and realize how young he was, how much living he should do before settling down. She didn’t want to fetter him as her ex-fiancé had fettered her. She never wanted him to feel trapped and unable to breathe the way she had once felt with her ex.

  ‘I do love you, Pav,’ she said, feeling suddenly incredibly choked up. ‘It’s not that I don’t.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, and nodded slowly. ‘But this is the last time I will be rejected, Violet. I won’t ask you again.’

  He turned then and smiled at her and kissed her forehead. ‘Come on, let’s go home. It’s my turn to cook.’ He held out his large hand for her to take and though the gesture was full of love and warmth, she felt suddenly chilled from the inside out.

  Chapter 8

  The Daily Trumpet would like to apologize to Mrs Bunty Smith for an entry which appeared on Monday’s page three. We did, of course, mean that Mrs Smith was one of Asda’s most popular ex-workers, not that she was one of Asda’s most popular sex workers. We do apologize to Mrs Smith for any distress caused and to Asda Barnsley for all the resulting nuisance phone calls.

  Chapter 9

  The first thing Eve did when she got home was fire up her computer to google the name Jacques Glace again. It was a pretty distinctive name – or so she thought, but so far she hadn’t found any trace of him. Apart from a whole host of restaurants picking up the ‘glace’ word, and a lot of French entries, there was also a huge Canadian company which took up pages. She widened the net slightly and typed in ‘UK’ with as much success. There was a Jean-Jacques Glace, a decorated war veteran with one leg, and if there was one thing Eve was definite about it was that Jolly Jacques wasn’t brave military material. Plus he had two legs, which ruled him out. There were lots of references to Glace Bay in Nova Scotia but nothing about a large oaf with a ‘French bottom half’.

  Then she struck gold. Or rather glass.

  She tried the alternative spelling ‘Jack Glass’. She found a Jack Glass in Barnsley born in 1826. Then an article archived in the Weekly Bugle from eight years ago:

  PENSIONER ROBBED OF LIFE SAVINGS BY ‘MAJOR’ CON MAN

  A Leeds pensioner was conned out of her £40,000 life savings by a man claiming to be a long-lost relative of her deceased son. The pensioner, who asked not to be named, said the man claimed to be an army major who was stationed with her son before his untimely death.

  Mrs X was living alone and recovering from cancer when the man, who called himself Major Jack Glasshoughton, made contact. ‘He said he had fallen on hard times after being honourably discharged from the army and that my son and he had planned to go into business together. I wanted to honour my son’s promise to this man,’ she said.

  Mrs X gave ‘The Major’ eight instalments of £5,000 in cash, which he promised to return with interest. ‘I thought I was dealing with a man of honour, like my son,’ she said. ‘I’m going to lose my house because of this now.’

  Det Sgt Piers Clemit from West Yorkshire police said that con men were well practised at choosing potential targets and often worked to befriend victims who were isolated and alone.

  ‘From investigations that I’ve carried out, it appears that a man of this description has conned at least two other fragile pensioners. He has gained admittance to their homes pretending to be a policeman and a gas engineer and taken money and jewellery worth over £6,000.

  ‘The ideal victims that they go for will be people who live in a community but are effectively on their own,’ said Det Sgt Clemit. ‘They are expert at saying what the victims want to hear. They target areas where there are small houses and bungalows that show telltale signs such as hand-rails, uncleared gutters and unkempt gardens, which are all indications that the property is home to an elderly, vulnerable person. Uniforms can easily be procured and are not a guarantee that the person wearing them is in a position of trust.’

  Police are warning the elderly to be on guard. ‘The Major’ is six foot plus, of very smart appearance, short dark hair, with a neutral accent. Police are linking this man with the names Jack Glasshoughton, James Glass, Jackie Glass, John Glasier and James Jackson. If anyone is familiar with these names or has been approached by this man, please call the Crimesmashers number at the bottom of this page.’

  Eve sank back in her chair. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said aloud to herself. Now that was too much of a coincidence. She made a few notes, including the detective sergeant’s name. She would email and find out if they’d ever caught ‘The Major’. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that they hadn’t, because he sounded a greasy, shifty character. Maybe he had laid low for a few years and was now back in business, preying on old ladies who lived in bungalows with his tried and trusted modus operandi. Were Jacques Glace and Major Jack Glasshoughton one and the same? She’d bet her share of the theme park they were, and she would go all out to prove it. Yes, she knew there was something shifty about Jacques Glace all right. He was too smiley, too cheerful, too easy-going, too secretive.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the candle flame flicker. The candle which Jonathan had bought for her and placed in her window and told her that as long as it burned, she was his and he was hers. He told her this on the last day she ever saw him.

  ‘Oh Jonathan, who is Jacques Glace?’ she said. ‘Is he really Major Glasshoughton? Did he con Aunt Evelyn into writing him into her will?’

  Why couldn’t life be simple? Why was life so full of questions, like how did Aunt Evelyn end up with a theme park? Who was Jacques Glace? Why had he made that stupid joke about marrying her? Why couldn’t she have married the man she loved? Why was she sitting here talking to a candle – the only thing that signified she was loved in this world? Tears welled up in her eyes and she fought them back because Eve Douglas did not cry. But she couldn’t push back that surge of sadness and pain that her man was on the other side of an impenetrable barrier. Her brave, lovely, wonderful, Corporal Jonathan Lighthouse. Killed in action on Christmas Day five years ago – three days before he was due to come home from Helmand Province. As if another man could ever measure up to him. Jacques Glace less than most. Jonathan was brave and brilliant. Jacques Glace was a maverick who didn’t work and had about as much dress sense as a blind court jester. It was an insult for him to even think he had a chance at charming her. He wasn’t even fit enough to wait in the queue to clean Jonathan’s shoes.

  Chapter 10

  ‘I can’t find a single Jacques Glace on the net, but I did find a Major Jack Glasshoughton who conned an old lady out of her life savings. And when I rang the police, they told me that he’s never been found. What do you think about that then?’ said Eve, pulling on her car handbrake at the side of the Winterworld gate.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ said Violet, lifting her eyes from the newspaper where they had been glued.

  ‘What’s the matter? You look cross.’

  ‘It’s this damned paper. I don’t know who the editor in chief is, but I suspect it’s someone in Broadmoor.’ She passed over the Trumpet and pointed to the top of the page.

  The Daily Trumpet would like to point out that the popular ice-cream parlour, Carousel, will be open 3pm—5pm Tuesday to Sunday and not 3pm—5pm Tuesday to Sunday as previously published.

  ‘They’re useless,’ said Eve, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe you agreed to advertise with them.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Violet. ‘They took it upon the
mselves to wreck my business single-handedly. Anyway, what were you saying about Jacques Glace?’

  ‘I said that I wonder if that’s his real name. I suppose I’ll find that out for definite when “I get married to him”. I still can’t believe he said that. The cheek of the . . . well, I don’t know what to call him. Man doesn’t seem to be the right word.’

  Eve harrumphed with such indignation that her cousin Violet barked with laughter. That caused Eve to give her a withering look.

  ‘It’s so not funny, Violet.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Violet, trying hard to straighten her face and failing dismally.

  ‘I thought I’d find some sympathy with you of all people.’ Eve sniffed. ‘If that was his attempt to seduce, I’m quite safe.’

  Violet straightened her face. ‘I think it’ll be fun working with him and trying to get to the bottom of who he is. He sounds a tonic, and you need an adventure. Get your Miss Marple hat on,’ she said. ‘You could put your wedding notice in the Trumpet “Steve Berry, aged sixty-five, marries Gus Jackman, aged fifteen”.’

  ‘Very droll,’ said Eve. ‘And tonic isn’t a word I’d attribute to him. I don’t trust him, Violet. How can anyone trust a man who has managed to wangle half of my aunt’s inheritance from her after two minutes’ acquaintance? Look at this.’ With a certain amount of smugness, she pulled a photocopy of the article about the Major from her handbag and handed it over to her cousin, waiting patiently until she had finished reading it.

  ‘You do know the Bugle got closed down for reporting just about every story it reported wrongly. Then it rose like the Phoenix from the ashes with the same editor and a new name: the Daily Trumpet,’ was Violet’s only comment.

  ‘Well, they got this story right because I checked with the police. They never did find Major Glasshoughton. Major Jack Glasshoughton.’

  ‘And is Jacques as tall and dark as this Major?’