Christmas at Lock Keeper's Cottage

by Lucy Coleman

  Christmas at Lock Keeper’s Cottage

  Lucy Coleman

  To Lynda, a beautiful soul who now has wings. x

  Contents

  Immi

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Gray

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  More from Lucy Coleman

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  Immi

  Prologue

  I read an article the other day, giving tips on how to manifest the life you want. You begin by writing a letter and… burning it. Whether you want to free yourself of worry, realise a dream, or simply declutter your mind, a well-respected life coach believes that the universe is listening. I’m not sure how I feel about that statement, but I can see how it might be cathartic for some people - assuming they have the guts to do it properly.

  What I’m discovering, though, is that being honest with oneself isn’t easy. After almost an hour, most of it spent with a pen in my hand hovering over the piece of paper in front of me, it remains blank. Even though I love the idea of releasing negative energy into the ether, or drawing positive energy towards me, I can’t do it. I’m not ready to bare my soul to anyone. Least of all, myself.

  Maybe I’ll write a letter to Santa, instead, and burn that. Start small and work your way up, Immi, I tell myself. As one of my three jobs involves wearing an elf costume every weekend in December, I figure that if I’m not ready to reach out to the universe, Santa is the next best option.

  This year I’m hoping Christmas is going to be a truly joyful occasion to make up for the disappointments of last year. When the man you love – your soul mate – is supporting a parent through the big C, life can feel as if it’s on hold. I won’t lie, it’s been tough. My mind and my body ache when he isn’t here with me because I’m simply going through the motions rather than living my life.

  Anyway, what harm can it do to honour an age-old tradition? After all, I’m one of Santa’s biggest fans. They say the act of believing makes things happen and I’ve seen that with my own eyes. So here goes:

  Dear Santa

  When I was six years old, I wrote you a very special letter. I handed Dad the sealed envelope and we stood together, hand in hand, as he threw it onto the fire. I watched in fervent anticipation as the wisps of pale grey smoke, tinged with little curls of white, disappeared up the chimney.

  Everyone thought I was asking you for a doll’s house, but actually, I asked you to bring my mum back home to us. Dad didn’t understand why I burst into tears on Christmas morning, after I’d unwrapped the wonderful presents beneath the glittering tree. And, at the time, I didn’t understand that I had asked for the impossible.

  Every year until I was twelve, when I wrote my last letter, I just asked for toys, books and clothes, as the other kids did. But in my heart there was only one thing I longed to have, because I honestly believed that it would make my life complete.

  But I appreciate now how lucky I was, and that the true magic of Christmas was there all along. I was surrounded by love. The love of my dad, my grandparents and our friends. No child could ask for more than that.

  This year there is only one thing on my list and it’s to be able to celebrate Christmas with the man I love, Gray, by my side. I need it to reassure me there really can be an us and that life isn’t going to cheat me, yet again.

  Just keep everything crossed for me, will you? That’s all I ask. And keep up the good work. A lot of people believe in you, regardless of their age. In today’s world that’s both magical and inspiring, because what is life without hope?

  With much love, Immi

  1

  Deck the Hull with Boughs of Holly

  ‘I’m just about to turn off the main road, Immi. Let the countdown to Christmas begin.’

  ‘At last,’ I croak, although the sound of Gray’s voice makes me instantly break out into a beaming smile.

  In the background, the thrum of the car’s engine sounds eerily distant, but it’s a relief to know he will be here very soon. The thought of sinking into his arms again fills me with nervous anticipation and yet another part of me hates feeling so… needy. There’s an emptiness that gnaws away at me when he isn’t around, which nothing else can fill.

  ‘What’s wrong with your voice? Please don’t—’

  The signal drops out for a second or two, and I imagine the car negotiating the bend as he heads away from the village hall, which sits proudly alongside a magnificent green. Originally a farming community before the lock was built and – much later – the marina, Aysbury is rather spread out. There are some large country properties set back from the road behind high walls, before the first cluster of farm cottages signals the approach to the canal. But our community extends both sides of the waterway, with a network of narrow lanes giving tantalising glimpses of a variety of old stone cottages and barn conversions.

  Beyond that, the winding lane dips for several hundred yards and the tall swathe of trees are an impenetrable barrier. ‘… not coming down… something.’

  I grip the phone tighter, raising my voice a little as I reassure him. ‘No. I’m fine. Really, I’m good.’

  There’s a short pause and I’m sure we’ve been disconnected, then the thrumming sound is back, and the engine kicks up a notch as the car accelerates along the open stretch of road. Almost here. He’s almost here.

  ‘You’re not crying, are you, Immi?’

  Drawing in a deep breath, then taking a moment to expel it in a controlled manner, I make a concerted effort to sound bright and breezy.

  ‘The Christmas magic has begun with the most inspiring, heart-warming and tenderest of moments. And it’s down to a seven-year-old boy, named Billy.’ As I swipe away a wayward teardrop with the sleeve of the new, bright green elf jacket, an overwhelming sense of happiness lifts my spirits.

  ‘Ah, Immi. That’s wonderful. This is going to be one a-ma-zing Christmas, I can feel it in ma bones, ma bones, feel it in my bones bi-ba-bi-ba doo bah doo.’ Gray, being Gray, launches into song. Without any warning my heart misses a beat, as excitement leaps up inside me. It’s been six weeks since he was last here; the longest six weeks of my life.

  ‘I’ve been trying on the new elf costume. I’ll do a quick change and then head up to The Bullrush Inn. See you there in ten. Watch out for stray sheep in the lane by Adler’s farm. Two are still on the loose after a breakout last night.’

  ‘The boys are back,’ he sings and starts laughing. ‘Oh, that’s baad news, really baad,’ he jokes, and I roll my eyes. ‘And I forgot to tell you – I have a new backing track for Tollie’s Christmas Tale; it’s a surprise and I think he’s going to love it.’

  He begins to hum it for me, and I realise that’s one of the things I miss most when he’s not around. Music. The second main man in my life is mad, truly mad, but I wouldn’t change one single thing about him.

  ‘I love you, Captain Christmas.’

>   ‘I love you, too, Santa’s number one elf.’

  Wrenching shut the door of Lock Keeper’s Cottage, I head off along the towpath. Every Friday evening there’s one place everyone at the marina heads for – The Bullrush Inn. As I push through the door and step inside, the low hum of chatter tells me that most of the regulars are here already. I liberally dispense waves and smiles as I make my way between the tables.

  A café and gift shop by day, every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening between six and ten p.m., it’s the haunt of the Aysbury Junction Marina Anchor Club members.

  ‘Hi, Fisher.’ As I walk past the marina manager he jumps up, leaning in to give me one of his bear hugs.

  ‘Hey, darling girl. Where’s Tollie?’

  ‘I left him wrapping the kids’ Christmas presents. We’ve been at it all day, but Gray’s on his way, so Granddad has given me the evening off.’

  Fisher beams from ear to ear. ‘Glad he’s back, Immi. I know how much you’ve missed him. Besides, the Christmas festivities can’t begin until he’s here.’ He gives me a second hug before easing himself back down into his seat.

  Fisher took over when Tollie retired, a little over twenty years ago, now.

  When I first came to live with my granddad, I had just turned fourteen and it was a rough time for us both. Ernest Tolliman – Tollie, as he’s known to everyone, including me – struggled to cope with the grief of losing his only son. Throwing a teenage granddaughter into the mix didn’t make it any easier. But the truth was that all we had left in the world was each other. My mother had disappeared when I was only three months old, never to be seen again.

  For Tollie, my dad’s death brought back the grief he felt over losing Grandma, two years before. I can see that now, but I didn’t appreciate that fact way back then. All I could feel was my own loss and an overwhelming sense of anger. My head was screaming ‘why me?’ as I was forced to say goodbye to friends I regarded as family. Losing Dad broke my heart and I was angry at life, at fate and at a stupid accident that needn’t have happened.

  Dad worked at the Royal Navy Training Centre in Portsmouth. He promised me faithfully it would be our last move, and we fitted right in, surrounded by a great bunch of people.

  Ironically, it wasn’t the dangers of the sea that snatched him away from us, but a freak accident when the brakes failed on a coach in which he was travelling. Dad had been away for three days, running an off-site refresher course, and he just never came home. That made it worse, not being able to say a proper goodbye. Nothing prepares you for that and I’m afraid I didn’t manage my emotions very well at the time.

  Fisher ended up being my listening ear whenever Tollie and I fell out, which was a frequent occurrence in those early days. My frustrations and disappointments in life turned me into something of a rebel and I wanted to fight back. So, I took on the world. Now I can look back and think, poor world and poor Tollie, because it wasn’t anyone’s fault.

  But helping me – us – through that period created a bond. Even today, Fisher is still my go-to man whenever I have a problem or need an unbiased opinion. He’s also my boss two days a week, although I spend a lot of time telling him how lucky he is to have me to sort out his piles of paperwork.

  I work my way over to the counter. Sarah gives me a wink as she finishes serving a group of day-raters, visitors passing through who rent a birth for a night or two.

  It’s a busy time of the year for us, nestled here on the edge of the Cotswolds. With so many Christmas markets in the area and Egerton Castle putting on a whole month of special events nearby, Aysbury has become a bit of a go-to. Christmas-holics of all ages descend upon us to kick-start their celebrations.

  ‘Hi, Immi, how are the Christmas cruise preparations going?’

  ‘Good. But there’s still a fair bit to do. Gray’s on his way, though, and the extra pair of hands will be welcome. He should be here any minute.’

  Sarah and Kurt Lieberman have only owned The Bullrush Inn for six years and in that time they’ve turned it from a tired and dingy canal-side tea shop into a buzzing, thriving business. It brings people to the marina in droves. Their twins, Jade and Jude, were just seven years old when they moved here after turning their backs on a busy life in the city.

  It took Sarah and Kurt eighteen months to completely renovate the place and it wasn’t an easy time, as they did most of the work themselves. While they juggled the demands of two very lively kids and tried to keep the café open with major building works in progress, our little community did what it does best. And that’s to support their own. It’s what good neighbours do and what Aysbury is all about.

  The ‘waifs and strays syndrome’, as I call it. And I count myself as one of those. People have ended up here in desperate need of something – more often than not without a clue about what exactly that elusive something might be. Maybe they come for a sense of community and a feeling of belonging somewhere, especially if that’s never been true before; either because they don’t have a close family, or they’ve struggled to conform. ‘Round pegs, square holes,’ as Tollie often says.

  The nature of a marina is that a lot of the boats moored here long-term have owners who appear infrequently throughout the year. Beautiful, expensive boats lying idle for long periods, only getting to feel the wash of a cresting wave against their bows during the peak holiday season. Which is a shame, I always think. The waterways are much pleasanter, in my opinion, during the quieter months when the seasonal changes make their offerings.

  Sweltering sunshine brings out the crowds and that spoils it for me, although in a twist of irony it’s the Christmas crowds who make the festive atmosphere really buzz.

  People are the beating heart of the marina – those who live and work here, and the owners of the handful of residential narrowboats moored alongside the canal.

  ‘Right, what can I get for you, Immi?’

  ‘One of your surf and turf sharing platters and a bottle of something special, please. I don’t suppose the Christmas beers have arrived yet?’

  Our community is very proud to have a celebrated microbrewery virtually on our doorstep. The Middle Norton Brewing Company have made a real name for themselves and it’s become quite an attraction for the marina.

  Sarah nods her head. ‘This morning. Two Santa’s Helpers? Or how about trying the new one – The Bullrush Christmas Brew?’

  ‘You didn’t!’ I exclaim.

  ‘We did. We put the proposal to Pete and David, and they thought it was a great idea. Ten pence from every bottle sold will be donated to The Santa Ahoy Christmas charity fund. When Tollie pops in later, Kurt is going to tell him the news. And Pete just rang to say they are going to run a promotion on it via their stockists, which will run into January.’

  ‘Wow, thank you, Sarah. I mean, that’s simply amazing.’

  ‘What’s amazing?’

  I spin around and it’s as if a cloud of happiness has wafted in through the door. Gray throws his arms around me, lifting me off the floor as he raises me up to plant a kiss firmly on my lips.

  ‘I’m back. What’s happening?’ He pulls away, tilting his head to peer over my shoulder. ‘Hi, Sarah, you’re looking good, and busy. Have the Christmas beers arrived yet?’

  ‘It’s great to see you, Gray. And yes, Immi just placed your order and it’s on the way. Grab a table quickly, guys, I’ve just cleared one upstairs.’ Sarah nods towards the door and a large group about to step through.

  ‘Will do. Catch up with you later, Sarah,’ Gray calls over his shoulder. Grabbing my hand, he leads me upstairs.

  As my foot hits the last tread and I look out over the canal, I get the familiar thrill I always feel to see the boats. This evening everything is right in my little world and my heart soars. I squeeze Gray’s hand and quicken my pace as he strides forward to claim the last table by the window. But before he lets me go, he spins me around into his arms and we stand there for several seconds. Resting my head against his chest and, oblivious to the
background chatter, I close my eyes, savouring the moment. Just to feel the solidness of him and breathe in the smell of that lemony aftershave balm he uses is heavenly.

  I hate it when we’re apart, but since last October, Gray’s life has had to revolve around his mother, Rona. She’s a lovely woman who dotes on her wonderful son. Sadly, just over a year ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. After a gruelling programme of treatment, she began having the most awful panic attacks and became a virtual recluse. Gray and I put our plans on hold because family comes first. But for Gray he has had to struggle to work to keep the bills paid and be her only form of support, so it would be a lie to say it hasn’t affected our relationship. True love never dies, but it needs constant care and attention. We’ve both been miserable and lonely, but as hard as it’s been for me, it’s been even harder for Gray.

  Rona has been on her own for a long time, since Gray’s father, Grayson Alexander Adams, returned to the States when his son was five years old. Gray has never been to America, or met his grandparents.

  I think that’s one of the things that drew us together when we were first introduced, almost three years ago now. Neither of us have siblings and both have just the one parent figure in our lives, albeit mine is a grandparent. There’s a sense of responsibility that accompanies that, I’ve discovered as the years have passed. Granddad worries about me, but now I worry about him – constantly. It’s been the same for Gray. He ended up having to move back into his family home, as Rona floundered to cope with day-to-day living. And suddenly, it wasn’t just our plans for last Christmas that fell apart, but our dream was put on hold.