Christmas at Lock Keeper's Cottage

by Lucy Coleman

  It’s merely a mumble of complaint and I know it’s not really directed at me personally, but I’m beginning to wish I’d said I’d drop off the parcel but couldn’t stay.

  Stepping inside, I quickly shut the split stable door behind me.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there looking awkward,’ Mrs Price admonishes. ‘Slip off your coat, and is that plant for me?’

  I thrust my hand forward and she does a double take, but after a moment of hesitation she tilts her head in a thank-you gesture.

  Placing the carrier bag on the floor at my feet, I take off my coat and hang it on a peg next to the door.

  ‘Right, follow me. I hope you like Earl Grey.’

  We’re standing in the kitchen area. It isn’t huge, but it’s plenty big enough and the centre of the single-storey section of the former cow shed. To my left is a latched country-style door but it’s closed, and I have no idea what’s on the other side. As I follow Mrs Price, we walk through into a very charming sitting room with patio doors to the garden on one side and a large window looking out onto the lane, on the other. Ahead of us is a flight of stairs going up to the first floor. I assume that leads to a bedroom and maybe a bathroom.

  The table situated next to the long window is laid out with a rather posh tea. A cake stand is loaded with slices of sponge sandwich and some scones lathered up with butter, jam and cream. There are also some tiny sandwiches and I’m rather touched that Mrs Price has gone to this much trouble for me.

  The teapot is sporting a tea cosy; I haven’t seen one of those in years. Tollie always throws a teabag into a mug and doesn’t stand on ceremony.

  ‘This is lovely, Mrs Price. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Take a seat and I’ll pour the tea. Help yourself. The scones were freshly made about an hour ago.’

  There’s nothing at all chintzy about Byre Cottage, which comes as somewhat of a surprise. It’s very contemporary country style, with gorgeous white shutters to the windows and doors, allowing the maximum amount of light to filter in, while giving a sense of privacy. The garden is full of mostly evergreen shrubs and the climbers rising up over the walls are a mixture of deciduous and winter-flowering plants. There are some gorgeous, deep pink climbing roses with tight little buds and a beautiful winter-flowering jasmine.

  It’s rather nice sitting here, munching away and being able to turn my head to gaze at the garden and then turn back to look out over the quiet country lane.

  ‘This is such a delightful surprise, Mrs Price. It’s a beautiful cottage,’ I remark, without thinking.

  Thankfully, she looks rather pleased, but I always feel a little anxious around her, and when I’m nervous I have this awful tendency to say the first thing that comes into my head.

  ‘Thank you, Immi. It’s my sanctuary. That’s why I don’t invite many people to visit. We all need a little space of our own. I am rather excited to take a look at that package of yours, though, I will admit. History has always fascinated me and coming to Aysbury felt very much like coming home.’

  I swallow the last mouthful of a scone, wiping my fingers on a paper napkin.

  ‘You had family here?’

  Mrs Price raises an eyebrow, suddenly looking rather put out. A little pink glow begins to add a touch of colour to her cheeks.

  ‘I was born and grew up in Middle Norton, but moved away many years ago,’ she replies, a little curtly.

  I sit looking at her apologetically.

  ‘Sorry, I… um… wasn’t being nosey, Mrs Price.’

  ‘Of course,’ she acknowledges, her face relaxing a little. ‘There’s something so very tranquil about a canal setting and I could sit and watch the boats travelling up and down all day. But it’s more private here and I couldn’t put up with the constant stream of walkers on the towpath. So, it suits me just fine.’

  Goodness, we’re actually having a conversation. In between taking careful mouthfuls of a meltingly gorgeous slice of sponge sandwich, I try my best to make small talk.

  Eventually we’re finished eating, and Mrs Price begins to clear the table. I jump up to help ferry the dishes through to the kitchen. We stack the dishwasher and when we return, she suggests we move back to the sitting room. There are two two-seater sofas, each facing a large low-level oak coffee table. She clears a couple of small ornaments off the top and indicates for me to spread out the contents of the carrier bag.

  ‘Ah.’ She immediately reaches forward to pick up the sepia photograph of Lock Keeper’s Cottage. ‘This is what Tollie was telling me about. How delightful!’

  Mrs Price takes her time scrutinising the photo as I open up the package for the first time. Sorting through the contents, I find a journal with tiny, faded, but very neat handwriting. It’s rather flowery and hard to read so I put it to one side. There are two well-worn volumes covered in a pitted red leather that over time has become brittle but is still intact. Opening up the first one, I’m surprised to see that it contains pressed flowers, separated by thin leaves of tissue paper. Sadly, most of the contents are now a rather bland fawn colour and some have crumbled, sending little pieces falling onto the coffee table.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting dried flowers.’

  Mrs Price looks across at me, but she’s clearly delighted by the contents.

  ‘My goodness, what a find. I don’t suppose there’s any indication of a date written anywhere?’

  ‘Not inside the cover and there’s nothing on the individual pages. Some of the flowers are intact, but you need to turn them over carefully. This one has a tinge of colour left to it.’

  ‘That’s a flag iris, I think,’ Mrs Price points out enthusiastically. ‘I remember pressing flowers when I was a child. My grandmother taught me how to do it. I had a special wooden press and we mounted them in scrapbooks. Nothing as grand as these leather-bound ones and I have no idea where they are now.’

  I place the volumes on top of the journal and begin to sift through a pile of photographs. Most are dog-eared, some are so faded that the sepia has become merely a series of blots against the backgrounds. I slide a pile across to Mrs Price, and she immediately begins sorting through them.

  ‘Well, this view of the towpath is incredible; how very different it was way back then. I’m guessing this is roughly where The Bullrush Inn is now. How strange to see the open fields extending so far into the distance. You can hardly glimpse them these days, what with the trees and the hedges. Ah, here’s another shot of your cottage. It’s taken from the side angle. It must have felt rather isolated in those days. You can just catch the stern of a boat on the far right as it sails by, but it’s a small one. Look, the man is smoking a pipe as he waves out.’

  She offers me the photo and I squint, trying to make out the detail.

  ‘You have good eyes,’ I remark. ‘It’s a shame some of the very old ones are so faded.’

  ‘I wear contact lenses,’ Mrs Price informs me. ‘But this is such a delightful find, Immi.’

  Her tone is different somehow. She seems, not only genuinely interested, but enthralled by this little piece of history laid out in front of us.

  Well, what an eye-opener this visit is turning out to be.

  ‘Lock Keeper’s Cottage and The Retreat will always be special to me, Mrs Price. That’s why I’d like to know more about its history. It’s the one place that I’ve known all my life; a place that always felt like home whenever Dad and I returned. I never dreamt, of course, that one day I’d be living here permanently.’

  I spread out the remaining photos across the centre of the table and focus on the newer ones. Sadly, some of them have a curious pink tinge, which makes them a little fuzzy.

  ‘These were probably taken in the sixties – that’s when colour film became more affordable.’ Mrs Price points to the photo in my hands. ‘Even if they are well stored, they tended to lose their colour over time. I discovered that while researching my own family history. It’s such a pity though. Ironically, th
e black and white film from the same period usually fares much better.’

  We spend a while looking through them together. It’s not always easy to identify from what point a photo was taken, as many of the present-day landmarks simply aren’t there. No marina, no car park, but a series of old metal sheds and a handful of small dwellings that are long gone. But it’s fun and Mrs Price is in her element. I fleetingly wonder if she was a history teacher before she came here.

  There are some portrait photos, but none of the ones I turn over have anything written on the back to give us any clues.

  ‘What a shame these ended up at a tabletop sale,’ I reflect. ‘They probably came from a house clearance and there may well be relatives still living in the area who would connect with these. The couple Tollie bought the cottage from, almost fifty years ago, only owned it for two years, curiously enough. Maybe it was too out on a limb for them. It would be fascinating to discover when the old barn was converted into a boat-hire business and who ran it.’

  ‘Yes, it would be interesting. It was a good thing your granddad had all that work done on it after your dad died, Immi. I guess it was obvious at some point you would need your own space.’

  I catch her looking at me sympathetically. Did Tollie take Mrs Price into his confidence, or even ask her opinion about it? He obviously values her input, as her role in sorting out the candidates for the Little Stars Specials is so important.

  ‘When I look back now, I can see that I drove you away, Mrs Price, and I’m so sorry about that. You were good enough to take on the job of looking after the two properties while Tollie came to terms with his grief. And there was I, just two years later, angry and unable to handle my feelings; striding in and disrupting everyone’s lives.’

  She shrugs her shoulders. ‘It was the right thing for me to leave you both to it. And you survived. Nell would have been thrilled to think of you living in The Retreat.’

  ‘Yes. Tollie thought it was a good investment for me for the future. He said Dad would have wanted me to do something meaningful with my inheritance. And he was right. When he finally decided I was old enough to move into The Retreat, things became a lot easier between Tollie and I. And in the interim years, the rental income during the lucrative summer months gave me a nest egg, too.’

  Mrs Price nods her head in agreement.

  ‘I left because the two of you needed to establish some rules to allow you to come to terms with two very different ways of grieving. The best way to do that was to be forced to cope with the day-to-day things. Bit by bit you found a way through it together, and that strengthened your bond.’

  It’s touching to hear a side to it that I could never have guessed at.

  ‘If you let me have a copy of what you’ve discovered so far and are happy to leave this with me, I’ll enjoy looking into what’s here. I have a couple of books I found in a car-boot sale about the area going way back. And there might even be something in the library worth taking a look at. It could potentially throw up some names of the families living here back in the mid-eighteen hundreds. What do you think?’

  Mrs Price is really beginning to let down her guard, but maybe that’s because I’m actually taking the time to have a meaningful conversation with her, rather than simply passing the time of day. She must have missed the company of Tollie, so soon after losing a dear friend.

  ‘Well, if you’re happy to do some digging, that would be great. I doubt I’ll have much time on my hands now until after Christmas. Weekends will be non-stop and I’m going to be working long days at the nurseries. Martin really needs me there full-time, as the orders for fresh wreaths and swags are mounting. We still have a huge pile of frames to prepare. It’s quite time-consuming to attach the pine cones and baubles ready to add the fresh greenery. But Fisher relies on me working two days a week at the marina, sorting paperwork, and I can’t let him down.’

  ‘Oh, my dear! It must be difficult for you, juggling two jobs. Especially when it’s coming up to one of the busiest times for Martin. You only have one pair of hands, after all. I might not have any artistic talent, but I’m good with paperwork. As long as someone shows me what needs doing, I could cover your days at the marina. I pick things up quickly and it would allow you to focus on the Christmas orders at the nurseries.’

  It’s all I can do to keep a look of surprise from flashing over my face. I’m shocked that Mrs Price is offering to step in and cover for me.

  ‘I… um, well, that’s a very generous offer. Thank you, Mrs Price. I will talk to Fisher and check he’s okay with that – I’m sure he will be – and then I’ll tell Martin the good news.’

  As I walk back home my phone pings; it’s a text from Gray.

  Missing you like crazy, Immi. All good here – Mum had a brilliant weekend. Roll on Friday. How was your day?

  Getting better by the second, I can’t help thinking. It’s time to relax a bit. Things are going to work themselves out – I simply need to be patient.

  Good. Just had afternoon tea with Mrs Price and it seems I have a new best friend.

  A second later I’m laughing at his response.

  Really? You and Mrs Price?

  Tapping away, I realise that my Monday mood has lifted.

  Yep. Best scones, jam and cream I’ve ever eaten. Jealous?

  He sends back a video clip of him singing and playing on the keyboard. He’s messing around and doing his thing, but he ends it by making a love heart with his hands.

  Crazy guy!

  * * *

  But you love me.

  * * *

  I do.

  6

  Jack Frost Makes Mischief

  Throwing my arms around Gray’s neck, I sag against him. Friday seemed to take forever to get here this week.

  ‘Hey, what’s this all about?’ he asks, pulling away to look at me, rather puzzled.

  ‘I told her not to worry.’ Tollie’s voice filters out from the kitchen. ‘The frost was bad this mornin’ and took a while to melt. We’re expectin’ black ice tonight. I told her they’ll be gritting the roads, but you know what she’s like.’

  I look up at Gray and he gives me one of his goofy grins.

  ‘Hmm… I did wonder about the pinging text messages.’

  ‘You didn’t respond!’

  ‘I was driving, Immi. I assumed, given the racket my phone was making, that it was to do with work. I’ve been putting out feelers as it’s a bit quiet right now. But this is our time and I just wanted to get here as quickly as I could. The roads aren’t too bad and the gritters are out in force. Fingers crossed it doesn’t affect travel tomorrow, though, as we have our first Little Stars Special cruise.’

  The same thing had crossed my mind, but that was the lesser of my two concerns. The cruise could always be rescheduled.

  ‘Earlier in the week a car ended up in the ditch as it was headin’ down towards Aysbury Junction,’ Tollie explains.

  ‘And that was at lunchtime,’ I point out. ‘The recovery guy who towed the vehicle to the garage told the driver that the temperature had suddenly dropped after warming up a little and black ice can form at any time of the day.’

  Gray nods, frowning. ‘No one was hurt, though, I hope?’

  ‘No, but the car will probably be a write-off. Tollie was in The Bullrush having lunch when someone from Adler’s farm drove the guy down to have a cup of tea to calm his nerves. His wife came to collect him while I was there.’

  ‘He told us that all four wheels skidded on the ice. An hour later the road was fine. It was crazy, but he was really shaken up. The poor guy said his life flashed before his eyes as he struggled to control the vehicle. And he wasn’t even drivin’ very fast, as he didn’t know the road,’ Tollie explains. I realise he was every bit as relieved as I was to see Gray walk through the door.

  Tollie disappears back into the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t drive fast, I drive safely, Immi,’ Gray replies forcefully.

  Having let me go, he suddenly r
eaches out again. Gray’s hands grasp my waist, pulling me into him so he can rest his chin on my head. As I sink into his chest, suddenly everything in my little world is fine, just fine.

  ‘You need to stop worrying,’ he speaks softly. ‘I’ve got too much to lose to take any unnecessary risks now things are on the up.’

  Was there a little catch in his voice as he spoke? But then he’s singing under his breath and that Friday feeling begins to consume me. Is it wrong to live my life counting down the hours to the weekend? I wonder. How would it feel if every single morning began with breakfast together? And if every single night we slept side by side? It’s something I daren’t even dream about right now.

  Tollie reappears in the doorway and Gray stops singing into my ear. ‘If you two ’ave finished, I want to run somethin’ past you.’

  We head over to the sofa and Tollie eases himself into his armchair.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about this celebratory dinner party to mark the tenth anniversary next year. It was a surprise, I will admit, and a nice thought. I’m touched that people are willin’ to raise funds to make a thing about it, but to my mind it’s a waste of money. Let’s do something that benefits the community and will be a lasting reminder.’

  Oh dear, Martin said more or less the same thing when we discussed it. But having only had two short meetings out of earshot of Tollie, everyone was sold on the idea of a posh do in his honour. The very smart Linden Hotel has already stepped in and offered a special rate to host the dinner as the plans progress.

  ‘Well, I understand what you’re saying—’ I’m not even sure it’s worth trying to convince him, as my gut instincts are telling me he’s going to dig his heels in.

  ‘What did you have in mind, Tollie?’ Gray glances at me, giving the slightest shake of his head to warn me to sit and listen.