‘I suppose you must have. Oh, well, enjoy yourself.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
He glanced at the rear of the car. ‘Good grief, you’re not camping, are you?’
‘No, I’m staying with my old roommate. She married a local doctor and still lives in Leeds.’ She followed his gaze and laughed. ‘That’s my out-in-the-snow survival kit. Sleeping bag, reflective blanket. Thermos. Chocolate, Kendal mint cake, thick socks…You ought to have something similar—especially driving Bethany around. Ask James what you need.’
It was a good thought. ‘I will. Thanks for the tip. Wait a moment. You’d better give me your mobile number—just in case.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘In case of what? If my patients have an emergency, they need you, your father or the ambulance, not me.’ But she gave it to him anyway, and then at his insistence added his mobile number to her phone’s address book. ‘See you Monday, Mike.’
They had now seen four properties and none of them had been right. Driving back through the falling dusk on Saturday afternoon, Mike reflected gloomily that at this rate Bethany would have grown up and left home before they’d moved out of his father’s surgery flat.
‘I know it needed work, but it was a good size for its price, that last one,’ said James.
Mike wasn’t convinced. He drew to a stop outside the estate agent’s office to drop the keys off. ‘You two stay in the car. No point all of us getting cold.’
‘Sorry,’ he said to the agent’s polite enquiry. ‘Too far out, too cramped, too lonely and too dilapidated in that order.’
The agent accepted this philosophically. ‘You’re sure you can’t go higher on price?’ he asked. ‘I do have something—perhaps bigger than you were envisaging—but it’s slightly over your maximum.’ He turned to rummage in a filing cabinet. ‘It’s a very superior property actually in Rivercut, which, if I remember, was one of your main requirements. It would benefit from a little modernisation, but I assure you it is perfectly habitable.’ He found the details and drew them out, tapping the pages in an undecided manner. ‘I don’t know…My colleague has had one or two nibbles—a local landowner is most interested—but if you are in the position to make a cash purchase…The owner is desirous of selling as soon as possible.’
Mike shrugged and held out his hand. ‘I may as well take a look. I can always say no, can’t I?’
‘Indeed, yes, sir. Good evening.’
Mike took the brochure and hurried back to the car. He wanted to get back home, he wanted warm food inside Bethany and a hot mug of coffee inside himself. He dropped the house details on his father’s lap and started the car. And then stalled with a jerk as he caught sight of the photo of the property. ‘That’s the manor,’ he said, flabbergasted.
James looked down. ‘I did tell you Grace was having to sell.’
Yes, he had, and Mike knew it perfectly well, really. It was simply that he thought of the manor as Grace’s house. She had fitted the place so well—worn it like a ballgown, to use her own analogy. The stark reality of her situation honestly hadn’t struck him until he saw that colour photograph, flat and businesslike on the top sheet of the agent’s property details.
It was Grace’s house. Anyone buying it would be an interloper. Yes, she’d be solvent again, but how would she feel, seeing someone else parked in the driveway? How would she feel, seeing builders’ trucks outside? Hearing the crash and rumble of internal walls being demolished and rebuilt into quite a different floor plan? Catching glimpses of skips on jolting lorries, brimming over with old, cracked Victorian bathroom fittings?
It wasn’t to be borne.
And she didn’t need to bear it.
If James noticed that his son was quiet for the rest of the evening, he didn’t mention it. In truth, Mike had already made his decision. Buying the manor may not have occurred to him before, but as soon as it had all that remained was for him to work out how.
Grace arrived home just after lunch on Sunday. Or, rather, just after when her friend Natalie’s lunch would have been. She’d been pressed to stay, but she’d said she wanted to get back in daylight. Nobody queried the fact that a good proportion of her working life was spent negotiating lonely moorland roads with the aid of her headlights. It had been a good weekend. She’d enjoyed staying with Natalie and spending time with Chloe, her god-daughter. She’d had fun meeting up with the old crowd, catching up with what they were all doing. But she’d stopped drinking as soon as she’d started seeing Mike’s face everywhere, and now she was home with presents to put under her tree, looking forward to a bowl of home-made soup and a satisfying session of Christmas decorating. It did give her a nasty moment, driving past the manor and seeing car tracks and footprints in the snow, but she told herself she was being ridiculous. Just think how much better off she’d be without the mortgage payments emptying her account every month. She pulled up outside the cottage and took a deep breath. Right, first the soup, then she would get the tree in.
Mike walked down the drive of the manor, mulling things over in his mind. It was bigger than the sort of place he’d envisioned buying, but it had land for Bethany to run in and she would love it. He stopped and turned back to gaze at the facade. It was a jewel—perfectly in proportion—he’d be a fool not to buy it. But, and it was a big but, what about Grace?
He resumed his progress through the snow. It was getting cold again and the parts that had turned to slush were freezing. He hoped Grace would take care driving back from Leeds. And on that thought, he saw her Land Rover parked snugly outside her cottage! Mike was amazed at the rush of gladness that filled him. Pleasure that she was back in Rivercut where she belonged. Thankful that she’d made it across the country without mishap.
Then he got the shock of his life. The tall, bushy tree by the corner of her house moved across to the front door by itself! What the…?
‘Come on,’ said the tree, pushing into the aperture. ‘Let’s see if you fit this way.’
Mike let out a shout of laughter and hurried around the car to give Grace a hand. ‘Do you know your Christmas tree sounds just like you?’ he said.
Grace was wearing her duffle coat and had gloves on. Both arms were wrapped around the trunk. ‘It should,’ she said with a grunt. ‘I’ve had it fifteen years now. Come on, tree, don’t get stuck there.’
Mike hastily propped up the very hefty mid-section and got a shoulder full of pine needles as a thank you. ‘Perhaps you could ask it to breathe in,’ he suggested. ‘Or buy it a diet book. Grace, this is too big for the doorway.’
‘It isn’t. It’s just a case of getting the angle right.’
From what Mike could see she was braced on the other side of the door, pulling for all she was worth. He sighed and felt through the branches, trying to get a purchase. ‘Ouch, this tree’s dangerous!’
‘That’s why I’ve got gloves on.’
‘Grace—have you thought that even if we get it into the room, you’re not going to have anywhere to stand it?’
‘I’ve moved the big cushion.’ She heaved again and he heard a shower of earth tip out of the pot.
Mike stopped trying to feed the branches one by one through the doorway. ‘This is silly. You’re trying to fit a manor-sized tree into a cottage. You think I loom when I’m standing in your front room? This will fill it! You’ll have to clamber across the furniture to get from the stairs to the kitchen.’ He shifted his grip and a branch took the opportunity to slap him across the face. ‘And the scent will be overpowering.’
‘I like pine,’ said Grace, sounding muffled.
‘There’s a difference between liking pine and living in a tree house!’
Silence. Then a sniff. Mike cursed, let go of the tree and pelted around the side of the cottage to the back door. He threaded his way through a tiny kitchen and found Grace with a green streak on her forehead, pine needles in her hair and a tear rolling down her cheek.
‘Oh, Grace,’ he said, and wrapped his arms around
her, just as he might with Bethany when she’d been trying so hard to tie her own shoelaces and hadn’t managed it.
‘My father gave me this tree,’ she said, a quiver in her voice. ‘To replace the one he gave me when I was little for my very own because I loved Christmas so much. That one died. But this one’s good and strong and I brought it with me so I’d have something of him. I’ve lost so much, Mike…’
He held her tighter. ‘Shh. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we stand this tree outside your front door, so you can put lights on it the way the manor trees were always decorated in that photo you showed me? Then the villagers will know you’re keeping the tradition alive. And we can go over to the place you told me about and buy you a small tree for inside the cottage.’
In the circle of his arms, he felt her let out a half-sigh. ‘I suppose you think I should have thought of that for myself.’
He hugged her quickly and released her. ‘We aren’t always very sensible when grief is involved. How far is the Christmas tree place? I’ll come with you now if you like. Then I’ll know
the way for when I take Bethany to choose one.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Oh, I think I do. You obviously have zero spatial awareness. I need to stand next to all the trees on offer so you can find one that won’t loom at you.’
She turned out to be a good driver, considerate and careful even when she wasn’t being followed in a Range Rover. It might not be the most comfortable of vehicles, but Mike felt himself relax, knowing she was safe to be out on the hills in all weathers. He was glad he hadn’t given in to the urge to kiss her again. Or at least only one soft kiss on her hair that he didn’t think she’d noticed. It was much better to keep things friendly between them.
On the way back she glanced towards the manor. Mike guessed she did it habitually. ‘I’ll have to go and collect the outside lights,’ she murmured, ‘and maybe other bits as well. The estate agent left a message on my mobile yesterday to say someone had made an offer. It’s a lot lower than I was asking, but it might be worth it, just to get rid of the mortgage.’
Yesterday? That had been before he’d viewed it officially, before he’d even been given the details! ‘No,’ he said before he could stop himself. ‘Don’t accept. It’s a bargain just as it is.’
She turned a laughing face to him. ‘Mike, it isn’t. The central heating costs an absolute fortune to run, the plumbing needs modernising, the electrics badly need rewiring and the kitchen is well overdue for the biggest makeover in the world. And the whole place should be redecorated.’
‘But the roof is sound, it didn’t feel damp the other day, and it has mistletoe in the garden. The manor is a gem, Grace. When the right person comes along and falls in love with it, they’ll pay the asking price.’
‘Will that be before or after I go bankrupt?’
‘Before,’ Mike said firmly. ‘Let’s fetch your string of lights now before it gets dark and we electrocute ourselves on the dodgy wiring.’
As they entered the manor, Mike watched Grace’s face. He felt her love for the place. Her smile was half sad, half happy memory.
‘Oh, Grace,’ he said. ‘How are you going to feel with someone else living here? This was a good home for you.’
She walked resolutely up the stairs. When she spoke her voice was stronger. ‘I loved it here. I hope whoever buys it will love it just as much.’
It was no good, he was going to have to say something soon. If only he knew how she would really feel!
Chapter Seven
AFTER the third patient in a row told Mike on Monday morning that they’d no doubt see him at the party, he thought it might be an idea to ring Grace.
‘Which party?’ he said, trying not to let a plaintive tone into his voice.
She chuckled down the phone. He could hear her walking briskly along. ‘The children’s one. In the village hall tomorrow afternoon after school. Angela Mather told you about it, remember?’
‘Angela Mather. Type 1 diabetic. Joanne’s mother. Talks.’
‘That’s her. Also party organiser.’
Mike remembered something else. ‘Sausage rolls!’ he said, aghast. ‘Do they sell them at the village shop?’
‘Mike, you can’t send Bethany to her first Rivercut party with shop-bought sausage rolls! It’s a matter of honour.’
‘The children won’t notice,’ Mike protested.
‘The mothers will. And you’re an honorary mother.’
Mike leaned his head against the window pane. ‘Dear Grace, if you are not doing anything when you finish work, you wouldn’t like to come and construct sausage rolls with Bethany in our kitchen, would you? I can offer you supper. Dad makes a mean casserole.’
‘How can I resist? I’ll buy the ingredients while I’m doing my rounds, shall I?’
Mike sighed. ‘Yes, please.’
Grace arrived that evening, put down a promisingly bulging bag and started divesting herself of her outer garments. ‘Oh, it’s lovely to be warm,’ she said, getting her hair caught as she unwound her scarf. ‘One of the reasons I enjoy farm visits so much is that I mostly see patients in the farmhouse kitchen, with the Aga permanently on and wonderful smells seeping out of the oven. It’s a shame modern houses don’t have kitchens big enough to really live in.’ She was wearing a big floppy sweater under her coat, but stripped it off in a double-overarm movement to reveal a figure-hugging dark blue angora jumper underneath. It had a V-neck and three-quarter sleeves and made Mike wonder very much what the layer below that was like.
He blinked as Grace produced a spray cleaner from her bag, squirted the table and wiped it with a kitchen towel. Then she gave the spray to Bethany, telling her to do her side as well, all the time explaining bacteria in terms a five-year-old could understand.
Mike was impressed. He poured out three glasses of Rioja, took one through to his father, who was shouting points of medical procedure at a TV hospital soap. When he came back Bethany was wrapped in a cook’s apron, had just had her hands washed and was installed at the table to weigh out the flour and margarine. Mike leaned against the worktop, ready to be amused.
Grace narrowed her eyes. ‘Now, then, is this fair?’ she asked Bethany. ‘Us doing all the work and Daddy just standing there, drinking a glass of wine?’
‘You’ve got a glass of wine too,’ he pointed out.
‘Daddy, help,’ decreed Bethany.
‘I haven’t got an apron,’ he said cunningly.
Grace crossed to her bag, pulled out a blue-and-white-striped barbeque number and dropped the neck loop over his head. For a moment she was standing very close to him. ‘You planned that,’ he said, an unexpected tightness in his chest.
She grinned. ‘Would I do such a thing? Okay, here we are. Sausage rolls.’
She had a children’s recipe book with her, with big clear writing and step-by-step photos. ‘You didn’t buy it especially, did you?’ said Mike, worried about her spending money she didn’t have.
‘No, I picked it up at the last church sale. I was going to give it to my god-daughter, but when I got there last weekend, I saw it on Natalie’s kitchen shelf already. I’ll leave it here for Bethany if you like.’
This was fun. Bethany’s first two attempts at scooping flour out of the bag into the measuring bowl resulted in a small-scale snowdrift on the table.
‘It’ll be useful for rolling out the pastry,’ said Grace, unperturbed. ‘Shall we let Daddy have the next turn?’ She reached for the scoop at the same time as Mike. She drew back at once, but he thought she’d probably felt the same frisson that had run through him during the brief moment when the backs of their hands touched.
By the time there was enough in the mixing bowl there was flour everywhere, but Bethany had learnt what the gradations on the scale meant in real terms—in a way Mike doubted she’d have managed at school. Grace was really good with children. And when he caught himself drawing a fancy pattern on the pastry with a zigzag roller, he sus
pected she might be good with him too. All the same, the sausage rolls were a lumpy, misshapen lot. ‘Shall I buy some from the shop anyway?’ he asked in a low tone as she put the tray in the oven.
‘Certainly not. These have got character. Besides, kids aren’t bothered what things look like at a party, just what they taste like.’
‘If you say so. Oh, Lord, look at this place. Bethany, sweetheart, I think I’d better put you in the bath clothes and all tonight.’
His daughter giggled. The apron had kept most of her clean, but she had flour in her hair, flour and margarine and sausage meat on her hands and suspicious bits of pastry around her mouth.
‘You can talk,’ said Grace, carrying Bethany to the sink and rinsing her hands.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, let’s just say you’re going to look very distinguished when you’re older.’
Mike hastened to the mirror in the hall. He appeared to have gone grey at the temples since they’d started baking. ‘Could be worse. Go and sit with Grandad while we clean up, darling.’
Grace scrubbed efficiently at the table. Mike fetched a broom for the floor. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Take off your apron.’
Grace looked at him in surprise, but undid the ties. A small shower of flour fell from behind the bib to the floor. She tutted and brushed at her jumper. The white streaks became more pronounced.
‘No, don’t. You’ve got damp hands. You’re making it worse. Here, let me.’
He brushed the loose flour away from her midriff. Her angora jumper was soft to the touch, and warm where it lay against her body. Grace, however, had gone suddenly still. ‘Lift your arm,’ he said, and very, very carefully he brushed the flour away from her side, his fingers tantalisingly close to the swell of her breast. ‘There’s, um, more…’
‘Go on, then,’ she invited softly. Her breath was coming slightly faster and the pupils of her eyes had dilated. Then the oven timer broke into a flurry of beeping, sending them instantly to either side of the kitchen.
Hot-Shot Doc, Christmas Bride / Christmas At Rivercut Manor Page 23