Christmas at Hope Cottage

by Lily Graham

  * * *

  After that they couldn’t get enough of each other. Jack knocked on the cottage door the next morning, just after Evie had left, bringing a box of lemon cinnamon buns for breakfast. ‘Couldn’t stop thinking of you last night,’ he said, and Emma felt lighter than air.

  Still he hesitated over coming indoors. ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he suggested instead, clearly not keen on the idea of being found in the cottage by Evie later. Emma could understand it, though she hoped that this time things would be different.

  That first morning, they walked the moors for hours, pausing to kiss and sit in the purple heather, with only birdsong for company.

  ‘I know you can’t control where you come from, any more than I can, and it’s unfair of them to put all that old crap on us,’ he said, taking her hand, and looking into her eyes. He meant the old family feud that had got between them before. She bit her lip. It was what she’d wanted him to say the night before, what she’d wanted him to say for years now.

  She felt like she was sixteen again, though this time they were bolder than they’d ever been, with Jack sneaking her into his large annexe at the back of the Allens’ converted barn in the evenings; though a part of her hesitated at the idea of hiding what they had once again, she didn’t want to expose what was so new to the wrath of his mother either.

  They stayed up late, making love and talking about what they wanted from their future.

  ‘You have to take that job in York,’ he said, kissing her shoulder, as they sat before the fire in his small, cosy living room. She’d told him all about the position and how undecided she’d been.

  ‘I hated not being able to see you all this time.’

  She smiled, buried her face in his neck. ‘I didn’t think you noticed.’

  ‘Oh, I noticed,’ he said, pulling her towards him.

  ‘Didn’t you have Stella to distract you?’ she asked. She’d meant the question to be casual, but the truth was it had devastated her when she’d found out that he’d got together with her – the girl who’d been so cruel to her when she first arrived in Whistling, who made her life hell, who was, somehow, always waiting in the wings for Jack.

  He looked away, sighed. ‘Stella was… well, she was never you. That’s been over for a long time.’

  Her heart skipped a beat at his words.

  ‘What about you? Left anyone broken-hearted at uni? I’m sure there’s half a dozen lads crying into their pillows now.’

  She laughed. ‘Not really.’

  There was Pete, a boy she’d met at party, but they hadn’t really progressed beyond the friend stage. He was sweet and kind, and had been the sort of person she could call if ever she wanted to see a film or catch a show. Her uni friends thought he was a bit boring, and truth be told she sort of liked that about him; but he wasn’t Jack.

  ‘Did you cry into your pillow?’ she asked.

  He grinned. ‘All the time.’

  The week passed in a happy blur. If Evie suspected anything, she didn’t say so; perhaps she was too pleased to see Emma looking so happy.

  She and Jack spent all their free time together, mostly at his place. She was careful to leave early in the morning, before anyone could see her, so she could sneak back into Hope Cottage.

  Evie found her doing that the second week she was back. She was waiting for her in the kitchen, an anxious look on her face, dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said, as Emma tried and failed to come up with a plausible excuse for where she’d been.

  Emma expected her to rail and rage, but she didn’t. It was worse. Evie just looked sad.

  ‘I do, it’s different this time. We’re older now and it’s what we both want.’

  ‘I don’t think that was ever in doubt,’ said Evie, picking up her mug of cold tea. Pennywort’s head was dozing on the table. ‘But just be careful, love, the trouble with most Allens is that they never change.’

  Emma gritted her teeth. ‘He has! We were sixteen the last time we got together, just kids really – his parents made him feel guilty, that’s all. It’s not like that now, he wouldn’t stand for that.’

  Evie nodded, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m not fighting you, love, I just hope for your sake it goes differently this time, but—’

  ‘But you doubt it?’ spat Emma, crossing her arms.

  Evie gave a slow nod, stood up and made her way out of the kitchen. ‘I just wanted to tell you to be careful.’

  Emma stood, shaking, flooded with anger. Couldn’t Evie just be happy for her? They were making it work. Things had changed. Their relationship had deepened, grown into something stronger, more intense. Still, as Emma watched dawn crest the horizon through the window, she couldn’t help the small niggle of doubt that crept inside her heart. They still hadn’t gone anywhere as a couple together these past few weeks, hadn’t been seen in public. Jack came past whenever Evie wasn’t home, never venturing inside, and she waited until dark to go to him at his parents’ home, so that she could sneak in.

  It was just because they were keeping it between them for now, she told herself as she left later that morning, walking down to the village, thinking that she’d go and see Maggie or perhaps get a cuppa at the teashop.

  Maggie wasn’t at home, so she made her way inside the Harris sisters’ teashop, pausing when she saw Jack sitting there with his parents. She blinked in surprise.

  She felt nervous, but she offered him a smile, taking a step forward. His eyes widened and he shook his head, vigorously.

  Emma frowned. She hadn’t been sure if she was actually going to go over and say hello, but Jack’s response, the way his hazel eyes seemed filled with fear, stopped her heart.

  She took a step back. Just then Janet Allen looked at Jack, who had turned to his menu, the tops of his ears red, and then she looked up and saw Emma, and her face grew pinched in its displeasure. She heard Janet hiss, ‘This place used to be great. No wonder it’s gone down. They’ll let anyone in here,’ loud enough for Emma to hear, and a few people turned to look at her. Emma stood rooted to the spot, her face burning, waiting for Jack to say something, anything, in her defence.

  He didn’t.

  She turned and left, heart thumping in her chest. By the time she was back at the cottage, tears of humiliation had traced their way down her face and she was cursing herself for being the worst sort of idiot – the one who never learned.

  He came to the cottage an hour later, for once not caring if Evie was there when he knocked.

  Emma stepped out and closed the door behind her; even though the cottage was mercifully empty, she was not willing to invite him inside.

  ‘Oh God, you’ve been crying. Shit,’ he said, noting her red-rimmed eyes. ‘I’m sorry – you just surprised me, that’s all. I was going to tell them.’

  Emma snorted. ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ she said, coldly.

  He closed his eyes, ‘Em, it’s not like that, my parents have had some bad news. Looks like we’re going to have to close down the stationery division of the business – we just found out – it puts the company at a very rocky point. Mum especially feels terrible as that was her department, you know, and now there will be people losing their jobs… I will tell them about us, I just want to wait until she’s not so stressed, you’ve got to understand, it’s not the time just yet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care or—’

  Emma stared at him, shook her head. ‘Jack – I’m sorry that your parents are going through that, truly.’

  But this was really everything she feared happening all over again. ‘But I mean, there will always be something won’t there? And why should telling her about something that should make any mother happy – the fact that her son is in love – cause her stress? Or add that much more to her load? Why am I always last with you, when you’re always number one with me? I’m sorry but I’m done, done being this secret thing of yours. I think it’s best if I take that job in London after all.’


  His face blanched. ‘You want to leave, just because I’ve asked for a bit more time?’ His face hardened.

  Emma was incredulous. It was too much.

  ‘Is it just a bit of extra time though? Is it really?’ she spat. ‘I mean, how long do you fucking need? I’ve waited for years for you to speak up, to tell them how you really feel, and guess what, time’s up, Jack.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Is that so? It hasn’t been a right fucking mess, and we didn’t try a few times? Christ, Emma, if you really feel like that, then yes, perhaps you should go.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  So, she did. She left for London on the next morning train, her heart feeling like a ball of lead at her feet, heavy and painful. She barely saw beyond the flash of green through the windows of the speeding train as it took her away from him, and away from Hope Cottage, and the life she’d hoped to build.

  Her first week in London, she stayed on her friend Stevie’s sofa, a girl she’d been to uni with, and went to see about the flatshare Stevie knew of at her brother’s building the next morning, thankful that it hadn’t been rented just yet – though in retrospect, that should have been a warning sign. The place was almost derelict, smelling of mould, and – she’d discover later – also the noisiest place she’d ever known, as the building was on a through road that allowed police cars and ambulances to put on their sirens so they didn’t have to slow down for the traffic lights across the street. Which they did every hour, on the hour.

  Still, by the following week she’d taken the job at the Mail & Ledger and had her own tiny room in a rather dodgy but slightly better flat with four other flatmates. She had paid some of her rent with a small loan from her Aunt Aggie, which she had vowed to pay back. After some time she got in contact with her old friend Pete, who was more than happy to resume their acquaintance and didn’t seem to mind, or notice all that much, that she seemed to be only half there with him, the other half of her left behind, in a broken-hearted heap, in Whistling. He remained oblivious even when they decided to take it further.

  Even that decision was a rather civilised affair as far as she was concerned, decided over coffee one morning while they ate eggs Benedict and pancakes – a Wednesday-morning breakfast ritual they kept at a cafe called Scrumptous before he went to his job as a tax solicitor in the building across the street. ‘I think, you know, we get along rather well you and I,’ Pete said, his blue eyes earnest. His dark hair was neatly combed to the side. He was wearing beige slacks with loafers and a skinny black tie. Handsome in an understated, always-indoors-and-pale sort of way. At his side was a copy of the Guardian, folded in half, which Emma knew he bought mostly for the crossword. ‘And well, I was wondering what you thought about making it less platonic between us. I think we’re quite suited despite our differences?’

  She wondered if somewhere in his office cubicle across the street, there was a spreadsheet with the pros and cons of their relationship in neat columns, and whether he’d carefully weighed it all up before he asked, and she hid a grin.

  There was something soothing about him for Emma. A quiet assertiveness she liked; even his formal tone was a bit endearing, and by the time they’d moved on to the pancakes, she’d agreed. It wasn’t the most romantic of propositions, but she thought that maybe, in a way, this was better, more sensible really, without all the drama. Four years passed in much the same way. Pete grew more affectionate, slightly less formal. Though he still wore a bit too much beige.

  He was the sort of man who wasn’t drawn to an excess of anything. In the kitchen in his flat, he had precisely four of everything – bowls, plates, spoons, knives, placemats and chairs. She’d asked him once what he’d do if he ever had more than three people over for tea, and he’d simply shaken his head and said, seriously, ‘I’d suggest we go to the pub instead as this flat only has enough room for four.’ He didn’t quite get the joke.

  His wardrobe was colour coded. From light to dark. He owned five pairs of work slacks. Six work shirts. The extra one, presumably, in case he spilled something. His flat was sparsely furnished – a bed with a very firm mattress, and two pillows, no flounces or throws or quilts; one brown leather sofa (no fluffy cushions; unnecessary, he said); a small dining table, free from adornment; and a framed poster on the wall of a pretty Amsterdam street full of people riding their bicycles, which Emma thought displayed a slightly more romantic side of him. She later found out that the poster had been a gift, but she didn’t hold that against him.

  They were comfortable in each other’s company. Both weren’t that interested in watching television – and instead would often curl up together with a book for her and a crossword, or a financial magazine, for him. When she’d told Maggie, over the phone, about her life, she’d sounded incredulous. ‘Jesus Em, even my nan has a more exciting love life, Christ, and she’s seventy. You live in London – what about the parties, the nightlife, staying up all hours and then getting a drunken cab at dawn with your knickers in your pocket? You’re young, not some old married couple.’

  Emma just laughed. She didn’t fancy the whole nightlife scene that much really, and quite liked keeping her knickers away from her pockets, if she could help it. Mostly she quite liked that Pete was always where he said he was. She didn’t have to worry about him, which, after a lifetime of drama, felt rather nice. On Tuesdays, they went for a curry at Kapoor’s, which was a block away; on Thursdays he made dinner – it was always steak and salad – on Fridays they went to watch a film or visit the theatre – he was rather daring in his choices, and a pretty good sport about hers, not minding if they went to a girly sort of show or something camp or wonderfully intellectual. He was easy company, Pete.

  In many ways, he was good for her; he was like an alarm clock for one thing, and a human calendar reminder, so she became an early bird by default when he slept over, and he often told her useful things like, ‘Time to go get your new pill, you’ve got a week left’ or ‘It’s your Aunt Dot’s birthday tomorrow, don’t forget,’ and oddly, she really liked that about him, even if he did sometimes nag a bit.

  He was very ruled by routine, and could get amorous after dinner, though she wasn’t always receptive to it, which made her feel guilty. She’d excuse herself, saying she was busy, needed to finish up an article or column, she was stressed, not in the mood.

  Sometimes though she’d see that look in his eyes, which she tried to ignore; there was longing in it, like he was waiting for something. She realised now he’d been waiting for her to feel the way about him that he did about her. She’d been grateful for having him in her life; she’d appreciated him, his kindness, his steady presence, the way everything was so black and white with him, with no shades of grey. It had made things simple in a world that, to Emma, never used to feel that way before. She realised now though that wasn’t the same thing as love; and he deserved that.

  * * *

  Sitting in the kitchen at Hope Cottage, Emma wondered now how different things might have been had she stayed in Whistling four years ago, had she never gone to London. What if she’d waited like Jack had asked, given him time until things had calmed down at his parents’ business before they broke the news? It wasn’t like she hadn’t understood him asking for the extra time; despite what she felt about Janet Allen she hadn’t wanted to be a source of stress in the woman’s life – it was simply the fact that she was a source of stress to begin with that bugged her, because she’d never really done anything to deserve it.

  It was this that she objected to most. Him asking for yet more time had felt like yet another excuse for them not to be together – but perhaps she’d been wrong to try and push it then? Should she have trusted him? Had she given up just when she was about to get what she’d wanted all along? Or was it just another attempt on her part to make a justification for him? Would it have made a difference if she’d stayed? Will it make a difference now? His parents’ business had clearly bounced back. He seemed less hesitant to be seen with her in publi
c now, and he’d even come into the cottage, and risked Evie’s wrath in the process.

  She put her head in her hands and groaned. Pennywort came to sit next to her, putting a paw on her shin. She looked down and touched his soft fur, looked into his solemn chestnut eyes. ‘I’m in trouble, Penny,’ she said aloud. The old bulldog gave a little huff. Almost as if he was saying, ‘What’s new?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Maggie was sitting with a mug of Halloway-tradition pumpkin-spiced coffee in her hands; a tradition from Emma’s past that she would have given anything to be able to taste. Maggie had an amazed look on her face. Her blue bobble hat was drying out on a radiator.

  Inside the cottage was cosy, the windows steaming slightly, but outside there was a blustery, icy rain falling, which had melted the snow and turned the early afternoon dark.

  Mikey was playing on the floor with Pennywort, giggling as the old bulldog pretended to chase him, his little legs hurtling him around the table as he giggled. The old dog gave the toddler a head start while he caught his breath.

  Emma grinned watching the two of them.

  ‘Careful Mike,’ said Maggie with a sigh, as he knocked into a chair, then screwed up his face, about to cry, only to change his mind when he saw Pennywort crawling on his belly to come and get him, and start laughing again instead.

  Maggie who’d been poised to scoop him up, breathed a sigh of relief. Watching her, Emma cocked her head to the side. Her best friend was ‘Mummy’ now; it was sweet and a little strange, nice too.

  Emma had just filled her in on what Aggie had told her about the recipe that had gone wrong, and the photograph of Alison with Geoff Allen.

  ‘That’s incredible. I mean – sorry – but it’s weird in a way, like history repeating itself with you and Jack.’

  Emma nodded. ‘I know.’