by Katie Fforde
Apart from the people, in a selection of jumpers, scarves and ponchos, making the scene contemporary it could have been a scene from a costume drama, only without the servants.
Up the children’s end of the table, policed by Meggie and Étienne, there were a couple of large jam jars filled with battery-operated lights that acted as lanterns. There was enough light to see by but not enough to notice the random cutlery and china. Both little girls were now dressed as Disney princesses, including blonde wigs; the babies wore crowns from out of the crackers. They were in high chairs, one modern and one antique, and everyone was very, very relaxed. Rudie, the puppy, exhausted with being adored, was asleep on a velvet cushion in front of the fire.
‘Well, my dear,’ said Lord Gainsborough, addressing Fenella who was seated at the head of the table. ‘I think we should propose a toast to you, for providing us with such a splendid Christmas.’
‘Yes,’ agreed his wife. ‘I think this has been one of the best Christmases ever. And it’s so lovely to have candlelight at Christmas!’
Fenella looked flabbergasted at this praise from such an unexpected quarter. Meggie knew by now that the Gainsboroughs were not ones for showing gratitude.
‘Oh, thank you!’ Fenella said, trying to hide her astonishment. ‘I’m just glad it worked out so well.’ She looked at the older Williamses, who also looked content.
‘Splendid to be able to get a decent hand of bridge,’ went on Lady Gainsborough. ‘Such a stroke of luck. Nice to find fellow players but ones on the same level is more than one could have expected.’
‘Well, come on then,’ said Lord Gainsborough, who was in very good spirits owing to the quantity of them he had consumed, ‘have a glass with me!’
‘Oh, I won’t, thank you,’ said Fenella, ‘I’m off it for the moment. Actually, I suppose there’s no better time to announce this: I’m pregnant.’
The stunned silence was quickly followed by many voices congratulating her.
Fenella quickly sought to catch Rupert’s eyes, realising it might have been an idea to speak to him first. But Rupert was looking back at her with such a beaming smile that she knew he was just as thrilled as she was. What a perfect Christmas present for them both.
‘Good show, old girl!’ said Lord Gainsborough. ‘Maybe this time you’ll be lucky and have a boy!’
To Meggie’s huge relief Glory, who usually had the ears of a bat, didn’t seem to have heard this objectionable comment. Instead she said from the other end of the table, ‘Does that mean you’re having a baby?’
‘Yes, darling,’ said her mother fondly. ‘Is that OK with you?’
‘Yes,’ said Glory, ‘because it means that next year we can have our own baby Jesus at the carol service and not have to use that horrid pink dolly with the broken arm.’
‘Jolly well done, darling,’ said Rupert, kissing his wife. ‘You’ve saved the girls from the horrid pink dolly.’
‘There’s no effort I won’t go to to make my family happy,’ she said, having kissed him very thoroughly back.
Meggie stood in her father’s house holding a tray of champagne glasses. It was New Year’s Eve and she was wearing the cashmere jumper in a very flattering pink that Fenella had given her for Christmas. With it she had on a mini skirt with a wide, tight belt and Zoe’s tights, which made her legs look amazing. She felt so much sexier and confident than she ever had before. Sadly at the moment it was being wasted on one of her father’s friends.
‘So what are you reading at university, Meggie?’ he asked, inspecting her chest.
‘History of Art with French,’ she replied, trying to move away with her tray.
‘Speak much French, do you?’ the man went on.
‘A bit.’ She actually spoke it quite well but wasn’t one to boast. ‘I should really—’
Just as she was about to say ‘circulate’ the bell to the flat rang and her stepmother, head to toe in black fake leather, opened the door. It was Étienne.
‘Good evening,’ he said in his wonderful accent. ‘I am Étienne de Saint-Vire. I am here for Meggie? You must be her mother.’ He took Ignatia’s hand and kissed it. ‘It is cool that she invited me?’
‘Yes, of course!’ said Ignatia. ‘But I’m not Meggie’s mother!’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’m hardly old enough!’
‘Oh, excuse me!’ said Étienne, all apology. ‘Now I look I see you don’t have her beautiful eyes.’
‘No, but I do have—’
Meggie could see her stepmother stretching and purring in the presence of a supremely attractive young man. It made her cringe. She couldn’t wait to tell her mother how creepy and embarrassing it was.
Étienne didn’t wait to be hit on by the Iguana. ‘I see Meggie over there. I will talk to her. Enchanté, madame.’
He was with her in a very few strides. ‘’Ello, Meggie.’ He took the tray of glasses from her and set it down. Then he helped himself to two of them and handed one to her.
Meggie thought she would die of happiness, for many reasons. Firstly, he’d accepted her embarrassed-sounding email invitation; secondly, he was even more gorgeous than she’d remembered, which was quite difficult; and finally, he had obviously annoyed her stepmother, which was excellent.
‘Hi,’ she said, hoping her smile of sheer joy wasn’t making her look desperately silly. ‘You came.’
‘Of course I came. I was delighted to have the opportunity to see you again so soon.’
The Iguana, obviously not happy about Meggie having all this divine young man’s attention, swanned up. ‘Meggie! You didn’t tell us you had a boyfriend.’
‘Meggie and I are not yet boyfriend and girlfriend,’ said Étienne smoothly. ‘Although I’m hoping that may change soon. Madame,’ he addressed the Iguana, ‘may I convey a message from my grandmère, asking permission for Meggie to stay with her, with us as a family, at our château, for Epiphany – Twelfth Night – what do you call it here?’
‘Twelfth Night,’ said Meggie.
‘Oh,’ said Ignatia shortly. ‘You’d have to ask Meggie’s actual mother for that. Although I suppose her father would do. Darling!’ She summoned her husband to her side.
‘Meggie?’ said her father, surprised. ‘Who’s this?’
Étienne introduced himself. ‘I am very much hoping that it will be permitted for Meggie to join us at my grandmother’s home for Twelfth Night?’
‘It’s a château,’ said Ignatia.
Meggie’s father seemed unfazed. ‘It’s Meggie’s mother you should be asking. I suppose visiting a French château would be good for her French.’
Meggie herself wondered why Étienne felt obliged to ask permission from her parents and assumed it was a French thing.
Étienne turned to her. ‘You speak French?’
Meggie shrugged. She didn’t want to confess that her French was quite good – she would be too shy to try it out in front of him. ‘A little.’
‘She got an A star in her A level,’ said her dad.
Meggie shrugged again, assuming confidently that this information would mean nothing to Étienne.
This was not the case. ‘Ah bon!’ he said. ‘This is very good news. My grandmother prefers to speak French.’
‘Not unreasonable,’ said Meggie. ‘If she is French.’
Meggie’s dad took Ignatia’s arm to lead her away. ‘Ask your mother, Meggie, but absolutely fine with me,’ he said.
When they had gone Meggie cleared her throat. ‘I’m going home tomorrow. If you don’t have to go back to work, would you like to come with me? Meet my mum and my stepdad? Then we can tell them about France.’
‘Good idea,’ said Étienne. ‘I will ask Gideon if it is possible. The food-importing business is quiet just now. It should be fine. Now …’
He looked down into her eyes and Meggie’s stomach did a back flip.
‘Soon it will be midnight, non?’
‘Oui.’
‘And people kiss?’
‘Oui.’
‘We should practise.’
‘OK.’
He put his arm round her and found a corner by a huge pot plant. ‘This will do.’ Then he lifted her chin, looked into her eyes, glanced down at her mouth and kissed her.
Meggie had been kissed before but never like this. Never with such a combination of passion and skill. Her eyes closed, her body felt as if it would hardly support her and she clung to him. She wanted it to go on forever.
While they were kissing, Meggie became aware of someone taking their photograph. Often the pictures the Iguana put up on Facebook were really annoying. She had absolutely no problem with this one.
Eventually they paused for breath. She swallowed and looked up at him. ‘Is that a French kiss?’
He nodded. ‘Certainement.’
‘If I’m going to visit you in France, maybe I should practise French kissing some more?’
He smiled. ‘Very sensible.’ And proceeded to help her do just that.
It was very, very early on Christmas morning and pitch dark. Stella walked slowly up the hill to the common. She had forgotten just how steep the hills were in her father’s bit of the Cotswolds. She was getting quite hot, with her hair tucked into a woolly hat and a couple of jumpers on under her jacket.
She carried her father’s old Maglite to guide her. As she walked she imagined all those households where over-excited children were waking exhausted parents, wanting to open their presents, while the parents were desperate for another couple of hours’ sleep. Considering it was only five a.m., there were quite a few houses with lights on, as well as the Christmas lights that flashed away all night, making the valley look like a slightly kitsch greetings card. It made Stella smile.
She was glad of the twinkly, cheery lights this morning, as her own mission was fairly gloomy. What she really needed, she felt, was a dog. A dog would make this trip normal and not a mad, sentimental whim. Also a dog would protect her from any possible muggers. Not that she was really frightened of being attacked, but she was a woman in her thirties and although fairly fit, if there was some opportunist – and optimistic – thief around she could be quite vulnerable.
Stella was heading for what was known locally as the Dog Walkers’ Christmas Tree, which was more than just a jolly, outdoor Christmas tree. For many it was also a memorial to much-beloved pets who had died. It was a hawthorn – small for a tree, large for a Christmas tree – in the middle of the common, well away from any houses, and every year it was decorated by dog walkers. Stella never knew who put on the initial tinsel and plastic baubles but other dog walkers came up and added their own decorations and by Christmas Day it was a mass of mostly hand-crafted ornaments – to be collected afterwards. There was also a box for donations of dog food. This tree was both a sad and a happy place.
Stella had in the pocket of her father’s old coat a little tin model dog that he’d made years ago. It was a fairly generic dog, her father had explained, but it represented all the dogs he’d had in his long life. Besides, his skills weren’t up to anything much more specific.
Apart from the model dog, which was quite pitted and bent out of shape from years of being hung in howling gales, snow and rain, Stella had a box. In the box were the ashes of her father’s last dog, Geoffrey, and (she would never, ever confess this to her sister, Annabel) some of her father’s ashes too.
Stella knew he would have liked being mixed in with his companion Geoffrey, and would think it amusing to be scattered under the weathered old tree. But Annabel would be appalled at the idea, and would say that Stella was too sentimental and the whole thing was dreadfully whimsical. Because of Annabel’s terribly sensible outlook, the rest of their father was in something like an urn and in the summer, on what would have been his ninetieth birthday, she and her sister were going to scatter the ashes together.
Stella knew putting some of him in with his dog was fanciful but she didn’t care. To avoid upsetting anyone, and risk covering them with human and dog remains by mistake, she had set off for the Dog Walkers’ Christmas Tree really early, certain there wouldn’t be anyone else here at this time. Especially on Christmas morning, which was so busy for so many.
She had just successfully seen the ashes swept away cleanly by the wind, and was thinking about her much-beloved dad, when she was nearly knocked over by a dog bounding up to her and planting its paws on her chest. She staggered and braced herself, just in time to avoid being knocked over by a second dog.
A man came running up behind them, sweating and overcome with embarrassment. He obviously didn’t know what to do first: shout at the dogs or apologise to Stella. As the dogs were really just huge puppies, and were now chasing each other round and round the tree, the man cleared his throat and addressed her.
‘I am so desperately, desperately sorry,’ he said, pulling off his beanie hat and revealing a lot of thick dark hair. ‘Not only have my horrible dogs nearly knocked you over, they have covered you in mud.’
One of the dogs came bounding up to him and his hand automatically went out to stroke the head that pushed at him. Stella could tell that while he was extremely embarrassed by them, he loved the dogs very much.
British to the core and observing his feelings for the animals who were now clowning around, Stella nearly said that being bounced on was nothing, no trouble and probably her fault for standing with her head in the clouds. But as her father’s fawn jacket was now covered in muddy paw prints, honesty forbade her.
‘This is awful!’ he went on. ‘You must let me pay your dry-cleaning bill. You’re covered! They’re not even my dogs!’
The man, who was only a bit older than she was (though possibly nearer forty, Stella realised), couldn’t stop apologising.
‘They belong to my mother, really. She had them foisted on her when she was in no state …’ He paused. ‘I’ve just had to put her in a care home.’
Stella and her sister had managed to look after their father at home and had felt so lucky. She decided to keep the mood light-hearted. ‘Well, it is probably hard for her to give them enough exercise from there.’
It took the man, who had stopped panting quite so hard, a nanosecond to realise she was making a joke. Processing that Stella probably wasn’t going to sue him for damage to designer clothing, he relaxed a little. ‘It is. Even if she put them on one of those really long leads.’
Stella laughed. ‘Imagine them getting it tangled up in people’s legs, felling them like ninepins.’
‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. It’s bad enough what they did to you.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘This coat will go in the machine. It’s my dad’s old walking jacket so it’s seen plenty of mud in its time.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. I’m still mortified. I’m Fitz, by the way. My real name is Patrick Fitzherbert but everyone calls me Fitz.’
Now she knew he was Irish, she could hear the faintest of brogues in his voice. It was very attractive.
‘Stella. Oh, and happy Christmas!’
‘Happy Christmas to you.’ He sighed.
‘Christmas not going well for you?’ said Stella.
He laughed. ‘Not really. So far my dogs have nearly knocked you over and covered you in mud.’
‘But they didn’t knock me over and my coat is washable.’
Possibly hearing the word ‘dogs’ one of them came over and nuzzled Stella’s leg. She stroked the head, happy to have it there.
‘What sort are they?’ she asked.
‘Horrible,’ said Fitz. ‘They’re horrible. A mixture: we have no idea what ingredients went into them.’
Stella studied them. ‘There’s a bit of Lab in there, I’d say.’
‘And a bit of thief, a bit of high jumper and some marathon runner,’ said Fitz. ‘And a pinch of collie, which explains the white patches.’
‘A handful?’
‘A very big bit of handful,’ he agreed. ‘My poor mother! How she let herself agree to take them on God onl
y knows. I suspect blackmail, otherwise there’s no sense to it.’
‘Is your mother – OK?’
‘She’s fine but frail physically, and her house is totally unsuitable for anyone elderly. I’m not sure I can manage to live in it without injuring myself. But did you mean, has she got her marbles? Technically yes, but obviously not really or she wouldn’t have taken on the dogs. To be fair, she’s always been a bit eccentric.’
‘I like that. My mother is rather serious. She left my father, who was about thirty years older than she was, because he was too flippant and childlike. My sister takes after her.’ A rush of guilt overcame her. ‘That sounds horribly disloyal! I love my sister, I really do. She always looks out for me. But she doesn’t think I can run my life without her advice.’
Fitz cocked his head. ‘Is your dad …?’
Stella nodded. ‘No longer with us. But he was ancient and had a very good life.’ She knew what his next question would be after the slip about her parents’ age difference, but he wasn’t rude enough to ask it. ‘He had his children very late in life,’ she explained. ‘Mum was wife number three. Actually I came up here this morning to scatter Dad’s dog’s ashes. And a bit of Dad as well.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not at all.
Tears suddenly gathered in her throat unexpectedly. She coughed. Her father had had the perfect end, dying at home, with Geoffrey on his bed. Geoffrey had died a few minutes later. They looked at the tree in silence. Stella was thinking of her father’s parting with this world and the little dog decoration she still had in her pocket.
‘It is a wonderful tree, isn’t it?’ he said, giving her a chance to get herself together. ‘I came up this early in the hope there’d be no one about. I wanted these two tired out so I can concentrate on cooking.’
‘And I came out early because I didn’t want people seeing me scatter the ashes. Mission accomplished.’
‘I’m not entirely sorry mine failed,’ he said. ‘Hey, let’s sit down and admire the view, like old people? I know it’s still fairly dark but the dogs are playing nicely at last and the walk from my house is pretty well perpendicular. I could do with sitting down for a bit.’