The Christmas Stocking and Other Stories

by Katie Fforde

  ‘She brought me a present?’ said Ella, delighted and surprised. ‘From Paris?’

  He nodded. ‘Open it. Jenny insisted I bring it. If I couldn’t bring you back.’

  Reluctantly, in case she spoilt the sticker, Ella teased open the package. Inside was a pashmina, in a pink so delicate it was like dawn in a Scottish winter. She opened it out and it seemed enormous. ‘Goodness, it’s beautiful!’ she breathed, aware it would have cost a lot of money.

  ‘Here,’ he said, having wiped his hands again, on his own jeans this time. ‘Let me put it on for you.’

  Tenderly, he wrapped it round her neck. Although it was big the cashmere was so soft it settled easily round her, feeling like warm marshmallow. Where his fingers touched her skin she shivered, but not from cold.

  She cleared her throat, banishing the threatened tears. ‘What a really lovely present.’

  ‘Later we’ll go back, and you can thank her in person. We’ll have to walk though. I must be way over the limit.’

  ‘I walked here. It’s not far.’

  As she gazed at the sea and the islands beyond, Ella couldn’t help feeling intensely sad. She wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, with anyone else, and they’d had a wonderful time, but it was nearly over. Soon they would walk back along the quiet road, go into the noisy house, full of Christmas. She would thank Jenny for her wonderful pashmina and Jenny would thank her for being the Christmas Fairy. Later, she would go back to her little room at Rebecca’s, and the following day, she would start the long drive home, never to see Brent again.

  He seemed to pick up on her feelings. His expression was tender as he looked down at her. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s finish the bottle. We might as well be drunk as the way we are.’

  ‘I thought we were already drunk,’ said Ella, holding out her beaker all the same. She was determined to appear jolly from now on, no matter what she was feeling inside.

  ‘Not quite drunk enough.’

  She wondered if she picked up a wistful undertone to this statement.

  They started to shiver in earnest and decided to put out the fire and go back along the road to the family. Brent put his arm round Ella, hugging her close. They walked in unison but didn’t speak. They had been so happy for a little while on the beach but now they had to return to real life.

  The family was delighted to see them both. Jenny and her husband, Graham, told Ella a million times how wonderful she had been. Mia hugged her, and Judith gave her a look showing gratitude she couldn’t find the words to express. Ella had arranged for her to have a really good time and increased her self-confidence enormously.

  More drinks were offered, but Ella opted for apple juice this time.

  When she’d admired everyone’s presents and eaten a mince pie, Ella decided she must go back to Rebecca’s.

  ‘I’ve got a long drive tomorrow. But it’s so brilliant you were able to get back to be with the family,’ she said to Jenny.

  ‘I was thrilled too. We sang “Driving Home for Christmas” all the way!’ said Jenny.

  ‘You did, darling,’ said her husband. ‘I checked for traffic reports.’

  ‘So you don’t mind if I go?’ asked Ella. ‘I know I was booked for Boxing Day too but—’

  ‘Of course you must go! You’ll be able to have a bit of your own family Christmas if you do.’

  ‘I’ll walk back with you,’ said Brent.

  Ella was about to insist this wasn’t necessary when she remembered her huge suitcases and the vast amount of stuff she had brought with her to ensure that Christmas was perfect for everyone.

  ‘That would be handy, thank you.’ She smiled broadly, and hoped no one could tell that it wasn’t champagne that was making her eyes sparkle so brightly.

  As they walked along the road, towing suitcases and carrying rucksacks, Ella wondered if Brent would ask for her telephone number. Would he make an effort to see her again? Did he want to? Or was his gentle flirting and kindness just that – kindness because she was helping keep everyone happy at Christmas?

  He didn’t ask for her contact details. He just brought all her luggage into the little holiday cottage attached to Rebecca and James’s house. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

  ‘You’d better get back,’ said Ella quickly, her heart and hope plummeting, a sixth sense telling her he wasn’t going to be in touch with her again. ‘They’ll be missing you. It’s Christmas.’

  He didn’t speak for a while and then he cupped her cheek with his hand.

  ‘You’re right. Happy Christmas to the best Christmas Fairy I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her smile taking every atom of acting ability she’d ever had. ‘And a happy Christmas to you! Now I’d better get this lot sorted out.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ella.’

  ‘Goodbye, Brent.’

  She turned away into the house before the tears that had formed escaped and fell. She knew when she was inside she might sob. The reason he hadn’t asked for her number or anything was clear: he thought her far too young for him. He was ten years older than her and while she couldn’t have cared less about this, he obviously did.

  She’d said goodbye to Rebecca and her family as soon as she’d got her face back together, so she was able to set off smartly in the morning: so early, in fact, that she might be home by early afternoon. She’d sent her mother a text outlining her plans, and her mother had insisted it was too far for her to drive in one day. Ella had replied that it was fine and promised to stop if she got tired.

  She staggered through her parents’ front door at three o’clock and burst into tears. She passed it off as exhaustion and spent the rest of the day curled up in front of the fire and It’s a Wonderful Life, with a box of champagne truffles, pressed into her hand at the last minute by Rebecca, who’d felt terrible about her leaving.

  It had only been a few weeks since Christmas, but Ella had already given up all hope of becoming an actor. One dark afternoon, as she was teaching herself to touch-type while waiting to start her shift as a pizza-delivery girl, an email pinged into her computer. It appeared to be from Brent Christy, but Ella was wary. She hadn’t given him her email address, and he certainly hadn’t asked for it.

  She clicked on it.

  Hi Ella,

  Or should I call you the Christmas Fairy so you know it’s me and not a random Brent Christy?

  My sister was a bit reluctant to give me your details. She thought if you wanted to hear from me you’d have made sure I had your email or phone number. But when she heard what I had to tell her, she relented.

  The reason I didn’t get your details was because I wanted to put some things in place before I got in touch. You spent all Christmas solving everyone’s problems and making things work for other people; I wanted to do something for you.

  Sadly, I can’t get you a part in the latest Hollywood blockbuster, or even the next TV advert for stain remover, but could you come to the address below with all your sketches, drawings and stories? I have an idea that may interest you.

  Ella reread the email several times, a smile of sheer joy on her face. She was going to see him again. He wasn’t asking her out or anything, but she would see him!

  And him wanting to see her doodles and stories was good too. She’d been doing a lot more since Christmas. She hadn’t been able to get a pub job she fancied and so had gone for delivering pizza. She had a bit of time during the day.

  Then she googled the address to see what she could find out. It was in Fitzrovia, and housed a small but very highly regarded children’s publishing house.

  A week later, she was walking along a London street full of extremely edgy (and expensive) food shops, self-consciously carrying the brand-new art portfolio her mother had insisted on buying for her. She was looking for the address on Brent’s email. She felt sick and she couldn’t decide why. Was it because she was insanely excited at the thought of seeing Brent again? Or was she utterly delighted and
thrilled at the thought of changing to a career that suited her far better than that of a failed actor? She realised that either was enough to turn her stomach into a seething mass of conflicting emotions.

  She found the discreet dark blue door with a brass name plate, cleared her throat, did some breathing exercises, and then pressed the buzzer.

  She might as well not have bothered with the breathing exercises, she realised, as by the time she’d got to the top floor she would be out of breath anyway. However, she did them again before she knocked on the office door.

  Brent was there, smiling widely, and for a moment they stood there beaming at each other until he said, ‘Come in, Ella, it’s so good to see you.’

  ‘Me too! I mean, I’m really pleased to see you too.’ Then she realised she’d probably shown an indecent amount of enthusiasm. He was so much better-looking than she’d remembered! ‘I mean, this is a great opportunity.’

  ‘Well, come in. The team is all very excited to meet you.’

  As Ella followed Brent down the corridor she wondered if he’d seemed a bit knocked back when she mentioned the opportunity.

  She didn’t have long to think about it because there were three people on their feet waiting for her to come in with Brent.

  A quick round of introductions – Polly, Esther and Phillip – and everyone sat down again, including Ella, who took the chair Brent was holding for her.

  ‘Well,’ said Brent. ‘You might have worked out by now that I work for a children’s book publisher—’

  ‘Actually, Ella, he owns it,’ said Esther.

  ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t work for it,’ Brent objected. ‘Anyway, I tried to speak to you about your sketches in Crinan, but Christmas kept getting in the way. When I got home I realised that that was probably for the best – it is a fairly democratic business here and I wanted everyone to look at your work to see if they felt the same about it.’

  Ella, her fingers shaking and a bit slippery, put her portfolio on the desk and shoved it towards Esther. If she’d gone through this and Brent’s team didn’t feel the same about her work it would be dreadful. But on the other hand she’d seen Brent again and maybe she’d be brave enough to invite him for a coffee.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, having cleared her throat, ‘would you mind if I went out and got a glass of water or something? While you look? There are a lot of stairs!’

  ‘Sure, I’ll show you,’ said Polly. ‘Those stairs are killers, aren’t they? There’s water out here.’

  Once out of the room, Polly added, ‘There’s the water, there’s the Ladies, and I must just say, Brent has been going on and on about how great you are ever since he got back after the holiday.’

  Ella rubbed her lips together. ‘I’m not sure that makes me feel better.’

  ‘It should!’ said Polly, laughing. ‘Just come back in when you’re ready.’

  Ella took her time and only went back into the room when she was breathing more or less normally and had replaced her lipstick.

  ‘Ella!’ said Phillip. ‘We all think your drawings and your stories are amazing!’

  ‘Yes, we definitely want to publish them,’ agreed Esther. ‘We think you could be the new Lauren Child. You have just the right mix of edginess and warmth.’

  Ella looked at Brent. He was smiling down at her as if all his Christmases had come at once. ‘Of course there’s a lot of work and effort and time before we’ll have a book on the shelves, but I know that once we do, it’ll be mega.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Ella. ‘Does this mean I should cancel my shift at the pizza company for tonight, then?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m going to take you out to lunch to talk over the details—’

  ‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ said Polly mildly.

  ‘Coffee first, and then lunch.’ He smiled again.

  ‘Who’d have thought being a Christmas Fairy could turn into this?’ said Ella, who still couldn’t take in what was happening to her.

  ‘I thought it,’ said Brent. ‘The moment you made us all take part in that amazing story you wrote for Mia, and then showed me there were illustrations as well, I knew.’

  ‘Really?’ It was disorientating.

  He nodded. ‘Your stories are quirky and your drawings wonderfully economical – you get so much into just a few lines.’

  Ella cleared her throat of the sudden lump that had formed there.

  ‘I don’t know if I believe in fairies,’ said Brent, ‘but I know I believe in you!’

  But Ella still couldn’t speak.

  ‘Oh, take the poor girl out for a latte,’ said Phillip. ‘She looks like she needs one.’

  ‘Go on, you two,’ said Polly. ‘We’ll work out the details. Go and – have a date, why don’t you?’

  ‘How does that sound, Ella?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said. ‘Just wonderful.’

  Chapter One

  The farm gate clanged shut behind her as Fran steered her little car up the steep track. Now she and Issi had found Hill Top Farm for certain – the name was written (not very clearly) on the post box – she felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. This was going to be either a wonderful adventure or a humiliating mistake. She decided not to mention her feelings to her best friend. Issi probably guessed how she felt already.

  ‘I always wanted to be a farmer when I was a little girl,’ Fran said instead.

  Issi, who’d just got back in the car having helped deal with the gate, seemed surprised. ‘Really? I never knew that and we’ve been friends for years. I thought you’d always wanted to run your own restaurant.’

  ‘That came later. I’d forgotten myself,’ said Fran, ‘but Mum reminded me at Christmas.’

  ‘Do your parents think you’re mad to do this?’

  ‘Yup. But they’re being supportive. My stepdad thinks I’ll be back with them before the end of the month, but I’m in it for the long haul.’ She paused. ‘Which may only be a year, if I don’t make it.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Issi, ‘let’s go and find this farmhouse you might inherit.’

  ‘It’s not just the farmhouse, remember? It’s the whole darn farm.’

  Fran rounded a steep corner and tried to push her nerves to the back of her mind. Now she was finally here she realised no sane person would leave their comfortable life in London and move to a farm in Gloucestershire that they might not even inherit. No sane person, obviously, but maybe someone like her whose normal life had stalled rather, and who relished a challenge.

  A couple of minutes later, they arrived, having bumped their way to the top avoiding as many potholes as they could. ‘I’m not sure a Ka is the right vehicle for this track,’ Issi said.

  Ignoring her friend, Fran got out of the car. ‘But look at the view!’

  The farmhouse was on a plateau at the top of a hill that overlooked hills and wooded valleys. Beyond them lay the Severn, a silver snake in the far distance, and beyond the river was Wales.

  ‘I think I remember this landscape!’ Fran went on. ‘We came here once when I was a little girl. I’d forgotten all about it until we were discussing the farm over Christmas, and Mum reminded me. Mum said we’d all been here when Dad was alive, but I must have been tiny – after all I was only five when he died. But this feels faintly familiar.’

  ‘It is stunning,’ Issi agreed.

  ‘Come on,’ said Fran, ‘let’s look at the house while it’s still light. It’ll be dark by about four, so we’ll need to turn the leccy on. I’ve got a torch.’

  After failing to open the front door – ‘I don’t think people use front doors in the country,’ offered Issi – they went round the back. The key Fran had been given turned smoothly in the lock and they were in.

  ‘Wow! It is dark,’ said Issi.

  ‘Hang on. I think I’ve found the fuse box. I’ll just get my torch out. There! We have light!’

  They were in a fairly big farmhouse kitchen. The friends looked around in silence for a few seconds, ta
king it all in.

  ‘An open fire!’ said Issi excitedly. ‘How lovely to have an open fire in a kitchen.’

  ‘As long as it’s not all I have to cook on,’ agreed Fran, looking round. Although the central light was on, it wasn’t very bright and created shadow-filled corners. ‘Oh, look,’ she went on, relieved. ‘There’s a Rayburn. Probably a prototype it’s so ancient. I do hope it’s not run on solid fuel.’

  ‘But you’re a chef. You can cook on anything!’ said Issi, laughing at her friend.

  ‘I’m fine with the cooking,’ Fran agreed, ‘but I have no experience of lighting fires. Oh phew, it seems to run on oil.’

  ‘And look, there’s an electric cooker as well. You’re in culinary clover!’ Issi seemed to find Fran’s dismay over the cooking arrangements highly amusing.

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ said Fran, more to herself than to Issi. ‘I’m here to farm, not to cook, after all. And I really like all the freestanding cupboards and things. And the sink has a lovely view of …’ She lifted the net curtain and peered through the window. ‘Ah, the farmyard. But it’s lovely beyond that. Come on!’ Suddenly she was more excited than dubious. ‘Let’s go and explore some more.’

  The sitting room, which was at the front of the house, was a good size, and the windowsill was covered in pot plants. Some had died, but the geraniums seemed to have survived. There was a three-piece suite draped in crocheted blankets, and a profusion of tables and whatnots covered in photographs. Fran picked a photo up. ‘A woman and a cow, or maybe a bull. There’s a rosette. How sweet!’

  Issi joined her. ‘They all seem to be of cows or bulls. There’s nothing to tell you anything about the old lady who owned them.’

  ‘Except that she was really into cows,’ said Fran, putting down the photo she was holding. ‘Oh, look at the fireplace!’

  ‘It’s tiny. You’ll need something else if you’re going to warm this room up.’

  ‘I know it’s tiny, but look at the beam above it. I bet there’s a wonderful original fireplace behind this little coal-burning thing. I long to take a sledgehammer to it!’