Christmas at Greenoak (A Potting Shed Story)
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When Bernadette pronounced everything good, Pru swept up stray leaves and twigs as Matty and El swept up their children. They called out, “See you tomorrow!” as the two carloads left. Bernadette and Pru stood at the lych-gate in blessed silence for a moment, before the vicar inhaled deeply and said, “Coffee?”
“Go on, then,” Pru agreed. They traipsed up the road to the Robber Blackbird, where Dick Whycher was behind the bar.
“Coffee it is, ladies—and how about a couple of Ma’s mince pies?”
“Oh yes,” Bernadette said. “Lovely.”
“Why not?” Pru asked, not wanting to say she had started her day with them.
They sat at a table by the window that let in weak rays of sun.
“Bernadette,” Pru said, “if you were trying to find someone, how would you go about it?”
The vicar laughed. “Well, first thing I’d do is ring the police.”
Pru laughed, too. “Yes, well—police have been notified. It’s Alf, you see. This fellow from the Farleigh Wallop Christmas market. He said he worked at a small nursery near Stoke Charity, but I’ve never heard of one and can’t find a listing anywhere. And Alf himself—where is he from? Is he English or Scottish or …”
“Or?” Bernadette asked.
Pru didn’t answer. She thought about Alf’s ability to appear and disappear and how his eyes twinkled in the reflection of the fairy lights, and remembered he had no fairy lights at his stall.
Fueled by far too many mince pies and awash in tea and coffee, Pru drove to Stoke Charity and then round and round the lanes. At last, down the road from the village proper, she came across a pub called the Dogcart. Just in time—she needed the loo.
As she dashed in, she glanced up at the pub’s hanging signboard, which showed the old-style cart, but, instead of the dog doing the pulling, the animal sat in the cart and his master, a fellow wearing a tailcoat and top hat, had hold of the shafts and appeared to be trudging up a hill.
Inside, she was met with a festive crowd and almost as much tinsel roping as Ursula Whycher had used at the Blackbird. Pru skirted the drinkers and made straight for the ladies’ and then, when she emerged, snaked her way up to the bar, ordered a half of the ale Old Thumper, and asked about a local plant nursery.
“Plants—for the garden?” the barman countered.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Dunno of any round here …”
“There’s Hillier’s,” a man down at the end of the bar offered.
“Hillier’s is a garden center,” the woman behind him said. “Not a nursery.”
“Well, they’ve plants, don’t they?”
“Yes,” Pru broke in, “Hillier’s is lovely, but I was thinking of a smaller place, just here round Stoke Charity. With only plants.”
The group round the bar became quiet and screwed up their faces. After a moment, someone asked, “Do you remember that fellow Cagey Collier?”
Several faces lit up.
“Cagey—is he still there? Sold plants along the road, right at the …”
Silence fell again until a hand raised in the back. “The Lodge at old Goodwelcome House.”
A rousing chorus of “Good on you, Bill, how did you remember that one?” That was followed by a discussion of the history of Goodwelcome House—which apparently began with the Norman Conquest. All fascinating, but Pru had no time for it. She interrupted with a few quick questions and left them to it.
Following vague directions—“turn at the Salisbury marker”; “that marker’s been gone for fifty years”; “didn’t they replace it in ’02?”—Pru drove down increasingly narrow lanes, losing hope of finding The Lodge, Cagey Collier, and, as a result, Alf. Then, round a corner, a steep-pitched roof appeared. The brick house had a chimney in need of repointing and a front door crying out for a fresh coat of paint, but a tidy garden surrounded the place, and in the yard three rows of wooden tables ran next to a glasshouse with cloudy panes. An aging painted sign stuck out from a ball of box: Cagey’s Plants.
Pru’s heart skipped a beat as she parked and leapt out of the car. But there didn’t seem to be any need for the hurry, because the place looked deserted. Still, she walked past the bare nursery tables and knocked at the front door. When there was no reply, she walked round the other side of the house and came across a mud-splattered Land Rover with a man standing at its open rear door.
“Hello!” she called.
He looked up—a man past seventy with a beard on his chin as white as the—
“Can I help you?” he asked. “I’m afraid I’m finished with the nursery for the season.”
“Are you Mr. Collier?” Pru asked, breathless with eagerness.
“I’m Cagey,” the man replied.
“My name is Pru Parke,” she said, and proceeded to explain her mission, ending with “You know Alf, don’t you—he said he worked at a nursery near Stoke Charity.”
“Alf North? I know the boy, yes. He’s gone.”
“But where?”
Cagey shook his head. “Didn’t say. I’d had him working here since early spring. I couldn’t pay him much, but he said that was all right if I allowed him space for his plants. When I told him I was closing for winter, I gave him a few extra pounds, and he took his plants and left. He said it was all right, because this was his busy time of year.”
“Where does he live?”
“He had a bedsit above a newsagent near Christmas Hill. It’s only down the road.”
Pru had learned that in England, “down the road” meant more than a short walk.
“Thanks, I’ll ask there. It’s only that, I wanted to invite him for Christmas Day. By the way, do you know where he’s from?”
Cagey squinted an eye at her. “Don’t you know?”
A gray streak shot out from behind the house and flew past their feet, accompanied by joyous yapping. The dog made two rounds of the Land Rover before Cagey said, “Now, Dasher,” and the small terrier raced to the man’s feet and sat, his little pink tongue draped over the side of his open mouth.
Pru glanced at the dog and then the man. “Dasher?”
“Aye,” Cagey said. The dog tore off again, making another orbit before returning. “And you can see why. Alf gave him to me a few months ago—said the owner was relocating and Dasher here needed a new home. I’d lost my old dog, Twig, last winter, and it had been quite lonely about the place.”
“Hello, Dasher,” Pru said, and the terrier wiggled with delight.
“He’s a good fella, arent’t you?” Cagey asked, and then, belying his years, the man sprang to his cab and to his dog gave a whistle.
Pru drove south to Christmas Hill Road and located the newsagent. When she walked inside, the door jingled, and she was met by strains of “Wonderful Christmastime” from a radio on the counter and slapped in the face by a dangling, glittering strand. Had Hampshire bought up the country’s entire supply of silver tinsel roping?
She greeted the toothy woman at the till and explained her quest.
“The little Elf?” the woman replied with a smile that took up most of her face. “Isn’t he a dearie?”
“So Alf does live upstairs?” Pru said.
“Did,” the woman said. “Gone this morning, with nothing but his rucksack.”
“Gone where?”
“Are you his mum?”
“Me?” Pru asked. “Why did you think that?”
“I dunno. You talk a bit alike.”
“He’s American?”
“Is he?” the woman asked with amazement.
“No, I meant—”
It was no use. Two women hurried in, talking nonstop and asking for day-old sponge cake for a last-minute trifle, followed by three teenagers, who mumbled “Sorry” as they shuffled past Pru to reach the soft-drink case.
“Do you have a phone number for him?” Pru asked as a tall man with an enormous pram pushed in.
“Never gave me one,” the shop woman said before turning to her customers.
Christopher listened to her report on Alf North while they both worked on a mountain of potatoes and parsnips at the kitchen table. Pru’s tears had been replaced by annoyance at her failure.
“Where will he be on Christmas Day?” she asked.
“He may have plans,” Christopher suggested.
“My first Christmas in London, Jo invited me over to dinner. Cordelia and Lucy were there—I felt like part of the family. I wanted to do that for someone else.”
“You’ve invited two couples and ten children over, plus Dick and Ursula Whycher—that’s added a few places to the table. And it sounds as if they’re grateful.”
Pru narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re trying to make me feel better,” she accused.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I want to make sure it’s safe for you to handle that knife for the potatoes.”
They barely made it to Christmas Eve service at eleven o’clock—while the winter squash roasted, the peeled potatoes were parboiled, because they’d roast so much quicker the next day. “Save you time and worry,” Evelyn had written. It took both Pru and Christopher to lift and drain the stockpot, then turn the potatoes out onto a layer of tea towels covering the counter. After that, Pru had wanted to walk to church, because the sky was bright with moonlight. They hurried into the sanctuary, well warmed from the journey, just as the organ began “Away in a Manger.”
It was a good crowd, and after, with the clear, cold sky, everyone lingered on the porch, even the children.
Bernadette chatted with each person. Pru hung back and came up last.
“You look exhausted,” she said to the vicar.
“But it’s a good tired, and it’ll be over soon enough, and I’ll be able to enjoy that Christmas dinner of yours.”
“Yes, well,” Pru replied and began worrying about the cranberry sauce. Evelyn said it was best to make it the day before to let the flavors meld. Pru would need to get to it before bed.
“You know,” Bernadette said, “Matty and El are willing to lend a hand.”
“I shouldn’t ask guests to cook their own dinner,” Pru said.
“I’d say they’d love to help. They’ve had an easy day of it, taking the children to see Father Christmas this afternoon at West Dean. He was sort of an odd fellow—a young man, but you’d never know it with the beard he’d glued on.” The vicar wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “His cheeks were like roses. And he had twinkly eyes—really looked the part.”
Pru frowned at Bernadette and then shook her head as if disagreeing with herself. “I suppose he was big and round?” she asked.
“No, he didn’t need to be,” Bernadette replied. “That’s your American Santa who is fat, not Father Christmas.”
Several of Matty’s and El’s children—Pru was not yet able to assign them to a mother—had heard this exchange as they ran an obstacle course through the parishioners.
“His shoes were funny,” one of the boys said. “I’ve never seen a Father Christmas with pointed shoes.”
“Like an elf?” Pru asked.
“No, not that sort.”
An ear-piercing shriek caught everyone’s attention. Baby Jesus had been retrieved from his manger and decided he didn’t like the move one bit. The shrieks continued until Mum dug in her bag and produced a pacifier, and, after a few parental murmurs about Father Christmas and the time, everyone made a swift departure.
Pru and Christopher walked back to Greenoak at a slow pace, and when they arrived, he made hot cocoa for them while she followed Evelyn’s directions for cranberry sauce.
“Well done, you,” Christopher said, slipping his arms round her waist and pulling her close. She rested her head on his chest and sighed. What was one bowl of cranberry sauce compared with tomorrow’s agenda?
“You go on up,” she told him. “I’ll be there as soon as I—”
“You can’t cook the entire dinner now.”
“No, no. It’s only I want to make sure I put the butter out and—” she kissed him “—really, I only want to set my mind at ease. I’ll be up soon.”
She sat at the kitchen table and wrapped sausages with thin slices of streaky bacon for pigs in a blanket—the children would love this one—retrieved two large boxes of Christmas crackers, and threw caution to the wind and made the bread sauce. Evelyn wouldn’t have Christmas without it, but Pru had grown up with browned sauce for the turkey, and turned a skeptical eye at the white mass she’d created. She stuck it in the fridge and, past three o’clock, crawled into bed.
Pru lurched out of bed. Sun poured in the window, and in the dead of winter that could mean only one thing—she’d overslept.
Throwing a sweatshirt on over her pajamas, she hurried down to the kitchen, where Christopher sat with a cup of tea while bacon sizzled on the Aga.
They exchanged Christmas greetings, and Christopher poured her a cup of tea.
“I should get busy,” she said.
“I’ve already taken the turkey out,” he replied. “It’s sitting in the mudroom. Drink your tea.”
Well, a cup of tea couldn’t hurt. She settled at the table. Christopher took the bacon off and cracked eggs into the pan.
“Is there time for that?” she asked, pulling the stack of directions closer.
“We can plan the morning while we eat.”
Over breakfast, Pru spread out all the sheets of advice and recipes, and found she should’ve done much more the previous evening. Stuffing— Evelyn had left the choice up to her, and Pru couldn’t decide if she would stuff the bird or bake the dressing separately. What had become of the bread sauce? She thought the winter squash should be cooked early to make way for the turkey, but that dish hadn’t been part of Evelyn’s original menu, and Pru had no confidence to make a decision. She went out to the garden.
Only twenty minutes later, she returned to the kitchen with two leeks and had just sat down at the table to read over the timetable—which she would soon have memorized—when she out on the drive there arose such a clatter, she sprang from her chair to see what was the matter.
With a final spray of gravel, Reverend Bernadette climbed out of her Smart Car followed by Matty and El.
“Dads are in charge at home,” Bernadette said.
“We left them in a sea of wrapping paper,” Matty said. “I’m not sure that they haven’t lost their gifts in it all.”
“They’d misplaced the baby before I got out the door,” El said brightly. “Well, put us to work.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Pru tried to sound sincere. “You’re guests today, and look—you’re already dressed for dinner.” She glanced down at her own attire, sweatshirt over flannel pajamas with wellies. Her uniform.
“Nonsense,” Bernadette said, “this’ll be great fun.”
By twelve o’clock, the turkey was in the oven, and the Christmas pudding had been put on to steam. The squash were stuffed, sprouts and potatoes prepared, Yorkshire pudding batter beaten up, and gravy was at the ready. Matty had admired Pru’s bread sauce and then graciously offered to make a browned gravy. “That way, we’ll be spoilt for choice.”
“Well—” Bernadette ran the back of a hand across her forehead “—I could just do with a coffee. She stripped off the pinny she’d been wearing—it was Evelyn’s, and the difference in their height meant that the vicar had doubled up the fabric and tied the thing under her armpits.
“Anyone for a slice of ginger cake?” Pru asked.
She left the three women in the kitchen with cake and coffee and went for a shower. Christopher had slipped out early in the proceedings, mentioning an errand he needed to run, and Pru hope
d it wasn’t police business that would cause him to miss dinner, not on Christmas Day. But he came into the bedroom while she dried her hair, and she threw her arms round his neck.
“I’m so glad you’re back—I worried you might’ve been chasing a criminal.”
“Crime on Christmas?” he clicked his tongue and gave her a wink. “Not on my patch.”
More crunching of gravel on the drive, and three cars pulled in—Dick and Ursula, followed by the dads and a riot of children. Pru went down to greet them and then pointed the way to the parterre garden. The children tore off. She didn’t follow—best let them have their way. It was winter, after all, so how much damage could they do? Although, she was relieved her brother wasn’t here to see.
The long dining table off the front entry was cleared and ready to set, but first, Pru went out to the potting shed and retrieved the pots of holly with creamy edges and ivy with gold hearts. It made her sad to see them, because it brought Alf to mind. She looked down the drive and behind her out toward the orchard and hornbeam walk. A crisp and clear Christmas Day, quiet apart from the shouts of the children. Her eyes stung. What on earth was he doing with himself? She wiped her nose on the back of a garden glove, and cleaned off the containers before carrying them indoors to set them in terra-cotta pots in a serpentine fashion on the long red table runner.
A roaring fire in the library, a couple of bottles of prosecco, and the festivities began. The turkey emerged from the oven, and the potatoes, parsnips, and stuffing went in. The sprouts went on to cook. Matty called the children in at half past two so that they could wash up. With activity moved off to other parts of the house, Pru remained behind in the kitchen, with the empty and warmed serving dishes waiting on the table and only the hiss of the pudding for company. They had a Christmas dinner cooked to perfection and a houseful of happy families, and Pru needed to put a good face on before she went out to the dining room. Buck up, she told herself.