The Magic of Christmas

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Isn’t he grown up? I don’t suppose he needs his mum on the doorstep, waiting for him,’ Ritch said, with another dangerously beguiling smile.

  How did he know that? Did he know all about me?

  He turned serious again, blue eyes concerned and sincere. ‘But I’m sorry — you were very recently widowed — what was I thinking of? Of course you don’t want to go to parties yet!’

  ‘No,’ I agreed, having entirely forgotten about Tom until that point. ‘And his cousin, Nick — you met him earlier — is coming back this evening too. He kindly offered to correct the manuscript of my next book, which needs to be posted off tomorrow, so it would be very rude of me not to be there. Sorry.’

  ‘Your book? Are you another novelist, like Polly Darke?’

  ‘Ah, yes, our Trollope of the North,’ I said sourly. ‘No, I write sort of autobiographical books with recipes. Do you know Polly?’

  ‘Met her around a few times,’ he said vaguely. ‘She had a fling with a friend of mine. Apparently she’s pretty fit — does some weird yoga stuff. Muscles like knots on string, he said.’

  ‘Really? I’ve never seen her arms, she always wears long sleeves. I thought she might be on drugs or something.’

  He shrugged, then his eyes flicked over me and he gave me a slow, sexy smile. ‘I prefer natural, curvy women to skinny ones with monster boob jobs, every time.’

  ‘That must make you fairly unique,’ I said tartly, and he grinned.

  The front door was thrust open and a voice bellowed: ‘Ritch, what the hell are you doing, you bastard? Are you coming or what?’

  ‘On my way out!’ Ritch called back. Then he turned to me, ‘Well, see you later, then. Be good, Flo.’ And off he went.

  Was he actually flirting with me, Lizzy Pharamond, mature (even overripe) Middlemoss tomboy, or was he like that with all women? I could quite see why he’d disconcerted Annie, though, because I felt slightly and interestingly singed around the edges. The words ‘moth’ and ‘flame’ came vividly to mind.

  Sizzle, sizzle.

  If he comes across on the TV like that, no wonder Cotton Common’s ratings have risen drastically since he joined the cast — he’s trouble at t’mill!

  I spent almost an hour with Flo, who is a delightful dog and will fetch a thrown rubber ball indefinitely, though she seemed quite sanguine about swapping my company for a chewy bone when I left.

  Halfway home, while sauntering past the eerily quiet, goose-free green, I suddenly remembered about Nick and broke into a guilty run.

  He’d obviously been at the cottage for some time, since he’d let himself in and there was an empty coffee cup on the kitchen table.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Nick — have you been here long?’ I said, panting slightly. ‘I was playing with the dog and didn’t notice the time.’

  He rose to his feet, heavy brows practically meeting across his impressive nose, and snapped, ‘You look pretty smart for dog-sitting. Going somewhere?’

  ‘No,’ I snapped right back, flushing. ‘I don’t spend all day, every day, in gardening clothes, you know!’

  He took me in with his slaty, sardonic eyes, from gold sandals to waving, if now dishevelled, hair. ‘You always did scrub up well. Hope your client appreciated it.’

  ‘How did you know Ritch was still there?’ I gasped, startled, then felt myself going pink again.

  ‘You just told me!’

  ‘Well, he was, though on his way out. And don’t call him a client in that tone of voice, like I was a hooker!’

  ‘Sorry!’ he said, but didn’t sound it. ‘I’ll be on my way. Didn’t find too much wrong with your manuscript, except a bit of tailoring of the truth.’

  ‘I have to. Nobody would believe the real things that happen. They’re much too incredible, and anyway, it would be too depressing. My misfortunes are supposed to be funny.’

  ‘Yes, your formula for success with your readers does seem to be a series of pratfalls linked with nursery-pudding suggestions,’ he said unkindly.

  ‘You offered to read through it, I didn’t make you!’ I said indignantly.

  ‘I wanted to help.’ He ran a hand through his black hair, which stood up on end. ‘Look, seeing you’re all gussied up, why don’t you come out somewhere quiet for a drink with me? I’ll even give you some pudding ideas for your new recipe book.’

  The poet Wendy Cope puts it so well about men being like buses: there isn’t one for ages and then two come along at once, flashing their signals. (Not that that necessarily means they’re going to stop.) And I didn’t even want to catch one!

  ‘That’s kind of you, Nick, but I really don’t feel like going out tonight and I need to make those alterations to the manuscript and pack it up. Anyway, we’d only argue like we usually do.’

  ‘Not necessarily, but please yourself,’ he said, and walked out.

  I stared after him, which was well worthwhile, because his rear view was just as good, if not better, than Ritch’s.

  I thought he was just trying to be kind to me in his way, but Nick’s kindness moves in mysterious ways, its wonders to perform.

  It was still just about light when Clive Potter cycled up for some tomatoes and to tell me that Adam (as played by a local farmer) had given himself a hernia while lifting bales, and had to drop out of the Mystery Play.

  ‘We’ll have to audition for a new one, I’m afraid, Lizzy, unless anyone comes forward.’

  I had a sudden mental vision of playing my Eve to Ritch Rainford’s Adam, but firmly suppressed it: an innocent in the Garden of Eden he certainly was not. More like the snake.

  He displayed even more snake-like tendencies later, when he phoned from somewhere noisy to invite me to his house-warming party at Vicar’s End on Friday night!

  ‘Just a few people — you could come to that, couldn’t you?’ he said persuasively, and I won’t say I wasn’t tempted for a minute, before common sense reasserted itself and I politely declined.

  It got me thinking about Honeycomb Crunch all over again, though, and I decided to try using it in a variation of Eton Mess. I called it Cinder Cream and I thought I was on to a winner.

  While I worked away putting in the corrections to the manuscript that Nick had marked, I thought how odd it seemed in the cottage without Jasper there … but I supposed it was a foretaste of what was to come and I’d just have to get used to it.

  Chapter 15: Drink Me

  I was up early, picking sound, firm apples for storing. I don’t know the names of the varieties of all the old trees that were already here when we came, but by now do know by trial and error which will keep and which are best eaten or cooked straight away. I thought I might do baked apples filled with mincemeat and drizzled with cream for dessert that night, always a favourite.

  The Perseverance Chronicles: A Life in Recipes

  Next day Annie relayed a request from Ritch that I take Flo to the Mossedge canine beautician for nail clipping and a bit of pampering.

  She’d been quite right about the Posh Pet-sitting taking off, because I was already down to look after two cats in a converted barn over at Mossrow for two days, plus a couple more one-off jobs. I’d be so busy that weeds would soon outnumber vegetables in my garden and the finished crops would remain uncleared.

  I managed to fit in a visit to the cats while Flo was being done, and then returned her to Vicar’s End, where Ritch was flirting with his cleaning lady, Dora Tombs, whom he called ‘Dorable’.

  ‘Get away with you!’ was her standard response to each sally.

  ‘Morning, our Lizzy!’ she said, as I went in (being a Naylor, and so distantly related). ‘Keep that dog off my clean floor until it’s dried — and the same goes for you,’ she added, jabbing at Ritch’s feet with her mop.

  Ritch took a step back and gave me a lazy, glinting smile that took me in from top to bottom, lingering thoughtfully on the way.

  ‘Flo’s clean as a whistle, Mrs T,’ I assured her. Flo skittered and slid over to her bowl and start
ed wolfing biscuits as though she was famished.

  ‘They said at Doggy Heaven that she was good as gold,’ I told Ritch, adding severely, ‘and you could have taken her yourself, if you’re not going to work, and saved some money!’

  ‘Ah, but then I wouldn’t have had two beautiful women at my beck and call, would I?’

  ‘Get away with you, you daft bugger!’ Dora said. ‘You’re all mouth and trousers, you!’

  ‘Don’t you ever work?’ I asked, unimpressed.

  ‘Actually yes, and I’m on my way. Just waiting for the car.’

  ‘You don’t drive?’

  ‘Lost my licence and I’ve got another twelve months before I get it back again,’ he said ruefully, but I didn’t feel sympathetic because I expect it was drink driving, which in my opinion is a criminally stupid thing to do.

  ‘Tough luck,’ I said, but when he smiled at me I found myself smiling back. He’s clearly as self-centred as most of the male race, besides being unable to resist flirting with any female who comes within range, but I must admit he is extremely attractive.

  ‘I could use a part-time chauffeur?’ he suggested, raising a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘I’ve got enough to do. My garden will be an impenetrable jungle if I don’t spend more time at home.’

  A horn beeped outside. ‘Pity — and there’s my car. See you later, girls!’

  After he’d gone, seeming to take the sun with him, Mrs T put the kettle on and we had tea, toast and gossip.

  She’s also Polly Darke’s cleaner, which was fascinating: apparently she had a whole room devoted to some weird kind of yoga, and worked out in there twice a day.

  ‘Fit as a flea and strong as an ox,’ Mrs T averred, crunching toast. ‘Wouldn’t think it to look at her, would you? And I’m that sorry about your troubles,’ she added, which is as close as anyone’s got to mentioning the goings-on at the funeral feast. ‘I could tell sometimes she’d had a man in the house, but if I’d known who it was, I’d have told you.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said. ‘But it’s all water under the bridge now, and I’m trying to move on and put it all behind me.’

  ‘That’s right — and I’m sure Mr Nick will help you sort everything out. He’s a proper man.’

  ‘A proper man as compared to what?’ I asked curiously.

  She gave me a Mona Lisa smile. ‘Eva Gumball says he’s divorcing that foreign woman and going to be living up there at the Hall most of the time, now. His granddad’s that made up about it!’

  Information in the Mosses travels as fast as thought. ‘I’m glad for Uncle Roly’s sake that Nick will be spending more time in Middlemoss, but I certainly don’t need anyone to help me sort things out,’ I said firmly.

  ‘That Polly Darke’s turned a whole bedroom into a walk-in wardrobe, too,’ Mrs T said, changing the subject back.

  On Friday night I felt restless, especially after I’d popped into Delphine Lake’s earlier to walk her dogs, and she’d said she was going to Ritch’s party.

  ‘For cocktails at eight, dear. But us old ones will clear off early and then I expect it will go on until the small hours!’

  I don’t actually like parties, except family ones, so I can’t imagine why I felt left out … All right, perhaps I did, because my mind kept presenting me with scenarios involving Ritch that were quite unbecoming to a widow of such recent date.

  I had an unsettled night and then, when I went downstairs early next morning, I found Mimi fast asleep on the sofa in the sitting room.

  Why do I even bother locking my front door when absolutely everyone seems to know where I hide the spare key?

  Juno, who was now allowed on her feet again, arrived in search almost immediately, limping gamely. ‘I wish you’d stay in your bed at nights!’ she scolded Mimi, who simply gazed blandly at her like a comfortable cat.

  ‘Stay to breakfast?’ I invited. ‘Jasper’s getting up — he’s going to the dig.’ Thuds and yapping from above were evidence that Ginny was doing her best to help. The ceiling light swayed gently and small flakes of plaster drifted down, like the grey-white feathers Nick had been brushing off his sleeve when he came out of the small barn the other day …

  If Caz hadn’t fitted a padlock to his freezer, I’d have had a quick snoop by now!

  ‘No, thanks, we must get back. Mrs Gumball always cooks enough for twelve, and think of the waste!’ Juno said, propelling the reluctant Mimi away.

  I didn’t think Mimi would be terribly hungry anyway, because when I opened the fridge to get the milk, I discovered that half a bowl of experimental Cinder Cream had been eaten, and it’s surprisingly filling.

  ‘Come up to the Hall later — around eleven!’ Mimi said, clinging to the doorframe with both hands and smiling at me. ‘Nick’s invited us all to try out some ice cream he’s making — yummy!’

  ‘He invited me, too?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘Especially,’ Mimi confirmed, still beaming but losing her grip on the gloss paint, and then was borne away until her cracked soprano singing, ‘Hokey pokey, a penny a lump!’ faded into the distance.

  ‘You’ve just missed Mimi and Juno,’ I told Jasper when he finally came down. Ginny shot past my ankles and scattered the chickens in the yard, but unintentionally, I think. She probably couldn’t see them for all the hair in her eyes.

  ‘I know, I heard. Mimi sounded happy.’

  ‘She mostly does. Oh, there’s the phone.’

  I should have said, rather, ‘where’s’ the phone, since I couldn’t find it until I traced the long flex from the kitchen into the sitting room. Mimi seemed to have built a nest for it with all the cushions.

  By the time I got to it, it had stopped ringing, but the caller had left a message: Ritch, sounding very gin-and-cigarettes gravelly. ‘Lizzy? If you get this, come round and sort Flo out right away, will you? I’m feeling a bit rough this morning and she keeps yapping … I don’t think Dora’s coming until this afternoon … just let yourself in.’

  I could hear faint barking, and then Ritch groaned (rather sexily, it has to be said) and put the phone down.

  Well, he might at least have let the poor dog out, even if he did have a hangover! It would be nearly an hour until I could get there, since I wanted to drop Jasper off at the dig first, so by that time he would probably have given in and done it himself. And didn’t he have to go to work every day? I know nothing about these things; perhaps they record the shows in batches or something? Or not on Saturdays?

  The phone rang again while I was carrying it back into the kitchen, but it was just a man who had spotted the greenhouse last night on Freecycle and asked me for my phone number, wanting to arrange to come and look at it.

  ‘You’re very popular this morning, Mum,’ Jasper commented. ‘And a bit pink,’ he added, but I ignored that. I’d already let the hens out and fed them, collected the eggs, watered the garden and greenhouse, put a load of washing in the machine, made an especially nice packed lunch for Jasper and cooked bacon and eggs. Who wouldn’t look flushed?

  When I cautiously let myself into Vicar’s End, there was no sign of life other than a muffled barking from the kitchen.

  Poor Flo had been unable to keep all four legs crossed and left a puddle by the door, about which she seemed to feel apologetic, though it was not her fault, as I told her while I let her out before finding the mop and disinfectant and cleaning it up.

  Then I filled her bowl with fresh water and put a few crunchy dog biscuits down to keep her going for a while. I didn’t know what Ritch wanted me to do, but I was quite sure he could afford the Posh Pet-sitter prices, so after that I took Flo for a nice long walk. It had rained in the night, so she wasn’t such a clean, white and glossy creature on our return, though she was a very much happier one.

  I hadn’t even started out clean and glossy, being back to gardening jeans and old T-shirts, Nick’s remarks having rankled slightly.

  While I was still rubbing Flo with a tartan towel helpfully inscribed
‘DOG’ that I found hanging in the scullery next to her lead, Ritch wandered into the kitchen, obviously fresh from the shower, in gilt-edged designer stubble and a very short white towelling robe. Clearly he’s a natural blond, because the hair on his legs was golden right up to the hem. He was carrying a glass beaker of straw-coloured liquid, which he set down on the counter.

  ‘Morning. I could do with a rub down too,’ he said with a wicked if rueful smile. Then, opening the fridge, he bent over and rummaged around. I looked away hastily.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, emerging with an opened carton of milk. ‘Don’t know what we were drinking last night — that’s the trouble with cocktails, and after a couple you don’t care any more — but today I feel like hell.’ He picked up the glass beaker again. ‘I’ll just finish this, and then make some coffee: want some?’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked cautiously.

  He grinned. ‘I meant, do you want some coffee! I don’t think you’d want any of this, though I could be wrong — it’s pee.’

  He drained the last drops and put the glass in the dishwasher. Did he say pee? Eeeugh!

  ‘Er, no,’ I said, backing away slightly. ‘Did you say you were drinking …?’

  ‘My own urine? Yeah, every morning — everyone’s doing it. It’s good for you.’

  After last night I should think his pee was at least forty per cent proof. ‘I … hadn’t heard about that,’ I said, wondering if he was quite mad. ‘How interesting!’

  He gave me a wicked smile, but it wasn’t working any more. ‘It cures anything. That and frequent sex are all a man needs to keep healthy.’

  ‘Really?’ I felt as if some miraculously attractive bubble had burst and taken all the rainbows with it, but managed with an effort to gather my wits together: ‘I’ve taken Flo for a walk and changed her water, so she’s OK. I’d better go now — I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘Sure you can’t stay awhile?’ He switched on one of those espresso machines that look as if you need a whole generator and a degree in engineering to make them work.