The Great Christmas Knit Off

‘It is. You should come to a show, it’s Puss in Boots and His Merry Band of Santa’s Elves this year and I wrote it myself. Tickets include a mince pie and a mug of mulled wine. First proper performance is a week before Christmas Eve, so not long to go, but we have another dress rehearsal tonight so you’re more than welcome to pop along,’ he says brightly.

‘Oh, I might just do that. If I can bring Basil too,’ I venture, wondering if the same dogs-allowed-in-the-village-pub rule applies to the village hall as well.

‘Sure you can.’ Excellent. ‘And what’s your name, little one?’ Lawrence strokes Basil under the chin.

‘Meet Basil, and thanks for letting him stay too,’ I say.

‘It’s our pleasure to look after you both.’ Ah, how nice.

‘Thank you. And it is OK to wear …?’ I lift the collar of the robe.

‘Of course, anything goes round here, hadn’t you noticed?’ Lawrence says, raising one eyebrow, which makes me smile.

‘And I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I might take him to …’

‘Follow me.’ Lawrence leads the way to a utility room by the back door. ‘You can just pop in here and let him out here whenever he needs to go. Did you bring his food?’

‘Yes!’ At least I remembered Basil’s pouches. I pull one from the pocket of my robe and waggle it in the air as proof.

‘Well done. You’d be surprised at the number of our guests who forget. That’s why I keep an emergency supply in the cupboard; I can’t see the dogs going hungry.’ Lawrence shakes his head and selects two dog bowls from a shelf next to the sink. He fills one with water and places it on the floor before taking the pouch from me and squeezing it into the other. ‘I’ll meet you back in the breakfast room.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I call after him, thinking how nice he is – nothing is too much trouble, it seems.

After Basil has finished eating and had a dash around the garden, we head back to where Lawrence is waiting.

‘Now, why don’t you go and sit down by the window and I’ll fetch you a nice cooked breakfast,’ he says kindly. ‘All the trimmings?’ I nod and grin before making my way over to the oval-shaped two-person table he’s gesturing towards. It has an exquisite festive orange-and-clove pomander arrangement set in a crystal glass bowl, and underneath the table is a faux suede bed for Basil to lie on. Wow, this place is just like a dog hotel.

Fluffing a crisp white napkin over my knees, I gaze out through the big bay window to watch the snow. It’s just started falling again, a light sprinkling like icing sugar, swirling all around as if somebody has just shaken a giant snow globe. I feel a swell of excitement, a magical fairy-tale feeling that only a pristine duvet of crisp, clean, white snow invokes. Untouched, it stretches out before me like a virginal safety blanket across a rolling field and up to an interesting-looking building with a huge circular chimney that has smoke spiralling from it up into the white sky, like candy floss in a breeze. And there’s what looks like an adjoining double-fronted shop. It’s really cute with a little white picket fence around the garden although it seems odd to have a shop in the middle of a field. I can’t imagine they get much business being so far away from the centre of the village.

‘Marvellous view, isn’t it?’ Lawrence is standing next to me, gripping the edge of an enormous dinner plate with a blue-and-white striped tea towel. ‘That’s Hettie’s place you can see. The Honey family have been in Tindledale for centuries and her father used to own the hop farm before he passed away. It was sold on, but Hettie kept the oast and all the land around it. And her House of Haberdashery shop next door, of course.’

‘Oh, it sounds fascinating! I love knitting and needlecraft,’ I say, a surge of excitement rising within me.

‘Then you should call in, I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you. I don’t think she gets many visitors – which reminds me, I must pop over and see if she needs any groceries. She does a weekly trip on the bus up to the village store, but it’s not quite the same as having Ocado deliver,’ he laughs. ‘Plus, I’ve heard she buys barely enough to feed a sparrow. Please be careful, the plate’s hot,’ he adds, sounding warm and mumsy as he places my breakfast in front of me, and for some bizarre reason that I can’t fathom, tears burst onto my cheeks. ‘Well, this is a first – I know our breakfasts are good, award-winning, in fact, but I’ve not had one evoke this sort of emotion before! Sybs, what’s the matter?’ Lawrence dips down into the chair opposite, concern darting from one eye to the next and back again, both slender hands clasping the tea towel that’s pressed to his chest. He’s clearly not used to his guests crying for no apparent reason, talking of which, a group of ramblers arrive, clad in check shirts and corduroys tucked into chunky knee-length socks (handknitted, by the looks of them). They take one look in my direction and beetle off to a large table on the opposite side of the room before whipping up menus to hide behind. Oh God! And how does Lawrence even know that I like to be called Sybs? He checked me in very quickly last night, seeing as it was so late, saying I probably wanted to get off to bed right away, and as Cooper’s wife, or ‘the funny woman with the ferret’ is what Pete called her, had already vouched for me in any case … well, it was all very laid-back. He didn’t even ask for a credit card to do the usual pre-authorisation checks in case I stayed the night, nicked all the bathroom products and coffee sachets and then ran off without paying. It’s like another world here in Tindledale.

‘Um, I don’t know. I, um, er … just feeling a bit overwhelmed and …’ My voice fades as I think of the plans, the dream I had to have my own haberdashery business just like Hettie. I rummage in my pocket in search of a tissue, getting flustered when I can’t find one. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Lawrence hands me the tea towel instead.

‘Thank you.’ Dabbing at my face with the soft cloth that smells of bluebells, I press it to my nose and inhale. It reminds me of day trips to the forest in springtime, the ground carpeted in a layer of delicately scented flowers that stretched for miles, swinging between my grandparents, one on either side, gripping my chubby, little-girl hands as they whispered tales of fairies and angels hiding in amongst the sun-dappled trees. Feeling happy, loved, and long before Luke and Sasha broke my heart. And Sasha hated those walking trips, preferring to stay at home and look at her pony annuals or whatever. The moment vanishes and I take a deep breath, willing myself to get a grip.

‘Maybe you’ll feel better when you’ve had something to eat.’ Lawrence reaches a hand across the table to gently pat my arm. ‘I hope you’re not coming down with something. If you don’t mind me saying, you do look very tired.’ He smiles gently, the corners of his eyes tilting upwards. I manage a half-smile.

‘You’re very kind,’ I say, in a wobbly voice, feeling embarrassed. ‘And I really am so sorry to cry on you like this. I don’t know what came over me.’ I hand the tea towel back to Lawrence before picking up a knife and fork as a diversion tactic.

‘Well, eat up and try not to be sad, you must look after yourself.’ He scrutinises my whole face in one quick scan. ‘And just so you know, I’m here if you ever want to chat. I’m a very good listener.’

Lawrence leaves, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly as he goes and I think about what he said as I prong a chubby sausage and cut it in two, before dipping one end into the filmy egg yolk. A complete stranger spotting how tired and fed-up I look. Well, it isn’t good, but I have been feeling so down since everything happened with Luke. And then turning into a recluse and not going out very much, apart from to work and back, and then with all the cock-ups, culminating in the cock-up-to-end-all-cock-ups, well, Lawrence has a very good point. I am tired. Exhausted, in fact, from all the worrying. Which reminds me, I must check online and see if there have been any developments in the hunt for Jennifer Ford or, indeed, Mr Banerjee’s investigation into the ‘bungling employee’.

After finishing the scrumptious breakfast, I put the napkin down, push the chair back and I’m just about to stand up when Lawrence appears again with something hidden behind his back.

‘Now, we’re not going to have any more tears, are we?’ he asks hesitantly.

‘Oh, I hope not.’ I paint a half-smile onto my face. ‘And I really am very sorry about earlier.’

‘Ah, it’s fine. Please, there really is no need to apologise, these things happen. We all get emotional sometimes,’ he says, very graciously.

‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask earlier …’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows inquiringly, ‘how do you know that I like to be called Sybs?’

‘Well, I probably shouldn’t have been so nosey, but I noticed it there on your newspaper.’ I stare blankly. ‘The message.’ And he taps the Tindledale Herald on the table next to the pomander. I pick the paper up. ‘See, right there.’

And I do.

Sybs, give me a try x

There’s even a phone number next to the message that’s scrawled in black marker pen. A feeling flits through me. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. A fluttery, flattering feeling. I glance up into Lawrence’s diamanté-tipped eyes and then cast a glance around the room, half expecting someone with a smartphone to pop out from under one of the tables to Snapchat me and scream ‘gotcha’ in my face. Things like this don’t usually happen to me.

‘Oh.’ I hesitate, unsure of what to say and much to my dismay, I see that my hands are trembling slightly. I really need some sleep.

‘Sorry.’ Lawrence lifts his eyebrows in concern. ‘See, you’ve got me at it now. Have I embarrassed you? Only you look a little bit taken aback.’

‘No. Not at all. I – just – I – well, I didn’t see the message before now.’ I shake my head.

‘Not from someone you know then?’

‘No, definitely not. No chance of that,’ I say wryly.

‘Well, this is rather exciting. It’s very flirty,’ Lawrence says.

‘It sure is.’ I quickly rack my brains to work out how it came to be there and then it dawns on me – the guy sitting next to the window on the train. He had a newspaper. Yes, it has to be the guy in the duffel coat with the glasses and nice eyes and the curly hair peeping out from under his beanie hat who didn’t seem to mind when Basil tried to snaffle his Costa cake. Because there wasn’t anyone else in our carriage, which means that he must have left the message while I was sleeping. And he was quite cute. My head goes into overdrive trying to fathom it all out. But what does he mean ‘give me a try’? It’s a bit forward, and with a kiss too. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy to be like that, not at all; he was very unassuming with his polite smile. No, flirty swagger is much more Luke’s style – he was very cocky – I used to think it was cheeky, in an appealing, banter-type way, but looking back now it really wasn’t. Hmm, funny how things can seem so different at the time. Lawrence coughs discreetly.

‘I have to say that it’s very intriguing! Are you sure you don’t know who the message is from?’ Lawrence asks.

‘Weeeeell, there was a guy on the train, but—’

‘Then I urge you to call the number, Sybs! It’s like a modern day Brief Encounter. You must find out who your secret admirer is, but before you do, I thought one of these might cheer you up!’ And he brings a four-tiered wire cake tree out from behind his back. And I gasp. I’ve never seen anything quite so spectacular. It’s bulging with cake – slabs of lemon drizzle, chocolate brownies the size of doorstops, delicate pastel pink and white fondant fancies, sugar-dusted squares of stollen and loads of gorgeous festive red and green cupcakes with jaunty reindeers and snowmen piped over their bulging mounds. And the smell is heavenly; a cocoon of warmth and sweetness surrounds me instantly, lifting my mood another notch.

‘Wow, they look amazing,’ I grin, helping myself to a wedge of stollen, my favourite festive treat, and even Basil stirs from under the table to see what’s going on, his little nose twitching as he licks his lips in anticipation of a cake somehow rolling off the table and into his salivating mouth – ha ha, dream on, Basil! ‘Did you make them?’ I ask, scooping a sliver of icing sugar off with my fingernail before popping it into my mouth.

‘Sadly not. Kitty is the baker in Tindledale.’ He pauses before adding, ‘And some of the other villagers bake too – the WI ladies’ Christmas cake sale in the village hall is legendary and always gets a good turnout, but Kitty owns the café called The Spotted Pig and she takes orders for special occasions and does all the village birthday, christening, and wedding celebration cakes.’

‘Ah, yes, I saw her café yesterday when I first got here. The menu looks amazing,’ I say, remembering the panettone bread pudding and rum custard Christmas special.

‘Oh, you really must try her food while you’re here, it is to die for.’ He stops talking abruptly, and glances away. ‘Oh God, I really shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Is everyone OK?’

A flash of sorrow shoots into his eyes.

‘Yes, yes fine,’ Lawrence shakes his head, sounding flustered. ‘It’s just that, well, the whole village was devastated when it happened, and she’s such a lovely, warm, kind person, and everyone knew him – his family has lived here in Tindledale for generations too, still do – that’s why she moved here, to be closer to them as she doesn’t have any family left of her own.’

‘What happened?’

‘Her husband, Ed, he died, you see. Recently too, and he was only twenty-nine. It was insensitive of me …’ his voice trails off.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, immediately realising what a close-knit community it is here. Back home in London I’m not sure I would even know if my next-door neighbour had died, unless it was Poppy, of course, and even then I might only realise that something was amiss because she hadn’t been downstairs to fetch Basil. ‘Was he ill?’

‘Oh no! No, nothing like that – he was a soldier in Afghanistan. A landmine. It was terrible, he was due home on the Sunday, a gloriously sunny day and the village square had even been decorated with banners and balloons for his homecoming – but then Kitty got the visit – she was pregnant too at the time, with little Teddie. Dreadful, dreadful business it was – she was in the café and the vicar heard her screaming all the way from the pulpit at the far end of the church. He was conducting a wedding rehearsal for Gabe and Vicky from Pear Tree Cottages and they all stopped and ran across the village to the café.’ I clasp my hands up under my chin. Lawrence looks down at the floor. Silence follows.

‘I, um, I don’t know what to say.’ And it’s true. Poor Kitty, I don’t even know her, yet I feel bereft on her behalf. To have the person you love snatched away without a second’s warning … I only have an inkling of what that feels like because when I think of Luke I know it’s absolutely no comparison: at least he’s still alive, even if he doesn’t want to be with me, but in that moment at the altar when I realised, it was as if he had died and taken all my dreams and hopes for the future with him. Disappeared in an instant – just like the flame of a candle snuffed out between a thumb and index finger. And then I remember the column candle burning brightly in the snow beside the memorial. A scratchy sensation forms in my throat as a cold shiver trickles down my back. I wonder if Kitty left the candle there for Ed. Oh God, that’s so sad.

‘Sometimes there just aren’t any words,’ Lawrence sighs and another momentary silence follows. ‘Would you like to take the rest of the cake upstairs?’ I nod solemnly. ‘I’ll get you a plate and bring you up a nice mug of hot chocolate with squirty cream too.’

*

Back in my room, having polished off the truly scrumptious cake and settled Basil on the complimentary dog bed, I lean back in the armchair next to the window and close my eyes for a few seconds, letting my mind wander. Crying earlier, what was that all about? I know I’m exhausted, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling so emotional and then, with Cher not being here, well, it’s another let down, and on top of everything else that’s happened, I’ve just had enough, I suppose. And I need to break out of this rut of sleepless nights – keeping going on practically no sleep doesn’t help, it makes me extra emotional. I have to find a way to stop the dark thoughts and pity parties for one. I want to sleep all night long and feel invigorated and excited about life, and do my knitting and needlecraft for fun, just like I always used to before May the flaming fourth.

Opening my eyes and pushing the chiffon away from the window, I stand up and look out towards the puffy sky and watch the snowflakes sprinkling down like tiny diamonds against an almost Tiffany blue backdrop. The same sky that everyone around the world can see, and it makes me think of all the happy couples doing happy things, and I really want to be happy too – what’s that old adage? Love like you’ve never been hurt. But it’s hard, really hard. I think of Kitty again, and her husband Ed, and how the whole thing with Luke just pales in comparison. And I make my decision. I’m going to call the number on the newspaper. Why not? What have I got to lose? Nobody will know, not even Lawrence if I don’t tell him, especially if it turns out to be a big joke.

And then when I’ve done that, I’m going to venture over to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and see what treats she has in store. I’m going to buy loads of wool and some needles and knit something just for fun, like I always used to, and I might even get the material to start a new quilt. A lovely, cosy Christmassy one. Ha! I could even sell it online. Oh yes I could! I can still have my dream; I’ll just go about in a different way, tweak it a bit and see what happens. And I can worry about Jennifer Ford and Mr Banerjee on Monday morning, but until then I’m choosing happy!

I pick up the newspaper and wander over to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and take a deep breath. OK, I can do this. It’s just a phone call. The number is ringing. One, two, three, four bbrrrrring-bbrrrrrrings. And then I get cold feet and quickly end the call. I sit on the bed. Basil is staring at me with his head tilted to one side as if to say, ‘You big wimp, get a grip, Sybs!’ So I do, and lift the receiver back up. This time I’m going to speak – I’ll just say ‘Hi, it’s Sybs,’ in my best breezy voice, and the man with the kind-looking eyes will say, ‘Hi, I’m so pleased you called,’ and we’ll have a laugh about Basil trying to pinch his Costa cake, and it’ll be brilliant. Yep, of course it will.

The phone stops ringing.

There’s a pause.

And then: ‘Tindledale Books, how may I help you?’

It’s a woman’s voice, which completely throws me, so I promptly slam the phone down.

Basil is right. I am a big wimp – but at least I now know where to find the mystery man from the train.

Invigorated by this key milestone in my as-predicted-by-a-monk year of heartache, I press an index finger down too hard on the brass bell, nearly causing it to shoot right off the reception counter. Luckily, I manage to grab it just in time and I’m carefully placing it back where it belongs, when Lawrence appears through an archway from behind a crimson velvet curtain.

‘OK, OK, where’s the fire?’ he asks, making big eyes and pulling a face. It makes me giggle.

‘Er, no fire, I just wanted to return this.’ I hand him a Clarice Cliff crocus pattern tea plate.

‘Oh, you didn’t need to bother with all that. You’re a guest, just leave it outside the door next time.’

‘Thank you, but I didn’t like to. It’s such a pretty plate. Art Deco. I wouldn’t want it to get damaged.’

‘Well, that’s very kind of you. I just came off the phone with Sonny – he rang to say that if you want to call in later for your dinner, he’s doing steak and ale pie with hand-cut chips followed by sticky toffee pudding for today’s special.’ It takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking about Cher’s Clive at the Duck & Puddle.

‘Ooh, sounds delicious.’

‘Does, doesn’t it? Very hearty winter food and talking of which, how was the stollen cake?’ He glances down at the crumbs left on the plate as he takes it from me to store under the counter.

‘Mmm, delicious, thank you.’ I smile. ‘Lawrence, I was wondering if you might help me with something.’

‘Of course. Always happy to oblige if I can.’ He pats a stack of tourist information leaflets offering two for one tickets to Santa’s grotto at a garden centre in Stoneley into a tidy pile, before tilting his head to one side and smiling at me encouragingly.

‘I was wondering where the nearest shops are to buy clothes – jeans, underwear, that kind of thing? And some suitable footwear for walking in snow – I wasn’t expecting it and I can’t believe how deep it gets here in the countryside.’ I make big eyes. ‘And I should probably get a mobile phone too; I don’t want to get stranded again with no means of even calling a taxi. And maybe a hairbrush, toothbrush and some make-up because I forgot to bring mine and the stuff that I did remember to bring is ruined after wine spilt all over it and … well, I thought I might go for a wander around the village, maybe pop into the pub for today’s special.’ I smile. And Tindledale Books too! I know I panicked when the woman answered but I’m still intrigued to know why the man on the train, who I’m guessing must be something to do with the bookshop, would leave a flirty message on a newspaper for me, but I can hardly venture out in soaking wet jeans that cling to my legs like a pair of needy toddlers, squelchy Converse trainers and hair that resembles a cuckoo’s nest to find out.

Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.

‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’

‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of Heartbeat so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.

‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.

‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’

‘Brilliant,’ I grin.

‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just £4.’ He gives me a helpful look.

‘I see. And does the bus go from the stop in the village square?’ I ask, wondering if it’s walkable from the B&B. Last night, Pete drove the tractor in a loop round the top of the village, past the country club, before dipping down a long snowy tree-tunnel winding lane, so I’ve kind of lost my bearings a bit. Lawrence slowly places the map down on the desk and nods his head like he’s deep in thought, before lifting the hatch up and walking around the counter until he’s standing square in front of me with his hands resting on his slim hips, and a big kind smile spread across his face.