The Great Christmas Knit Off (5 page)

We cross over and next to the one with the prom dress in the window is a butcher’s, a traditional one with a ceramic-tiled counter and a row of silver meat hooks dangling in the window. Next, there’s an antiques shop, then a chemist, a florist and a bakery. And here’s the village store that Dolly mentioned, and, last of all, there are a couple of empty shops at the end nearest the green. I’m impressed: a butcher and a baker; all they need is a candlestick maker – which, given the apparent frequency of the power cuts around here, might very well be a good thing. A real money-spinner.

We reach the green. Ah, this is nice. There’s a very plump Christmas tree set right in the middle, and it must be at least twenty feet tall. It has glittery baubles hanging from the ferny fingers, glistening in the glow from the flashlight. My heart lifts. It’s truly magical – so quiet and peaceful and in such utter contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of what I’ve left behind. I think I’m going to really enjoy my weekend here. And then I realise that I haven’t thought about May the fourth, or indeed, Jennifer Ford, since I stepped on the train in London, which right now feels like a million miles away – and that’s a good thing, surely? These past few months, I have honestly been rapidly reaching the point where I feel as if my head might actually explode. A mini-break in the beautiful, cosy, bubble of Tindledale is just what I need.

I
t’s like that film,
Deliverance
, when I push open the door of the Duck & Puddle – all that’s missing is a man in dungarees chewing tobacco and strumming a banjo.

Ten or so pairs of eyes turn to stare at me as I stamp the bulk of the snow from my legs and feet, push down the hood of my parka and pull off my bobble hat, it’s like a furnace in here. And I haven’t missed last orders at all; in fact, from the number of full pints lined up on the bar, I’d say ‘drinking up time’ has only just begun. The windows all have heavy velvet blackout curtains blocking the light from the numerous candles dotted around the tables, which explains why the pub looked closed from the other side of the village green, and the source of the heat is an enormous real log fire with crimson, blue-tinged flames crackling and wheezing in the ceiling-height inglenook fireplace to my right.

I smile tentatively and scan behind the bar, but Cher isn’t here.

‘Well, don’t just sit there. Give the girl a hand,’ a chunky woman wearing a woolly poncho (handknitted) bellows to the extremely tall, robust-looking man sitting beside her, before elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

‘Will you turn it in, woman?’ he pretends to chastise her as he shoos her hand away. ‘I was just getting my bearings.’ There’s a collective good-natured laugh from the crowd as the man downs his pint in one and then steadies himself on the table before hauling himself into an upright position.

‘That suitcase looks heavy enough to house a body,’ the woman continues.
Oh God, don’t say that!
They’re already eyeing me suspiciously – probably thinking I’m some kind of
crazeee
looper on the loose, come to their village to strangle them all in their beds as they sleep.

The man strides towards me and hauls the suitcase up over his shoulder in one swift movement. He extends his free hand.

‘I’m Cooper.’ He nods firmly, as if to punctuate the point.
Ah, yes, I remember, the butcher with the hog roast.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ I quickly pull a woolly mitten off with my teeth and shake his hand. ‘I’m Sybs,’ I finish quietly, but he’s already dropped my hand and turned his back to go in search of a suitable spot in which to deposit the suitcase.

‘Now, where do you want this?’ he yells back over his shoulder.

‘Oh, well, I’ve come to visit Cher, so behind the bar perhaps, for now?’ I suggest, quickly going after him, scanning again and thinking
where is she?
This is really awkward. They are all still staring at me – and the only sound comes from the pop and whizz of the log fire. I spot the crate next to the bar, stacked high with an assortment of torches and flashlights and deposit my borrowed one on top of the pile.

‘SONNNNYYYYY!’ Jesus, that was right in my ear. Cooper sure has a big, booming voice. And Basil has obviously heard him from outside as he’s now barking like a mad dog – woofing over and over and over. Another guy jumps up.

‘That’ll be the cocker from the country club,’ he says to nobody in particular. ‘Perishing thing is always getting free and roaming around the village like it’s lord of the manor. I’ll herd it up and take it back.’ He heads towards the door with a determined look on his ruddy weather-beaten farmer’s face.

‘Oh, well actually, that could be my Scottie, Basil. He’s tied up securely though,’ I say, shrinking a little inside as they clearly don’t approve of dogs barking late at night. I wouldn’t usually risk leaving Basil on his own outside, certainly not in London where he could get kidnapped in the twinkling of an eye, but I’d figured he was probably safe until I found Cher and could get him upstairs out of the way. Besides, I thought the villagers would all be in bed asleep – I mean, don’t they all have to be up at the crack of dawn to milk cows or something? Obviously not, they’re all in the Duck & Puddle – the shepherd’s second home, theirs too by the looks of it! I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s after eleven. The farmer guy stares at me like I’ve just sprouted another head.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Pardon?’ I blink, wondering what he’s going on about.

‘Leave your dog outside?’ he says, frowning and giving me an up-and-down look.

‘But, I thought—’

‘Get him in quick before he wakes up Mark.’
Who’s Mark?
‘And put him by the fire – he must be freezing half to death, the poor thing.’ Oh God, now they think I’m cruel to animals. He points to a dog bowl brimming with water next to a tartan blanket by a log basket at the corner of the tiled hearth.

‘Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you.’ There’s a little ricochet of chuckles as I dash back outside. How was I supposed to know that dogs were actually allowed inside the pub? And with special provisions too – blanket, refreshments, cosy log fire to bask beside – Basil is going to be in his element.

‘Did someone bellow?’ Clive has appeared behind the bar when I return with Basil. ‘Sybs! Hello darling. What a nice surprise,’ he beams on spotting me. ‘And Cher will be made up to see you.’ He lifts the hatch and motions for me to come through. I smile with relief at seeing a familiar face, and then, as if by magic, everyone starts chatting and laughing amongst themselves, doing normal pub banter – just like a scene from
Emmerdale
in the Woolpack Inn when the director has just yelled ‘action’. How strange … I feel as if I’ve passed some kind of initiation ritual and that they’ve all relaxed and gone back to whatever it was they were doing before I burst through the door of their local, a stranger in their midst, but it’s all OK –
now Clive has verified me, that is.

I take off Basil’s snowy wet coat and settle him in the designated spot by the fire (he instantly looks right at home, sprawled out on the blanket and he’s practically comatose already as he relishes the intense heat) before I head towards Clive. Cooper follows behind, dumping my suitcase in the hall next to a mountain of boxes containing cheese and onion crisps.

‘Thanks, Cooper,’ says Clive.

‘No problem, Sonny.’ And he strides off through to the other side of the bar.

Clive gives me a hug and then steers me through to a cosy private lounge out the back. Once the door is closed and I’m satisfied that the locals can’t overhear us, I give Clive a quizzical look.

‘Er, why is he calling you Sonny?’ I ask in a hushed voice, creasing my forehead. Clive smiles and shakes his head in amusement.

‘Because I’m Cher’s boyfriend.’ Clive shrugs as if it’s the most obvious reason ever, and then he explains. ‘On our first day here, one of the regulars said it for a laugh, you know, as in, “so if our new landlady is called Cher and you’re her fella, then you must be Sonny” and it’s stuck. Now everyone in Tindledale calls me Sonny, as in Sonny and Cher.’ And he belts out a line from their iconic song, ‘I Got You Babe’.

‘Ha ha, of course they do,’ I laugh and give him another hug. ‘And my second question – who is Mark?’ I shake my head.

‘Oh! He’s the local bobby – lives in the police house next door to Dr Darcy who’s the village GP. Mark gets upset if he’s woken up in the middle of the night, hence Pete wanting to get Basil inside quickly,’ Clive explains in a matter-of-fact way.

‘But Mark is OK about you having a lock-in?’ I ask, lifting my eyebrows. I’m surprised; it’s not something Cher usually goes for.

‘Weeeeell
…
’
He gives me a shifty look and shoves his hands into his jeans’ pockets. ‘Cher isn’t actually here. She’s on a course at Brewery HQ. A last-minute space came up after one of the others dropped out so she jumped at the chance of staying in a hotel for a few nights.’

‘Oh no!’ My heart sinks.

‘But she’ll be back by Sunday afternoon,’ he adds quickly, seeing my face drop. ‘And Mark’s fine about a bit of banter after hours as long he doesn’t know about it, if you know what I mean. Discretion, that’s the key.’ Clive winks and grins before tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. ‘Now, how about I get you a drink before we find you somewhere to stay.’ He rubs his hands together.

‘Er, I thought it was OK to stay here. Cher said …’ My voice trails off and for some ridiculous reason I can feel tears threatening. I push my top teeth down hard on my tongue to focus my mind and stop the tears from tumbling out. I’ve cocked up again. I should never have just rocked up here. What was I
thinking
? I can’t imagine there’s a Travelodge anywhere in Tindledale so I’m going to have to go back home – which is where I probably should have stayed to face the music in the morning with Mr Banerjee.

‘Hey, of course it is,’ Clive says kindly. ‘Cher has been going on and on about you coming. Like I said, she’ll be made up that you’re here. And it’ll sweeten the blow when she returns.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come and see.’ And Clive pulls open a little timber-slatted door in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed, and after ducking his head under the low frame, he motions for me to follow him up the narrowest, twistiest, higgledy-piggledy stairs I think I’ve ever seen. I feel like Alice in Wonderland as I crouch down and place the palms of my hands on the steps in front of me just to get low enough to climb up to the next floor.

‘Oh dear! I see what you mean.’ We’ve emerged into a tiny, exposed beamed bedroom with a mattress on the floor, one side of which is propped up on a row of wooden blocks next to a window so low and bowed it’s practically a continuation of the carpet. ‘What are they for?’ I point to the blocks.

‘So we don’t tumble away when we’re fast asleep in the middle of the night and end up going through the window.’ He manages a wry smile, but he also has a very good point, because the floorboards slope so severely that there’s every chance this really could happen. ‘We can’t get any of our furniture up those doll’s house stairs. The pub was built in 1706 as a coaching inn originally – even the old stable buildings are still intact. And currently storing all of our furniture, I hasten to add. People were clearly pocket-size in those days.’ He shrugs and pulls a face. ‘We’re lucky to even have the mattress; if it wasn’t for Pete lashing it up tight like a bale of hay, we would have never squeezed it up the stairs. No, we need a new bed, one that can be assembled in situ, as it were.’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘But until then, this is it, I’m afraid. So unless you and Basil fancy bunking down with me on the mattress …’ He laughs, slings a friendly arm around my shoulders, and jiggles me up and down in a big bear hug.

I like Clive, always have. When Cher first met him, he was washing dishes in her parents’ pub in Doncaster to pay his way through catering college, and they’ve been together ever since. He’s so solid and uncomplicated. When I ran out of the church, Cher and Clive arrived at Mum and Dad’s house within moments of me getting there. I learned later that Clive had grabbed Cher’s hand, run her from the church (she was bridesmaid, of course) and driven at breakneck speed to find me. No fuss, just a ‘well, she’s your mate and he’s a wanker’, and he was all for hunting Luke down and giving him a ‘good slap’, but Cher talked him out of it. Yes, Clive is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, and there’s a lot to be said for that. Not like Luke who clearly has very hidden depths. You know, Luke even tried telling me once that he mistook Sasha for me and that’s how the ‘mix up’ had all started in the first place. He snogged her by accident and it ‘sort of went from there’. I didn’t buy it of course – because for starters, our faces may be the same but that’s where the identical twin bit ends these days. And Sasha wears completely different clothes to me – expensive body-con dresses and designer stacked heels to my hand-sewn Renfrew tops or chunky jumpers in winter with jeans and flats. Anyway, Sasha could easily have pushed him away, or laughed it off at the very least.

‘Um, think I’ll pass if you don’t mind. Cher has told me all about your super-loud snoring,’ I play punch his chest, trying to make light of the situation and wondering if perhaps Basil and I could sleep on one of the sofas in the bar. If the villagers ever decide to head back to their chocolate box cottages, that is.