The Magic of Christmas (17 page)

I choked. ‘Oh dear! That was
very
rude and un-PC of him.’

‘Yes, but
you
would have known what to say to him, wouldn’t you?’

‘Probably. Or socked him one.’

‘I find I just — just don’t want to go there any more in case he’s in, although Flo is a very nice dog.’

‘Then don’t go! I’ll do his pet-sitting instead. He knows you’ve got an assistant, doesn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes. But, Lizzy, he might be even worse with you, because you’re so pretty!’

‘I’m not pretty at all, you daft lump,’ I said, surprised. ‘My hair is a really boring light brown colour and I’m way too tall! So don’t worry, I can deal with him, no problem. Some of Tom’s friends were rather oddball too, don’t forget. So hand over his keys and pass on any requests for pet-sitting —
I’ll
sort him.’

‘Well, actually, Lizzy, he wants me to go in to walk and feed Flo tonight, because he’s out at some party until late. But then Gareth — the vicar — suddenly asked me to dinner and I said yes without thinking, so now I don’t know what to do.’

‘He has? There, I knew he fancied you. I could tell at the Mystery Play Committee meeting, and he made a beeline for you at the funeral feast!’

‘No, of course he doesn’t fancy me,’ she protested, blushing again. ‘I can’t imagine how you got that idea!’

‘So, why has he invited you to dinner, then?’

‘We just sort of got chatting earlier. He was admiring Trinny and said he would love another dog — his last one died of old age just before he moved here. Isn’t that sad? Only he’s out such a lot he doesn’t feel it would be fair just at the moment. So I told him about the kennels and the rescue dogs and how they always needed people to walk them, and he said he would come with me whenever he has time. So
then
he asked me if I would have dinner with him and help him understand what he’s supposed to be doing with the Mystery Play and village things like that. There’s a lot for him to take in, coming into somewhere like Middlemoss.’

‘There certainly is,’ I agreed, ‘especially pitchforked straight into a stranger’s funeral, poor man. But he’s quite right; who better than the former vicar’s daughter to help him make sense of it? But
don’t
wear the smock.’

‘Of course not!’ she protested, then added thoughtfully, ‘He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?’

While I was glad to see she’d stopped mooning over Ritch Rainford and transferred her interest to Gareth, I couldn’t help but feel that calling him good-looking was pushing it a bit, unless you particularly fancied knobbly, flame-haired, blue-eyed, lanky men who didn’t seem to be fully in control of their limbs.

If something comes of this, their children will all be ginger-nuts (though perhaps they will raise a family of rescue dogs instead).

‘He’s delightful,’ I agreed, hastily banishing my mental picture of their possible progeny. ‘And don’t worry about Mr Rainford:
I’m
not afraid of the big bad wolf.’

When I got home the latest
Mosses Messenger
with my advert in it had been pushed through the door, and there were two messages on the answering machine. I seemed very popular, suddenly.

The first was from Nick, saying he was finally returning from London, though why he thought I would be interested in his movements I don’t know.
Or
what he thought I would do with the postcard of Camden Lock, with ‘Sorry!’ and a recipe for jellied eels scrawled on the back, which arrived the other day. I couldn’t possibly eat eels — they’re too snaky. And what was
he
sorry about? Leila and the permanently absent Tom are the ones who should be sorry!

‘Hi, Lizzy, I’m on my way back,’ Nick’s deep voice said. ‘Things took longer than I expected because I couldn’t persuade Leila I really
didn’t
want any of her precious assets, even after her solicitor drew up an agreement for me to sign, until I stuck his ebony paperknife in my thumb and signed in blood. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but it seemed to do the trick.’

There was a pause, then his voice resumed with just a hint of rueful laughter in it, ‘OK,
very
melodramatic. And the solicitor didn’t seem to want the knife back — said I could keep it as a souvenir. Anyway, the divorce is on its way, a clean split, and no claims on each other’s property or earnings. We never shared anything anyway, so that makes it easier. Oh, and it’s all given me an idea for a recipe. Got any raspberries, or am I too late?’ The message clicked off.

Raspberries?

The second message, from my agent, Senga McDonald, was short and to the point. After drumming her fingers and humming a brief snatch of ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ she said, ‘Lizzy? Can you send me the new
Chronicle
, pronto? Only Crange and Snicket want it right now, and your sales figures aren’t so good that you can afford to miss your deadlines. You did say you’d finished it and it just needed a polish, so slap it into the post right this minute!’

Well, don’t stop the carnival on
my
account, even if I have only been widowed for five minutes! I thought.

Still, it was as finished as it would ever be. I only needed to read through it and make final corrections before it went off. But I was starting to wonder if I would ever finish another
Chronicle
, because I was not exactly hitting my target of four pages a day any more and said as much to Senga when she rang me back later to make sure I’d got her message, and was obeying orders.

‘Oh, don’t worry your wee head about that one just now. I’ve had a brainwave and sold Crange and Snicket on the idea of a collected book of your recipes and hints, with the odd anecdote thrown in. They think it’s a great idea — they’re going to call it
Just Desserts
. Shouldn’t take you too long to do, should it? Toss in some new recipes to liven it up.’

I stared at the receiver as if it had bitten me, while her voice rolled inexorably on.

‘What? When? I mean, when do they want it?’ I broke in urgently, when she stopped for breath.

‘Oh, not until early next year — January, say. Loads of time. Now, have you put that manuscript in the post?’

‘Tomorrow,’ I promised. ‘I’m just making final corrections and I might have to reprint a few pages later.’

‘See you do — I’ll be expecting it. Send a copy directly to Crange and Snicket, too.’

‘I’ve got my own computer now and I’m getting going with it, so I’ll be able to email the next book to you, instead of posting it,’ I told her, because she’d made it pretty plain that she and the publishers would prefer my books that way, rather than printed out and posted. I’d simply have to move with the times if I want to stay published.

‘Well, welcome to the twenty-first century at last!’ she said sarcastically and rang off.

It was just as well I
would
be able to print my own pages off, too, because I’d just remembered that Jasper wasn’t going to be home until late. He was going straight to Liverpool with a friend after he finished work at the dig.

Not, of course, that he’d ever objected to my using his laptop and printer; it had just seemed like a personal intrusion to use them when he wasn’t there.

I wandered rather aimlessly round the kitchen for a few minutes, then dolloped clotted cream and raspberry jam onto some meringue halves I made yesterday with leftover egg whites.

They were so yummy I ate six, and I think I’ll put them in the latest
Chronicle
and
Just Desserts
as an alternative to scone cream teas.

I did try to read through the manuscript, but I just couldn’t concentrate and found myself staring blankly at the same page. Eventually I gave up temporarily and went to do a bit of gardening instead. I picked loads of strawberries and even a few raspberries — everything was still burgeoning forth like nobody’s business. I wished someone would tell my garden it was time to start winding down into autumn and taking it easy.

As I worked I thought about Ophelia Locke, also burgeoning forth with a baby that might just possibly be Tom’s. But whoever the father proved to be, the poor little thing was trying to grow on a vegan diet and I wasn’t sure Ophelia was capable of seeing it got enough of the right nutrients.

With a resigned sigh I fetched a big wicker basket from the outbuilding, and began to pack it with fresh fruit and salad vegetables, a bunch of baby carrots, eggs and ripe tomatoes. Then I set off up through the woods to Ophelia’s estate cottage.

Like me, she lives right next to the boundary wall of the estate, so it would have been quicker to walk up the road, but not as pretty as the woodland paths, or as cool. The sky was a brazen blue and it was Indian summer hot.

Ophelia had attached a nameplate to her front door that said ‘Whitesmocks’, but whether she meant that as a name or a description of her way of making a living, was unclear. There was unlikely to be any passing trade interested in purchasing antique-style clothing down here anyway, since her only next-door neighbour was the old and very deaf gardener who was Mimi’s sparring partner and occasional accomplice in plant larceny, and I couldn’t see Ted taking to smocks. Caz’s cottage was quite nearby, only set further back in the woods in isolation, on the other side of a small stream bridged by mossy, ancient slabs of stone.

‘Oh God!’ Ophelia said predictably, opening the door and staring at me, ‘Oh, no, oh God!’ and fell to chewing her lower lip.

Oh, my ears and whiskers!

‘Hello, Ophelia,’ I said bracingly. ‘Can I come in? Only I’ve brought you some spare fruit, vegetables and salad stuff, which will do you good. And eggs, though I wasn’t sure if you ate those.’

She fell back rather reluctantly and I stepped straight down the one worn step into the tiny living room. It smelled of unbleached calico and herbal tea. A sewing machine was set up by the window, and white material was festooned everywhere. A clothes rack on castors crammed with the finished product swayed slightly in the breeze from the open door.

‘That’s kind — that’s
so
kind!’ she said, and for a horrible moment I thought she was going to burst into tears or embrace me, or something equally embarrassing. Instead, she wrung her hands and stared at me despairingly. ‘But Ted, the old gardener next door, he says that Mr Pharamond
will
give me notice to quit the cottage because I was … well, he won’t want me here.’

‘No, didn’t you get my message? I’ve spoken to him and he’s no intention of throwing you out, so you don’t need to worry about that. We’ll see what happens after the baby arrives — which will be when, do you think?’

‘I don’t know really — January, maybe?’ she said vaguely. ‘I didn’t realise I was pregnant for ages and then I thought I’d just sort of wait and see …’

I frowned. ‘Wait and see what? Have you visited your doctor?’

‘Oh, no! I believe nature should take its course. One of my friends will come for the birthing.’

‘The
birthing
? Come on, Ophelia, this isn’t the Dark Ages! You need to see a doctor and have the baby in hospital. Nature’s way may turn out to be pre-eclampsia, or something like that.’

She stopped chewing her lower lip and looked stubborn.

‘I hope you’re eating well, anyway? Couldn’t you give up the vegan stuff for the duration?’

‘Vegan is healthy. There are lots of vegan mothers.’

‘Then make sure you vary your diet as much as you can. I’ll keep leaving you fresh fruit and vegetables on your doorstep every week, a bit like one of those organic delivery services.’

‘You don’t have to,’ she began, blinking nervously. Her big pink eyelids reminded me of those festooned blinds.

‘No, but I want to. Whatever you did isn’t the baby’s fault, is it?’

‘Noooo …’ she muttered, walking backwards until she was half-enveloped among the hanging smocks. ‘No, no, no!’

‘There you are then, that’s settled,’ I said soothingly, following her and thrusting the basket into her arms.

‘I’ll — I’ll unload this, so you can have it back!’ she gasped and, fighting her way out of the folds of material, escaped into the lean-to kitchen.

I looked in from the doorway. Although basic, it was at least clean and tidy, though yet more eternal rabbits had been stencilled everywhere. On the little gate-leg table lay a roll of familiar-looking recycled yellow paper, a big black felt-tip pen and a coil of silvery gaffer tape — and something clicked in my head.

‘Ophelia, when Jojo and Mick said you’d been sleeping with the
enemy
, meaning Caz Naylor, did they mean because you three are all members of ARG?’

She dropped the bunch of baby carrots. ‘No, no no … not me. Not us. No, I—’

‘You’re a terrible liar,’ I said dispassionately. ‘I recognise the paper on the table from the posters you put on my barn and my car — and even over my front door!’

‘No, no, no!’ she jabbered, backing away, her prominent eyes starting. It is a pity she didn’t say ‘no’ more often when men were around; it would have saved her a lot of trouble.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I said firmly, quite certain now. ‘So, Ophelia, let’s get this straight: you’re living here on the Pharamond estate and, as a member of ARG, targeting not only the owner of that estate but also his gamekeeper, with whom you’ve been having an affair?’

‘Oh, no! He — we didn’t! Or only
once
, when Caz caught me putting up a banner on the Hall gates and … and I don’t know what came over me! But I said I wouldn’t go with him again, because he was evil and persecuted the poor woodland creatures!’ she whimpered.

‘Once?’

‘Or … maybe twice … three times,’ she conceded, which reminded me of the joke about only being unfaithful once, with the Household Cavalry. ‘And Caz’s not really murdering the grey squirrels, he catches them and takes them away!’ she said earnestly. ‘I still have to put the posters up, though, because the Pharamonds are on the ARG hit list, but Caz takes them straight back down again, like he was doing with the ones at your place.’

‘I suppose you might have some kind of case for targeting Caz and the estate, though it’s a pretty shaky one to my way of thinking, but none at all for me. I mean, there are battery hen farmers and goodness knows what else in the area. Why?’