Thicker Than Water (6 page)

‘My God, she’s gorgeous, isn’t she? No wonder James fell for her.’

Tina squeezed her arm. ‘Let’s have that coffee.’

Minutes later, they were seated at a table, two cappuccinos in front of them. But an unspoken pact had been unavoidably broken, and almost at once Sylvie returned to the subject uppermost in their thoughts.

‘How
is
James?’ she enquired carefully, not looking at her friend.

‘He’s fine,’ Tina said shortly.

James had, in fact, phoned her the day after their lunch together, asking her to forget what he’d said and reporting that all was now well. To emphasize the point, he’d passed on an invitation to supper, which was to take place the coming Friday. Until she saw them together, Tina was reserving judgement, but she could not tell Sylvie that.

‘Funny to think,’ Sylvie was continuing, spooning the froth from her coffee, ‘that on our shopping trip last year, he was in America, and I’d given up all thought of our ever being together. Pity I can’t just wave a wand and delete the past year – or at least, the past six months. Then I’d be no worse off than I was then.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Tina said in a low voice.

Sylvie squared her shoulders. ‘Don’t be – I don’t mean it.
’Tis better to have loved and lost
, and all that. I wouldn’t want
not
to have had that time with James. And at least I didn’t lose him to a mousy little creature with halitosis!’

Tina laughed. ‘I suppose there’s some comfort in that,’ she agreed.

The dinner party at the flat was an outstanding success. Abigail had metamorphosed back from the tense, edgy person who’d come to their house into the charming and amusing one they’d met at the Old Rectory. Furthermore, she revealed herself as a talented cook, and the meal was delicious. James, too, was his old self, deftly playing his part as host, and the general atmosphere was happy and relaxed. So much so, that Tina felt able to reissue her invitation for them to stay over at Brambles.

James and Abigail exchanged glances, as though the subject had already been discussed between them.

‘How about, for this year at least, we compromise?’ James suggested. ‘We’d love to come to you for Christmas Eve dinner, if we may, but we’ll come back here afterwards, and see you again at the parents’ the next day.’

‘That would be fine,’ Ben said quickly. ‘An admirable solution.’

‘And we’ll bring the mistletoe as usual,’ James added. He turned to Abigail. ‘It’s my contribution to the decorations. We’ll forage for some the weekend before Christmas.’

‘Will it involve climbing trees?’ Abigail asked guardedly.

James smiled. ‘Not really; I usually go to a derelict orchard, halfway between here and Brambles. The trees are mainly apple, and pretty stunted.’

‘We’re lucky,’ Ben put in. ‘This is one of the few areas in the country where mistletoe grows. And did you know it’s the only native British plant with white berries?’

‘I can’t say I did,’ Abigail admitted, ‘but I confess I’ve never given it much thought except at Christmas – and then only to kiss under!’

‘Actually, it’s a fascinating plant – a parasite, of course, and as I said, quite particular about where it grows and what trees it chooses. There are legends and traditions about it dating back to Ancient Greece and Rome, not to mention the Druids.’

‘I can see my education has been sadly neglected!’ Abigail said ruefully.

Tina phoned her mother the next day.

‘I know you’ve been worried about James and Abigail,’ she said, ‘so I thought I’d let you know that we went to the flat for supper last night, and everything was fine. I don’t know what’s been troubling her, but whatever it was seems to have passed and she’s back to normal. James seems much happier, too.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ Rosemary Markham replied. ‘Your father and I were beginning to wonder if the marriage had been a mistake.’

‘I think we all were. She’s still a very private girl, and I suspect there are areas in her life that are no-go, but as long as she makes James happy, who are we to complain?’

‘Who, indeed?’

‘And incidentally, I saw Sylvie earlier in the week. We had our usual Christmas shopping marathon.’

‘How is she?’

‘Coming to terms. She’ll be fine, given time.’

‘I’m still embarrassed when I meet mutual friends. The whole business was most unfortunate, but if you say Abigail has settled down, perhaps all will yet be well.’

The final weeks before Christmas passed in a rush. Abigail spent a night in London with Millie, and the four friends had their usual celebratory meal. She and James went shopping for family presents, and attended a couple of drinks parties. On the work front, she landed a lucrative contract with a London hotel that was undertaking extensive refurbishment. All of which added to her euphoria, and she was actually looking forward to her first family Christmas since childhood.

On the weekend before, however, it rained unremittingly, and they were unable to make their pilgrimage to the orchard.

‘I don’t see when I’ll get the chance to go now,’ James said worriedly, staring through the streaming windows at the deserted square. ‘It’s dark long before I get home these days.’

‘I can go,’ Abigail offered, ‘if you give me directions how to find it.’

‘Would you, sweetie? It’s no use trying the shops, because although they’re stacked high with holly, mistletoe’s always in short supply, even here, and it’ll all have gone by now.’

He took out an ordnance survey map, and they spread it on the table while he traced the route to the orchard.

‘There used to be a house there years ago, and there’s still a wall round it, so it looks like private land. Perhaps that’s why not many people know about it.’

‘It isn’t private, though, is it?’

‘I don’t see how it can be. No one’s been near it for years. Look.’ They bent over the map again. ‘You turn off the road down this narrow track – you’ll have to watch out for it, it’s easily missed. It’s on your left, just after the second bend past the Fox and Grapes. Then, a few hundred yards along the track, there’s a gap in the wall where a gate used to be. OK?’

Abigail nodded. ‘As long as you’re sure I shan’t be arrested,’ she said, ‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

But the rain continued over the next two days, and by breakfast on Christmas Eve, they were still without mistletoe. However, as they stood together looking anxiously out of the window, a watery sun broke through, and the prospect looked suddenly more hopeful.

Abigail handed James his briefcase. ‘Don’t worry, Father Christmas,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get some this morning.’

‘Thanks, love. It’s the office lunch today and I’ll come home straight after, so I should be back by three thirty. Then we can wrap the last presents to take to Brambles this evening. They’ll need to be placed under the tree.’

It was later than she’d intended when Abigail set off, and the sky was darkening with the threat of more rain. She armed herself with a pair of strong secateurs, slipped on a waterproof jacket, and, having let herself out of the flat, walked quickly round to the alleyway to collect her car.

There were several vans parked in the other spaces, some of them being unloaded by harassed shopkeepers trying to cope with a last-minute rush on their stock. The man from the bakery was among them, and gave Abigail a cheery wave.

‘Hope you’re all right for mince pies!’ he called. ‘We’re down to the last couple of dozen.’

‘Thanks, but I make my own,’ she called back, and he pulled a face.

‘Lucky there aren’t too many of your sort around!’

She was smiling as she eased the car over the cobblestones and turned on to the main road. The square was thronged with shoppers, and it took her some time to thread her way through the congestion and turn left at the T-junction towards the station and, beyond it, the road to Brambles. The ordnance map, folded to show her route, lay beside her on the passenger seat, but provided she didn’t miss the turning, she shouldn’t need to refer to it.

The country road was slippery with the past days’ rain, and mist lay low over the hedgerows. Abigail gave a little shiver and turned the heater up a notch. This, she thought ironically, was what was known as a green Christmas; grey would be nearer the mark. Because of the winding road, she was driving at a steady thirty miles an hour, and one or two cars passed her when opportunity arose. As one overtook her too near a bend, she wondered if he’d already been celebrating, and hoped James wouldn’t encounter dangerous driving on his way home.

And here, on her right, was the Fox and Grapes public house. She slowed down still further, aware of an impatient driver behind her, but fearful of missing her turning. One bend, two – and there it was, on her left as James had said. She indicated, earning an irritated toot from the driver behind, and as she turned on to the track, saw the stone wall bordering it.

Behind her, cars whooshed past on the road, but here all was quiet and still, the only sound that of her windscreen wipers rhythmically clearing it of the persistent drizzle. Abigail drove slowly, watching out for the gap in the wall that would be her means of entry. And there it was. Though the pitted road, with weeds growing in the centre of it, indicated that little traffic passed this way, she drew in close to the wall, and switched off the engine.

Silence swooped down on her, not even the comforting caress of the wipers to break it. Suddenly, Abigail wished James was with her. She gave herself an impatient shake, pulled up the hood of her jacket against the strengthening rain, and let herself out of the car, secateurs in hand. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, she promised herself, and she’d be back here, laden with her booty and able to make tracks for home.

The gateway, such as it was, was filled with knee-high brambles, and she was glad of her boots. Ahead of her stretched row after row of stunted trees, bent and misshapen like little old men huddling in the mist. But, as James had said, among their bare, twisted branches hung gleaming green balls of the elusive mistletoe.

How much should she get? It was a point they hadn’t discussed. Not much, she guessed; just enough to hang in doorways and under a few light fittings. She ventured further in among the trees, looking for the balls that bore the most berries. Odd, that theirs alone in this country were white. She remembered Ben’s comments about myths and legends, and wasn’t there a mournful ballad called ‘The Mistletoe Bough’?

She shivered. There was no point wasting time in searching for the perfect specimen; she’d collect the most easily accessible, and get home as quickly as possible. She was already cold and hungry, and the rain was beginning in earnest, pattering on the leaf-strewn ground like ghostly footsteps. Balancing on tip-toe, she reached up and pulled down a branch to reach the glistening green globe nestling on it. Then, loud in the silence, a twig snapped, and instinctively she stiffened. But before she could turn to see the cause of it – a rabbit? A squirrel? – a voice behind her said softly:

‘Hello, Abby.’

James turned into his usual parking place, and frowned. Abigail’s space was empty. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to four, and, because of the rain, almost dark already. Where could she be?

He climbed out of the car and looked about him. Possibly her space had been occupied when she returned with the mistletoe, and she’d had to park elsewhere. It had happened before. But there was no sign of her car in the alley. Perhaps she’d remembered something they needed, and driven into town? Though she usually walked, it was understandable to take the car in such weather.

As he stood for a moment, undecided what to do, Stan emerged from the back gate of the bakery.

‘Merry Christmas, squire, if I don’t see you again.’

‘And to you, Stan. I suppose you haven’t seen my wife, have you?’

‘I have, as it goes. She went out while I was unloading – about twelve, it must have been. Told her I’d only a few mince pies left, but she said she makes her own.’

James smiled absentmindedly. ‘That’s right, she does.’

So Abigail had gone out at midday, no doubt to collect the mistletoe. She should have been back long since. Could the car have broken down somewhere?

Stan was saying something else, but James had started at a run for the flat. As he’d feared, it was in darkness.

‘Abigail?’ he called. ‘Are you there, darling?’