Winter Wishes (3 page)

Jules dug her hands deeper into her pockets and shivered. Now that the sun had all but vanished the air was chilly and her breath was starting to cloud. Gradually, the sky was becoming bright with stars. A smile of a moon hung amidst them, hinting of sharp frosty weather to come. Yes, she was shivering from the cold and nothing more, Jules told herself sternly. Her goosebumps were not from Alice’s tales of ghosts and wreckers, and they were certainly nothing to do with the ridiculous wish she’d made at the well.

Of course not! That was nothing but superstitious nonsense and Jules was bitterly ashamed for taking part in it. She really should have known better. Her only comfort was that nobody else had a clue what she’d wished for. She’d keep it that way too, Jules promised herself. She was busy already and in the run-up to Christmas her job was going to become even more demanding. There was the fundraising for the Christmas lights for starters, and the nativity play to organise as well. That was bound to be just as much of a nightmare in a rural parish as in an urban setting: no matter where the play, every parent thought their child should have the starring role. Then there was the carol concert, and Midnight Mass too. Since this was her first Christmas as the vicar of Polwenna Bay, Jules was determined to make it memorable – in a good way, she hoped, and without a naked calendar in sight.

Yes, she’d be far too busy to spare Danny Tremaine a second’s thought.

“Oh! Wow! Look at all the pumpkins lighting up the windows!” Issie’s excited words snatched Jules out of her reverie. “Don’t they look great? Really spooky!”

The steep lane they were descending snaked right and at once Polwenna Bay came into view again, lying before them like a model village. Sure enough, in many cottage windows and porches the toothy grins of hollowed-out pumpkins grinned evilly into the twilight.

Of course. Tonight was Halloween. Jules had been so deep in refection that she’d almost forgotten about it, or at least forgotten as much as a vicar could forget All Hallows’ Eve. It was always a thorny issue for her, given that Halloween was rooted in England’s pagan past. Since she’d been living in Cornwall, Jules had become more aware than ever that those traditions were still very close to the surface. St Wenn’s Well was just one example; the village’s green man, a role played on festival days by Pete the Post decked out in face paint and foliage, was another. Then there was morris dancing, the village maypole and Padstow’s famous Obby Oss – not to mention Cornwall’s piskies. All these things had their roots in pre-Christian times. Where was the line drawn between some harmless trick-or-treating fun and the darker, occult ceremonies that were celebrated on the last night of October? And how did you draw that line, in a village that still insisted on celebrating May Day?

Jules wished she knew. Her solution to the Halloween conundrum had been to take an assembly at the local primary school this morning, and to make it all about hope and light. She’d suggested that if the children did go out trick-or-treating they should dress as something positive. One small girl had asked if she could dress up as Miley Cyrus. Privately, Jules had thought that sounded very scary indeed – for all the wrong reasons. Halloween or not, it wasn’t
quite
how a seven-year-old should be going out on a cold October evening, so far as Jules was concerned. Maybe a superhero, she’d suggested, or if they really did want to do something spooky, how about Harry Potter?

If the village was overrun by marauding Batmen and boy wizards this evening, she would know that the children had listened to her. Most likely her words had fallen on deaf ears, but at the very least she hoped all the little girls weren’t out twerking.

“Apparently the village shop ran out of pumpkins by half nine this morning,” remarked Alice. “Betty Jago said it was like a stampede in there.”

“I heard that she’d doubled the prices too,” said Issie. “They were cheaper in the supermarket, according to Tess.”

Alice smiled at Jules. “What was I telling you about profiteering and wrecking earlier? Not a lot changes here.”

“It seems not,” agreed Jules.

“We’re having a gathering at Seaspray,” Alice continued. “It’s not a Halloween party as such, just some nibbles and drinks. There won’t be many of us, just family, so why don’t you join us?”

Seaspray was the Tremaine family home; an old and stately whitewashed house with weathered blue shutters, it stood sentinel at the beginning of the cliff path, watching over the restless waves. Inside, it was full of scuffed furniture, faded rugs, tatty drawings, sand and odd gum boots – a true family home in every sense of the word. The Tremaine siblings still gathered there to squabble, drink tea and eat their grandmother’s cakes. Some of Jules’s happiest times had been spent sitting in Seaspray’s kitchen, nursing a mug of tea and putting the world to rights with Danny.

Danny.

Of course. He would be there this evening, wouldn’t he? Not a good idea, then, especially after this afternoon’s slip of resolve.

“That’s really kind, Alice, but I’ve got a lot on tonight,” she hedged.

“Like what?” Issie asked. Her voice rang with challenge and Jules’s heart sank into her wellies. She really didn’t want to have to fabricate an excuse, although a night in with a glass of wine and Sky TV was on the cards.

“Just catching up on some stuff,” she shrugged.

“Jules is busy with church business,” Alice said gently. Her brown eyes met Jules’s, and for a heart-lurching moment Jules saw such sympathy there that she was terrified Alice might have guessed the real reason she’d been staying away. But that couldn’t be possible, not when she’d worked so hard to keep her feelings hidden.

“That’s total bollocks,” scoffed Issie. “Jules could leave all that for one night if she wanted to. And she bloody well should, because she’s in her early thirties, not her nineties.” To Jules, she added, “Chillax, Vic. We’re not having a Black Mass, you know, just a glass of wine and some sausage rolls.”

“Oh, Issie, honestly,” said Alice, pulling an exasperated face. But Jules couldn’t help laughing. Sometimes she needed the younger girl’s irreverence to make her see the lighter side of life.

“How can I say no to sausage rolls?” she said. “OK, count me in. I’ll only get pestered like mad for trick or treat otherwise, won’t I?”

“Not a problem at Seaspray,” Alice assured her. “The children are all far too lazy to climb all the way up to our front door. Well, most of them, anyway. We do get a few.”

“Most likely the closest thing you’ll get to Halloween tonight is the wicked old witch who lives in
there
,” Issie whispered to Jules, gesturing at a tiny cottage that overlooked the village green. “I’d bet you anything, Poison Ivy has a cauldron rather than a cooker. She’s probably boiling up some children right now.”

Issie was referring to Ivy Lawrence, one of Jules’s most trying parishioners and known in Polwenna Bay as Poison Ivy. She’d only lived in the village since the summer but had already made her presence felt, complaining about children playing ball games on the green, calling the council when the live music from The Ship was too noisy and refusing point-blank to replant the window boxes that had previously been a feature of her cottage (a matter that had cost Polwenna Bay a winning place in the Blooming Cornwall competition). With a face that could sour milk at twenty paces and a negative word for everyone, Ivy was pretty difficult to love – and Jules, despite praying for tolerance, was certainly struggling.

“She must be very unhappy to be that mean,” was all Jules could come up with in her defence. Alas, Ivy’s behaviour
was
poisonous and justifying it was far from easy, even for a vicar.

“Nobody could possibly be that unhappy,” countered Issie. She shook her head. “Did you know that she even says the fishermen are making too much noise on the quay in the morning? According to Nick she’s going to speak to the council about it. Unhappy, my arse! She’s just a nasty old bag!”

Jules wasn’t surprised; this sounded exactly like the kind of petty thing Ivy would do. But as for not being unhappy? She didn’t agree with Issie on this. And neither did Jules think that Ivy was as old as she appeared, even if bitterness had twisted her face into a scowl and set her mouth in a permanent expression of disapproval. Her age and history were enigmas, however. Since her arrival Ivy had, complaints aside, kept herself to herself. Jules was convinced that there was more to her than met the eye, but she was at a loss as to what this could be. She guessed that, as with all her flock, only time would tell.

“Isabella Tremaine, I didn’t bring you up to be rude about your elders,” Alice said firmly. “No matter what you think of Mrs Lawrence, I want you to show her some manners and respect next time you see her, because that’s how you were raised. Never let it be said that the Tremaines behave badly.”

Issie looked as though she was on the brink of retorting when, right on cue, Ivy appeared at her gateway. Brows drawn together in her habitual scowl and looking as disagreeable as always, she waved across the street at Jules.

“Reverend! Come here a moment, will you? I need some help.”

“Manners and respect,” muttered Issie. “Keep walking, Jules. Pretend you can’t hear her.”

But Jules couldn’t do that. For all her faults, Ivy was still one of her parishioners, and Jules could no more walk past her now than she could tell herself that it was fine to let Danny Tremaine give up on his marriage. Sighing inwardly, she pasted a smile onto her face and waved back.

“Good evening, Ivy.”

“It’s not good at all,” snapped the older woman, her thin lips pursed and her hands on her hips. “Young hoodlums have been banging on my door all afternoon and evening, and when I came out to tell them off, they ran away. I’ve a good mind to call the police!”

“There’s no need to worry. That will only be the youngsters trick-or-treating. I usually have a bowl of sweets by the door, and when they knock I give them a few. They go away then. They’re no trouble at all,” Alice explained. Her attempts at reassurance fell on deaf ears, though. Ivy looked at her as though she was insane.

“I’ll give them trick or treat, all right. How dare they trespass on my property, harass me and have the nerve to demand sweets? Sweets in return for criminal behaviour? Over my dead body.”

“The village children are very good-natured. Please don’t be worried about trick-or-treating here,” Alice began, but Ivy wasn’t listening. She was too busy complaining and threatening.

Issie, catching Jules’s eye, pulled a face. “See?” she mouthed. “Horrible old bag.”

Jules ignored her friend. Having lived and worked in big cities she understood only too well just how worrying Halloween pranks were for some people – especially those who were elderly and on their own.

“How can I help, Ivy? Do you want me to tell everyone to leave your house out?”

Ivy snorted. “It’s a bit late for all that. Anyway, that’s not what I need you for. When I came out to give those brats a piece of my mind the front door slammed behind me and now I’m locked out. I need you to help me get back inside.”

Jules glanced at the door. It was solid wood with some serious-looking security fittings. The power of prayer was strong but she wasn’t sure it could overcome a deadlock.

“I think you need a locksmith then, Ivy, not a vicar,” Alice said gently. “Why don’t you come up to Seaspray for a cup of tea while we call one out? It’s getting cold and you haven’t got a coat. I could even send one of my grandsons to see if they could help?”

“I haven’t got time for that!” snapped Ivy. “I’ve left a saucepan on and the fire’s going too. There’s an open window upstairs, around the back.” She turned back to Jules and demanded, “Can’t you just climb through it?”

Ivy’s cottage had to be two hundred years old at least and the windows were pretty narrow. And then there was the small matter of the cottage backing right onto the River Wenn.

Jules wasn’t in the habit of carrying a ladder around, either.

“She’s a vicar, not Spiderman,” Issie said, earning herself a look from Ivy that would have laid a more delicate personality out flat on the lane.

“Roger Pollard left a ladder round the side of my house when he was mending next door’s roof. Their loose tiles blew into my garden and they’re lucky I wasn’t hurt. I had my solicitor onto them straight away, let me tell you!” Ivy said. “I must have told Pollard to move it fifty times but, like everyone else around here, he works at a snail’s pace. Anyway, you can use that to get in.”

Ivy wasn’t asking Jules: she was telling her. Now one bony hand was clamped round Jules’s wrist and Ivy was towing her down the narrow path to the back of the cottage. The path was shadowy and smelt of damp; barely beyond it the river rushed by, muddy and swollen by the rains of the previous night’s storm. Sure enough, though, the top window of the cottage was wide open.

Jules gulped. She didn’t like heights at the best of times. Scaling the cottage walls on the Pollards’ dodgy ladder wasn’t at the top of her list of fun things to do. In fact it wasn’t even on her list.

“Well, go on then,” snapped Ivy as Jules dithered, torn between her duty to help and her terror of heights. “My saucepan will catch fire at this rate.”

“They always did burn witches,” murmured Issie. She stepped forward and, grabbing one end of the ladder, began to drag it towards the back of Ivy’s cottage. “Come on then. Better get this over with. Then we can go home and party.”

Together Issie and Jules manhandled the ladder along the path before leaning it against the wall. The gap between the bottom rung and the rushing river was a matter of inches. One false move and Jules would tumble into the cold, brown water.

“Jules, you don’t need to do this,” Alice said, looking worried.

“Yes she does. How else will I get in?” barked Ivy. “Anyway, she’s the vicar. It’s her job to help me.”

Jules swallowed back the huge lump of fear that was starting to block her throat. Now that the ladder was leaning against the whitewashed wall it seemed ever so precarious. The top of that wall looked higher than Everest.