A Winter Flame
Milly Johnson is the sparkling and irrepressible author of seven bestselling novels. She is also a columnist, greetings card copywriter, poet and BBC broadcaster. Her books
are about the universal issues of friendship, family, betrayal, babies, rather nice food and a little bit of that magic in life that sometimes visits the unsuspecting. Find out more at www.millyjohnson.co.uk or follow Milly on Twitter @millyjohnson
Also by Milly Johnson
The Yorkshire Pudding Club
The Birds & the Bees
A Spring Affair
A Summer Fling
Here Come the Girls
An Autumn Crush
White Wedding
First published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd 2012
Copyright © Millytheink Ltd., 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Milly Johnson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN: 978-0-85720-898-9
EBOOK ISBN: 978-0-85720-899-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
For Pete – who is my John Silkstone, my Dan Regent, my Tom Broom, my Vladimir Darq, my Captain Ocean-Sea, my Adam MacLean, my Steve Feast and my Jacques Glace all rolled
into one.
DOUGLAS, Miss Evelyn Mary
Aged 93, died peacefully in her sleep at home 6th September.
Funeral to take place 13th September, 11 a.m.
St John the Baptist Church, Ivy Street, Barnsley.
Flowers welcome or donations in lieu of flowers to the Maud Haworth Home for Cats.
OCTOBER
Chapter 1
Eve sat patiently in the snug reception area of Firkin, Mead and Mead solicitors whilst the rain outside battered the window as if trying to break in to share the warmth.
Winter had landed early on the heels of a very drab summer, almost squeezing out poor autumn which seemed to have come and gone in less than a fortnight. The day reflected Eve’s mood
perfectly: cold and depressed, as the reason for her being at Firkin, Mead and Mead was not a happy one. Her lovely great-aunt had died and left something for her; the old locket she always wore,
most probably. The locket that Eve wished were still around a living Aunt Evelyn’s neck.
To pass some time, Eve picked up a copy of the
Daily Trumpet
, which had to be the world’s most incompetent newspaper. A snippet on page four grabbed her attention.
‘The
Daily Trumpet
would like to apologize to the Thompson family for the misprint which appeared in last Thursday’s issue. We did of course mean to
congratulate David Thompson on his new position as a consultant paediatrician at Barnsley General Hospital, not consultant paedophile. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused
and wish Dr Thompson a speedy recovery from his injuries.’
Another mistake – and a particularly horrible one this time. The
Trumpet
was famous for its errors. It had even reported Aunt Evelyn’s funeral service as
happening at 13 a.m., then in the apology printed 3 p.m. There wasn’t time for a further correction and consequently just a handful of people made the service. Aunt Evelyn had deserved so
much better. Her funeral had been as much of a disaster as the rest of her life.
The receptionist answered a call then waved over to Eve.
‘You can go in now. Mr Mead the younger’s office is up the stairs and first door on your left,’ she directed.
Eve folded up the newspaper and put it back on the magazine table before going in to meet Mr Mead.
The Meads were solicitor brothers. Mr Mead the younger was so old that Mr Mead the elder must have been injected with formaldehyde to carry on working, and they were always referred to as Mr
Mead the younger and Mr Mead the elder. Still, Aunt Evelyn had never used any other firm of solicitors, and it was Mr Mead the younger who had the duty of overseeing her final wishes.
Eve wondered how her aunt had ever been able to profess on oath that she was of sound mind. She was as batty as a bat hanging upside down in a Batcave dressed as Batman, but eccentric as she
was, she was also a darling old lady and Eve had been incredibly sad that the ninety-three-year-old had passed away in her sleep. Women like Aunt Evelyn could have fooled you into thinking they
would live for ever: robust and bright-eyed, never moaning about any health issues, always dressing immaculately with never a snow-white hair out of place and a heel to her shoe, even if those
heels had got lower and thicker over the years. In the past eighteen months, Aunt Evelyn had discovered a joie de vivre she should have experienced in her youth, but alas it was all too
short-lived, for four weeks ago she went to bed and never woke up again. Her home help found her in bed with a big smile on her face which the massive heart attack she’d had during the night
hadn’t managed to wipe off. The vicar at her funeral said, ‘Evelyn Douglas died when she was healthy and happy.’ Eve couldn’t honestly say she found any consolation in
that.
Aunt Evelyn might have been content, but she was also quite mad. Fifteen years ago, she had combatted her customary sadness at having to take the Christmas decorations down on twelfth night by
deciding not to, and leaving them up all year round. She didn’t care that people said she was loop the loop; her spirits stayed continually buoyant because of that decision. She was happier
than she had been for years at being continually surrounded by snowmen, boxes wrapped up as presents, and tinsel. Of course, she had to replace the real tree in the corner with a plastic one as the
needles had all dropped off by mid-January, but that was a small price to pay. Her home help went insane with all the dusting of the Christmas ornaments that she collected by the bucketload from
charity shops. Anything with a connection to Christmas – however cheap and rubbish – had to be bought. Then eighteen months ago, Aunt Evelyn really upped the ante. She even bought a
stuffed elk from eBay. It sat in the corner of her room with baubles hanging from its antlers. She named it Gabriel.
‘I needed to see you in person alone in my office,’ began Mr Mead the less decrepit, after shaking Eve’s hand and directing her to the chair on the other side of his huge
mahogany desk, ‘because your aunt specifically asked me to deliver this news to you that way.’
‘Okay,’ said Eve, thinking that it all sounded a little over the top for a bit of jewellery. The old lady had nothing else of value to leave, although they were things of value to
her: the ashes of her cats Fancy and Kringle that she kept in a biscuit tin, her three old broken clocks, her sepia photographs and that monstrous stuffed elk. Eve really hoped her aunt
hadn’t bequeathed Gabriel to her. Aunt Evelyn always said that the lovely locket would be Eve’s one day. It was a beautiful large oval and had two portraits in it: those of Aunt Evelyn
and the love of her life – Stanley. She had been engaged to him at sixteen but he had been killed in one of the first battles of the war. Aunt Evelyn had never married, but chose to live with
her memories, which she said were enough to keep her warm. Eve knew that feeling well. But Eve was under no illusion that any money would be coming her way. Aunt Evelyn had always said that she
would leave her meagre savings and the contents of her bungalow to the local cats’ home.
Eve’s grandmother had harrumphed and said that was a ridiculous decision; she said it summed up why Great-Aunt Evelyn should have been in a home years ago.
Eve had defended her aunt. ‘It’s her money, she has the right to do with it what she likes, Grandma.’ Evelyn adored cats. Kringle had been her last baby, and it had nearly
broken her heart when the twenty-year-old deaf white cat died last year. In fact, Eve wasn’t sure she ever quite fully recovered from the shock. She had heard of lots of instances where a
beloved animal died and the owner wasn’t long in following.
‘Your aunt left you this.’ Mr Mead opened a desk drawer and pulled out a package, which he passed across to Eve. It was the lovely locket and all her late aunt’s photographs.
Eve smiled, sighing sadly at the same time.
‘Thank you, Mr Mead.’
‘And this,’ the old man carried on, taking a well-stuffed envelope from the drawer. ‘It’s a copy of the land deed for your aunt’s theme park.’
Eve laughed as her hand reached out for it, even though Mr Mead looked far too sober and professional to make jokes. Then she lifted her green eyes and looked up at his face and saw no humour
there. She shook her head to dislodge whatever it was that must be stuck in her ear.
‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that, Mr Mead?’ she asked.
‘This is a copy of the land deed,’ obeyed Mr Mead, ‘for your aunt’s theme park.’
So, she hadn’t misheard. Mr Mead really did say that.
‘A theme park?’
‘That’s right. And here are the plans which she put in place for it.’ And he handed over a great file of papers which he lifted from the floor. ‘It’s all
immaculately organized and documented.’
‘A theme park?’ Eve said again.
‘That’s correct.’
‘As in rides?’ Eve was smiling but it was shock and confusion driving the corners of her mouth upwards. Was Mr Mead on drugs? Was he having a bit of a senior moment and getting her
aunt mixed up with Richard Branson? Aunt Evelyn didn’t own a theme park. She lived in a one-bedroom rented bungalow with the ashes of her old cats, roomfuls of memories and a stuffed elk.
‘You don’t know anything about it at all?’ asked Mr Mead, scratching his ear. All those hairs in there must tickle, thought Eve.
Eve struggled to find the words to say that no, she didn’t know anything about a theme park. Why would she? There wasn’t one. That would be ridiculous. But all that came out was a
shrug and more puzzled laughter.
‘Well,’ Mr Mead cleared his throat, ‘many years ago, your aunt procured a one-hundred-and-fifty-acre plot of land adjacent to Higher Hoppleton. At the time, the landowner, Lord
Rotherham, who was a client of mine, was on the brink of bankruptcy and needed to procure cash very quickly. The land was an albatross around his neck, as it could never be used for permanent
residential housing, but it could be converted ‘for recreational purposes’. I suggested to Evelyn that it might be a good, if very long-term, investment. She agreed so I brokered the
deal and it was done. I don’t believe your aunt ever intended to do anything with it, except sit on it and wait for a change in the restrictions pertaining to the land, which understandably
didn’t occur. Then last year, your aunt took it upon herself to have plans drawn up for Winterworld. She employed an architect, who oversaw the installation of mains services, and then she
commenced the building works.’
