Twelve Days of Christmas (15 page)

‘Luckily the house is extremely well stocked and I always bring my cookery books, recipe notebook and favourite store cupboard ingredients with me, so there should be no problem. There’s a shelf of cookery books in the kitchen, too.’

When I’d leafed through one or two well-thumbed-looking ones, I’d found additions pencilled next to the recipes, so someone had been a keen cook: either the last housekeeper or perhaps Jude’s mother.

‘We might run out of fresh salad, fruit and perishable things if the village is snowed in, but we can get by without them,’ I added. ‘There’s loads of bread in the freezer, and butter, eggs, cheese, long-life juice, milk and cream. We certainly won’t starve.’

‘And you have everything you need for the traditional Christmas dinner?’ she asked.

‘Yes, there’s no problem there. I cooked the ham this morning and I’ve taken the turkey out of the freezer and put it in the larder to defrost slowly. What time do you usually have it? Are you a lunch or evening family?’

‘About two in the afternoon, then we only need a late supper of sandwiches and cake instead of dinner. We do the same on Boxing Day.’

‘Right . . . though perhaps we might like a change from turkey on Boxing Day? I noticed a whole salmon in one of the freezers and thought we could have that instead, then a second roast turkey dinner the next day, before I use up the remains in dishes like curry for the freezer.’

Tilda gave her gracious approval to all my plans, which was just as well, since I would have carried on regardless. I don’t let any of my clients interfere with my cooking, with the exception of dietary requirements; although since I smile and nod while listening to them issuing orders, I’m sure they think the resulting wonderful food is all their own idea.

‘We have champagne with Christmas dinner,’ Noël said, ‘but I’ll see to the drinks so you needn’t worry about that.’

‘I’ll need some more brandy for the pudding too,’ I told him, ‘because I used up what was in the decanter.’

‘I’ll go down and get some now and scout out what else Jude’s got in the wine cellar,’ he promised.

‘There’s no rush – let your lunch settle first,’ I suggested. ‘You’ve had a busy morning.’

‘And now that the main menus have been sorted, I think I’d like cake or scones for afternoon tea, today,’ Tilda said autocratically, before going back upstairs to rest.

‘Sorry, m’dear, she’s a bit bossy and she keeps forgetting you aren’t staff,’ apologised Noël.

‘Well, I suppose I
am
really, since I’m being paid to be here.’

‘Edwina doesn’t stand any nonsense, she just says to her, “You’ll get what you’re given, my lady, and like it!”’

I grinned. ‘You just can’t get the serfs to behave themselves these days, can you?’

‘I think of you more and more as one of the family,’ he said kindly, ‘though since we’ve made so much more work for you over Christmas, you deserve to be paid for it – and if Jude doesn’t do something about it, then we will make it up to you.’

‘Oh no, really – I’m enjoying the company and I love cooking,’ I insisted, because he is such a sweetie. ‘I’m
perfectly
happy with my house-sitting fee!’

Chapter 15
Advent

The sky, which had earlier been almost as blue as George’s eyes, had turned leaden again. Jess took one of the sledges up to the top of the paddock where it sloped quite steeply, while I finally got round to mucking out the loosebox. I’d only just started when the side gate clanged and I looked out to see Becca leading Nutkin through it.

‘Hell of a journey!’ she greeted me, closing the gate behind her. ‘I had to bribe George to bring my bags earlier – have they come? He’s making a mint out of the bad weather, the rascal.’

‘Yes, he dropped them off after breakfast and we’ve put them in your room. But I’m surprised to see you, since it isn’t very good weather for riding, is it?’

‘I led Nutkin on the worst bits, but I couldn’t leave him alone at home if there was a chance I’d get snowed in here, could I?’ she asked reasonably. ‘Weather’s closing in again, so I thought I’d better take the chance and come up now, especially with Tilda, Noël and Jess being here already.’

‘You mean – you’ve come to stay, too?’

‘That’s it,’ she agreed. ‘One more can’t make any difference to you, can it? In fact, it’ll be easier, because I can give you a hand with the horses.’

‘Great,’ I said faintly, though I suppose having an equine expert on hand
would
be a relief if we were snowed in. She put Nutkin in Lady’s loosebox and rubbed him down briskly with wisps of hay, then we went in to tell Noël she had arrived. Jess came too, since she said her fingers were freezing and so was her bottom.

Noël, who was snoozing on one of the sofas in the sitting room, woke up and blinked as we all trooped in. ‘Becca! This
is
a surprise!’

‘Weather’s getting worse, so I thought I’d send my bags up and come to stay now. I’ve brought Nutkin,’ she explained succinctly.

‘Well, how nice, a jolly family party!’ Noël rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s a pity the boys can’t be here too, but there you are.’

‘Stopped at the Auld Christmas on the way, to bring a little cheer.’ Becca reached into two deep pockets inside her waxed, caped coat and produced a bottle of sherry from each. ‘We’re all partial to a drop of good sherry . . . which reminds me, where’s Tilda?’

‘Resting, but she’ll be down again later. She says she isn’t quite so stiff now the bruises have come out – though she’s black and blue, poor old girl!’

‘I brought some horse liniment – always does the trick for me.’

‘Yes, but it smells disgusting, Becca,’ he objected dubiously.

‘Nicholas Dagger said to tell you they were all set for Twelfth Night and rehearsed for the dancing.’

‘Good, good!’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to take your coat off?’

‘No, I’m going straight back out to see to the horses,’ Becca said. ‘Lady’s loosebox still needs mucking out and I’ll have to make the other up for Nutkin.’

‘But you must be frozen, and I can do that,’ I offered.

‘Not at all – you’ve got enough on your plate already. But I’ll need Jess to wheel the barrow to the manure heap and fill the buckets.’

‘I’m allergic to horses and I’m cold and wet,’ Jess said sulkily. ‘I’d rather just help Grandpa get the decorations up.’

‘You mean you’re allergic to hard work,’ Becca said severely. ‘You don’t have to come near Lady or Nutkin. Now, run up to my bedroom and fetch the holdall – it’s got Nutkin’s rug and headcollar in it.’

Jess gave in, though
not
graciously.

I put on a large casserole to slow-cook for dinner, using some very nice beef from the freezer, home-grown carrots and a good splash of beer from a stash of large bottles I’d discovered on the stone floor of the larder, pushed well back under the bottom shelf. I drank what was left – it was best bitter and I probably needed the iron.

Jess came back in looking limp, so I suggested she go and start putting up the decorations with Noël when she had warmed up a bit.

But Becca, who was still full of energy, borrowed my radio and took it into the tackroom, where she was sitting cleaning Nutkin’s saddle when I followed her with a substantial slice of chocolate cake and a cup of tea to keep her energy levels up.

Later she made the hot mash and went out again to get Lady and Billy in, since it was starting to get dark, so she was proving to be worth her weight in pony nuts already.

Jess and I carried in the Christmas tree and managed to angle it into its red metal holder, though the top of it almost brushed the gallery above. Then she and Noël steadied the stepladder while I draped the garlands as they directed, from each corner of the room to the middle of the ceiling, and hung Chinese lanterns and baubles from the wall light fittings.

Then I left them unpacking the Nativity scene and went back to the kitchen, where even sober Radio 4 was intoxicated with the spirit of Christmas.

Luckily, no-one seemed to have any objection to eating meals off the kitchen table, which made life much easier than traipsing to and from the dining room with plates and platters, though we would use it on Christmas Day and Boxing Day, of course.

There was a chocolate blancmange rabbit for dessert, quivering on a bed of chopped green jelly, which proved surprisingly popular with everyone, not just Jess. It vanished right down to its tail and, what with that and the chocolate cake, I was starting to wish I had brought more than one tin of cocoa powder with me!

Tilda hadn’t got any at the lodge when I asked her, only Ovaltine, which was not at all the same thing, but she thought the village shop stocked it, so another trip was clearly needed.

After dinner was cleared away (and thank goodness there was a dishwasher! If the electricity did go off, I only hoped the generator was up to running it), we retired to the half-decorated sitting room and Noël, as he had promised earlier, fetched the photograph albums that charted the Revels from the library.

They all seemed to feature the same strangely-dressed and masked figures and, as I had suspected, Morris dancing, though they carried swords. I don’t suppose they were
real
ones, though.

One picture of four tall, dark young men standing with a young version of Becca particularly interested me.

‘That’s me,’ Noël said, pointing to a handsome man, little more than a boy, ‘and that’s Jacob, my eldest brother, but he was killed at Dunkirk, poor chap. Ned was injured too, but later – that’s him next to Jacob and then Alexander, Jude’s father, who inherited Old Place.’

‘And then me,’ said Becca.

‘I recognised you instantly, you haven’t changed much,’ I told her, and she looked pleased.

‘Keep pretty fit, considering,’ she said. ‘Of course, I’m the youngest.’

I looked again at the photograph. ‘So . . . what happened to Edward? You said he was injured?’

‘He had a bad leg injury, but they tried penicillin on it and he made a speedy recovery. It seemed he was going to settle down after that, but it wasn’t to be . . . and he never played Red Hoss in the Revels again.’

Noël seemed about to drift away into old, and perhaps unhappy, memories so I said, ‘Red Hoss? I think you mentioned that character before.’

Noël thumbed forward until he found a photograph of a man wearing a rather scary and fierce horse mask. ‘That one – I forget you know little about it,’ he said apologetically, ‘as I said earlier, I feel we have known you for ever – and you look so like one of the Martlands that you would fit into the family album quite easily. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it certainly is,’ I said absently, staring at another photograph of Ned Martland, without the mask, next to it. It was neither large nor clear, but something about his expression reminded me of a framed photograph of my mother that had always had pride of place on top of Gran’s harmonium . . . and still did, though it was now in my cottage. But then, when I leaned forward for a better look, I realised it was just a trick of the light.

‘And I don’t suppose you had ever heard of the Twelfth Night Revels in Little Mumming before, had you?’

‘Or about the red horse hill figure,’ I agreed.

‘We try not to publicise either of them – and actually, these days the Revels are more of a Twelfth Afternoon ceremony. Since the war, you know. But traditionally, a fire was lit on the beacon, as well, and then there was a procession back down from it.’

‘I don’t suppose you could light fires at night during the war, it’d be way too dangerous.’

‘No, it was the blackout, you see. And with most of the young men off at war, some of the older ones who took their places were not really up to climbing the hill. But my father kept the Revels going as well as he could.’

‘Wouldn’t publicising the Revels bring lots of tourists here?’

‘That’s the whole point, m’dear. We have plenty of walkers, cyclists and stray drivers from spring to autumn: the pub, the shop and the Merry Kettle do well, the farm shop at Weasel’s Pot thrives, and George gives trailer rides behind his tractor up to the beacon: that is enough for us. We don’t want the Revels to be taken over by a lot of arty crafty folk who will want the whole thing preserved like a fly in amber, instead of letting it gently evolve as it has done over the centuries.’

‘I see what you mean,’ I agreed.

‘Richard Sampson wrote a short pamphlet about the Revels and the red horse, for private circulation only, and I can look you out the library copy if you are interested?’

‘Yes, I’d love to read it. Won’t the Revels be snowed off this year if the weather carries on like this? Unless a thaw sets in soon, of course.’

‘Oh, we’ve had heavy snow in January before and it has gone ahead. We all live locally, you see, and it’s only half a mile down to the village from here. If the snow hasn’t gone by then, Jess can pull me there on the sledge!’

‘I might, Grandpa, but I’m not pulling you back up the hill again!’ she protested.

‘I wasn’t serious, m’dear. Your Uncle Jude will be back by then and he will manage something.’

I had been drawn back to studying the prewar photograph of the young Martlands. ‘So, Ned recovered from his leg wound? What happened to him after that?’

‘It was ironic, really – he was killed in a motorbike accident only a couple of months after the war ended.’

‘That’s . . . quite tragic,’ I said slowly and, since Noël was looking troubled, I didn’t press him for more details.

But maybe that’s why nothing ever came of Granny’s big romance? And if so, it was terribly sad! Noël had implied that his brother Ned was a bit of a black sheep and he
had
sounded like a flirt at first, only now he really appeared to have fallen for Gran, just as she’d fallen head over heels in love with him.

Poor Gran – now I knew that her happiness would be cut short by Ned’s accident, it made reading about it that night even more poignant!

He must have had a lot of charm to persuade a girl with her strict upbringing to meet him clandestinely! It seems very odd at this remove in time that they should have felt the need to keep their romance secret, but class differences and the social divide were more important then, I suppose.

Then my eye fell on the next, short entry and I had a total ‘Oh, my God!’ moment: I think I
seriously
underestimated Ned Martland’s charm!