Twelve Days of Christmas (3 page)

Chapter 3
Weasel Pot

Little Mumming lay in a small valley below one of the beacon hills that run down East Lancashire, where a long chain of fires was once lit as a sort of ancient early warning system.

On the map it hadn’t looked far from the motorway, but the poor excuse for a B road endlessly wound up and down, offering me the occasional distant, tantalising glimpse of Snowehill, topped with a squat tower, but never seeming to get any closer.

Finally I arrived at a T-junction that pointed me to Little Mumming and Great Mumming up a precipitous, single-track lane – though rather confusingly, it also pointed to Great Mumming straight ahead, too. All roads must lead to Great Mumming.

I took the sharp left uphill turn, sincerely hoping that I wouldn’t meet anything coming in the opposite direction, because although there were occasional passing places, there were also high dry-stone walls on either side, so I wouldn’t be able to see them coming round the series of hairpin bends.

I passed a boulder painted with the words ‘Weasel Pot Farm’ next to a rutted track and shifted down a gear. Was there
ever
going to be any sign of a village?

Then I crossed an old stone humpbacked bridge, turned a last bend past a pair of wrought-iron gates and came to a stop – for ahead of me the road levelled and opened out, revealing Little Mumming in all its wintry glory.

It was a huddled hamlet of grey stone cottages, a pub, and a small church set around an open green on which sheep were wrenching at the grass as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps they did. Winters were presumably a lot bleaker up here.

High above on the hillside a Celtic-looking figure of a horse had been carved out from the dull red earth or sandstone, using just a few flowing lines. It could be an ancient hill marking, or maybe some more recent addition to the landscape.

After a minute I carried on and pulled in by the green, turning off the engine. I needed a moment to unclench my hands from the steering wheel after that ascent.

The village looked as if it had grown organically from the earth, the walls and roofs all lichen-spotted and mossy. There was a raw wind blowing and it was midmorning, so I suppose it wasn’t surprising that it was deserted, though I did have the sensation that I was being watched from behind the Nottingham lace curtains . . .

But the only movement was the sign swinging in the wind outside the pub, the Auld Christmas, which depicted a bearded old man in a blue robe, holding a small fir tree and wearing a wreath of greenery round his head. Very odd. The pub advertised morning coffee and ploughman’s lunches, which would have been tempting had the journey not taken so much longer than I expected.

The shop Ellen had mentioned was nearby, fronted by sacks of potatoes and boxes of vegetables, with the Merry Kettle Tearoom next to it, though that looked as if it had closed for the winter. It was probably just seasonal, for walkers.

I consulted my map, started the engine, then continued on past a terraced trio of tiny Gothic cottages and over a second, smaller bridge to yet
another
signpost pointing to Great Mumming up an improbably steep and narrow strip of tarmac.

No wonder all the vehicles parked outside the pub were four-wheel-drive!

After half a mile I turned off through a pair of large stone pillars and came to rest on a stretch of gravel next to a lodge house that had been extended at the back into a sizeable bungalow.

It was very quiet apart from the rushing of water somewhere nearby and the rooks cawing in a stand of tall pine trees that must hide the house itself, for I couldn’t see even a chimney stack.

As I got out a little stiffly (I hadn’t realised quite how tense that drive up had made me), the lodge door opened a few inches and a tall, stooping, elderly man beckoned me in.

‘There you are! Come in quickly, before all the warm air gets out,’ he commanded urgently, as if I was a wayward family pet.

I sidled carefully past a large and spiky holly wreath into a long hallway. Once the door was safely shut behind me he turned and came towards me with an odd, slightly crablike gait, holding out his hand.

‘Noël Martland. And you must be Holly Brown – lovely name, by the way, very suitable.’

‘Oh? For what?’

‘Christmas,’ he replied, looking vaguely surprised that I needed to be told. He wore a drooping, ex-Air Force style moustache, partially covering the extensive, puckered shiny scars of an old burn.

He caught my eye: ‘Plane shot down in the war. Got a bit singed, landed badly.’

‘Right,’ I said, admiring the economy of description of a scene that would have occupied half a film and had you biting your knuckles on the edge of your cinema seat.

‘Best to say straight off: people always wonder, but they don’t like to ask.’

He took my coat and hung it carefully on a mahogany stand, then ushered me into a small, square, chintzy sitting room that would have been very pleasant had it not been rendered into a hideous Christmas grotto. Festoons of paper chains and Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, swags of fake greenery lined the mantelpiece and the tops of all the pictures, and there were snowglobes and porcelain-faced Santas on every flat surface.

In the bow window, fairy lights twinkled among so many baubles on the small fake fir tree that the balding branches drooped wearily under the strain.

Observing my stunned expression with some satisfaction he said, ‘Jolly good, isn’t it? We like to do things properly in Little Mumming.’ Then he suddenly bellowed, ‘Tilda! She’s here!’

‘Coming!’ answered a high, brittle voice and with a loud rattling noise a tiny woman pushed a large hostess trolley through a swinging door from what was presumably the kitchen.

‘My wife, Tilda,’ Noël Martland said. ‘This is Holly Brown, m’dear.’

‘So I should suppose, unless you’ve taken to entertaining strange young women,’ she said tartly, eyeing me from faded but still sharp blue eyes. Though age had withered her, it had not prevented her from applying a bold coating of turquoise eye shadow to her lids and a generous slick of foundation, powder and glossy scarlet lipstick. Under the white frilly apron she was wearing a peach satin blouse with huge dolman sleeves that finished in tight cuffs at the wrists, and a matching Crimplene pinafore dress. Her matchstick-thin legs in filmy loose stockings ended in pointed shoes with
very
high stiletto heels. I felt glad she had the trolley to hang onto.

‘The agency said you were coming on your own, though really a couple would have been better. But I suppose we’re lucky to get
anyone
at such short notice, over Christmas,’ she said, eyeing me critically.

‘I am sure you will cope splendidly!’ declared her husband.

‘That remains to be seen, Noël,’ she snapped back. ‘Miss or Mrs?’ she suddenly demanded, with a glance at my naked left hand.

‘Mrs,’ I said, ‘I’m a widow. I do a lot of cooking, so I’ve never been much of a one for rings.’

‘A widow? Tough luck,’ she said, taking the covers off a couple of dishes to reveal plates of pinwheel sandwiches and butterfly sponge cakes.

‘You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,’ I protested. ‘I really wasn’t expecting to be fed, just to pick up the keys!’

‘I didn’t – we always have an early lunch anyway, so I made extra. My housekeeper has gone home for Christmas as usual, but I do most of the cooking in any case – it’s nothing to me. I was a TV chef, you know, in the early days. If I’d known the exact time of your arrival, I could have whipped up a soufflé.’

‘This looks lovely,’ I said, taking a sandwich. ‘Were you a TV cook like Fanny Craddock, then?’

Her face darkened alarmingly and it didn’t need Noël’s appalled expression and shake of the head to inform me that I had made a faux pas.

‘Don’t mention That Woman to me,’ she snapped. ‘She was nothing but a brass-faced amateur!’

‘Sorry,’ I said quickly.

‘I was Tilda Thompson in those days – and much more photogenic than
she
ever was, all slap and false eyelashes.’

This seemed to me to be a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but I made a vague noise of agreement.

‘Coffee?’ Noël chipped in brightly, pouring me a cup with a slightly trembling hand.

‘Thank you.’ Having tasted the sandwich I was eager to accept anything that might wash the flavour away . . . whatever it was.

‘Did you call Jessica?’ Tilda Martland asked her husband.

‘On my way to the door, m’dear. But perhaps I had better call again.’

Upstairs a door slammed and footsteps thundered down the stairs like a herd of inebriated rhinos.

‘No need,’ she said dryly.

Jess was a tall, skinny, dark-haired girl of about twelve or thirteen (not quite as tall as I had been at that age, but even skinnier), dressed entirely in black, from glasses frame to shoes. Anyone less like a Jessica I never saw. She certainly stood out against the chintzy, ornament-laden and over-bedecked sitting room.

‘This is our granddaughter, Jessica,’ Noël Martland said.

‘Jess, Grandpa,’ she corrected, in a long-suffering way.

He smiled at her affectionately. ‘
Jess
, this is Mrs Brown who is going to look after Old Place until your Uncle Jude gets back.’

‘Please do all call me Holly,’ I suggested.

‘Then you must call us Tilda and Noël.’

Jess eyed me curiously, in that slightly-shifty adolescent way that generally denotes nothing much except acute self-consciousness. ‘I’m only here on my own because my parents are in Antarctica. But now my great-uncle’s dead and Jude’s gone off somewhere, we can’t stay at Old Place over Christmas and New Year like we usually do. It’s a drag.’

‘Jess’s parents are studying pelicans,’ Tilda said, unveiling another plate of tiny sandwiches, this time cut into teddy bear shapes.

‘Penguins,’ corrected Jess. ‘Emperor penguins. And how old do you think I am, Granny?’

‘Going by your manners, six.’

‘Ha, ha,’ said Jess, but she took a teddy bear sandwich and, after lifting up the top to examine the innocuous-looking ham filling, ate it.

‘It’s such a pity that Mo and Jim had to go off suddenly like that, isn’t it?’ Noël said. ‘But it couldn’t be helped. I only hope you don’t find it too lonely up there – there is a cleaner twice a week, but the couple who used to look after my brother, the Jacksons, retired and my nephew looks after himself when he’s home.’

‘That cleaning girl is a slut: I don’t think she ever does more than whisk a duster about for half an hour and then drink tea and read magazines,’ Tilda said. ‘But I expect you will soon have everything shipshape again, Holly.’

‘I’ll certainly make sure the areas of the house I
use
are kept neat and tidy, ’ I said pointedly, because it was a common misconception that home-sitters would also spring-clean and do all kinds of other little jobs around the house and garden and I often found it as well to make the real position clear from the outset. ‘I’m here simply to make sure the house is safe and to look after the animals. I believe there are a dog and a horse?’

‘Lady – she was my great-aunt’s horse, so she’s ancient,’ Jess said. ‘Me and Grandpa went up in the golf buggy yesterday afternoon and again this morning and I filled her water bucket and haynet, but I couldn’t get too close because I’m allergic to horses. I sneeze.’

‘That’s a pity,’ I said sincerely, because I could have done with a knowledgeable, horse-mad child.

‘Yes, but I’m all right with dogs as long as I don’t brush them, so I took Merlin out for a run.’

‘That’s something,’ I agreed, assuming Merlin to be the dog I’d been told about.

‘We left Lady in for the day, with the top of the stable door open, in case you were late arriving – it goes dark so early at this time of year,’ Noël said, ‘and you wouldn’t want to be bringing her in from the paddock in the dark, before you’ve got your bearings.’

‘No indeed,’ I said gratefully.

‘Jude sets great store by her, because she was his mother’s horse,’ Noël said, eating one of the strange pinwheel sandwiches with apparent relish. I had tried to swallow the rest of mine without chewing.

‘He was happy enough to leave her in the Chirks’ care again, but I’m not sure what he will think about someone he has never met taking over,’ Tilda said.

‘Ellen, who runs Homebodies, has been trying to contact Mr Martland to inform him of what has been happening. Will you please explain, if he calls you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Noël, ‘and he is bound to, in the next day or two. He may then call you up, too.’

‘I admit, I’ll feel happier when he knows there has been a change of house-sitter.’

‘Well, it’s his own fault for staying away so long,’ Tilda said. ‘We didn’t think he meant it when he suddenly said he didn’t intend coming back from his trip to America until after Christmas, did we, Noël?’

‘No, m’dear, because normally, as Jess said, we move into Old Place for Christmas and New Year. My sister Becca also stays from Christmas Eve until Boxing Day, too – you probably passed her house on the way here, New Place? Big wrought-iron gates, just the other end of the village.’

‘Of course she passed the damned house,’ snapped Tilda, ‘did you think she was parachuted in?’

‘Turn of speech,’ he said apologetically, but twinkled at me.

I suddenly wondered if Alan and I would have ended up like this, with me bossing him about and him good-naturedly suffering it? There was no denying that I
was
bossy and organising. But then,
he
had had a stubborn streak, too . . .

‘Still, it would have been a bit difficult this year, what with my poor brother passing away last January and then Jude falling out with Guy,’ Noël sighed.