Page 9 of The Christmas Invitation
‘I don’t think I’ve got a type,’ I told her. ‘Or my type is extinct. I’ve decided I’m going to move to a little cottage in the country and devote myself to my Art.’
‘Yeah, right,’ she said, unconvinced, but since both my only serious (though on and off) relationship and my single attempt at motherhood had come to nothing, I thought I was finally embracing my destiny.
That reminded me of Rollo and I told her I’d come back to a load of messages from him and then he’d rung me.
‘I can’t imagine why you let him keep pestering you,’ she said. ‘I mean, you’ve no feelings for him any more, have you?’
‘No, especially since he seems to be turning into some kind of self-obsessed monster. But getting rid of him is easier saidthan done, short of changing my phone number and email addie and moving house without telling him.’
‘That would be a bit drastic,’ she said. ‘You’ll just have to be brutally frank with him.’
‘Yes, I’ve come to the same conclusion,’ I admitted. ‘I’ll do it when I get back home after this commission.’
I blew the dust off my big folding studio easel and painting gear and packed them up ready to go. I’d exchanged cards with Clara, so I could ask her what size of portraits she envisaged, which was, as I might have guessed, large. Luckily I keep a stock of stretched and primed canvases in various sizes. I put in a few smaller ones too, because I had a one-woman show in a tiny gallery coming up in February and I was stockpiling work for that. I might have a little spare time and spot an interesting subject.
There was a wardrobe unit in the van, which took my easel, canvases and paints, so I generally just stowed a few clothes in two small drawers under the bunk. This time, though, I packed a suitcase and large holdall.
I didn’t usually need an extensive wardrobe because I tended to live and work in jeans, T-shirts and hand-knitted jumpers. At the Farm, changing for dinner meant removing any garment that smelled of goat and replacing it with one that didn’t. This time I wasn’t sure what I would need, or even how long I would be staying. Still, since I didn’t actually have that many clothes, and few that were really smart, I just packed everything.
Early on the Wednesday morning I finally headed North, Joe and Freddie having returned my camper van to me the evening before. Or rather, Joe returned it and Freddie followed him in their old 2CV to drive him home again.
Though they’d cleaned the van, it still smelled pleasantly of coriander and the other exotic herbs they grew in their ecologically heated greenhouses, along with several kinds of chilli peppers, which they sold to local pubs, restaurants, shops and cafés.
Freddie, at my request, had also brought me a large hamper of the jams and chutneys he made, for it had occurred to me that if Iwasto end up staying for Christmas, then some form of gift offering would be a good idea. And if I’d had enough by the Winter Solstice and decamped with River, it might sweeten my departure somewhat.
I wasn’t sure how Freddie’s new line, Fiery Fiesta Chilli Chutney, would go down, but no one could dislike the lemon, orange and lime curds he bottled so prettily, the jars wearing gingham mobcaps in the same colour as the contents and tied with matching grosgrain ribbon.
The good thing about travelling in my own cosy snail-shell home was that I could stop wherever I liked and make a hot drink and something to eat, without having to run the shopping gauntlet of the service stations in search of something vegetarianandedible, which in most of them would be akin to finding the Holy Grail on offer in the local supermarket.
I didn’t do sat nav, but I’d checked the route via Google, which had also offered me views of a reservoir in the valley below Starstone Edge, where I would be staying. The photos had obviously been taken in high summer, with white-sailed little boats on a still surface that reflected a blue sky and a few snow-white puffball clouds. The amenities of the hamlet (the larger village in the valley having been flooded by the creation of the reservoir) included a seasonal sailing club, a handful of holiday cottages and a B&B. The delights of the area around Starstone Edge were described as good walkingand birdwatching country, with sailing and fishing in the reservoir. I’d stayed in remote moorland areas before and strongly suspected that the whole place would shut down from early autumn to late spring.
The recommended route was via the village of Thorstane in the next valley, and then over the moors, the only alternative being a narrow zigzag pass, which I can’t say I liked the look of, especially in the middle of winter.
I got lost twice after leaving the motorway, but eventually found myself winding my way upwards along ever narrower country roads until eventually I saw the sign for Thorstane. It was a large village with an ugly Victorian church, a couple of shops and, right on the furthest edge where the road began to climb steeply again, a large pub.
I stopped to take a look at it: it was evidently an old building, though now extended, and with a motel wing in what had probably once been stables and barns. It sported a sign: the Pike with Two Heads.
That struck me as being an odd choice of name for a pub on a remote bit of moorland, with not a river to be seen …
But there was no time to linger, because the afternoon dusk was already seeping in, as was the cold, the camper van heater not being terribly efficient. I started the engine again and set off, labouring upwards and then, with relief, over the crest and down into the next valley.
Far below a sheet of water gleamed dully, like polished pewter, and a line of toy buildings straggled along the road that edged this side of it. There were a lot of conifers crowding up to the water’s edge and spreading up the hills on the far side.
In the other direction, the road snaked down the valley in a series of zigzags towards the dam. Slowly trundling up this route, and looking the size of a toy car, was a white pick-uptruck. It vanished as I ran the camper carefully down the single-track lane, reversing at one point into a passing place when I met a tractor.
Finally, I reached the junction with the valley road and turned right … and there in front of me was the imposing and impossibly overblown shape of a Victorian Gothic mansion: turreted, pepper pot-towered, gingerbread decorated, gabled and many-chimneyed. It was built of some grey stone, divided by lines of red brick, some of it in herringbone pattern.
I’d come to a stop in order to gaze at the monstrosity in amazement. It was as if the architect had tried to include every element of Victorian Gothic in one house. This must be my destination. There couldn’t be two of them.
The last of the light died and the façade turned dark, except for the many casemented or cusped and arched windows.
It was growing colder by the minute, so I set off again and turned up the drive, parking on a sweep of gravel behind what looked like the white pick-up I’d seen heading up the pass.
I got out reluctantly, thinking that, what with the rapidly vanishing light and the chill wind whistling round my legs, it didn’t seem the most inviting venue I could think of for a cosy Christmas party.
A tall, wide-shouldered man, his dark curling hair whipped into a frenzy by the breeze, was lifting down a small boy from the passenger side of the pick-up. The child ran off up the steps to the house, a blue rucksack trailing from one hand. The door swung open and he vanished inside.
I was still shrugging into my old down-filled anorak when the man turned and took a step towards me … then stopped dead, staring.
