Page 20 of Secrets of Starshine
He asks me if we have any plans for the day, and I murmur something about shopping, and Sam pipes up that he needs to go somewhere with proper wi-fi. We’re given some directions to town, and start to make some plans. One of them, I think, might need to be finding somewhere else to stay for the next few days – because charming as George is, I don’t want to impose.
When I raise the issue with him, though, he is having none of it – declaring that his home is our home, for as many nights as we like. He tells me we can stay for another night, or a week, or even longer. It’s a weird feeling, this – not knowing what will happen next. How long we will stay, or where – I am so used to my life being well-ordered, regimented, lived to a schedule – and I am thrown by this new and casual approach to the short-term future. I suppose I just need to adapt, and settle into it.
I try to offer him money, because I would have had to have paid for a hotel, but again I am beaten down with his generosity. He even tells us that we are both invited to the annual village Christmas lunch at Connie’s café.
“It won’t be for everyone,” he explains, “because plenty of people who live here prefer to have a traditional Christmas at home. But it’s a good way of getting families together, and rounding up any waifs and strays who might be on their own. I include myself in that category, by the way. Connie’s a grand cook – she used to work in a fancy Michelin-starred place in London, you know? Gave it all up for the quiet life…well, not so quiet when Connie’s around, obviously. She still puts on fancy dinners every now and then and people travel from all over – she’s booked up at least a year in advance!”
Sam asks her full name, George tells him it’s Connie Llewellyn, and I know for an absolute fact that later today he will be googling the shit out of her.
“And there’ll be pudding,” George adds. “Made by the Betties, who are very famous for their puddings. You might remember them from last night, lovely couple.”
I don’t actually remember them, but am amused when I see Sam perk up at their description. He’ll be out looking for the rainbow flags in their window later, and asking where the nearest gay-friendly bars are – but I suspect he won’t be finding the same kind of vibrant scene in deepest, darkest Dorset as we have back at home.
“It sounds wonderful,” I say, finishing my breakfast and saying yes to his offer of coffee, “and we’d be honoured to be there. I hadn’t really thought this whole thing through, just kind of assumed I’d end up trying to find a restaurant for Christmas Day…”
I glance at Sam, waiting for some kind of dig about my lack of organisational skills, but he is just staring at his phone, maybe willing it to work. Poor lad. It’s like he’s an addict who’s been forced to quit cold turkey.
I’m about to suggest that we make a move when Lottie, who has been lurking under the table waiting for accidental bacon spillages, lets out a solitary woof, starts wagging her tail, and hauls herself up onto slightly wobbly legs.
“Ah. My killer guard dog has alerted us to intruders,” George announces, holding up a spatula as though it’s a weapon. “If we’re going to survive the invasion, we’ll need a packet of biscuits and the TV remote.”
I hear the front door bang open, and the delicate sound of two young girls screeching at the top of their voices, “Grandad! Where are you! We’re here!”
“And now my life is complete! We’re in the kitchen!” he yells back.
Lottie ambles out from beneath the table just in time to be wrapped in a hug from both girls, who spend a while telling her she’s a very pretty and very good girl before they look up and see us.
“Meg,” Lilly says, pointing at me, “that’s my new friend, Cally. She says we’re copper-nuts, not ginger-nuts…”
“Definitely some kind of nuts…” says Archie, following them through into the kitchen. He’s wearing thick jeans and a padded plaid jacket, and looks like a lumberjack from a film. I half expect him to be hefting an axe – but instead, he’s holding two backpacks, in various shades of pink and purple, one decorated with dinosaurs and one with fairies.
I stare at it for a moment, and then put a few things together – the books upstairs, the backpack, the little woodland creatures I’ve seen dotted around the village.
“Is it you who makes the little fairies and pixies that are hiding in all the plants?” I ask.
“Oh no, they arrive as if by magic…” he replies, winking.
“Daaaaad!” drawls Lilly, rolling her eyes at him and looking for all the world like a very small teenager. “We know it’s you who makes them, we’re not babies!”
Meg nods solemnly, though she doesn’t look anywhere near as pleased with herself – I suspect the fate of the younger sibling is to always have the truth thrust upon you, even when you don’t want to hear it. She’d have probably believed in the “as if by magic” story for another year or so without instruction from her big sis.
Archie grins, and his eyes – a deep shade of green, I see in the daylight – crinkle up in amusement. I’m guessing this is a conversation they’ve had in a few different formats, and he’s not ready to give up just yet.
“I’ve told you before, Lilly, it’s not me!”
It is, though, quite obviously. I am amazed that a man of his size and apparent brawn can turn his hand to creating something so delicate as those little figures, and wonder if he will ever stop. I can imagine him still making little fairies for his girls when they’re off at university, and still refusing to admit that he made them.
“How are you two doing this morning?” he asks, helping himself to tea from the pot in a way that suggests this is his second home. “All ready for the big contest later?”
“What big contest?” asks Sam. “And is there a prize?”
“It’s Snowman Day!” announces Meg, looking up at him. “We came to make sure you knew. We all get to build snowmen on the green, and then we see who does the best. And the prettiest. And the silliest. All kinds of things. Why are you wearing one of Grandad’s hats?”
“To be the prettiest and the silliest,” says Sam, tilting it sideways on an angle that simply must be described as jaunty. “What do you think?”
Meg giggles, and answers: “Definitely the silliest! I have one of those hats too, Grandad gave it to me, and I covered it in glitter glue and stuck on some butterflies.”
Sam seems to consider this, and says: “I like the sound of that. You’ll have to show me some time.”
