Page 21 of The Christmas Retreat
I’d just made myself a coffee and discovered the biscuit barrel next to the kettle was filled with buttery shortbread fingers, when there was a knock at the door and there, when I opened it, stood a stocky, squarely built, cheerful-looking middle-aged man, next to a little wheeled trolley holding all my various boxes, bags and bundles.
He was wearing a navy fisherman’s jumper and, in fact, with his weather-beaten face, grey hair and bushy beard, looked exactly like the stereotyped fishing-boat captain from every TV advert I’d ever seen.
‘Hi, I’m Tudor,’ he said, and I had to fight down the urge to reply: ‘And I’m Plantagenet – pleased to meet you!’
I expect he’d heard it before.
‘That little car of yours is like a Tardis. I couldn’t believe it held so much,’ he said, handing me my car keys, before stacking all my belongings in a heap in the middle of the carpet, where it looked like some disreputable flotsam that had washed in on a high tide.
‘Thank you, it was kind of you to bring it all up for me.’
‘No problem. I used the lift.’
A very large cake tin was right on top of the stack of boxes and I picked it up and handed it to him.
‘I’d already made my Christmas cake before I knew I was coming here, so I brought it with me. Could you give it to Mrs Matthews for me? I’m sure she’s already got one by now, but it does keep for ages and I didn’t know what else to do with it.’
‘My wife, Bronwen, who does most of the cooking, always makes two and struggles to keep one uncut for Christmas Day, so she will be glad of it. In this house, cake vanishes faster than snow in summer … though, of course, no one would dare touch the wassail cake till tomorrow evening.’
What, I wondered, was a wassail cake?
But before I could ask, he added: ‘Speaking of snow, don’t think your car has been stolen tomorrow morning, because I’ve moved it into the courtyard and run it under a little lean-to roof – it just fitted nicely – and it will be more sheltered there if the weather turns bad.’
‘That was a kind thought,’ I said gratefully, but with a cheery wave of his hand he was already making off down the corridor. Even his walk was the rolling gait of a sailor.
It suddenly made me think what fun it would be to have the next Mrs Snowboots book, which would be a summer one, involve her becoming a ship’s cat for some exciting voyage …although with a pang I remembered she wasn’t there any more to be told about her latest adventures.
*
An hour and a half later, my art materials and table easel were arranged on the desk.
The carpet finished before the window embrasure, leaving a stretch of practical vinyl, which, together with the state of the top of the desk, made me think I wouldn’t be the first artist to choose to work in their room.
The contents of my suitcase and holdall were now all stowed away too, taking up a minute amount of space in one wardrobe and a couple of the drawers, and I’d showered and changed into one of my two decent dresses, a patchwork-print tunic in shades of amber, jade and turquoise. It was so long since I’d worn tights that they felt weird and constricting and my silver ballet flats had seen better days, but at least they were as comfortable as slippers.
I added a pair of carved jade earrings that Evie had once brought me back from Singapore and then examined myself in the mirror: no make-up other than a bit of tinted lip salve. I hadn’t worn any since the start of the first lockdown and I found it had all congealed or smelled weird when I got round to checking it. There hadn’t been time to replace it.
I needed a shopping trip, another thing I really didn’t feel ready to face …
My thick, straight hair, which Liv had occasionally trimmed for me into a shoulder-length bob, was now almost as long as my hostess’s, even though I’d lopped twelve inches off the ends with the kitchen scissors before leaving home.
My pale pointed face, with its high cheekbones and the smudge of eyebrows that were, thankfully, darker than my hair, stared back at me. Entirely unremarkable, I thought, unlike Evie, who was most likely holding forth downstairs at this very moment, because it was almost twenty past six, the witching hour I’d been summoned for.
The corridor outside was quiet. Earlier I had been conscious of the sounds of other occupants around me: the rattle of old water pipes and the distant sounds of voices.
I started down the wide staircase and, as I turned the corner of the first flight, saw the front door swing open and a child – a mere impression of a knitted hat and quilted anorak – run past towards the back of the house. I carried on down, then came to a stop a couple of steps from the bottom, almost face to face with the tall, broad-shouldered man, his tangled black hair flecked with snowflakes, who had swiftly followed the child in and was now shrugging off his coat as he headed for the stairs. He, too, came to a stop as he finally spotted me standing in the shadow thrown by the huge Christmas tree.
For a long moment we stared into each other’s eyes. His were a strangely hawklike dark amber.
I’d seen eyes like those once before, and I realized with a sudden shock who he was, and why the deep, mellow voice of the man who had come to my assistance earlier had sounded vaguely familiar.
I thought confusedly that the first time we’d met, a good ten years ago, he’d looked a bit more civilized and a lot less Neanderthal than he did now, with his heavy dark brows drawn together in a formidable frown over those deep-set eyes in a face that was more craggy and arresting than handsome … but attractive, for all that.
In fact, he was very Heathcliffian and I could imagine him striding across bleak moorland, but unlike Heathcliff, there was something about the line of his lips that suggested generosity and kindness.
Or perhaps I was reading more into it than was there. For here, in front of me, was Rhys Tarn, who, in her last words his dying wife, Annie, had called her cariad.
The distant slam of a door jarred us out of the moment and I could see now that the frown was one of exhaustion.
