Page 28 of The Christmas Retreat
‘There’s a little information booklet in your rooms telling you all this and also giving you the times of meals, including any changes over Christmas and Boxing Day,’ Nerys continued. ‘Breakfast is continental style, but let Bronwen know if you’d like a boiled egg, and lunches are help-yourself affairs, set out on the serving table in here between eight and half past in the morning, and twelve and one. There will also be coffee and cake at half past three, for anyone who feels in need of a bit of company. Dinner is usually at seven.’
‘That all sounds admirable,’ Evie said. ‘And if the rest of the catering is as delicious as that chicken dish, there won’t be any complaints.’
The twins, who had toyed with the tiniest of portions of nut roast and shared the smallest baked potato, said nothing. I still thought they’d rather have made a meal of Toby.
‘Other than mealtimes, you are of course entirely free to occupy yourselves in any way you wish, working in your rooms or elsewhere,’ Timon said.
‘I’ll give anyone who wants one a tour of the public roomsof the house in the morning, right after breakfast. Besides the sitting room you have already seen, there is a small TV room off it, and also the library,’ Nerys said.
‘The information in your room also tells you about the Winter Solstice ceremony tomorrow, as well as the one held on Twelfth Night, the last night of the retreat, and guests are very welcome to take part in both,’ said Timon. ‘Uncle Noel will tell you all about them in his after-dinner talk.’
Noel made a little bow.
‘And finally,’ said Timon, ‘if anyone would like a tour of the pottery tomorrow, do come down at about eleven. It’s only a few yards along the lane, and you can cut through the shrubbery if you turn left when you come out of the front door and go through the arch in the wall on that side.’
‘There is much of interest to explore around Seren Bach,’ Noel said. ‘But a word of warning: the village stands on a small promontory with just a narrow neck of land to connect us to St Melangell, and the coastline is edged with cliffs. Do stick to the coastal path if you venture there, because there is only a wire fence to keep you and the sheep from going over.’
‘There is one place you can get down, Uncle Noel,’ said Cariad. ‘But I’m not allowed to go there on my own.’
‘There’s only a tiny crescent of pebbles down there anyway,’ said Rhys. ‘You can’t get far enough from the bottom of the path to get cut off by the sea, but it is a steep climb back up.’
‘I can’t stand heights,’ said Verity. She seemed to be the slowest eater in the world, and Tudor had already popped his head in twice to see if we had all finished. ‘Do you remember the first time I visited Triskelion, Rhys, and absolutely froze on the path down?’
Toby, on my other side, seemed to be evading a suddenspate of questions from the twins about his new book. He was wearing that hunted fawn expression again.
‘I don’t suppose you like talking about the work in progress. Most authors don’t, even to their editors!’ I said sympathetically, and he turned to me gratefully.
‘You’re right. I don’t want to sound precious, but if you share your ideas too soon, the magic seems to go out of them.’
‘I feel the same, even with my children’s books. I want to hug the ideas to myself as long as possible.’
‘Did you say you were working on a different project during the retreat?’ he asked, and I was surprised he’d remembered that.
‘I am, and it’s non-fiction, so I don’t mind talking about it,’ I said, suddenly conscious that Rhys on my other side had turned in my direction and was listening in, as were the twins, but looking resentful rather than interested.
‘I’ve lived in a remote Bedfordshire cottage for the last ten years – living the good life, you might say – but I’ve now suddenly had to pack up and leave it. I want to celebrate my life there in a series of books and I have lots of material to base them on, so I’ll be sifting through all that and planning them out while I’m here.’
‘I love that kind of book; sounds like a great idea!’ enthused Toby.
‘That’s what I told her,’ said Evie, leaning forward and breaking in. ‘And she can get down to searching the internet for a new home while she’s here, too, because she’s been forced to leave her old one by the new owners of the estate it’s on.’
‘It must have been difficult, having to leave your previous home after so long,’ Rhys said with unexpected sympathy, so that I forgot about giving him the cold shoulder and instead turned to him.
‘Yes. It was a lovely place to live and work … and I have so many happy memories, not least of my cat, Mrs Snowboots, who inspired my first children’s books.’
‘I didn’t know she was a real cat!’ exclaimed Cariad. ‘Where is she?’
‘I’m afraid she died of old age only a few weeks ago. She just slipped away in her sleep,’ I said gently.
Cariad digested this. ‘Was she black all over with four white feet, as if she was wearing white wellies?’ she asked.
‘Yes, just the way she looks in the books.’
‘We’ve got a black cat called Pompey, but he hasn’t got white feet,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t like lots of people, but I’ll show him to you tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, I’d like that.’
‘Aren’t there going to be any more Mrs Snowboots books now?’ she asked.
