Page 29 of The Cosy Travelling Christmas Shop

Chapter 8

Traditionally mid-November was, for Daniel, time for the annual mulch. In his eyes, the apparently dormant winter months should be almost as busy as the rest of the year. Just because most things looked as though they were dead or dying, it didn’t mean to say they were (although even the autumn-flowering annuals were now past their flower-by date) and he believed every garden could benefit from some TLC at this time of year to prepare it for next spring and summer.

Earlier that morning Daniel had visited the woods not far from his mum’s house. It was one of those bright winter mornings where the air was crisp and clear, and there was still a hint of warmth in the sun’s weak rays. It hadn’t rained for a while and fallen leaves crunched underfoot, although some of their fellows still clung stubbornly to the branches overhead and glowed ochre, gold and burnt umber. It was cold enough to see the breath clouding in front of his face and he inhaled deeply, relishing being outdoors. No matter what the time of year or how poor the weather, if he had a choice, he’d be outside.

After a brisk walk to stretch his legs and to try to banish the horrors of yesterday spent in Santa’s grotto, Daniel gathered all the fallen leaves he could and stuffed them into a couple of large hessian sacks. When he got them home, he used a shredder to chop them up, and then spread them over his flower beds to provide a natural barrier to the elements plus a decent bit of compost as the leaves broke down. He did the same to Mrs Williams’s garden next door.

She loved her garden but was too old and doddery to do much more than deadhead the odd rose or two. Gradually, over the years, he’d started to help her more and more, until he now took care of her garden as well as his mum’s. In turn, Mrs Williams would sing his praises to anyone who’d listen. It was an arrangement that suited them both, as she was occasionally able to throw some work his way. That wasn’t the reason he did her garden for her, of course – he would have done it regardless – but it was a bonus, because although she lived in a modest stone-quarried, slate-roofed, semi-detached house like his mum, she had friends who owned far more substantial properties which often had far larger gardens.

He was just tipping the wheelbarrow up and jiggling it about a bit to persuade the last of the mulch to go where he wanted it to, when Mrs Williams tapped on her kitchen window and beckoned him inside.

Bless her, she always had a cup of tea for him and a biscuit or two to go with it, so he quickly finished what he was doing and stowed the spade and his gloves in the barrow, ready to wheel back home later.

He knocked on the back door and walked in, heading straight for the utility room to wash his grubby hands, and when he was done he found the old lady in the kitchen, pouring tea into mismatched china cups out of an ancient brown teapot. He knew from experience that the liquid would be strong enough to clear a drain, so he took one of the Garibaldi biscuits she’d laid out on a plate and bit into it, hoping the residual sweetness would take the edge off the tea.

‘Mulching, is it?’ she asked, placing a delicate cup on the table in front of him, before sitting down, her own drink clasped in her hands. It always amazed him that she didn’t burn herself, but he’d long ago come to the conclusion that she had asbestos hands. She relished the heat and hated the cold, and Daniel often had to shed layers of clothing when he was in her house after he’d been outside, because he was in danger of overheating.

‘Mulch, I said,’ Mrs Williams repeated when he failed to answer her, poking him in the arm with a bony finger.

‘Sorry? I was miles away. Yes, mulching. I’ll also spread some manure on your roses when I can get some.’

‘How was the thingy?’

‘The what now?’

‘The…’ She tapped her hand crossly on the table. ‘You know, the… I hate it when that happens. I can’t find the word, but I can visualise what I mean… Father Christmas!’ she yelled, making him jump.

Daniel winced. He wished his mother hadn’t told Mrs Williams, but the elderly lady had a way of winkling information out of people, and she knew things she had no right knowing just by the sheer force of her personality. He’d heard her called nosy and interfering, but he preferred to think of her as being genuinely interested in people. Despite the age difference, Mrs Williams had been a good friend to his mum, and she was like an honorary grandmother to Daniel. Many a time Mrs Williams had looked after him for a couple of hours in the school holidays, or had taken him off his mum’s hands for a while so she could have a break when things became too much for her.

‘So, how was it?’ Mrs Williams repeated impatiently.

‘OK, I suppose.’ He hoped he would get used to it. At least it was a job – one he’d have preferred not to have to take – and it beat working in a shop, which was the other option for seasonal work at this time of year. And it certainly beat the risk of going under. He was hanging on by his fingernails as it was; having so little work from November to January would have seen him having to pack in his gardening business if it wasn’t for his Santa gigs. Maybe next year he’d start applying for jobs at the beginning of autumn when there was more choice. He’d considered being a delivery driver, but by the time he’d bitten the bullet and decided to apply for some jobs, there hadn’t been many vacancies around.

‘Daniel!’

‘What?’

‘You haven’t listened to a word I’ve been saying.I said, I know of a job going if you want it.’

‘As Father Christmas?’

‘No, you silly boy. A gardening job. Minty Carruthers owns Fernlea Manor, and ivy is causing her problems. She wants someone to remove it. She needs some renovations done but the ivy has to go first. It’s a listed building, you know. Anyway, I told her you’ll do it. She can’t pay much because she’s desperately trying to raise funds to carry out the renovations. You know the type – sitting on a fortune in property but not a bean to her name. I told her you were desperate for work.’

Cheers, thanks a bunch, he felt like saying. Still, paid work was paid work and it wasn’t as though he had anything else lined up – apart from playing Santa again on the weekend.

‘I said you’d give her a call,’ Mrs Williams told him, passing him a piece of paper with a telephone number on it, written in an ornate, curling hand.

‘I will, thanks.’ Anything was better than having to be Santa again. He stood up and drank the last of his tea. ‘I’d better be off: Grandad is coming for lunch.’

But before he picked Edwin up, he intended to phone Minty Carruthers.

Edwin was dressed in his Sunday best when Daniel arrived to fetch him later.

‘We’re only having lunch at Mum’s,’ Daniel said, hoping his grandad didn’t think they were going to a pub or a restaurant for a meal.

‘I know, but I do have standards. Unlike some people.’ He gave Daniel’s jeans and sweatshirt a meaningful look.

‘It’s comfortable,’ Daniel protested.

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