Chapter 3
Two weeks to Christmas
Violet’s engine coughed and spluttered. “Nearly there,” I said, trying to sound cheery as I checked the satnav. Continuing to slip and slide on the icy road, I didn’t know who I was trying to reassure the most – Frank, my trusty, yet nervous-looking, travel companion; or myself.
A thick blanket of cloud threatened more snow, and I gave Violet’s steering wheel a comforting pat, encouraging her to keep going until we reached our destination. I knew when I bought the old Transit, I was taking a chance. But with money tight it made sense to spend as little as I could on my new venture, something I was beginning to regret. “How did I let you talk me into this?” I said, thinking of Jules.
Knowing exactly how, I giggled as I recalled my friend’s face when I told her about my new business.
“You’re going to be a skip rat?” she’d said, her expression a mix of confusion and horror.
“Roadside reclamation specialist, if you don’t mind.” I delved into my handbag, pulled out one of my hot-off-the-press business cards and handed it over. “See.”
Not that my professional approach seemed to make any difference; Jules continued to appear less than impressed. “I don’t think I’ve heard anything more ridiculous,” she said.
“Have you any idea how many people are renovating property these days?” I asked. “I could make a fortune in London alone. Everyone’s on the lookout for that one statement piece.” My excitement built just thinking about it. “Well, I can get it for them.” I snatched my business card back. “For a price.”
“You are aware that what you’re planning is illegal, right?” Jules said.
“Not if I ask permission before taking, it isn’t.” I wore a smug smile as I pointed to Jules’s primary source of entertainment of late – the television. “And as you know, upcycling isn’t just all the rage right now, it’s profitable.”
Jules chuckled. “Doesn’t change anything though. You’ll still be a skip rat.” She laughed some more. “I can’t wait to tell Harry.”
I wouldn’t have cared but it was her who had put the idea into my head.
“You can’t go yet. You have to see this,” Jules had said, the day she suggested I make the trip to Little Leatherington on her behalf. “It’s a show about a woman who spends her days at the tip intercepting people’s rubbish before they can throw it away.”
“And why would she do that?” I asked.
“She repurposes stuff to sell on. Turns old ladders into pot racks and pianos into sideboards. That kind of thing.”
“People throw away pianos?” I plonked myself back down on the sofa, my interest piqued.
“We’re not talking about a Steinway Alma-Tadema. But with a bit of creativity, some things become more valuable,” Jules said. “That’s how she earns her money.”
By the end of the show, I’d seen the light.
Not long after that, it seemed so had Jules and firing up my imagination, on and on she went, talking about all the fantastic stock I’d be able to source up in the Yorkshire Dales. Proper authentic pieces, that were new to the London market. I needed somewhere to stay while carrying out such business dealings, of course, and it just so happened her Aunt Lillian’s cottage would make the ideal base.
I shook my head at the recollection. Never mind Jules’s job as a medical secretary, she would have made a fantastic saleswoman. Thanks to her patter, before I knew it, I’d bought a van, packed my bags, and hit the road. Talk about persuasive.
Frank shifted in the passenger seat and bringing my thoughts back to the present, I looked up to the heavens, cursing the second I’d agreed to Christmas in Little Leatherington. I’d known it would be cold, but while Jules had encouraged my new venture, backed up with stories of log fires, mulled wine, and roasting chestnuts, not once had she warned me about such freezing temperatures or the prospect of Violet breaking down smack bang in the middle of some wilderness.
While the drive had started off well enough, conditions had become increasingly difficult the further north we got. The sky went from having flashes of blue to a ceiling of grey. Rain showers came in, only to be replaced by hail and sleet, and, as the roads ascended to higher ground, eventually snow. Glancing around, I didn’t think I’d seen a place so dismal.
Rugged drystone walls created a patchwork of white fields, while sheep, looking miserable and sodden, munched on frozen pasture. I’d never understood why people found living in the countryside romantic. From what I could see, the environment looked harsh and unforgiving. Not that I imagined it being any better in summer. In my view, once you’d seen one hill, you’d seen them all.
Much preferring the city landscape I’d left behind over the desolateness I found myself in, I pictured London’s row upon row of houses, its packed cafés, thriving businesses, and chock-full restaurants. I saw brightly coloured Christmas lights heralding the way down Oxford and Regent streets, and crowds of people congregating to admire Harrods’ Yuletide window display with shoppers weaving from one store to the next as they frantically hunted and gathered for the upcoming festivities. And while all the Christmas fanfare might not have been my thing, I couldn’t deny it beat driving around in the middle of nowhere.
A big stone farmhouse ahead caught my attention, the first property I’d seen in miles. My eyes lit up and my spirits lifted. It appeared Christmas had come early and feeling guilty for all the moaning, I told myself I should have known my friend’s instincts would be right. As I took in the big yellow skip in the house’s front garden, London’s busy streets paled in significance. I felt excited yet nervous at the prospect of making my first acquisition. “What do you think, Frank?” I said. “Shall we do this?”
I’d never knocked on a stranger’s door to ask if I could liberate their rubbish before and wondering how my request would be received, I brought Violet to a standstill. Leaving her engine running for fear of it not starting again, I took off my seat belt, steeling myself ready to find out.
Frank bolted upright. Putting his front paws on the passenger door armrest and his nose to the window, he wagged his tail at the prospect of freedom.
“Sorry, boy,” I said. “Not this time.”
He whined in what sounded like protest, but I remained steadfast and while he sat sulking, I turned my attention back to the skip. Pleased to spot an old wooden chair poking out of the top, even from a distance I could see it was made from pine, and not that rubbish orange stuff either. Clapping my hands together, I couldn’t wait to find out what other delights lay in store.
Getting ready to disembark, I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My hair hung down from under my bobble hat, and seeing it looked raggedy, I hastily smoothed it straight. Wearing a thick padded jacket and jeans, I wished I looked a tad more professional. But I reached into the passenger footwell and dug out a business card from my rucksack then put on my best smile, determined to create a good impression. “I won’t be a minute,” I said to Frank, eager to get my hands on anything that might turn a profit.
As soon as I climbed out of the van, the ice-cold air immediately hit me. I couldn’t believe how glacial the atmosphere felt and I shivered as my breath steamed forth. After hours of driving my back ached and I began to stretch it out, but suddenly my feet slid from under me and my stomach lurched, as I grabbed the side of the van to right myself before I could hit the ground. Praying no one had borne witness, I took a step forward and keeping my eyes down as I walked to stop me slipping again, I made sure to concentrate as I headed towards the house’s entrance. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be spending Christmas in the same predicament as Jules – wearing a cast.
With no sign of a doorbell, I picked up the heavy brass knocker and rapped as hard as I could. I refused to let my excitement wane as I stamped my feet and breathed into my hands to keep warm. I knocked again, before leaning back slightly to get a glimpse through the window. With no sign of movement my shoulders slumped and my smile fell. It seemed I wasn’t about to bag my first find, after all, and with no choice but to concede, I turned and headed back to Violet.
Passing the skip again, I stopped in my tracks and unable to help myself, took a moment to inspect the chair. I reached up and ran my gloved fingers up and down its well-worn wood and despite there being no sign of woodworm, I could tell it was old. Already imagining it cleaned up and sitting pride of place next to a fashionable Aga in some posh London kitchen, I felt a frisson of naughtiness, aware that if I wanted to, I could just grab the chair and throw it into the van. After all, it was headed for the tip; it wasn’t as if anyone would miss it. I looked left and then right, my mischievous side knowing that with no one around, the odds of getting away with it were in my favour.
