Chapter 7
Having brought all my stuff in from the van, explored the whole house and taken a ridiculous number of photos to send to Jules, I headed back into the lounge, Frank following. I didn’t envy Jules when it came to sorting the place out. Having seen everything first-hand, I felt daunted on my friend’s behalf. I wouldn’t have known where to start.
The whole property was a treasure trove of the weird and the wonderful. Jules hadn’t been exaggerating when she said her aunt liked to travel. The place was filled with interesting keepsakes and souvenirs from countries near and far. The furniture was gorgeous, and I would have put money on most of it being antique. Even inside the woman’s wardrobe was a sight to behold. When it came to what she wore, Lillian did like high-end. Jules should certainly get good use out of Oliver’s list of valuers.
I plonked myself down on the sofa and with a whole evening ahead, checked my watch. “We could watch a bit of telly?” I said to Frank, deciding it was a bit early to go for that deserved glass of wine. Although being honest, I wasn’t really in the mood for TV. I glanced around, twiddling my thumbs as I questioned what was wrong with me. I usually loved my own company but sitting there in the silence, in a strange house, even reading one of the books I’d brought, didn’t appeal. Maybe the drive up had got to me? For someone not used to negotiating snow and ice, it had taken quite a lot of concentration. Or it could have been the fact that I was surrounded by Lillian’s possessions. They made her feel very much present and me very much the interloper.
I sighed. “Sod it,”I said, thinking it was time for that drink, after all. “What do you say, Frank? Fancy getting out of here?” I smiled as the dog’s tail began to wag. “Of course you do.”
I grabbed my rucksack off the sofa, stuffed Lillian’s house keys into one of its side pockets and grabbed Frank’s lead. Clipping it onto his collar, I put on my coat and buttoned it up tight, steeling myself for the cold air about to greet us. As we made our way outside into the fading light, I took a deep breath, ready to meet the locals.
Frank kept his nose down as we walked. With lots of new smells to investigate, he’d obviously hit upon an invisible trail, and while he followed his nose, I took in the rest of our surroundings.
Little Leatherington consisted of a single road straight through the village, in one end and out at the other. It was lined with both terraced and detached cottages and Christmas trees with twinkling fairy lights sat in windows and holly wreaths adorned front doors. Farmhouses dotted the hillside beyond and a glorious full moon lit up the giant, snow-capped mountain that stood proud in the distance. Taking in the trail that snaked up to its summit, I wondered who’d be mad enough to make such a trek. In my view, there was too much danger to even consider trying – mud deep enough to sink into, stiles befitting of any good obstacle course, not to mention charging sheep. “We’ll be all right if we stick to the roads, Frank,” I said. No way were we venturing up there.
A car coming towards us caught my attention and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight. It looked like something straight off the set ofAll Creatures Great and Small. British racing green in colour, its roof was black and could be folded back, and it had a silver grill taller than any I’d seen before. I didn’t have a clue what make the car was, but it had to be from the 1930s and it was certainly at home amongst all the old stone cottages and surrounding farmland. No way would it have been out and about in London at that time of year; it would have been garaged, only hitting the roads on the driest and sunniest of days.
Its driver, a middle-aged, tweed-wearing somewhat smart gentleman, smiled and waved before giving two sharp toots on the car horn as he passed. I waved back, before shaking my head as Frank and I, too, carried on our way. It seemed Lillian wasn’t the only character to come out of Little Leatherington.
Continuing straight past the shop, I saw the pub’s giant rooftop Santa before I saw The Cobblestone Tavern itself and watching the inflatable bounce around in the wind, I didn’t think I’d seen anything so ludicrous. Or so out of keeping, I realised, considering how traditional the rest of the village was. Pulling open the door and crossing over the threshold into the porch, I noticed a poster advertising a Christmas party being held there. I frowned, recalling the aftermath of such events as heard from the safety of my London home over the years. Forced to endure various renditions of festive tunes by passing partygoers down in the street, from George Michael’s “Last Christmas” to the Pogues’“Fairytale of New York”, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than seeing such drunken shenanigans first-hand.
As I stepped into the bar, however, I immediately froze and all thoughts of blow-up Santas and badly sung Christmas number ones suddenly evaporated. Even a place as small and remote as Little Leatherington wasn’t free from all the excesses of Christmas and my eyes widened at the nightmare I seemed to have walked into. Glancing from one corner of the room, to the next, and then the next, I stood there, horrified, forced to take in shelf after shelf of ornamental Santas. Some carried sacks, while others hung halfway up miniature ladders. Some rode on sleighs and some had their heads popping out of chimneys. Unlike all the other customers, who didn’t appear to notice the hundreds of Santa eyes looking down on them, I wanted to turn around and run.
“What can I get you?” the barwoman called out before I got the chance.
As well as a big smile, she wore a bright red jumper with a huge snowman plastered across the front, while dangly Christmas tree earrings that flashed red and gold hung from the woman’s ears; both enough to tell me she was responsible for the Father Christmas overload. “Sauvignon Blanc, please,” I said. If I’d thought I’d needed a drink before, it was nothing to how I felt then.
“Large or small?”
“Large,” I replied, a bit too quickly. My belly began to rumble, reminding me that I hadn’t yet had dinner. “Do you have a menu?” I asked, deciding I may as well eat there too.
“We do.”
I glanced around again, this time in search of a seat. There was a huge wood burner to one side of the room, but the place was packed, and I struggled to spotanyseat, let alone one by the fire.
“Darts night,” the barwoman said. She indicated a room at the other side of the bar just as a euphoric cheer sounded. “Last match before Christmas.”
Appreciating the explanation, my heart sank when I realised the only place available meant sharing a table with an elderly bearded gentleman. A chap who wore a scowl so serious it could have turned my wine sour.
The barwoman gave me a sympathetic smile and despite my feet not wanting to move, I took a deep breath. Carrying my glass and the menu in one hand, while pulling Frank along with the other, I made my approach. “Do you mind if I join you?” I asked, indicating the empty seat.
The man looked back at me, his stern expression unwavering. “And if I say yes, I do mind?”
My smile disappeared along with my politeness. “Then you’ll have a decision to make, won’t you?” I replied. Sitting down, I nodded to the exit. “The door’s there if you want it.”
The man harrumphed in response, while I wondered what his problem was.
Frank lay down next to my feet and I took a sip of my drink, before turning my attention to the menu. Refusing to meet his gaze, I felt the old man’s eyes on me as I attempted to read. All I’d wanted was a quiet drink and maybe something to eat, but this chap seemed to be challenging me to a staring competition. However, I had no intention of taking part and kept my eyes down, all the while wishing I’d stayed stood at the bar. Or better still, stayed at Number 3. I sighed. Or even better, stayed in London.
“You tried to steal my chair,” the man said.
I paused in my thoughts, before letting the menu drop to focus on the man and his allegation. I wondered if he suffered from age-related senility because I had just asked if I could sit down.
“I saw you. Earlier today.”
Narrowing my eyes, I recalled my pit stop at the farmhouse with the skip in its front garden. Realising the man was talking about the pine chair, I was surprised to hear there’d been someone at home, after all. “If you saw me,” I replied, curious to know where he was going with his conversation, “then you know full well I did nothing of the sort.”
“You wanted to, though.”
Admittedly, I’d been tempted, but that didn’t stop me wondering who the man before me thought he was. A member of the mind police? “Furthermore,” I said, “if you saw me, you must also have heard me knock.”
The man picked up his pint, put it to his lips and drank until his glass was empty. “No law against not answering the door,” he finally said.
“I agree. But there is a law against making things up about people. I could sue you for slander.”
The man rose to his feet and without saying another word headed for the door, leaving me sat there open-mouthed.
Watching him go, I couldn’t believe the man’s rudeness and I told myself he could blooming well keep his chair. I shook my head at his accusation, shocked that someone would make up such a thing. “Well, that was weird,” I said to Frank.
The barwoman approached to collect the old man’s discarded glass. “I wouldn’t take it personally,” she said. “Ted Sharples is Little Leatherington’s oldest and grumpiest resident. It’s just his way. He’s miserable with everyone.”
