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I let Mike in. There’s a box of fireworks tucked under his arm. ‘Ready and raring to go?’ he says, clapping his hands together.
Mike is all wrapped up in a padded North Face jacket, jeans and boots, and he has a colourful Peruvian chullo on his head. It’s knitted in red, white and yellow wool, the ear flaps ending in gaudy red tassels.
‘That’s a bit fancy for you?’
‘Bought it when I did the Inca Trail a few years ago,’ he explains, giving me a twirl of his tassels. ‘It was flipping cold up in the Andes at night. Saw me in good stead, this hat. It’s been stuck at the bottom of the wardrobe ever since. Tania wouldn’t be seen dead with me in it. One of the few benefits of not having a wife any more.’ He tries a laugh. ‘I can wear whatever I like now, so I thought it was time to give it an airing. It’s a bit risqué for the good folks of Nashley. Do you think Mr and Mrs Codling-Bentham will let me into their garden wearing it?’
‘I’m sure they will.’ I smile. ‘It suits you.’
Mike looks doubtful.
‘I didn’t know that you were the adventurous type,’ I tease him.
‘I used to do all kinds of things like that.’ He gives a sad shrug. ‘Before I met Tania, of course. I’ve been to the Himalayas, Bhutan, South America, India – all over the place. It wasn’t her kind of thing.’
‘That’s a shame.’
He shrugs. ‘I might get back to it one day.’
‘I’m about to go on an adventure of my own,’ I confess.
Mike looks up, surprised.
‘I’ve just booked a holiday to Kenya. I’m going on safari for a week.’ I pack the brownies into the biscuit tin as I tell him and then shrug on my coat. ‘Luxury camp in the Maasai Mara.’
My neighbour is speechless.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I warn. ‘I know I’m a hairdresser, but we don’t all have to go to Benidorm for our holidays. I’m striking out, trying something new.’
‘What’s brought this on?’ Mike says, sounding perplexed. ‘You never mentioned that you were thinking about going away.’
‘It’s only for a week,’ I laugh. ‘Not six months. Are you ready?’
‘When you are.’
I kiss Archie on the head. ‘Go and get under the sofa,’ I advise. ‘We’ll be back before you know it.’
If my cat could give me the finger, he would.
We head out into the cold night. The sky is glittering with the red and green and gold of rockets bursting. Our breath hangs in the air as we walk side by side down the lane.
‘It was a spur of the moment decision,’ I explain as Mike opens the Codling-Bentham’s garden gate and, together, we turn into their path.
Mr and Mrs Codling-Bentham live in the Manor House of the village – an old, grand home of mellow Cotswold stone. It stands adjacent to the church on the other side of the rectory and together they form a slice of olde-worlde England. We don’t have a Lord and Lady here any more but if we did, the Codling-B’s would make perfect candidates. Happily married for over fifty years, they have a string of children spread out across the globe doing wonderful jobs in the diplomatic service, the forces and television. Now they are revered in the village as an institution and not only because they open their marvellous grounds to the rest of the villagers on every occasion that it is required: winter, Christmas Church fayre; spring, hog roast and barn dance; summer, barbeque; and tonight, fireworks party.
A couple of dozen of the neighbours are already here, which is practically the entire population of the village. There’s a bonfire halfway down the garden giving off a good blaze. Beside the house on the terrace, there’s a table laid out with a tureen of hot soup and garlic bread. The vicar is barbecuing sausages and from the kitchen, there’s the mouth-watering smell of jacket potatoes and chilli. I’ll certainly look forward to some of that later. I hand over my chocolate brownie contribution and Mike goes to put his fireworks on the growing pile.
When he returns, Mike launches straight into, ‘It’s nothing to do with this prat who’s bothering you, I hope.’
‘Well . . . partly.’ I try to look unconcerned, as if it doesn’t bother me as much as it does.
Then Mr and Mrs Codling-Bentham greet us and press polystyrene cups of mulled wine into our hands. The spices smell wonderful and the warm alcohol packs a punch.
‘Tot of brandy in there,’ Mr Codling-Bentham says, explaining the potency of his brew. ‘That’ll warm your cockles.’
‘It’s a long time since I’ve had my cockles warmed,’ Mike says as we walk away, giggling.
