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‘And I thought Rowan was dramatic?’
‘Talking of Rowan.’
She looked over to where he was pointing. ‘Oh, good God. I’m guessing he’s not trying to be funny?’
‘Who knows.’
Rowan was dressed as a monk. He wore long brown robes, tied around the middle with thick rope that swung around his legs as he walked.
‘His feet must be freezing,’ she said, spotting his open-toed sandals. ‘But it’s the wig that steals the show.’ He was wearing a bald cap, with a band of hair running from ear to ear.
‘And I thought nothing could top the ridiculousness ofyourhat,’ Calvin said, nudging her.
She feigned offence. ‘My hat is tasteful. And fun. And very festive.’
‘And very bonkers,’ he said, smiling, when she poked her tongue out at him.
The grounds surrounding Greystones couldn’t really be called a garden. There was no boundary or fencing, just an expanse of lawn merging seamlessly into the woodland leading down to a lake. The area nearest the house had been landscaped, with rustic steps leading down to a seating section. The borders were lit by solar-powered flowers that formed an impressive light display.
‘No wonder there’re so many visitors, it’s beautiful,’ she said, watching the lights shoot up from the centre of the water fountain.
‘I thought you’d like it.’
She turned to him. ‘Have you been here before?’
‘We spent a few Christmases here when I was younger. My uncle would always bring us to the light show.’
‘Maybe that’s how your Pop-Up Pirate game ended up at the care home… you brought it with you when you came to visit once?’
He seemed surprised. ‘You have a good memory.’
She shrugged. ‘It clearly meant a lot to you.’
A gong sounded, drawing their attention to the patio area. A man dressed in Dickensian attire addressed the crowd. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to our annual Christmas light-show event!’
Everyone cheered.
‘We shall begin this evening’s entertainment with the tale of a local legend. Please welcome to the stage, renowned historian, Rowan Blakely.’
Rowan swept onto the patio, his arms aloft – and almost went flying headfirst when he trod on the bottom of his robes.
Calvin stifled a laugh.
Rowan launched into his monologue. ‘Aside from the architectural splendour you see before you, Greystones Manor carries with it the pain and suffering of a former resident, a monk who drifts amongst the surrounding grounds and trees in mournful solitude. He is said to have lived in Tudor times, and is reputed to have fallen in love with the mistress of a neighbouring property.’
Rowan gestured to a woman wearing a fancy period gown. ‘But the lady died under tragic circumstances, and following her death, he sank into a state of melancholy. His only solace was to walk the green fields and leafy lanes where they had enjoyed so many romantic interludes together.’
He blew the woman a kiss.
When Calvin stifled another laugh, Kate nudged him. ‘Behave.’
Rowan held his hand dramatically against his forehead. ‘But as time passed, he sank deeper into depression, pining for his dead lover, and finally died of a broken heart. His ghost continues to wander the neighbourhood, drifting behind the house, in search of his lost love.’
It took the crowd a moment to realise he’d finished, so the clapping came in bursts, before everyone joined in.
‘He should win an Oscar,’ Calvin whispered in Kate’s ear.
‘He’s enjoying himself, and that’s all that matters.’
