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‘Hi, Verity. They are. Magnificent. The detail is astonishing.’ Jago bent closer to have a better look. ‘Such skill. Look at the gold knitted braiding on this one.’
‘It’s an amazing art form. Someone must be very talented.’
He straightened. ‘You mean you don’t know who put them there?’
‘Not a scoobie. I’m assuming it’s the same people who dressed the postbox down by the Sea Spray café.’
Ivy still wasn’t sure. She growled again.
‘Oh dear,’ Verity said. ‘Someone’s not keen.’ She stared up at the rain, which despite Jago’s optimism of earlier, was worsening. She pulled a face. ‘If only this was snow. Might feel more seasonal. Look, I’m just about to grab a coffee, do you want one? Got some choccie biccies somewhere too. Unless you want to pop in and say hi to Winnie? The church is open.’
Jago hesitated. Part of him wanted to sit in quiet contemplation in front of St Winifred’s stained-glass window. He shivered, feeling the damp trickle down the back of his neck. He’d prefer snow too.
‘No? Come on into the house then, until the worst of the rain passes over.’
He indicated Ivy. ‘As long as you don’t mind the wet dog smell.’
‘Well now, isn’t she one of God’s creatures?’ Verity laughed. ‘Come on, give me a chance to put my feet up. It’s been a mad morning. Always is at this time of year.’
He followed her back down the path and then along a narrow alley he’d not noticed before and waited until she unlocked a door in the side of a building.
‘Now, don’t judge, my kitchen is a right mess, but I know where everything is and I make a mean mug of coffee so it’s worth having to shove a pile of ecclesiastical bumf off a chair. Oh, and there’s an Aga too, so you can dry your jacket and warm your behind.’
She led him down a long gloomy passageway and into a square, high-ceilinged kitchen dominated by an ancient-looking cream Aga at one end. It was pumping out a welcome heat.
‘Sit yourself down, I’ll put the kettle on. Here, give me your coat. I’m lucky to have a vicarage so near my church. The C of E have shipped a lot of us into new builds miles away from our parish. Then they can sell the original vicarage off at an unholy profit, of course.’ She laughed. ‘Not that they’d get much for this crumbling pile.’ She slipped off her coat to reveal a sweatshirt emblazoned with:God is Good but the Vicar is Better!
While she draped their jackets on the back of a chair, turning it to the Aga to dry, Jago hid his amusement at her sweatshirt by looking around. There were Christmas cards on every available surface, including the shelf above the Aga, and bushy strident-coloured strands of tinsel hung across the ceiling. The vast scrubbed pine table was heaped high with letters and magazines and several handleless mugs serving as pen pots, and in the middle of the mess stood a carved wooden nativity, a smaller version of the one at the German Market. The Belfast sink was full of unwashed crockery and there was a rime of dust on most surfaces. Despite the neglect, it was a welcoming and cosy space. He moved a folder and sat down in an old-fashioned, high-backed chair next to the Aga and watched, amused, as Ivy sniffed around and then settled with a sigh against it, stretching out so as much of her back as possible was in contact with the heat.
‘Ah, see she’s made herself at home. Always amazes me how dogs instinctively know to head for Agnetha.’
‘Agnetha?’
‘Agnetha the Aga. Big ABBA fan,’ Verity said, as if that explained everything. She filled the kettle and plonked it on the hotplate. ‘Won’t be long. Chiquitita’ll let us know when she’s ready by screaming.’
‘Chiquitita?’ He hazarded a guess. ‘The kettle?’
‘Yup.’ Verity pulled up another chair, eased off her boots and tucked her toes under the rail of the Aga. ‘Ooh, it gets so cold in that church,’ she complained and pulled the sleeves of her jumper over her hands.
Jago was trying not to laugh. It seemed rude.
‘What? Doesn’t everyone name their household appliances? Don’t answer! If they don’t, then they should. And ABBA comes second only to God in my eyes. With the Bishop trailing in third.’ She shivered and wiggled her toes. ‘Bliss. Think they’re just about defrosting now. How’s things then, Jago?’ She peered at him. ‘You look less lean somehow. Must be the Lullbury Bay sea air.’
Jago filled her in on the Craft Fayre, how he’d temporarily rediscovered his work ethic and was planning on renting a space at the Art School in order to make bigger installation art. ‘I had quite a few people express their interest at the Fayre,’ he went on. ‘It’s something I used to do more of in London but wasn’t sure of the market down here.’
Chiquitita obligingly whistled to say she’d boiled and Verity leaped up, making Ivy start. ‘Well, that all sounds very exciting. A very positive move.’ She grabbed a cafetiere and spooned some coffee into it, added a jug of cream and some mugs and biscuits to a tray, and plonked it all on the table where it sat precariously on a not quite level pile of papers. Ivy sat up, her nose quivering at the scent of coffee and biscuits. Returning to the spot by the Aga, Verity asked, ‘And who’s this little love?’
‘Ivy. Tom at the animal sanctuary rescued her and we took her on. Merryn’s always wanted a dog so she’s ecstatic. Christmas Tree Cottage is awash with wildlife at the moment as we’re looking after Chestnut the school hamster too.’
‘And how do they get on?’ Verity giggled.
‘Great if in separate rooms. Otherwise, Ivy has her nose pressed against the bars of the cage.’
‘Oops. And it wouldn’t do for her to eat the class hamster.’ She reached round and pushed the plunger down on the coffee pot. ‘Cream with yours?’
‘Please.’ He accepted the mug of coffee and sipped. Verity was right, she did make it well.
‘And how’s Merryn getting on?’
