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There was a tiny but uncomfortable pause.
‘Jago’s not my dad,’ Merryn protested. ‘He’s my big brother.’
Tom looked from brother to sister. ‘I apologise.’
Jago shook his head to dismiss the faux pas. ‘Easy mistake.’
‘I’ll ask Mum if we can come,’ Merryn added, excitedly. ‘What animals have you got?’
‘At the moment? A couple of donkeys, two reindeer, a small herd of alpacas, lots of ex-battery chickens, a few goats and ducks and quite a lot of guinea pigs. Nothing too exotic but they all love being made a fuss of, especially the guineas.’
‘Guinea pigs,’ breathed Merryn. ‘I love guinea pigs. Jago, do you think we could have a guinea pig?’
‘Hold on, Mer. See how you get on with looking after Chestnut the hamster first. Then we’ll see.’
She pouted. ‘I’ll be excellent at looking after Chestnut. I’ll be as good as gold. That’s a simile.’
‘No, think it might be a–’ but Jago was interrupted by Alice bringing them their drinks. As his grammar knowledge was being stretched, he was glad to see Merryn was thoroughly distracted by the three enormous slabs of chocolate cake and a plate of shortbread heading their way too.
‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he hissed as his sister perched on his knee and spooned the thick cream off her hot chocolate.
Honor, walking home, glanced in. In amongst the Christmas decorations festooned from the ceiling and the crowds of customers, she saw Jago, with Merryn on his knee, laughing and talking to Tom from the animal sanctuary. Something inside her softened. He seemed such a devoted dad. She must have imagined the frisson that had sparked between them earlier. He simply couldn’t be the sort of man who would cheat on a lovely woman like Avril and betray a sweet little girl like Merryn. Pausing, she stared in. He was an attractive man. Tall and loose-limbed, with a sense of inner burning energy that was very sexy. Something inside her stirred which hadn’t done for too long. Since she’d broken up with her boyfriend, there hadn’t been anyone she’d felt any attraction for. Until now. She’d promised herself she’d be cautious about starting a relationship with anyone and wouldn’t throw away her affections on a man she didn’t think worthy. Not after being hurt so badly. She gave a snorting laugh which made the family coming out of the café stare at her curiously. She certainly wasn’t going to fall for a married man, even if he did possess a pair of luminous green eyes and a kind soul. Married men and parents of children she taught were as far off limits as to be in a different universe. Ramming her woolly hat over her ears as punishment for even contemplating Jago Pengethley’s sexiness, she turned decisively on her heel and carried on walking.
CHAPTER6
‘DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?’ – TRAD.
Saturday 4th December
Jago crept into St Winifred’s, hardly daring to breathe. The church felt very different to the other evening when it had been full of hopeful childish voices and light. Now the atmosphere was hushed and he had the sense someone – or something – was watching. Not liking the shadowy musty-smelling corners, he went to stand in front of the stained-glass windows he’d admired during the service. He wanted a closer look.
Stained glass was something he’d like to get back into, but he’d need space in order to make any. He’d made a name for himself on the gallery circuit with his large decorative glass panels, but studio space had been expensive in London, so he’d had to abandon them. Then the pandemic had shut everything down. Instead, he’d concentrated on making small objects with coloured glass fused together. His light-catchers in the shape of birds, suns with rays of light, delicate silvery moons and stars sold well. A bonus being he could make them at home with minimal space and equipment needed. To make his larger works he needed a workshop, and to retrieve his kit out of storage. His glass kiln and storage drawers alone took up too much room to keep at home.
It was a cold, bright day outside and the hard winter sun illuminated the image of a woman dressed in robes and holding a sword. The artistry was astonishing and the glass glowed jewel-like, pooling a warm liquid light on the tiled floor. He perched on a pew and gazed at it, lost in its beauty. He’d never get over how glass art could make him feel. He could well understand why it was chosen for churches; it was literally awe-inspiring. A relatively simple process, it took immense skill to make it well and to make it as stunning as the example in front of him. His fingers, with their bumps and scars from incidents with glass cutters and soldering irons, itched. He needed to make big again. Something as beautiful as this inspired him to make on a grand scale.
‘St Winifred herself.’
The voice made him jump a foot.
‘I’m so sorry. I should have realised you were in contemplation. Would you rather I left you in peace?’ It was Verity, the vicar. She was dressed in black trousers and a neat grey sweater, her clerical collar showing above it.
‘No please. It’s your church.’ Jago tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘And yours too. But sometimes it’s good to be still and quiet and alone.’
Jago shook his head. ‘I don’t want to be alone. I wasn’t praying. I came for a closer look at the windows. I work in glass so it’s an interest.’
‘You’re connected to Merryn Pengethley, aren’t you? I’ve seen you collect her from school. She’s quite a character. I take assemblies at school once a week and she often asks me the most challenging questions.’
He mustered a smile. ‘That’s my little sis. She keeps all of us on our toes.’
‘I can imagine.’
He stood up, dwarfing the woman. Shaking her hand, he introduced himself. ‘I’m Jago.’ Embarrassed, he added, ‘I’m sorry I don’t know how to address you.’
‘Verity will do fine.’ She sat on the pew in front and twisted round. Tucking her light brown hair behind her ear she said, ‘Our friend up there is St Winifred herself. Her lover chopped her head off when he discovered she wanted to enter a convent. Quite the racy story!’ She grinned. ‘She’s a bit of a hero of mine. Where her head fell there appeared a miraculous spring. She’s a Welsh saint so we’re a bit of an outpost down here in Dorset. There’s only us, and the church in Branscombe over the border in Devon, round here dedicated to her. We’re old but not as old as the one there. Our tower’s Norman, which you can guess from its squat square shape, but the window there is Victorian. Made by a local craftsman. She’s rather beautiful isn’t she? Especially at this time of day with the light streaming through. I often come and chat to her. She’s a brilliant listener. Sit down, take a pew as the saying goes.’
Jago hovered, unsure if he wanted to stay and chat.
