It was the first week of November and Emma was sitting on the bench in the greenhouse, with her broken leg propped up on a cushion and a blanket over her.

Outside the rain lashed against the glass, the sky a pale grey hanging over the horizon like old cotton wool.

Her eyes raked across the seedling trays; even now, she knew what Evie had planted more out of memory than anything else, as her sight was still wont to play tricks on her. This time of year there would be marjoram and coriander, French tarragon and sage. When she was younger she would rub the leaves between her fingers and breathe in their scent, imagining just what she’d make with each. Her fingers twitched to do that now, but she stopped herself. What would be the point? She still couldn’t smell.

Evie had helped her set up a makeshift office in here, among the pots and gardening implements, away from the busy thrum of the cottage. Her laptop was on the potting bench. On an old paint-splattered stool there was a fat blue kettle and a tin of Yorkshire Tea, next to which was a plate piled with freshly baked spiced biscuits. If she closed her eyes she could picture the taste – warm, with the snap of ginger, nutmeg and allspice. She didn’t need to try one to know that all she’d get was the texture of warm sand on her tongue.

There was a knock on the clear glass door and Sandro came inside, dripping and shivering, giving her his wide, warm smile, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

‘Hola, Pajarita.’ Then, stamping his feet theatrically, ‘It’s freezing,’ he said, rubbing his hands and switching on the heater that had been placed nearby. He shook his curly head like a dog, so that she laughed, replacing the awkward smile she’d given him at first.

‘Sorry you got caught in the rain. Um. You don’t have to do this if you’re busy or anything – I can make another arrangement.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, taking a seat next to her laptop.

‘Have a biscuit.’

He did. Then he sat and stared at her, making her feel suddenly silly and nervous.

‘I feel a bit like Barbara Cartland.’

He gave her a puzzled look as he fired up the machine. ‘Who?’ he asked, then clapped his hands together and said, ‘Tea?’

She nodded, and he got up to boil the kettle.

‘She was a romance novelist, pretty prolific, she used to dictate her novels,’ Emma explained.

He popped tea bags into two yellow mugs, and cocked his head to the side with a frown as he considered. ‘I think, maybe, I do know her – lots of pink, right? And wasn’t there a poodle?’ He mimed a little ball shape.

Emma laughed. ‘Yes! Pity I can’t really do pink. Although when I was younger, I did try.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why can’t you wear pink?’

‘Clashes with the hair. Red.’ She pointed to it, for emphasis.

He shrugged. ‘Does everything have to match?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe not.’

He took a seat, folding his rangy body onto the small chair, his dark hair an unruly mop falling over his forehead, then opened the laptop and grinned, showing his even white teeth. ‘Okay, shoot,’ he said.

She nodded.

He stared at her.

She swallowed. ‘Could you perhaps not stare at me – that might make it a little easier.’

His lips twitched, but he looked away.

She breathed slightly easier. ‘So, the topic of the column is lunch.’

‘Lunch?’ he said, snapping back to look at her again, an eyebrow raised.

‘The history of lunch.’

‘O-kay, sounds fascinating, Pajarita,’ he said.

She gave him an eye-roll.

He looked surprised but began to type as she spoke. ‘The history of lunch as we know it is a fairly modern invention; one might say it’s yet to arrive in Yorkshire, as in the county where I grew up, saying “lunch” will brand you as a foreigner faster than you can eat your dinner. Where the word “lunch” came from is often in dispute. Some say that it hails from the word “nuch”, a word that prior to the seventeenth century was used to mean a piece of bread, and later, “nuncheon” which was having a quick snack between meals, later it was the Earl of Sandwich who revolutionised—’

Sandro laughed, interrupting: ‘I wondered about this, eh? Didn’t realise it wasn’t just me, because when I first got here, a few people asked, “Sandro, do you want to come for tea?” and I’m like, great, eh? Saying yes to everyone for the same day, thinking I’ll just pop in for a drink… but next thing you know, I’m having to eat three dinners.’

Emma laughed. ‘You didn’t!’

‘I did – you try telling your Aunt Dot you’re full. And you know what’s really confusing?’ he went on, dark eyes amused.

‘What?’

‘Every time I’m invited for tea, I’m never given any.’

Emma laughed. ‘Well, when we mean tea, as in the drink, we say, “Fancy a cuppa?” And we don’t ask what type you’d like – here, tea only comes in one form, the best – Yorkshire Tea.’

‘Ah.’ He grinned, and the dimple in his cheek showed. ‘Mystery solved.’

‘When we say “tea” we actually mean the last meal of the day, and dinner is served sometime past noon.’

He sighed, ‘Ay. No wonder I’m always confused.’

Emma laughed. ‘I was too, trust me. When I first came here.’

‘Weren’t you born here?’ he asked.

‘No, I was born in London, then came to live with Evie when I was about six, after my parents died.’

A shadow fell across his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’

‘Thanks. It worked out. Evie was great.’

‘I can imagine – she’s barmy.’

Emma laughed. ‘Barmy – picking up the lingo?’

‘Bob’s yer uncle.’

Emma laughed. ‘You know, the first time I heard that expression, I was about six, from old Harrison Brimble. He said it to me about something, and I didn’t speak at the time so I didn’t ask, but for ages afterwards I thought that I had a mystery uncle named Bob.’

He laughed. ‘Really?’

‘Afraid so. I can only imagine, you being Spanish, how strange some of it must seem.’

‘A little, but I like it.’

‘Why did you move here?’

He shrugged. ‘Just wanted a change.’

‘So, you came to Whistling?’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah. I like it, especially the moors. It’s peaceful out there, wild, time feels different in a way, slower, it’s good.’ His dark eyes were solemn, and she found herself staring. She did know. The moors were one of her favourite places on earth.

‘Sorry, I interrupted you,’ he said, turning back to the column, and she snapped back to reality.

‘You said something about a Mr Sandwich?’

She laughed. ‘The Earl of Sandwich,’ she said with a grin. ‘The accidental inventor of the world’s most famous lunchtime meal. Who allegedly, while working late one night or at a party with friends, depending on the version you believe, asked his butler to bring him a piece of beef with two slices of bread around it as he was busy and wanted something he could eat quickly and easily…’

His eyes were huge. ‘That’s how the sandwich was invented – barmy, so barmy.’

After their third cup of tea they were done.

‘Thank you for doing this,’ she said, surprised that she’d enjoyed it as much as she had.

‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I had a lot of fun, Pajarita.’

---

‘Have you heard the news about the Galways?’ asked Dot, later that afternoon, when Evie had cajoled Emma into getting out of the house for a bit.

The Galways lived just outside the village in a run-down council flat. Their son Jimmy had been a few years younger than Emma at school, and last Thursday was the first time she’d ever seen Mary Galway come knocking on Hope Cottage’s door.

They were sitting in Dot’s cosy living room, a tray of Eccles cakes before them. Despite this, Emma was feeling uncomfortable; her head was pounding, she was in desperate need of another nap and her foot in her cast was itching. She’d been using one of Dot’s knitting needles to scratch it, only of course the knitting needle felt a bit like a heat rod due to her muddled senses. She sighed, wiggling her foot, trying to concentrate on something else.

Dot’s favourite time of year was Christmas and she’d already put up her decorations, despite it being only November. The tree was festooned with baubles in her favourite colours, pink, lilac and silver, and the room was festive and inviting, with a cheery fire and some soft music playing in the background. Growing up, Emma had spent many evenings here, playing cards with her aunts and secretly feeding Pennywort bits of Dot’s excellent teacakes.

‘No?’ said Emma. ‘What happened?’ She shot a look at Evie, thinking, despite her better instincts, of the other day when Mary Galway had come by.

‘She moved out.’

‘She didn’t!’

‘Oh yes. I saw her down at the Brimbles’ store, you wouldn’t even believe it was the same woman. Apparently she went down to Fritz, where the Caleb boys live, you know, and fetched Jimmy back herself. You know he ran away because he and Steve are always at odds? He got involved with a bad crowd who live in that dodgy area, by the old factory that closed down. Anyway, I heard that she gave those Caleb boys a talking-to, told Jimmy to get in the car, and then she told the boys that if they came near her boy again she’d give them what-for.’

‘But that’s not all.’

‘It isn’t?’ asked Emma, surprised.

‘No – she’s left Steve. Said she’d had enough of him being a bully. She’s gone and got herself a job and a flat too.’

‘Mary Galway?’ said Emma in shock. ‘The same woman who is liable to burst into tears if you look at her wrong?’

‘Our same lass,’ agreed Dot.

‘The same one who walks into doors because she is so afraid to look up because she might see something she doesn’t like? That Mary Galway?’

‘Yes!’ cried Dot. Then she looked at Evie, eyes shining. ‘What did you make?’

‘Moxie Maker Chicken in Cream.’

‘Really?’ asked Aggie, who had been engrossed in a novel, her legs in their customary riding boots thrown over the back of the chair. She marked her place with one long paint-splattered finger and then folded the page before closing it.

Evie frowned. She was the type of person who believed that those who didn’t use bookmarks should sleep outside with the rest of the swine.

The book’s cover had a photograph of a woman with wind blowing through her hair, wearing an old-fashioned gown that was a bit loose at the front so she was having to hold it up, while behind her a muscular blond, who looked like he bathed in olive oil, was looking at her suggestively.

The book came from Dot’s secret library, which she kept locked in the pantry on a shelf sandwiched between rows of detergent and mothballs. They were lent out to a very select group of people (Aggie and Evie and Ann Brimble mostly), which had at one point included Emma, to her shame; she’d devoured them all when she was about fifteen, and still had a covert fondness for slightly steamy historical tales. She blamed Dot’s library for some of her unrealistic notions about men.

But right then she was shaking her head at her aunts and Evie, ‘You can’t be serious, Mary Galway didn’t do any of that because of a chicken casserole.’

‘How else can you explain it?’ asked Aggie.

‘Perhaps she just had enough of Steve – I mean he’d always been a bully, perhaps enough was enough.’

Aggie looked at her. ‘If only that were true. I’ve often found that courage tends to wane the less you use it.’

‘Maybe hers had been storing up.’

‘I told her it would make her strong,’ said Evie.

‘And she believed you?’

‘You’d be surprised at what a little belief can do.’

‘Maybe,’ admitted Emma.

‘Well, either way, Mary Galway has finally found the courage she’s been looking for for half her life. She stood up to her husband, and fought for her son. Told Steve that she was filing for divorce,’ said Dot.

Aggie looked at Emma, her eyes wide. ‘I don’t know, love, sounds a bit like magic to me.’

Emma rolled her eyes.

---

Later that evening, her phoned pinged with an email from her editor, a response to the column she’d sent. She handed the phone to Evie to read aloud, biting her lip. ‘What does it say?’

Evie’s eyes scanned the contents, and then she gave a little snort.

‘They love it. Apparently, the copy-editor, Abby Fairbrother, sent a note along with it as well.’

Inwardly, Emma cringed, wishing she’d got Evie to have a look at it before she’d asked Sandro to send it on. Abby was a bit of a pedant.

‘Abby says Yorkshire must agree with you – it’s one of her favourite columns so far, and the grammar, for once, was exceptional, hardly any corrections.’

Evie’s lips twitched.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Emma, stifling a giggle herself.

---

After Evie went to bed Emma sat at the kitchen table, next to Pennywort, who watched her with his solemn brown eyes. In front of her was the box of Christmas decorations that Evie had taken out of the attic. Idly, she rifled through it. Many of the decorations she, Evie, Dot and Aggie had hand-made over the years, a tradition of Hope Cottage. There were baubles dipped in gold. Delicate willow-wreath animals including a bunny, and a bear and a little mouse. She touched them and smiled, remembering the day she and Aggie had sat making that. Her eye fell on The Book, open to the recipe Evie and her sisters had just started to make and which would take nearly six weeks. The day before, Evie and her aunts had put the first cake layer in to bake, and it had now been soaked in port; it would rest for a week before they added the next layer of hope. It was the Good Cheer Christmas Cake recipe Emma had scoffed at in her mind when Evie had taken down the green cake tins from their home atop the dresser, though she hadn’t had the heart to say anything aloud. Perhaps a part of her couldn’t for other reasons too; perhaps on some level it was because the recipe was a cornerstone of the history of the cottage, and whatever she felt about The Book, the intention behind the recipe had always been kind. It was the only recipe that they made every year for the entire village, regardless of feuds or disagreements or differences, and she couldn’t help remembering the first time she’d helped to make it too, on her first Christmas at Hope Cottage. With snow beginning to fall outside the window, and the radio playing soft Christmas jazz, it didn’t seem all that long ago now.