It’s Christmas Day, and we’re having a barbecue. In the snow.
Cal insisted, saying he wanted to give us a taste of his homeland, and who was I to argue? It saved me having a showdown with a turkey, at the very least.
We’ve already exchanged gifts, which was a much more pleasant experience than I anticipated. For me, waking up at Christmas without Kate was really hard – and I’d been worried about how Martha was going to deal with it as well.
With a hefty dollop of relief, I soon realised that she had clearly decided to at least try and enjoy herself. Neither of us was crying – and avoiding our own version of Oh Come All Ye Tearful was a real plus point as we began our festive celebrations. That might come later, I knew, but to start with at least, we were holding it together. Maybe for each other’s sake – but if it works, it works.
Cal called over early, bearing parcels in a sack and wearing a hat with reindeer antlers sticking out of the sides, and we sat in the living room in front of the fire, opening our presents. Martha had compiled a play-list of alternative Christmas songs, and in the background we had the likes of The Pogues doing their Fairytale of New York, Chrissie Hynde belting out The Pretenders’ version of Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas, and Sonic Youth singing Santa Doesn’t Cop Out on Dope. Festive but weird – just like us.
Martha’s gift to me was my own David Bowie T-shirt – but a quick sniff test told me she had at least washed it first, and there was also a pair of cute peacock feather ear-rings hiding inside the folds of the fabric, as well as the latest Jilly Cooper book. She knows my guilty pleasures too well. Cal gave me a totally orgasmic antique copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles, which I sat and stroked for a while, and a couple of paperback crime thrillers set in the Australian outback. I’ve always suspected that a pack of hungry crocodiles would be the perfect way to dispose of a dead body.
My present-buying has been a bit hit and miss this year. Martha is at that age where there isn’t much to get her that she doesn’t want to choose herself. I gave her some cash, which always goes down well, plus some books. Because it wouldn’t be Christmas without books. Thanks to the wonders of the internet, I’ve managed to find a teenager-sized Postman Pat onesie, complete with feet, which she adored and immediately put on, posing for photos while she did the traditional heavy-metal rock sign with her fingers and stuck her tongue out like Ozzy Osbourne.
Cal also donated some folding money to the Martha Fund, plus a pair of new Doc Marten’s with tartan ribbons that she flipped over. They look great with the Postman Pat onesie. And between us, me and Cal have bought her some fine additions to her vinyl album collection – some Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground, and a selection of Motown and Stax classics like Marvin Gaye and Otis Redding and Booker T and the MGs just to make sure she doesn’t get too miserable.
She’s bought him socks with Simpsons characters on the sides, and a selection of Australian snack foods that pretty much had him salivating immediately – chocolate biscuits called Tim Tams, some kind of coconut bar called Cherry Ripes, and crisps called Cheezels, which are like a cross between Hula Hoops and Wotsits. Nothing quite says home like a delicious spread of junk food, I suppose – I’d probably miss Jacob’s Clubs if I was deprived of them for long enough.
I’d struggled with what to get Cal, eventually deciding on a leather belt I found in a vintage clothes place in Bournemouth. It’s thick, tan, and has a huge metal buckle on it in the shape of a mightily-horned bull. For all I know, it was made in Taiwan, but it looks old and genuine, and like the kind of thing John Wayne would have used to hold his jeans up on a cattle drive. I matched it with a new cowboy hat – a plastic one, with Kiss Me Quick written on the front.
We are all wearing our new finery – onesies, ear-rings, boots, belts, plastic hats – as we pile outside for the food, as well as extra gloves and scarves and padded jackets. The snow has well and truly settled now, making the green in the middle of the Rockery look like someone snuck out in the middle of the night and coated it with thick layers of icing sugar. The trees and bushes are frosted and white, and the water in the little fountain is frozen solid. The sun is bright and the sky is a vivid blue, but the temperatures are low enough to leave our breathe clumping out in steamy clouds as we talk.
Cal has set up his barbecue in the middle of the grass, and is struggling to handle the tongs with his skiing gloves on. He remains determined, though, adding steaks and chicken breasts and burgers to the top of the grill, teeth chattering as he turns them, the smoke spluttering in the breeze. Totally bonkers.
“This,” he says, muttering under his breath, “is a lot easier in the sunshine, on the bloody beach …”
Within a few minutes, the smell of the cooking meat wafting around the gardens, doors start to open. Black Rose, Matt’s cottage, is the biggest of all the buildings here, and this Christmas has been playing host to pretty much everyone. He and Laura cleared out most of the furniture to create a big space for tables and chairs, and she’s been in her element cooking for her parents, Becca and Sam, Edie, Katie and Saul, and Cherie and Frank.
Predictably enough, the teenagers emerge first, all kitted out in what looks like new Christmas clobber, eager to let off steam after being cooped up with a bunch of adults all day. Lizzie has on the exact same Doc Martens and tartan ribbons as Martha, but hasn’t been lucky enough to win the Postman Pat onesie jackpot.
Nate, Lizzie and Martha immediately blow any pretence at being cool teens by starting a snowball fight, running round in the white stuff, clomping their footprints into the ground, shrieking and laughing as they chase each other. Little Saul toddles after them, and Midgebo starts to give pursuit, before standing perfectly still, big black nose quivering in the air. Correctly, he scents food, and instead gallops over to us in case something delicious accidentally falls off the barbecue. The smell of the steak means that he sits at Cal’s feet – in fact on Cal’s feet – and looks extra-pathetic for the next twenty minutes, literally giving him the puppy-dog eyes and pretending that he’s not been fed that day.
Laura has brought out a bottle of Champagne and some plastic glasses, and is merrily dispensing bubbles to us all, everyone milling around wishing each other a merry Christmas and enjoying hugs and kisses and sharing oohs and aahs over gifts. Her parents, who have travelled down in their motor-home to see their daughters and grandkids, are dressed in matching green gilets, which for some reason makes me laugh. They look like characters from an 80s sitcom.
Even a few of the actual holiday-makers edge bravely out from their cottages to see what’s going on, one family with young kids who immediately join in the snowball fight, one with a pair of Boxer dogs who do some balletic twisting leaps through the snow before adding themselves to Midgebo’s barbecue vigil, sitting on quivering hind quarters, stubby tails thumping away. Poor Cal is completely fenced in by hungry dogs now – one false move and it’ll all be over. Possibly even better than the crocodiles.
Cherie stomps through the snow in her bright red moon boots, and engulfs me in one of her super-hug specials. She’s wearing an ankle length padded coat that makes her almost entirely spherical.
“Happy Christmas, me lovely!” she says, when she finally lets me up for air. “I love your earrings. Christmas pressie? What else did you get?”
She fingers the peacock feathers as she talks, making them twist and turn until they tangle up in my hair.
“Mainly books,” I reply. “I’m easy to buy for. Can’t go wrong with a good book.”
“You do love your reading, don’t you?” she replies, eyes narrowing in thought. Laura passes by, gives me first a quick kiss on the cheek, then a plastic glass full of fizz.
“I do,” I answer, sipping the Champagne and grimacing slightly. I’m not sure chilled wine was what we needed on a day like today – it’s more of an Irish coffee day – but hey, it’s alcohol, so I’ll drink it.
“I think it’s from when I was a kid,” I continue, smiling as I watch the young people frolic. Nate has been pinned down outside Saffron, and is getting a thorough pummelling from the older girls. “It wasn’t exactly an Enid Blyton-style childhood, and books were always my escape. I just couldn’t get enough stories – and that’s never changed.”
She nods, and says: “I can understand that. And I’ve been thinking … I know you two are only supposed to be here until February, but if you wanted to extend that, I’d be happy to keep Lilac Wine for you. Or one of the bigger cottages, if you needed more space …”
She looks at Cal as she says this, and raises her eyebrows expectantly. Ah, I think – here it comes. The Budbury Happy Ending pitch. This place changed Laura’s life, and Becca’s, and now it seems like I’m next on the hit-list.
“That’s really kind of you, Cherie, but I’m not sure … I couldn’t just stay, without making some changes. Finding a job. Sorting out the house and flat back in Bristol. It’s a big decision, and I’m not especially good at those.”
“No pressure – just an offer,” she answers, patting me on the hand. “You and Martha seem so settled here is all. And as for a job, that’s another thing I’ve been thinking about … the book shop in the village closed down years ago, just wasn’t the demand I suppose, so I was considering setting up something at the cafe. I’d keep the bookshelves for people to read for free obviously – but I was thinking that a little concession wouldn’t go amiss. Like you say, you can’t go wrong with a good book – some mainstream fiction, local authors, poetry, photography collections for the tourists, maps and guides … even a cookery book or two!”
As she speaks, my mind automatically conjures up the images to go with it: the counter displays, the Budbury Book Chart for the most popular titles; a whole section on fossil-hunting and local history; nature guides; a Thomas Hardy shrine … they could even hold events, readings by local writers, poetry evenings. There’s not much to do around here, they’d be a highlight of the social calendar … and the cafe should produce its own cook book, crammed with Laura’s recipes and Lizzie’s photos…
The thoughts are coming thick and fast, and it opens up a whole new world of opportunity. I’ve loved my time here – but I’ve missed my job as well. What if I could combine the best of both worlds? What if we could stay? What if February didn’t have to be the end?
I feel excited, and nervous, and scared. It’s a big change. I’d have to talk to Martha about it, see what she thought. I glance across at her, and see that she is lying on the ground, making snow angels in her Postman Pat onesie, screeching with laughter as Nate gets his revenge by pelting her with snowballs. She looks and sounds so happy – but would she want to stay? Without Cal? I have no idea.
“I’ll leave you with that food for thought,” says Cherie, dragging me out of my dream world. I realise that I’ve been completely silent, not responding at all, and splutter my apologies.
“Yes, thank you, Cherie … I’ll definitely think about it,” I say, as she moves off to chat to her holiday tenants.
The tenants look happy but confused, and I can see why. There is an air of controlled madness out on the green, between the kids and the dogs and weirdness of having a barbecue in the snow and the fact that both Little Edie and Big Edie are dressed as elves. Matt is doing a second round with more Champagne, and Katie actually looks relaxed for once, as little Saul helps Lizzie to roll up the body of what might end up being the world’s biggest snowman.
Becca strolls towards me, cradling Little Edie in her arms, hardly any of the actual baby visible between the dangling green elf hat, the pointy green elf shoes, and the seven-inch thick clothing she’s wearing between them. Her eyes – Sam’s shade of dazzling blue – are open and alert, her tiny face creased into the cutest smile as she gazes up at me.
“Wow. She’s a complete heart-breaker,” I say, holding out one gloved finger for Little Edie to grab on to.
“I know,” replies Becca, grinning. “I say this with absolutely no bias as her mother, but I don’t think a more beautiful baby ever graced planet Earth. How are you holding up? With all this … Christmas?”
She kind of sneers a bit as she says it, and I am reminded that this is very much not her favourite time of year.
“Okay,” I reply, steadily. “I mean, it’s Christmas – what’s not to like?”
“I’ll write you a list,” she answers. “One day. When I have time. But … I suppose it’s not too bad. In fact certain aspects of it are pretty amazing. This time last year, I had no idea what was going on in my life. Now here I am – all loved up and playing mama bear. Never would have predicted that one. But hey … things have a habit of sneaking up on you sometimes, don’t they?”
As she says this, Cal promptly sneaks up behind me, grabbing me into a bear hug and making me squeal. Becca laughs, in a slightly evil way, having obviously watched him tiptoeing towards me for the last few seconds.
I deliver a swift slap across the head to Cal, and only refrain from dishing out the same to Becca because she’s holding the most beautiful baby that ever graced planet Earth. I scowl at her instead, and she scuttles off, still giggling.
Cal wraps his arm around my shoulder, and squeezes me into him.
“Good day, isn’t it?” he says, dropping a kiss onto the top of my curls. “Even without the sunshine or the beach. Don’t think I’ll have enough stuff to go round this lot, but Laura says she’ll bring out turkey sandwiches if anyone gets hungry.”
Of course she will, I think. She’s probably planned for the feeding of the festive five thousand already.
“It is a good day,” I say, liking the feel of his solid mass next to me. He’s second only to Cherie on the hug front, is Cal. “And your daughter seems to be enjoying herself as well. I wonder how Peter’s getting on …”
“He’s doing great,” replies Cal, as we stand and watch as Martha clambers up, dusts the snow off her legs, and heads towards us. “Sent me a photo earlier, of him holding his little niece. So far, so good.”
Martha strides through the now churned-up snow in our direction, just as Cal dashes off to deal with a small barbecue emergency. It seems to have set on fire. So much for his native skills.
“You okay?” I ask, as Martha performs an elegant skid, stopping right next to me. Her pale cheeks are streaked with pink, her black hair is dripping, and she seems to have forgotten to paint on her eyeliner this morning.
“Yeah. Good. This is … all completely mad, isn’t it?” she says, holding out a gloved hand to indicate the scene in front of us. The dogs are whooping and jumping as Cal scoops charred bits of meat off the grill; Big Edie is hula-hooping in her elf outfit, and Laura and Matt are having a sneaky snog outside Black Rose. The devils.
“Completely and utterly mad,” I reply.
Martha pauses, and a flicker of pain ghosts across her face. She turns to me, and gives me a sad smile.
“She’d have loved it, wouldn’t she?”
“She would,” I answer, nodding. “But in her absence, I suppose we’ll just have to love it enough for all three of us, won’t we?”