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(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
I try the key in the ignition one more time and say a little prayer, but it’s no use – the Clio has definitely died. It’s going nowhere. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel and let out a little whimper. Basil, sitting upright on the passenger seat beside me, tilts his head to one side in sympathy.
‘So what now then?’ I ask, giving him a sideways grimace before pulling the furry hood of my parka up over my crimson-and-white Fair Isle bobble hat. It’s perishing cold out here, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve come up with a plan and there’s no backing out now.
Keep calm and carry yarn.
That’s what I embroidered onto the front of my craft bag, so taking my own advice, in addition to a massive breath, I scoop Basil up under my arm, grab my suitcase from the back seat (you can’t be too careful around here with all the street crime), and head back into the flat to call a taxi to take me to the station. We’ll travel by train. It’ll be fun, and I’m sure it can’t be that far to Tindledale. And I probably should call Cher to let her know that I’m on my way. I’ve already rung Mum to give her Cher’s number and tell her that Basil and I are going on a mini-break for a few days; she’ll only worry if she can’t get hold of me, and she was delighted to hear that I’m venturing out and ‘dipping my toe back in’ … Hmm. Mum also said to give Cher her love.
Of course, I didn’t mention the cock-up to end all cock-ups at work and that I’m actually running away because right now I just can’t deal with any more stress. Only for a long weekend, mind you, but enough time to give myself some space to figure out what to do and come up with a strategy. It’s a chance to breathe, and I don’t feel as if I’ve done that properly since the ‘wedding that never happened’. Besides, Mum will only panic about everyone finding out that I’m the bungling employee. Plus, I don’t want Sasha knowing. I feel so betrayed by her and the last thing I want is her knowing that I’ve messed up at work and could potentially lose my job too, in addition to the boyfriend that she stole from me. She’s always wanted what I’ve had; as children she’d want the toy that I’d been given, even though it was exactly the same as hers, and she’d make me swap. As we’ve got older, I’ve often felt that she thinks she’s better than me, more successful, just because she travels and has a full-on social life. It’s well known within the family that she thinks my job and passion for knitting and needlecraft is dull – ‘provincial’ is what she said on one of the rare occasion we were last all together – and I think she secretly feels the same way about our parents too, in their bungalow in the cul-de-sac in Staines – they and it are just not glamorous or exciting enough for Sasha.
Not that Mum and Dad are in constant communication with her; in fact, since May the fourth they’ve been extremely diplomatic and have kept her very much at arm’s length, which I guess is fairly easy given that Sasha spends most of her time gallivanting around, organising spectacular events for her fabulously famous and wealthy clients in places like Dubai, and not forgetting her annual charity event here in the UK – the Christmas hunt ball – because she likes to ‘give a little back’ as she says, to the horse community that helped launch her career. It’s how she came to be such a successful event planner in the first place: she started out by organising pony shows and polo parties for well-heeled people who recommended her to their even wealthier friends, who make up her glittering client portfolio. And now she’s being fabulous all over the place with my ex-fiancé in tow, no doubt. Well, good riddance to them, I rally, mustering up a modicum of resilience. I wonder if Sasha has discovered Luke’s penchant for farting under the duvet yet?
The Duck & Puddle number rings for what seems like an eternity before I hang up – I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s just after 7 p.m. – Cher is obviously busy and I imagine the bar area is noisy so maybe nobody can hear the phone. I try her mobile, but it doesn’t even ring, it goes straight through to the ‘person can’t take your call …’ message. Anyway, it’ll be fine; Cher said to visit, so it’ll be a nice surprise for her and I’ve already called work – well, luckily Gina’s mobile went straight to voice mail too, so I left a message to say that since I have a migraine coming on and quite possibly a temperature, but I haven’t actually confirmed this as I don’t have a thermometer (Gina can be very pedantic), it was looking highly unlikely that I’d make it into work tomorrow. Not strictly a lie, as I really do have a headache, an anxiety one, and I’m starting to sweat in this furry hood and bobble hat. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that right now I’m one very hot mess!
*
An hour later, the train to Tindledale is just about to depart – the last direct one, luckily, which arrives at 10.39 p.m. After that, you have to go to Market Briar, the nearest big town, and get a taxi or a lift on a tractor apparently, ‘so don’t be planning any big late nights out while you’re there’, is what the man in the ticket office chortled when I told him where we were heading.
Basil settles at my feet after giving up on trying to snuggle on the seat beside me. A guy in a black duffel coat and a grey beanie hat (definitely machine-knitted) is sitting by the window in the bank of seats adjacent to me, reading a newspaper; he looks up and gives me a courteous smile. I smile back and instantly notice his kind-looking emerald eyes behind black-framed glasses which accentuate the stubbly dark beard and curly hair peeping out from under the sides of his hat. This is only a recent thing, noticing men. After being in a relationship for five years with a man that I was certain I’d marry, it still feels weird looking at other guys in a snog/marry/avoid way, as Cher would say. I guess, it just isn’t something I’m used to; I really loved Luke, so it didn’t ever cross my mind to notice other men, and then, after everything that happened … well, let’s just say that it’s taking me time to reprogram my head to an ‘I’m single’ status.
‘Basil!’ I yell as he darts across the carriage and goes to swipe the guy’s Costa cake from a napkin on the table. I dive-bomb Basil just in time. ‘I’m so sorry, anyone would think he was starving, which he certainly isn’t,’ I say, grinning apologetically to the guy. I grab Basil’s collar and swiftly pull him back. Luckily, the guy laughs and shrugs it off, before moving the cake to a safer spot and lifting his newspaper back up.
A few minutes later, an older lady, sixty-something perhaps, arrives through the door of the adjoining carriage and sits opposite me.
‘Ah, he’s a fine-looking lad. What’s his name?’ she asks in a country accent as she glances down at my feet. ‘And what a superb coat he has on.’
‘Thanks, he’s called Basil.’ I smile, straightening Basil’s festive red knitted body warmer before unzipping my parka. Basil lifts his head on hearing his name so I give him a quick stroke. He laps it up before resting his chin back on my right foot.
‘Well I never, that was my late husband’s name, God rest his soul, and I haven’t heard it in a while, I must say! Is it significant to you too?’
‘Um, yes, I’m called Sybs, well, Sybil really. My friend, Cher, she came up with his name on account of—’
‘Oh yes, I know it! From the TV series, Fawlty Towers, it was so funny. Basiiiiiiiiiiil,’ she bellows, taking me by surprise. ‘That’s what his wife, Sybil, used to holler – it was a standing joke with my Basil and I. He always laughed when I did it to him.’ Her eyes close momentarily as she reminisces.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I say gently.
‘Oh, thank you, love, but it was a very long time ago and he certainly had a good innings. I’m on my second husband now, met him a year ago on a coach tour to Portofino. Colin was the driver,’ she chuckles, ‘and fourteen years younger than me. I’m Dolly, by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Dolly.’ I smile, loving her zest for life, and Dolly chuckles and winks before loosening her coat and removing her fur hat.
‘You have the right idea, Sybs, it’s mighty warm in this carriage, that heater is churning out the hot air.’ She frowns, pointing at the panel beside us.
‘It sure is,’ I say, slipping off the parka.
‘Cor! That’s a beauty. Knit it yourself?’ She nods at my Christmas jumper.
‘Oh, um, yes I did. Thank you!’ I beam and cast a glance down at the fleece-lined chunky red knit with Ho Ho Ho emblazoned across the front in sparkly yarn, and each Ho a different colour. The heater in the Clio is so temperamental that I wasn’t taking any chances on freezing to death during the long drive to Tindledale and this is the warmest jumper I’ve ever made, but then, when the taxi turned up right away, I didn’t have time to get changed into something more suitable for a steamed-up train journey.
‘You have a real gift. I could never get on with knitting.’ Dolly shakes her head and I smile politely, unable to imagine a life without knitting. Knitting has never let me down: it soothes me, comforts me, excites me, calms me – it’s multifaceted and it means so many things to me. It may sound silly, but all of my knitting projects have memories attached too: I can swing a silver pashmina around my shoulders, knitted on holiday in Ibiza, and it instantly puts me right there on the sandy beach under a parasol with Cher nodding her head along to the tunes on her iPod, us laughing together, sipping sangria and feeling carefree and happy. This was long before I met Luke, or Sasha betrayed me. ‘So where are you off to?’ Dolly asks.
‘I’m going to surprise a friend who’s just moved to a village called Tindledale. Do you know it?’
‘I most certainly do. My Basil was postman there for a while and his father before him. Colin and I live in Stoneley, four stops before yours.’
‘Ooh, you might be able to help me with something then, please?’ I ask, eagerly.
‘Always happy to help if I can, dear. What is it?’ Dolly smiles kindly.
‘I left home in a bit of hurry and haven’t brought a housewarming gift for my friend, I don’t suppose you can recommend a shop where I can buy something nice for her? I was thinking a candle or some Belgian truffles perhaps.’ Cher isn’t really one for knitted garments, otherwise I’d have brought her a cardy, or a tea cosy or two. I managed to grab a bottle of red wine from my fridge, and it’s almost full, but it’s hardly the same as a proper present, especially when Cher already has a pub full of alcohol. Dolly laughs.
‘Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been in Tindledale, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t anywhere that sells candles, certainly not the fancy fragranced ones that you’d be after. You might get some white Price’s household ones in the village store – they always used to keep a few boxes in stock for the power cuts,’ she says knowingly. ‘And as for chocolates, they won’t be Belgian, but I’m sure you’d get a nice bar of Fry’s Peppermint Cream in there too. They have quite a range in their small supermarket section – through the archway next to the post office counter.’
‘Lovely. I’ll head there right away,’ I say, not wanting to be rude, but I can’t exactly turn up with a bar of Fry’s chocolate. Cher will think I’ve really lost the plot.
‘Oh, it won’t be open this time of night, dear. The village store closes at four in the winter. You could try the pub though; just go to the hatch in the snug, they have a little shop that has sweets, crisps, cigarettes, milk, magazines, eggs, bread, firelighters, logs, lighter fuel … that kind of thing. There’s an honesty box so take what you like and leave the money in the bowl.’ I smile again – I can just see Cher’s face if I buy her a bag of crisps as a present from her own shop. And who ever heard of a pub with an honesty box? At the fried chicken place on the corner of my street they have a metal grill that you have to pay through at the time of order, and they don’t take notes over a fiver in case they’re forgeries.
*
The train pulls into Stoneley and I can barely keep my eyes open after chatting to Dolly for most of the journey. I stifle a yawn and will myself to keep awake.
‘Oh dear! You need a good night’s sleep.’ Hmm, this is true – I haven’t slept properly in months. ‘But not far now,’ Dolly says warmly, buttoning up her coat and giving Basil a parting tickle under his chin.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I say, doing a little wave.
‘You too, love. Enjoy your stay in Tindledale. And do look me up if you’re ever in Stoneley. We have the import/export company on the old Market Briar road – can’t miss our barn which doubles as a warehouse. Cheerio.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile and wave again as she steps off the train and walks past the window and into the arms of her husband who is waiting to greet her at the end of the platform with a big grin on his face and an enormous bouquet of festive winter blooms – rich reds, oranges and greens, and there’s even one of those little dried pumpkins on a stick nestling next to a silver-sprayed sprig of mistletoe which he plucks from the bunch and holds high above her head before leaning in for a Christmas kiss. Laughing, she bats his chest before pulling him in close. They clearly adore each other and it’s so nice to see. Maybe there’s hope for me yet …
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and realise that I really am exhausted. A few minutes later I become conscious that Basil’s beside me, so I open one eye and do a quick scan of the carriage. The guy by the window is still engrossed in his newspaper and there’s nobody else here, so I put my hand around Basil and stroke his silky soft ear. He takes the cue and snuggles into the side of my thigh, curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, instinctively knowing that he needs to be on his best behaviour or he’ll be back on the hard train floor.
*
The train stops moving and I jolt awake.
‘Er, excuse me … are we here?’ I ask the ticket inspector, as I wipe away the condensation that’s gathered on the window, but he’s already heading back off down the carriage, and the guy with the newspaper has gone too. I must have nodded off.
I peer out through the gap on the glass.
And gasp.
We’re on the set of Frozen! Or so it seems. Outside there’s a magical winter wonderland where Olaf could appear at any given moment – I’m convinced of it. The platform is covered in a beautiful layer of crisp, clean white snow, untouched and definitely not mottled with dirt like the sludgy grey sleet at home. It’s perfect. Just like one of Mum’s special festive placemats with the perfect Christmassy scene on them that she keeps for best, or for when Gloria from next door pops in for her annual New Year drinks soirée.
Feeling very excited, I quickly pull on my parka, loop my hand through Basil’s lead and gather up my stuff before heading for the door. I can’t wait to grab a taxi to the Duck & Puddle pub; with a bit of luck, Basil and I will make it there just in time to surprise Cher and Clive before last orders.
(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
But where’s the taxi rank?
Basil and I are standing underneath an old-fashioned Dickensian-looking streetlight! And I don’t believe it – we’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow-dappled trees and standing on a postage-stamp-size patch of tarmac that I’m assuming must count as a car park around here. And it’s deserted, apart from what looks like half of a dilapidated two-berth caravan. It’s hard to tell as the top has been cut off and the rest ‘left to nature’; brambles, ten feet high with an intricate crocheted maze of snow-dusted spider webs weaving between the leaves, are sprouting from it at jaunty angles. Basil and I are the only ones here and the tiny ticket office, aka a converted Portakabin, is all locked up; we had to exit the platform via a rickety wooden side gate. So now what? There isn’t even a bus stop or a phone box that I can see, and the snow is falling thicker and faster.
We start walking.
Well, I’m walking, trudging like a Sherpa really, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me, whereas Basil is bouncing along up front, biting the snow as if it’s a real thing and generally having a good time.
We’ve been walking for at least ten minutes when we come to a fork in the road. There’s one of those traditional white wooden country signposts, so I stop walking and, after catching my breath, I reach up and wipe the snow away to see if we’re even going in the right direction.
Tindledale 2¼
Two and a quarter miles! Sweet Jesus, when was the last time I walked that far? From what I can see, it’s uphill all the way and my backside still aches from the Zumba class. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all. On the numerous occasions when the Clio has conked out, I’ve just taken the tube or jumped on a bus. Getting around is easy in London, but not here it seems. I scan the narrow, twisting country lane, hopeful for a bus stop, but there’s nothing, just trees and hedges and darkness and silence. I never knew the countryside could be this quiet. No car alarms. No shouting. No TV. No belting Dubstep from next door at 3 a.m. on a school night. No nothing. Just nature at night-time, I suppose. It’s peaceful. And I never noticed it before when camping with the Brownies as a child, but then there were ten giggling girls in sleeping bags right beside me.
There aren’t even any streetlights now. Only a pretty pearlescent hue from the full moon high up in the inky, twinkly starry night sky. Oh well. It could be fun, in a Dorothy-following-the-yellow-brick-road kind of way; only my road is glistening snow-white to light the way. I click the heels of my (fittingly) red Converse trainers together and try to ignore the fact that they’re already soaked through. Right on cue, Basil, thinking it’s some kind of new game, leaps up at me. Catching him with my gloved hands, I laugh and pull him in close, letting him nuzzle into my face, his whiskery nose tickling my cheeks and making me smile. He can be my Toto.
‘Come on. We better get on with it then,’ I say, placing him back on the snowy ground, and making a mental note to buy a new mobile first thing in the morning.
Figuring it will be easier to push the suitcase up the hill, I lengthen the strap on my handbag and swing it over my head, cross-body style, before pulling the bobble hat and hood down over my forehead to act as a kind of snow shield, then I manoeuvre the suitcase into position like a mini snowplough, and start trudging. And trudge some more. And more again. Past a quaint, brick-built school with a tiny playground and an impressive clock tower at one end of the roof, a row of the cutest chocolate-box cottages I’ve ever seen, with wrought-iron gates leading into long front gardens surrounded by mature hedges and dotted with wooden bird feeders and wind chimes. One of the cottages has a pile of wellies and muddy boots stacked up in the porch by the front door and I can’t help thinking how lovely it is, that they can leave stuff like that outside without the fear of somebody nicking it. That would never happen in London – I put a herb planter on my windowsill once and it lasted exactly a day before it disappeared. I keep trudging until, eventually, I spot a hazy glow in the distance. A flicker.
As we get closer, I see a single white column candle in a glass-covered storm lamp at the foot of a stone war memorial set in the middle of a very tiny village square. There’s a festive holly wreath lying next to the candle, its crimson red berries a vivid contrast in the white of the snow, and for some reason it takes my breath away. It’s poignant and magical and I stand mesmerised for a few minutes at the significance of the sight before me. Even Basil stops bounding and stands completely still, instinctively sensing the reverence of the moment.
The snow stops and I notice a bus shelter to my left with a wooden bench inside. Hurrah! I stagger in and sit down, grateful for the breather. Two and a quarter miles, uphill, in deep snow, is very hard work.
‘Evening!’ a man’s voice says in the dark, and I almost jump right off the bench. I didn’t see him there, huddled up in the corner. ‘Sorry to startle you. Just waiting for the good lady wife,’ he explains, before rubbing his gloved hands together and stamping his welly-clad feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘Nippy one tonight. Where are you heading? There won’t be a bus along until tomorrow, you know. First one is at eight so you’ll have a bit of a wait.’
‘Oh, um, hello,’ I start, awkwardly. I’m not used to complete strangers making eye contact in public, let alone talking to me. It isn’t the done thing in London. What if they have a knife? But he looks harmless in the candlelight, wizened but friendly, jovial even, and Basil likes him; he has his front paws up on the man’s knees and his tail is wagging from side to side. ‘Basil! Stop that. Sorry, he’s still learning,’ I say, grabbing Basil’s collar in an attempt to pull him away from the man.
‘Ah, he’s OK. Can probably smell my dogs. Got six of them at home. Not Scotties, mind. Working Collies – for the sheep.’ The man treats Basil to a vigorous rub behind his ears.
‘That’s nice. Are you a shepherd?’ I say, and then instantly wish I could push the words back into my mouth. I sound ridiculous – from what I’ve already seen of Tindledale, it’s obviously a bit behind the times but hardly biblical. Then the man surprises me.
‘Yes, I guess so. Ah, those were the days!’ He chuckles. Wow! I’ve just met my first shepherd. ‘It’s all changed now, but I’ve still got sheep, hundreds of the bleaters. So where have you come from?’
‘Um, London,’ I reply, a little taken aback by his directness. ‘I’ve just walked from the station,’ I add, to clarify.
‘Well, that’s certainly a trek.’ He lets out a long whistle. ‘Oh, here she is.’ The man stands up as a mud-splattered old tank of a Land Rover judders to a halt in front of us, its diesel engine still chugging as the window is cranked down a few inches, gets stuck and a woolly-mittened (definitely homemade) hand appears over the top to force it down the rest of the way.
‘Been bothering you, has he?’ A blowsy woman in a floral silk headscarf pops her head out.
‘Oh, no, not at all.’ I shake my head vehemently and smile to assure her.
‘Well, that makes a change – fancies himself as a ladies’ man when he’s got his drinking goggles on, don’t you, dear?’ She chuckles as he plants a big kiss on her plump cheek before heading round to the passenger seat. ‘Do you need a lift?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, feeling ever so slightly displaced, a bit parallel universe, even. It’s surreal. I’m standing in Narnia with the shepherd and his wife chatting like they’ve known me my whole life.
‘Where are you heading to?’
‘The Duck & Puddle pub, do you know it?’
The woman roars with laughter like I’ve just cracked the funniest joke ever.
‘Indeed, I do! Very well, in fact. It’s my husband’s second home. End of the High Street, over the village green – watch out for the duck pond – and Bob’s your uncle.’ She points into the dark over my left shoulder.
‘Is it far?’ I ask, looking in the direction of her index finger.
‘Minutes. But here, you’ll need this.’ And after leaning down and rummaging around in the footwell for a while, her head bobs back up and she hands me a flashlight. It even has its own plastic carrying handle. ‘Switch that on and you’ll be able to see as far as Market Briar,’ she instructs. ‘I would give you a lift, but you can be there in the time it’ll take us to load you, the dog and the suitcase into the car.’ She roars again.
‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking the flashlight on and thinking how generous she is. I could run off with this for all she knows.
‘There’s a girl!’ She nods cheerily. ‘It’s not usually this pitch-black in the village. Blasted snow puts the power off, you see. The pylons don’t like it.’ And she points again, this time above the bus stop to an overhead cable that’s laden with snow. So, Dolly was on the ball. ‘Good night.’
‘But what about the flashlight?’ I say, waving it in the air.
‘Just leave it with the others in the crate by the bar.’ And with that, she pulls the window back up and chugs away.
With the powerful beam from the flashlight guiding the way, Basil and I step onto the cobbly street that’s flanked either side with rows of small black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops which I presume is the village centre – a far cry from London with all its multi-storey concrete tower blocks and big flashing neon signs. I shine the light towards the end of the little street and sure enough, there’s the pub, the Duck & Puddle, cloaked in darkness, just past the village green. I take it we’ve missed last orders, then.
Pushing the suitcase, Basil and I make our way towards the pub, but I can’t resist having a nose through the mullioned windows of the shops. There’s what looks like a clothes boutique on my left across the road, vintage maybe, because there’s a swishy pink polka-dot Fifties’ prom dress on a headless dressmaker’s bust in the window. Opposite is a place called The Spotted Pig – a double-fronted café, by the looks of it, there’s a menu in a glass case on the wall in the little alcove by the front door. I take a closer look and see that the Christmas special is panettone bread pudding with creamy rum custard. Cor, I love the sound of this; maybe I can bring Cher to The Spotted Pig for afternoon tea tomorrow. Aw, a pet parlour is next door. I can see the sign, PAWS, in elegant mint green and cream letters above the door.
‘One for you, Basil.’ But he’s too busy biting the snow. There’s a bookshop now, a proper musty, old-looking one. Using the sleeve of my parka, I wipe a space on the window and press my nose up to the glass. Wow! There must be a billion books filling every shelf, table top and nook and cranny; old books too, ones that you might have to wear special white gloves for before being allowed to thumb through them. A fruit and veg shop is next door with a stack of empty fruit boxes piled up neatly in the doorway.
We cross over and next to the one with the prom dress in the window is a butcher’s, a traditional one with a ceramic-tiled counter and a row of silver meat hooks dangling in the window. Next, there’s an antiques shop, then a chemist, a florist and a bakery. And here’s the village store that Dolly mentioned, and, last of all, there are a couple of empty shops at the end nearest the green. I’m impressed: a butcher and a baker; all they need is a candlestick maker – which, given the apparent frequency of the power cuts around here, might very well be a good thing. A real money-spinner.
We reach the green. Ah, this is nice. There’s a very plump Christmas tree set right in the middle, and it must be at least twenty feet tall. It has glittery baubles hanging from the ferny fingers, glistening in the glow from the flashlight. My heart lifts. It’s truly magical – so quiet and peaceful and in such utter contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of what I’ve left behind. I think I’m going to really enjoy my weekend here. And then I realise that I haven’t thought about May the fourth, or indeed, Jennifer Ford, since I stepped on the train in London, which right now feels like a million miles away – and that’s a good thing, surely? These past few months, I have honestly been rapidly reaching the point where I feel as if my head might actually explode. A mini-break in the beautiful, cosy, bubble of Tindledale is just what I need.
(#u78ed19b0-56cc-5cc8-b235-0710f8b813de)
It’s like that film, Deliverance, when I push open the door of the Duck & Puddle – all that’s missing is a man in dungarees chewing tobacco and strumming a banjo.
Ten or so pairs of eyes turn to stare at me as I stamp the bulk of the snow from my legs and feet, push down the hood of my parka and pull off my bobble hat, it’s like a furnace in here. And I haven’t missed last orders at all; in fact, from the number of full pints lined up on the bar, I’d say ‘drinking up time’ has only just begun. The windows all have heavy velvet blackout curtains blocking the light from the numerous candles dotted around the tables, which explains why the pub looked closed from the other side of the village green, and the source of the heat is an enormous real log fire with crimson, blue-tinged flames crackling and wheezing in the ceiling-height inglenook fireplace to my right.
I smile tentatively and scan behind the bar, but Cher isn’t here.
‘Well, don’t just sit there. Give the girl a hand,’ a chunky woman wearing a woolly poncho (handknitted) bellows to the extremely tall, robust-looking man sitting beside her, before elbowing him sharply in the ribs.
‘Will you turn it in, woman?’ he pretends to chastise her as he shoos her hand away. ‘I was just getting my bearings.’ There’s a collective good-natured laugh from the crowd as the man downs his pint in one and then steadies himself on the table before hauling himself into an upright position.
‘That suitcase looks heavy enough to house a body,’ the woman continues. Oh God, don’t say that! They’re already eyeing me suspiciously – probably thinking I’m some kind of crazeee looper on the loose, come to their village to strangle them all in their beds as they sleep.
The man strides towards me and hauls the suitcase up over his shoulder in one swift movement. He extends his free hand.
‘I’m Cooper.’ He nods firmly, as if to punctuate the point. Ah, yes, I remember, the butcher with the hog roast.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ I quickly pull a woolly mitten off with my teeth and shake his hand. ‘I’m Sybs,’ I finish quietly, but he’s already dropped my hand and turned his back to go in search of a suitable spot in which to deposit the suitcase.
‘Now, where do you want this?’ he yells back over his shoulder.
‘Oh, well, I’ve come to visit Cher, so behind the bar perhaps, for now?’ I suggest, quickly going after him, scanning again and thinking where is she? This is really awkward. They are all still staring at me – and the only sound comes from the pop and whizz of the log fire. I spot the crate next to the bar, stacked high with an assortment of torches and flashlights and deposit my borrowed one on top of the pile.
‘SONNNNYYYYY!’ Jesus, that was right in my ear. Cooper sure has a big, booming voice. And Basil has obviously heard him from outside as he’s now barking like a mad dog – woofing over and over and over. Another guy jumps up.
