Footsteps in the Snow and other Teatime Treats Read online

  Sheltered by trees and tucked away behind a friend’s farmhouse, what had seemed idyllic in midsummer had proved to be a daily endurance test as autumn moved into winter. Now my fingers were too frozen to draw and, since illustration was how I earned my living, that wasn’t good news. On frosty mornings there were potential Christmas card illustrations from every window – or there would have been, had they not been permanently steamed up by the smelly little paraffin heater.

  I wasn’t exactly in the mood for drawing anyway – I was cold, I was miserable and even though Christmas was only a couple of days away, I hadn’t had the heart to put up a single decoration. To be honest, I’d been expecting Matt to turn up for weeks, begging my forgiveness and ready to sweep me away from my frozen bower, my knight in a rusty Landrover, but it obviously wasn’t going to happen.

  Then I had a phone call from Rosemary, who always looked after Matt’s dog, Gizmo, and the hens while he was away, since she was his nearest neighbour – in fact, his only neighbour, because he lived up a narrow and remote little lane. She told me she’d been taken ill that morning and was being admitted into hospital for an exploratory operation.

  “I’ve just come home to pack a bag and let everyone know, really.”

  “I’m so sorry, Rosemary! Can I do anything to help?”

  “Well, that’s just it – my nephew’s coming to fetch me shortly, but I’ve got Gizmo here. Matt dropped him off last night, because he was leaving very early this morning for his sister’s in Cornwall for Christmas. He’ll be well on his way by now.”

  “Matt’s away?” I said indignantly. How dared he swan off to the bosom of his family for the festive season, leaving me alone in a caravan with a frozen turkey dinner for one!

  “Yes, and he won’t be home until after the New Year. He isn’t answering his mobile, so I thought perhaps you could try and get hold of him, though it would be terrible if he had to come all the way back, wouldn’t it?”

  “Awful,” I agreed, lying through my teeth.

  “The forecast is for heavy snow tomorrow, too, and you know how quickly the lane to the cottage fills up.”

  “I certainly do,” I said – and then into my head suddenly popped an idea of devilish cunning and extreme brilliance. “Look, don’t worry about a thing – I’ve still got a key and I’ll come over and collect Gizmo, then go on up to the cottage. I’ll sort it all out from there.”

  She rang off, relieved, while I thought over my bright idea, which was to move straight into Bankside Cottage, lock, stock and turkey dinner, and have a cosy Christmas at Matt’s expense.

  Really, I’d be doing him a favour!

  I was packed and out of there within the hour, stopping only to dig out the big carton of Christmas decorations, and one or two other necessities, from the belongings I had stored in an outhouse and tell my friend Linda where I was off to.

  I did raid the village stores on the way, too, where I snaffled the last two jars or mincemeat, a box of crackers and a Christmas pudding the size of a bowling ball.

  *

  I collected Gizmo, who was ecstatic at seeing me again, then settled right back into the cosy old stone cottage as if I’d never left – it seemed to enfold me in a warm embrace the minute I stepped through the door.

  It looked the same too, except that all the photographs of me had been shoved into the dresser drawer. I took them out again and placed them where they should be, then stoked up the stove and put up the little green tinsel tree and lots of decorations, wondering if it was a good sign that Matt hadn’t thrown my pictures out? But then, maybe he just couldn’t be bothered.

  When I climbed into Matt’s big brass bed later, I felt just like Goldilocks, though luckily without any fear of being awoken by an angry grizzly.

  Even when the promised snow materialised overnight, filling the narrow lane with fluffy white down, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t get my car out of the lean-to garage. After all, I had the run of Matt’s larder, which as usual was stocked up as though he expected a siege, not to mention his freezer and wine store.

  I took Gizmo out for a trudge in the fresh snow, feeling the icy air invading every crevice of my lungs, then put a CD of Christmas pop songs on and spent a lovely day cooking – baking mincepies and spiced gingerbread stars to hang on the Christmas tree, putting a hearty lamb casserole on to slow cook, and then starting off a trifle with a packet of sponge fingers and a jelly that must have been in the cupboard since I left.

  Matt had forgotten his Dr Who advent calendar so – waste not, want not – I ate the last chocolate sonic screwdriver and Tardis, before settling down to watch an old film with a plate of mincepies and a glass of Matt’s red wine to hand. Gizmo snored happily on the sheepskin rug before the stove.

  The phone had been dead all day, my mobile couldn’t get a signal and the lane was deep in snow: we were marooned in our warm bubble of festive cosiness and I refused to let any thoughts of Matt, my very own Spirit of Christmas Past, spoil it all.

  Next morning was Christmas Eve and I was standing at the kitchen window, listening to the radio and eating a late breakfast of toast and marmalade while watching Gizmo galumph about in the drifts outside, when I saw a duck come in to land on the little frozen pond at the end of the garden.

  Perhaps Gizmo’s barking-mad romping distracted it, or maybe it just wasn’t expecting to land on ice instead of water, because it came down with a heavy thump and then sat there looking dazed.

  I assumed it was stunned and eventually it would get up and walk off, so during the morning I kept checking on its progress – or lack of, because by lunchtime it was still there.

  It scrabbled pathetically with its feet occasionally, but it obviously had a problem and I realised I had to do something, so I got all kitted out like Scott of the Antarctic and went out. It’s a small pond, but the duck was right in the middle and, I soon discovered, beyond my reach even holding out a broomstick. And anyway, what would I have done if it had reached – shunted the poor creature off like a curling stone?

  The ice seemed thick and solid enough so, after a moment’s hesitation, I stepped gingerly onto it and then lay face down and reached out, while the duck quacked dismally, eyeing me with ungrateful alarm.

  Inching forward, I was almost within grabbing distance when there was a sudden, horrible cracking noise – and then the whole sheet of ice I was lying on slowly tipped downwards, precipitating me into the freezing water with all the grace of a seal sliding down a floe, together with the surprised duck.

  The water pierced me with a million ice-cold needles. It was deeper than you would think in the middle, too, and the sodden weight of my heavy coat began to drag me down, though I made a determined effort to kick out towards the shore.

  I’m not sure what would have happened next, had not someone seized my arm in a grip of iron and dragged me back onto land. I flopped forward limply, face down in the gritty snow.

  “Rosemary, what on earth were you doing?” demanded a deep, all-too-familiar voice that should have been hundreds of miles away in Cornwall, and then Matt rolled me over onto my back.

  The moment of truth having arrived, I coughed out a mouthful of snow and then lay staring up into his incredulous face. He looked tired, unshaven and a bit Heathcliff, which was a pretty potent combination … or it would have been, had I not been too numb to feel anything below the neck.

  “Sara? I might have known only you would do something so stupid! What the hell do you think you were up to?”

  “The d-duck – I was rescuing the d-duck,” I said, through insanely chattering teeth. “Is it all r-right?”

  He hauled me upright unceremoniously, like so much wet washing. “It paddled off, jumped on the bank and walked away,” he said shortly, “so I think you can take it that it’s okay. But what if I hadn’t turned up? You might have frozen to death!”

  “No, I w-wouldn’t, it’s shallow enough to s-stand up in, except in the m-middle.”

  “You were in the m
iddle. Come on, we’d better get you indoors.”

  Gizmo, reappearing, spotted his master and bounded up, delighted, then helpfully impeded our progress by weaving between our legs as we made our way back to the cottage. There was a familiar rucksack and a couple of large bags by the door, where Matt must have dumped them before rescuing me.

  Inside it felt blessedly warm, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever again thaw out completely-permafrost might have set in.

  Matt paused, taking in the evidence of my occupation – not only the sparkling tree with it’s sprinkling of gingerbread stars and the swaying Christmas decorations pinned to the beams, but the way I’d reduced his neat and tidy living room to comfortable chaos in only twenty-four hours.

  “You’ve moved back in?” he said slowly, helping me out of my sodden coat and pulling off my one remaining Wellington boot.

  While I was relieved to see he no longer looked furious, I would have been deceiving myself if I’d said he seemed pleased.

  “Only t-temporarily,” I explained quickly. “Rosemary’s in hospital and you’re s-supposed to be away until N-new Year.”

  “I got there and Jess’s kids have got mumps. If she’d had the sense to phone me and say so, I’d never have gone near the place, because I haven’t had them. Anyway, I dumped the Christmas gifts on the doorstep, spent the night in a motel, and then set out for home – only the roads are so terrible, I was starting to think I wouldn’t make it before Christmas Day.”

  He frowned down at me. “I’d better run a hot bath – I take it you’ve been profligate with my water heater?”

  I nodded guiltily, but he didn’t say any more, just ran the bath, handed me the thick towelling robe I’d been using (his) and left me to it.

  When I came out ages later, pink but defrosted, he’d heated up soup and handed me a glass of hot whisky and lemon.

  I felt much better after that, especially since it had occurred to me that his anger might have been the result of relief that I was okay. It takes people like that sometimes …

  I stole a sideways look at him as he sat down on the sofa next to me. He looked a lot more relaxed after the soup and whisky, but tired – not surprising, since he’d driven hundreds of miles through ice and snow and then had to rescue me.

  “Well now, what am I going to do with you?” he asked. “I had to leave the Landrover on the main road, but I don’t think you should go out again in the cold anyway.”

  “I’m not leaving without my car, and my car isn’t leaving until it thaws. Anyway, it’s a lot warmer here than in my caravan,” I said drowsily. The reaction and the warmth were starting to make me feel really heavy-eyed.

  “I expect it is. So, just what sort of Christmas were you planning to have in my absence, Sara?”

  “I was going to watch a lot of chick flicks, starting tonight with ‘Love Actually?, eat too much chocolate, read novels, drink your wine …”

  “Destroy a few more of my precious possessions?”

  “Look, I said I was sorry about breaking that statuette!” I sat up straight, realising I’d curled up right next to him with my head on his shoulder, probably from sheer force of habit. “Out for a duck,” I added with an attempt at humour, since it had been a rather sickly-looking porcelain child, with a mother duck and her brood nestling into her long skirts.

  “They do seem to be your downfall, don’t they? But it was hideous,” he admitted. “I was going to sell it on Ebay.”

  “You said it was a treasured reminder of your mother!”

  “Yes, but only because I was so angry. If you recall, at the time you’d been relentlessly picking off all my most valued possessions one by one.”

  “You said I was a one-woman demolition squad,” I said indignantly.

  “And you said I was a neatness freak who should loosen up and live a bit more – and actually,” he said, moving up closer and putting his arm around me, “I’ve come to the conclusion you’re right. I missed your clutter when you’d gone, darling. When it came down to it, I’d rather you broke everything in the house and littered the place with junk, than live without you.”

  “But you hated my mess – you were forever saying so,” I reminded him.

  “No, I only thought I did. I want you back, Sara – in fact, I’m quackers about you.”

  “Was that a joke?” I asked incredulously, staring at him. Just how much can love change a man?

  His dark, serious, face broke into a grin as he pulled me into his arms. “You have to admit, it wasn’t any worse than any of yours,” he said, and kissed me.

  “I think I’ve had enough of ducks,” I said breathlessly, some time later. “Let’s never mention them again.” Then my conscience suddenly smote me: confession time. “Matt, you know that set of Waterford crystal glasses?”

  His grey eyes widened in alarm. “You haven’t …?”

  “A slight chip on the edge of one, that’s all,” I said hastily. “I’m sure it can be ground out.”

  6

  First published by My Weekly

  A BIT OF CHRISTMAS RELISH

  Great Aunt Maude left me the handwritten book of preserve, relish and chutney recipes that I’d been dying to get my hands on for years, especially the one for spiced Christmas relish!

  “Some money would’ve been better,” grumbled my fiancée – then promptly left me for someone else. And as if losing my beloved Great Aunt and my fiancée wasn’t enough, I lost my job at the food magazine, too.

  So there I was, with a bit of redundancy money, needing a new challenge to take my mind off the heartache – and I thought of Maud’s recipe book and realised there was the makings of a business right there!

  I set up Great Aunt Maude’s Chutney and Relish Emporium in my kitchen in a small way, but with big ambitions and soon I had jars and jars of chutneys and relishes, richly glutinous, dark and tempting.

  I cut my teeth at the local farmer’s market and village fetes and then my friend Annie suggested I up my game and take a stall at the large annual Christmas fair in Merchester.

  “I’ll come and help,” she offered, so I took the plunge and booked it, before making a large stock of the Spiced Christmas Relish I hoped would prove a bestseller.

  This was crunch time, for I’d outgrown my kitchen and needed separate premises somewhere – but that would depend entirely on how well I did at the Christmas fair.

  *

  Poor Annie went down with the flu, so I had to go to the fair alone, driving through the frosty lanes with carols playing to calm the nervous butterflies dancing in my stomach.

  And it worked – until the rhythm of the car changed to the ominous thumping of a flat tyre. I stopped the car, heart sinking, and I’d just hauled out the spare tyre and started trying to loosen the wheel nuts when a white van pulled in behind me and a tall, dark-haired man got out, zipping up a warm fleece jacket. There was something vaguely familiar about his brown eyes and the humorous twist of his lips …

  “Do you need a hand?” he asked kindly, my knight in shining Transit.

  “Oh thanks, I was finding the wheel nut a bit difficult.” Gratefully I relinquished the wrench into his capable hands and he made short work of the task.

  “I thought I was going to be late and I’ve got a stall booked at the Christmas fair in Merchester,” I explained.

  “Oh? Me too,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar.”

  “Actually, it’s my first time there,” I began, but he was putting the punctured tyre away by then and I’m not sure he heard me.

  “See you there,” he said, with an attractively crooked grin and off he went. I followed after, more slowly.

  *

  At first I was too busy setting up my stand to be aware of anything else, but I’d almost finished when something made me look up – and there was my rescuer directly opposite behind his own Mincemeat and Marmalade stall, staring at my Great Aunt Maud’s Chutney and Relish Emporium banner. When his eyes met mine he looked away, frowning, so I supp
osed he was miffed we were selling similar things.

  We both did a roaring trade anyway – and then a customer showed me a jar labelled Great Aunt Maud’s Christmas Relish that she’d bought from the stall opposite. Something clicked and I remembered exactly where I’d met my rescuer before – at a wedding, where Maud had been the life and soul of the party!

  I stormed across. “You’re selling my great-aunt’s Christmas relish!” I said accusingly. “How did you manage to worm the secret family recipe out of her?”

  “I didn’t worm it out of her,” he said defensively. “Look, I can explain everything …”

  “Don’t bother,” I snapped, and went back to my stall.

  But by the time we were packing up I’d calmed down a little and I was cold, tired and hungry, so when he walked over I didn’t immediately bite his head off.

  “I’m Liam – and I do feel I owe you an explanation.”

  “Kate,” I disclosed grudgingly, “and yes, you do!”

  “Then let me buy you dinner?” he suggested. “The Old Boar’s Head in twenty minutes?”

  *

  Liam explained that he’d told Maud about his fledgling marmalade and jam business at the wedding and given her one of his cards. Then one day the recipe for the relish had arrived in the post.

  “She must have really taken to you, because I didn’t see it until I inherited her recipe book,” I said jealously.

  “She said she’d sent it because she admired my enterprise. But I only got one recipe and you got all of them,” he pointed out, with that attractive crooked smile.

  Maud never could resist a handsome young man!

  “My business is mainly jams and yours chutneys, so it makes sense if I stop making the relish,” he offered generously, which thawed out any last bit of ice between us. I found myself telling him how I’d started up my business in my kitchen, but now needed bigger premises.

  “I work from a converted barn with plenty of space …” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Space we could share, because our two businesses complement each other, don’t you think?”