A Winter Flame (14 page)

‘Haven’t seen Jacques, have you?’ Eve asked.

‘No, I haven’t, sorry,’ said Violet.

‘Any idea what a Schneekugel is, Pav?’ asked Eve.

‘Yes, it’s a ball,’ said Pav, struggling to find the words. ‘A snow ball.’

‘I hope not,’ said Eve. ‘If I found out Mr Glace has spent three zillion quid on snowballs I might be cutting off his own snowballs.’

‘Ah, I remember,’ said Pav. ‘He is in plot two with the carousel.’

‘I might have known he’d be playing on swings,’ Eve grumbled. ‘See you later.’

Violet watched her cousin stride off in the direction of the fun park area.

‘I think Eve protests too much,’ said Pav, who had turned to watch Violet watching Eve.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think if she let her guard down, she and Jacques would be very good for each other. He’s a good man.’

‘She never lets her guard down,’ said Violet.

‘You women always have your guards raised,’ said Pav, lifting his forearms in front of his face. ‘Like a portcullis. You think only enemies are waiting outside, not
friends.’

There was a sadness in his eyes as he turned his attentions back to his painting. And Violet didn’t say anything, because she knew he was right.

Plot two in Winterworld would formally be known as Winterpark when the sign was raised over the great iron arch that marked the entrance. Three of Effin’s men were just
fixing the ‘PARK’ part of the name – luckily for Eve’s blood pressure, she didn’t see the ‘SANTA’ part that would go up to prefix it – another of
Jacques’ changes. In the near distance, the first horse was being bolted onto the biggest carousel Eve had ever seen in her life – a horse as white and sparkling as the horses on the
ice-cream parlour wall. Eve’s heart was stabbed again with a memory of being at a Christmas fair in the park as a youngster, spending all her pocket money on the carousel rides rather than
use some of it to hook-a-duck. She remembered waving to her mother, then seeing a man approaching Ruth and taking her attention away. Whenever there was a man on the scene, Eve was pushed right to
the back of the queue for her mother’s time and affection.

Jacques’ loud singing of ‘Let it Snow’ with all the wrong words rang out from a nearby log cabin.

‘Oh, the weather is really bummy, but the fire is super scrummy . . .’

That was another log cabin that wasn’t on the original plan. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Jacques Glace had magicked her into having shingles so he could have
his own way on everything.

‘Bonjour, ma cherie,’
he boomed as she walked into a shelf-lined cabin to find him knee-deep in boxes, opening them all with a Stanley knife. His cheery face made her cross,
and she shook the invoice at him, which seemed to amuse him and inflamed her even further.

‘What are Schneekugel?’ she snapped. ‘And why have you bought two hundred of them over from Germany at the price of Roman Abramovich’s yacht?’

He crossed his arms and looked at her with mischief playing in his eyes. ‘What do you think they are?’

He knows he is irritating the crap out of me, thought Eve to herself. She tried not to rise to the bait, but failed.

‘I don’t know what they are,’ she growled. ‘Pav said they’re snowballs. Please tell me that’s lost something in translation.’

‘Didn’t you look them up on Google Translate?’

‘Wha . . . why . . . Just tell me what they are please, Mr Glace. And why you’ve bought so many.’ Her hand flicked back some stray pieces of her dark-brown hair. ‘Aunt
Evelyn might as well have burned all her money. And that carousel is enormous.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Jacques. ‘But what a magnificent specimen it is. I know a man who buys them and restores them.’

‘Ah, you “know a man”, do you?’ humphed Eve. ‘Pity you didn’t “know a man” who could have let you have two hundred Schneekugel cheap instead of
paying this amount of euros,’ and once again she shook the invoice.

‘Actually I did,’ replied Jacques. ‘A German man – Herr Kutz.’

Another pathetic joke. Did the man ever turn off?

‘Oh, for goodness sake. Just for once, can’t I get a sensib—’

‘Look at the signature at the bottom,’ said Jacques. ‘I kid you not.’

There at the bottom of the invoice, in best copperplate, was the name ‘Helmut Kutz’.

‘Helmut gave us this consignment at a cut price. One hundred to exhibit, one hundred to sell. And they will sell.’ And he pulled from a box something covered in bubble wrap which he
peeled off and handed over to Eve: a polished glass globe. ‘Schneekugel – snow globes. And you’re standing in our new Schneekugelmuseum. I’m guessing you can now work out
the translation to that.’

Eve stared at the beautiful scene inside the glass. A formation of Nutcracker soldiers playing instruments, their teeth bared in a fixed grin. She shook it gently and the snow floated around
their heads.

‘Look at this one,’ Jacques said, handing over a smaller globe with a pale-furred reindeer in it, just visible between dark-green fir trees. ‘Holly’s got her own
Schneekugel.’

Eve felt as if someone had ripped her breath away. They were stunning.

‘And this.’ Jacques handed her a globe which he had shaken so the scene wasn’t instantly recognizable. As the snow settled, Eve saw a bride in fur cape, her groom in a sleigh
behind her. The bride was smiling, and that smile was full of hope and promise and it was suddenly too much for her. She needed to get out of there before she made a fool of herself.

Eve handed the globe back to him.

‘Okay, you win this round, they’re lovely,’ she said and left quickly, before he saw the tears dripping from her long black lashes.

Eve returned home that night for the first time in a month. The first thing she did, as always when entering, was to make sure the candle was still lit. Violet had been looking
after it for her and all was well.

There was a few days’ worth of post to sort through – nothing exciting at first glance, most of it junk, but then she came to a pretty pink envelope with some childish writing on the
outside. It was a get-well card from Phoebe May Tinker and a note from Alison in which she apologized yet again for not coming to visit her whilst she was poorly at her aunt’s. Eve took her
mobile out of her handbag and pressed the speed-dial number for Alison.

‘Eve, how are you?’ came Alison’s concerned reply after two rings. ‘I’m so sorry—’

Eve cut her off there and then.

‘If you apologize once more, Alison Tinker, you and I will fall out. You couldn’t possibly have come to see a woman with shingles when you’re pregnant and have a small child,
so please shush and let that be an end to it.’

‘I half wish Phoebe would get chicken pox and get it over and done with,’ sighed Alison. ‘Then again, I don’t want her to get it. I felt so awful about—’

‘Naughty Alison,’ Eve admonished her. Then a thought visited her brain like a bee making a surprise detour to a flower. ‘Actually, you
can
make it up to me. You can let
me borrow Phoebe to come and visit the new theme park soon. I want to see what she thinks.’

‘She’d absolutely love that,’ said Alison. ‘Can I tell her when she gets in from Brownies?’

‘Of course,’ smiled Eve. ‘I am presuming you won’t want to trudge around in your advanced state of pregnancy?’

‘I am dying to see it,’ said Alison, ‘but I’ll wait until I’m a bit less fat and heavy, if you don’t mind. I’m walking like a duck at the moment: any
more than twelve steps and I’m ready for a sit down. I’ll let Phoebe show me all the pictures she’ll probably take with the camera you bought for her birthday.’

‘Lovely, it’s a date,’ said Eve.

‘Hope you’re okay tomorrow, kiddo,’ said Alison, before saying goodbye. ‘I know it’ll be a tough one for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Eve, feeling tearful that Alison remembered. Tomorrow Jonathan would have been thirty-five years old. Tomorrow they should have been celebrating as Mr and Mrs
Lighthouse, doing something romantic. Instead, Eve would be making sure the reindeer and horse dung had been cleared up and spending another day with a buffoon who charmed everyone who met him
– even the flaming animals. Everyone but herself, of course.

Eve didn’t usually dream, or at least if she did, she didn’t remember them. But that night was an exception – and not the most pleasant one. In her dream, she
caught sight of Jonathan in the theme park and ran towards him only for him to disappear. Then she saw him again and the same thing happened. When she saw him for the third time, he didn’t
walk off and she sped in his direction, noticing that the closer she got to him the more he seemed to change. By the time she reached him, she found Jonathan had become Jacques, but was wearing a
soldier’s uniform covered in bravery medals, and she was screaming at him to take the uniform off because he wasn’t worthy of it, but Jacques wasn’t listening.

The dream stayed with her far beyond the boundaries of sleep and she didn’t like it one bit that Jacques had had the cheek to morph into Jonathan. Whilst she was having her breakfast, she
took a notepad and started to write what little facts she had about Mr Jacques Glace. It barely filled up a page. He had been a hospital visitor to her aunt eighteen months ago and was half-French,
half-Yorkshire. Oh, and that he lived in Outer Hoodley. She thought about ringing the hospital to see if they had a formal list of visitors but quickly dismissed the idea. They’d more than
likely quote the phrase ‘data protection’ at her and wouldn’t give her any information. With the internet one would have thought it would make it easier to find out information;
then ‘data protection’ came along and counteracted that.

The sum of all she knew about him didn’t make for scintillating reading. She decided that she needed to get into his house and snoop.

Violet popped her head around the door of the Portakabin just after two o’clock in the afternoon.

‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Yep,’ said Eve.

‘I don’t want to fuss you, but you know where I am if you want me.’ She handed Eve a small tub and a spoon. ‘Try this,’ she said.

Eve loaded the spoon with the pale-yellow ice cream and raised it to her lips. It tasted of toffee, burned sugar like the crackling top of a crème brûlée. It reminded Eve of
a Christmas fireplace, one with a cosy fire and stockings hung at either side of it. As laughingly far removed an image from all those Christmases she spent with tinny little electric fires as the
only heat source in their house as it was possible to be.

‘I’m going to call it “Winter Flame”.’

‘Ah, that’s lovely,’ smiled Eve. ‘That’s just what it reminds me of.’ If she and Jonathan had had children, she would have made sure they had a grand
fireplace which they could have festooned with holly and stockings. ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Violet, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. ‘I have if you have. I know you’re really bus—’

‘I’ve got time.’

‘Where’s Jacques?’ asked Violet.

‘Up at the Carousel,’ replied Eve. ‘I haven’t seen him all day.’
Thank God.
‘He left a note on my desk to say that’s where he was if I wanted him
for anything. Which I don’t.’

‘It’s very quiet in here without him,’ chuckled Violet. ‘I’ve never met anyone who was as loud in my life. Even when he’s quiet, he’s noisy.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Eve, pouring out two coffees and handing one to Violet.

‘I think a bit of his distraction would have been better for you today, rather than this silence.’ Violet took a drink of coffee and let out a long, contented sigh.

‘Distraction, maybe,’ Eve agreed, ‘but not in Jacques Glace form. I can’t understand why there is absolutely no information about the man to be had anywhere. It
isn’t possible in this day and age. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought he was an alien who had been dropped onto earth eighteen months ago, with the express purpose of
ripping off my aunt.’

‘Isn’t that unfair?’ said Violet, wishing Eve would let it go.

‘Probably,’ Eve admitted. ‘But why is he so guarded about me knowing anything about him? Surely if he hadn’t got anything to hide, he would give something up.’

‘Maybe he’s just a private person,’ said Violet. ‘Pav doesn’t talk much about himself unless I press.’

‘If I could just see inside his house.’ Eve plopped that into the conversation like a pebble in water to see how Violet would take it. Violet, as she suspected, looked horrified.

‘You can’t break into his house.’

‘I have no intention of breaking in,’ sniffed Eve. ‘All I am saying is that if the opportunity arose where I could gain access to his house . . .’

‘Break in, you mean,’ parried Violet.

‘Okay then, break in,’ replied Eve. ‘I wouldn’t take anything. I just want to get a measure of the man and make sure he isn’t a crook. You must admit, V, that
it’s more than slightly odd that Evelyn left him so much money – and Fancy’s and Kringle’s ashes – after such a short time. You must. And don’t forget the
article about that con man . . .’

‘Eve, Jacques Glace is not that con man,’ said Violet firmly. ‘Con men like that are sneak thieves. They don’t take up high-profile business positions like running theme
parks.’ Jacques Glace didn’t set off one alarm bell inside her. After all that had happened to Violet in the past couple of years, she thought that if Jacques Glace had been someone to
be wary off, she would have felt something.

Violet had a point, Eve conceded. Although, as a counter-argument, con men were often narcissists, arrogant enough to feel they were above suspicion. Double-bluffers.

Eve huffed impatiently. ‘Why does everyone have to have so many bloody secrets? What harm would it do to just tell people things?’ And Violet knew she wasn’t talking about
Jacques any more.

‘I take it you’ve had no news from Jonathan’s parents?’ she asked tentatively.

‘No,’ said Eve, flatly. ‘They’ve changed their number. I rang a few weeks ago and it was just a dead line.’

Violet sighed. ‘They were never going to tell you, Eve. You have to let it go.’