Twelve Days of Christmas (6 page)

‘Sending a young woman to look after an isolated house alone, especially over Christmas, can hardly be ideal.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t celebrate Christmas, I’m not actually that young and I
prefer
isolation.’

‘Noël mentioned you didn’t celebrate Christmas – and that’s another problem, because my aunt and uncle were looking forward to having Christmas dinner with the Chirks and
I
felt better knowing Tilda wouldn’t have to cook it. I know she still does most of their cooking, but she’s looking quite frail these days.’

‘Yes, so she said, but I don’t think she’s going to attempt the full monty – they’re having a roast chicken instead,’ I said. ‘And I expect her granddaughter will help her.’

‘Oh God, I’d entirely forgotten about Jess being there on her own this year!’

‘Mmm . . . I’m afraid you don’t seem to be her favourite person at the moment, Mr Martland.’

There was a pause, and then he suggested, ‘Perhaps you could cook the Christmas dinner instead of the Chirks? You
can
cook?’

‘I’m a professional chef, that’s what I do during the summer,’ I said icily, ‘and my charges are
very
high. In winter I prefer to house-sit for a rest. Catering for family dinner parties doesn’t come into my current plans and besides, as I’ve said, I don’t celebrate Christmas in any way.’

‘But—’

‘Mr Martland,’ I interrupted firmly, ‘while I’m sorry your arrangements have been put out, you can rest assured that I’ll keep an eye on your property and look after the animals until your return on Twelfth Night.’

‘But how can I be sure of that when I know nothing about you, except that you have no knowledge of horses and—’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘you don’t have any alternative! If you think I’m going to drink your gin and fall into a drunken coma over Christmas, neglecting the animals and burning the house down, I suggest you email Ellen for my CV and references. Good
night
, Mr Martland.’

And I slammed down the receiver.

I regretted my lapse into rudeness almost immediately. It must have been tiredness, but also there was something about his manner that rubbed me up the wrong way. While a bit of snappishness might be allowable in a cook of my calibre, provided I produced delicious meals, which I always did, it’s not such a good idea with house-sitting clients.

The phone rang again almost immediately. Sighing, I picked it up.

‘You hung up on me!’ he said incredulously.

‘I’m sorry, but the conversation seemed to have run its natural course. Now, it’s been a long day and I was just on my way to bed . . . Oh, and by the way,’ I added as an afterthought, ‘your cleaner has resigned, with effect from today. But going by the filthy state of the house, I daresay you’ll hardly notice.’

This time when I put the phone down, he didn’t ring back. I filled my hot water bottle, patted Merlin, and took myself off up to bed where, despite my exhaustion, I found myself going over and over the conversation with the irritating and unreasonable Jude Martland. I would be sure to leave
long
before he came home on Twelfth Night!

In the end I switched on the bedside lamp and read a few more entries in Gran’s journal until, soothed by the small dramas of the hospital ward and her battles with her awful landlady, I finally fell asleep.

Chapter 6
Horse Sense

After breakfast next morning I checked on Lady and her smelly little companion, fed them a few chunks of carrot, then clipped back the top of the stable door to the courtyard.

They both looked fine, but I thought I would leave them where they were until it was fully light and took Merlin for a walk up Snowehill. He seemed to be moving a little easier this morning and I suspected he’d missed a couple of his pills and regular exercise in the last few days.

The closer we got to the red horse hill figure, the harder it was to make out what it was. It had been cut out of the turf and the earth banked on either side to make a raised edge. The natural red sandstone lay revealed, though it didn’t stand out like the white horse ones I’d seen elsewhere and was on a much smaller scale. I wondered if it was ancient, perhaps Celtic? I seemed to recall that Celts were keen on horses. Or perhaps it was a more modern addition to the local scenery?

A track up to the beacon ran right by it and, looking down, I could see that it met the road above Old Place, where there was another farm. It was well trodden, so I expect lots of walkers come here to climb up to the folly. I’d do it myself one day, too, only not this particular one: I had too much to do.

I was just about to go back down when there was a quick spatter of Mozart from my pocket. The ringtone somehow didn’t seem quite right for a windswept Lancashire hillside, but I’m not sure what would. Ride of the Valkyries?

‘Caught you!’ Ellen said triumphantly. ‘I tried the house but there was no reply.’

‘No, I’m up on the hill behind the house. In fact, the only mobile reception is up here, or down near the village, so you’re lucky to have caught me at all.’

‘What are you doing on the hill?’

‘Walking the dog – and he’s old and arthritic so I can’t keep him standing about here very long.’

‘I only wanted to warn you that I found a flood of emails from Jude Martland in my inbox this morning and he isn’t happy about the change of home-sitter, though he should be grateful I could find
anyone
at such short notice!’

‘Yes, that’s what
I
told him.’

‘You mean, you’ve spoken to him? He didn’t mention that . . . or maybe I just haven’t got as far as that email yet.’

‘He rang last night and he struck me as a very autocratic and disagreeable person – and totally unreasonable! I told him I was perfectly capable and competent, but I’m not sure he believed me.’

‘
I
told him much the same, but he still wanted to see your CV and references, so I faxed them. They’re all glowing so they’ll put his mind at rest.’

‘I doubt it, because he seemed more worried about the horse than anything and you have to agree that I’ve no experience with them at all. But still, the instructions he left were clear enough and I’m sure I can manage. I made her hot mash last night and I’m going to put her in the paddock shortly and have a go at mucking out.’

‘Oh, you’ll be fine,’ she said comfortably, which was easy for her since she wouldn’t be the one coping! ‘Well, I just wanted to warn you in case you got a phone call, but obviously you’ve dealt with him. And once he’s read your CV I expect he will feel much happier. I told him he was lucky that one of my best house-sitters was free to step into the breach.’

‘I hope so, though he may want regular bulletins on the horse and dog. Some pet owners do.’

She agreed and rang off, and Merlin and I went home again. I was dying to have another look around the house, but thought I’d better tackle Lady’s stable first. From what I recalled, it was simply a matter of removing the old straw and replacing it with new: how hard could
that
be?

I changed into old jeans, a warm fleece and wellies, girded my loins and went to do the Augean stable bit. Merlin heaved himself up out of his basket with a resigned expression, but I gave him one of the rawhide chews out of the cupboard and left him in the kitchen with it: I needed my full attention on what I was doing.

At least by the New Year I would be able to add looking after horses and goats to my CV if I wanted to, though I wasn’t entirely convinced I would ever want to see a goat again.

It was still very cold, though there was a wintry sun shining, and I had no idea whether I should put Lady in the paddock or not. Or perhaps just the cobbled yard, while I tried to sort out her bedding?

The shovel and wheelbarrow were easy to find – and so was the manure heap over the wall in the paddock. There were bales of straw and one or two of hay at the opposite end of the barn to Lady’s box, and more in a sort of half-loft overhead, with a rickety wooden ladder. Luckily I can tell straw from hay because guinea pigs, rabbits and chickens have all been previous charges of mine.

I was still debating what to do with Lady and her companion –
especially
her companion – when help arrived unexpectedly in the form of a large, elderly woman on a stocky brown cob. She hailed me from the other side of the gate, then dismounted and led her horse through, shutting it behind her. She was wearing a Burberry check headscarf tied pirate-fashion instead of a riding hat and a hugely-caped wax jacket, so she looked like a slightly eccentric highwayman.

‘Hello,’ she said in a deep, hearty voice, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Becca – Becca Martland, Noël’s sister. He told me you’d arrived, so I thought I’d ride this way and see how you were doing.’

We shook hands. She was by no means as tall as me (at six foot, not many women are!) but she made up for it in girth.

‘I’m very glad to meet you – especially since I was just about to muck out Lady and I wasn’t sure what to do with her while I did it,’ I confessed, seeing knowledgeable help was at hand. ‘Is it too cold to put her in the paddock, do you think?’

‘Not at all, Arabs are tough as old boots and she’ll go in the field shelter if it rains, or to get out of the wind. Have you taken her rug off and brushed her?’

‘No, though I did check that it was secure last night.’

‘We’ll do that first, then, because I don’t suppose anyone has for a couple of days. You go and open the gate to the paddock, while I tie Nutkin up in the barn out of this cold wind and fetch the brushes from the tackroom.’

We let Billy out while we groomed Lady – Becca assured me he never went far from her side. Indeed, he dithered in the open door until I gave him a quick shove and closed it behind him and then he hung about outside, bleating.

‘Lovely creature, Lady,’ Becca said, stripping off the rug and then handing me one of the two oval brushes with the concise instruction, ‘Firm strokes in the direction of the hair.’

‘But she’s terribly old, isn’t she? I was a bit worried about that when I read Mr Martland’s notes.’

‘Oh, twenty-five is nothing for an Arab! I’d look after her myself when Jude’s away, but it takes me all my time to look after one horse these days. And I’m not taking on the bleeding goat,’ she added. ‘Noël said you hadn’t had much experience with horses?’

‘No, to be honest, going to the riding school with my best friend when she had her pony phase was about it,’ I explained. ‘Mr Martland’s instructions are very detailed and I’m sure I can manage perfectly well, but it would be wonderful if I could call on you for anything that puzzled me? It might make Mr Martland feel better too – he rang last night and was fretting about whether I could cope.’

‘Oh, did he phone? I don’t suppose he said he was coming back for Christmas after all, did he?’ she asked hopefully, stopping her brisk brushing and staring at me across Lady’s snowy back.

‘No, I’m afraid not. Did you think he might change his mind?’

Her face fell. ‘Not really, it’s just that the Martlands have always celebrated Christmas together, here at Old Place. It doesn’t seem right to have the head of the household on the opposite side of the world.’

She put her brush down and showed me how to put the rug back on securely, which was simple enough with Lady, but I should imagine very difficult with a less cooperative horse!

‘Jude loves horses and he’s particularly attached to Lady,’ she said. ‘She was his mother’s horse, you know, so he’s bound to worry about her. But of course you can call me if you’re concerned about anything, I’ll leave you my phone number. Not that you can always get through, because the lines are hanging loose from the poles like limp spaghetti and a good wind can cut the connection to Old Place for a week or more.’

She said this as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

‘Couldn’t the lines be repaired?’ I would certainly have had it sorted out in no time, if I lived here!

‘Apparently all the poles need replacing and they’ll get round to it eventually, but there’s only Old Place and Hill Farm up this road until you get to Great Mumming, so it’s not exactly high on their priority list when it comes to allocating resources.’

‘Oh yes, I saw the farm when I walked Merlin up to the red horse earlier and I noticed the sign on the main road pointed two ways to Great Mumming, so presumably it carries on past Hill Farm?’

‘That’s right, but the road beyond the farm isn’t much more than a track with tarmac over it that goes round the side of Snowehill – a bit of ice and you don’t even want to
think
about trying it,’ she said, then gave a deep laugh. ‘One of those SatNav things keeps sending motorists up here as a short cut to the motorway – and it might be, as the crow flies, but not by car!’

Billy’s plaintively protesting bleats rose to a crescendo. We let Lady out into the paddock and he followed her, butting against her legs.

Becca picked up a fork. ‘Come on – now I’ll help you muck out. You bring the barrow.’

She must have been in her seventies, at least, but she could still wield a fork with the best of them and gave me what was essentially a very useful masterclass. Under her direction I trundled the used bedding over to the manure heap, then spread a thick layer of clean straw in the loosebox, padded out at the sides and round the washed and filled bucket.

‘You don’t need to do this every single day – just pick up the manure and put down a bit of fresh straw if it isn’t too bad.’

‘How cold does it have to get before I keep her inside during the day?’

‘Oh, she can go out even if it snows, but you might need to double-rug her,’ she said breezily.

‘Right . . .’ Jude Martland and his aunt seemed to have two different views on just how fragile Lady was!

I was glowing by the time we’d finished mucking out, and probably steaming gently in the chilly air, just like the replenished manure heap.

‘There – that’s fine, all ready for bringing her in before it goes dark. Did you manage her warm mash all right last night?’

‘Oh yes, it was just a matter of following the recipe. And thank you very much for showing me what to do, it’s been invaluable,’ I said gratefully.

‘I’d better pop back in a day or two and give you a few more pointers,’ she suggested.

‘That would be great, if you can spare the time.’

‘Noël says you’re from West Lancs, near Ormskirk? What do you shoot over there?’

‘Shoot? I don’t shoot anything!’

‘Pity – there’s not an awful lot up here either, bar the odd rabbit and pigeon,’ she commiserated, ‘but you’ll find some of those, and a few pheasants and the like, in one of the freezers.’

While I’ve cooked an awful lot of game over the years for house-parties, I think killing something simply for pleasure is a bad thing – but when working I just cook, I don’t give opinions!

‘I’m a town girl, really, brought up in Merchester,’ I admitted, ‘though my work usually takes me into the country from late spring to early autumn when I cook for large house-parties. The rest of the year I take home-sitting assignments, like this one.’

‘Oh, you cook? It’s a pity we can’t have a house-party at Old Place over Christmas, then,’ Becca said wistfully. ‘I call it a bit selfish of Jude to go off like this, even if he has been crossed in love. His brother Guy ran off with his fiancée last Christmas, you know.’

‘Your brother did mention something about it,’ I admitted. ‘He and his wife told me you all usually spend Christmas together and their granddaughter had been looking forward to it, but actually, in winter I like a rest from all the cooking and, besides, I don’t celebrate Christmas.’

‘Against your religion, I expect,’ she said vaguely, with a glance at my black hair and pale olive skin. People are always asking me where I am from and seem surprised when I say Merchester.

‘And the old people really look forward to having their Christmas dinner here too,’ she went on. ‘I don’t think they’ve quite taken in that it isn’t going to happen this year.’

‘You mean Noël and Tilda?’ I ventured. Clearly she wasn’t numbering herself among the ranks of the elderly!

‘Well, yes, but actually I meant Old Nan and Richard Sampson, who was the vicar here until he retired. They live in the almshouses in Little Mumming. Of course, there’s Henry too, but he always goes to his daughter’s for his dinner, including Christmas Day. Did you notice the almshouses as you came through the village?’

‘The row of three tiny Gothic-looking cottages?’

‘Yes, that’s where the family stash away the last of the retainers. Old Nan is in her nineties, but bright as a button, and Richard’s about eighty, fit as a flea and walks for miles. By the way, Henry still comes up here when the fancy takes him and hangs out in the greenhouse and walled garden – you might suddenly stumble across him.’

She nodded at a small gate set in an arch. ‘Through there – small walled garden, Jude’s mother loved it, but it’s pretty overgrown now apart from the vegetable patch. The greenhouse backs on to the stables and barn and Henry has a little den up at one end with a primus stove to make tea.’