‘Wrong,’ beamed Logan. ‘Besides, anyone would be ecstatic if their dog had Gringo’s puppies. He’s a legend.’
The legend farted quietly from his basket by the Aga.
‘Terrorists have moved into Fittlescombe and are turning the village hall into a jihadi training camp.’
‘No, stop being silly,’ said Logan. Turning to her mother she announced, ‘Mr Bingley’s got engaged!’
Angela tightened her grip on the pastry cutter she was using for the mince-pie lids. ‘Who told you that?’
‘He did!’ said Logan. ‘He was at the WI stall buying parsnips or swedes or something horrid – I think she’s vegan, his fiancée – and he said hello and then he just told me. I mean really, at his age! What’s the point?’
‘He’s not that old,’ mumbled Angela.
‘Oh Mum.’ Logan laughed. ‘He’s ancient.’
‘Who’s Mr Bingley?’ asked Tom, not looking up from his puzzle.
‘My old headmaster,’ said Logan. ‘He’s nice but he’s terribly strict and sort of, stiff. You can’t imagine him getting married. Can you, Mum?’
‘Well, I … yes, I can imagine it,’ said Angela. She was surprised by how thrown-off she was by Logan’s news. ‘I’m a little surprised. He and Stella have been together for years. I suppose I thought, assumed, that they were happy as they were.’
‘Living in sin, you mean?’ said Logan. ‘I can’t imagine old Bingley doing that either.’
‘Must you talk like a tabloid reporter, darling?’ chided Angela. ‘Damn it!’
She looked down. Blood was gushing from her finger where she’d sliced it on the pastry cutter, staining the pastry pink.
‘Quick, put it under the tap,’ said Tom, leaping up and thrusting Angela’s hand over the sink while he turned on the icy water.
‘I’ll get you a plaster,’ said Logan, opening the drawer next to the fridge where the first-aid supplies, such as they were, were kept. Angela watched as the blood trickled onto the white porcelain and swirled down the drain. ‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. My hand slipped I suppose. I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.’ Drying her hand on a tea towel, she applied the proffered plaster and returned to her mince pies. She’d have to start again now, she thought with a sigh. All of a sudden, her heart wasn’t in it.
‘They’ll be at the Live Crib on Christmas Eve anyway,’ said Logan, returning to her gossip like a dog to an unfinished bone, now that the mini-drama was over. ‘I said we’d see them there. Tati and Jason will be here too by then, so we can all ogle the engagement ring. Do you think he gave her a big one?’
‘Nightly, I suspect,’ Tom couldn’t resist. Giggling, Logan came over and sat on his lap.
Everyone’s happy, thought Angela wistfully. Max and Stella, Logan and Tom. Even Jason and Tatiana seem to have settled down. She thought about herself and Brett, and what they’d both somehow managed to lose. She missed him, or at least, she missed what they had once had together. Live Crib, Fittlescombe’s annual Christmas celebration of the Nativity, complete with local farm animals, was truly a time for family.
Please God, she found herself praying, as she poured yet more flour into the mixing bowl. Make me happy again. Show me the way.
Outside the kitchen window, snow began to fall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Reverend Slaughter looked happily around his packed church and wondered if the BBC South East television crew would have a sufficiently good view of his new crimson robes when he gave the opening address.
Not that Live Crib was about him, of course. Like all St Hilda’s services and celebrations, its purpose was to honour The Lord. Fittlescombe’s famous Nativity-service-cum-carol-concert was also very much about the children, many of whom had already huddled excitedly around the altar-side pen that housed the goats, the sheep and Wilbur, Gabe Baxter’s decrepit but ever-popular donkey. Even so, knowing that the event would almost certainly make the local news, Reverend Slaughter had splashed out on a new set of Christmas cassocks in crimson, magenta and gold that he flattered himself lent an air of pomp and ceremony to proceedings. Even if they couldn’t quite match the glamour of some of the village’s more famous parishioners, all of whom had turned out in force on this beautiful, snowy Christmas Eve.
Emma Harwich, a local beauty turned supermodel, currently gracing the front page of Vogue in an outfit that left little to the imagination, other than leaving readers to wonder how quickly its wearer might contract hypothermia, had turned up in a demure floor-length belted coat, to the vicar’s immense relief. Admittedly she had teamed this with sky-high stiletto boots and sunglasses, no doubt to block out the glare of the softly flickering candlelight. Either that or so she didn’t have to watch the very obvious public display of affection between her mother, Penny, and her second husband, the local cricketing heart-throb Santiago de la Cruz. Emma herself was hand in hand with a preposterously good-looking boy, a Hollywood actor apparently, although Reverend Slaughter had never heard of him. Axel something or other. In any event, he was rumoured to be the star of the new Gucci campaign and Emma’s latest love interest, both of which facts drew him any number of lustful and/or envious stares.
A few rows behind the Harwiches sat the Drummonds, a famous British theatrical dynasty with an exquisite medieval mill house on the Swell just outside Fittlescombe. Reverend Slaughter couldn’t quite see from the pulpit, but one of their Christmas house guests looked awfully like Dame Judi Dench, muffled up in red Jaeger coat. If it were Dame Judi, he absolutely must get her autograph.
Opposite the Drummonds, to the left of the nave, sat the local MP, Piers Renton-Chambers and his new young wife, a horsey-looking heiress from Hampshire called Jane Drew. In a floor-length mink that must have cost a not-so-small fortune, Jane was drawing plenty of attention, as were the other local soon-to-be-newlyweds, Max Bingley and Stella Goye, who sat beside them.
In the nearly seven years since Max had taken over as headmaster at St Hilda’s Primary School, the village had taken him to its collective heart. Harry Hotham, the old headmaster, had been a tough act to follow. But Max had worked wonders with the tiny village school, transforming it into the highest-ranked state primary in Sussex. Property prices in the St Hilda’s catchment area, already high, had skyrocketed, earning Max still more friends among the locals. It seemed funny now to think that Max Bingley had been a grieving widower when he’d arrived in Fittlescombe. He looked deeply content this evening. Little by little, local potter Stella Goye had brought Max back to life. Many people thought them an odd couple, with Max so straight-laced and conservative and Stella so hippyish and free-spirited. But clearly the relationship worked, and now their surprise engagement was the talk of the village.
Or at least, it had been, until Fittlescombe’s own prodigal daughter had decided to return to the village fold, just in time for Christmas.
Looking at Tatiana Cranley, as she was now, throwing her head back and laughing in the front pew, dripping in diamonds like the Queen of Sheba, Reverend Slaughter tried not to think uncharitable thoughts. Everyone in Fittlescombe had adored Tatiana’s father, Rory Flint-Hamilton. There were many who would never forgive or forget what Tatiana put the old man through in his declining years. The drugs, the sex, the scandals – all played out in excruciating detail by a salivating tabloid press.
Of course, that was a long time ago now. During her brief tenure as a teacher at the village school under Max Bingley, Tatiana had begun to win back the respect of the locals, only to blow everything up again by running off with the impressionable young Cranley boy on the very day he came into his trust fund.
Reverend Slaughter observed the two of them, Jason and Tatiana, leaning into one another, sharing a joke with Jason’s younger sister Logan in the front row. He had to admit, five years in, the marriage did seem to be working, against all the odds. Much like Tatiana’s schools empire – Hamilton Hall was rarely out of the papers these days. If things carried on at this rate,
the younger Cranleys would soon be as wealthy as their parents. The vicar had already planned to approach them later this evening about a donation to the church roof fund, suspending his disapproval of Tatiana for the greater good of the parish, as a village vicar so often must.
‘Good evening, Vicar. Marvellous turnout. You must be thrilled.’
Dylan Pritchard Jones, looking dapper in a new, expensively cut three-piece suit, sidled up to the Reverend Slaughter, flashing a mouthful of expensive white veneers. In the pew behind him sat his exhausted wife, Maisie, with their newest daughter, baby Ava, asleep in her arms, and a toddler slumped, bored, across her lap. Everyone, even the vicar, knew about Dylan’s regular extramarital exploits. Rumour had it that he had a new, very young mistress, the third wife of one of the richest fathers at Lancings, the exclusive boys’ prep school where he was now deputy head. Naturally the vicar disapproved, but as Dylan was chairman of the parish fundraising committee, and a damned efficient one at that, he kept his opinions to himself.
‘Hullo Dylan. Yes, it’s standing room only. You see the television people are here?’
‘Are they?’ Dylan feigned surprise. Ridiculously vain and attention-seeking, he’d dragged his family to church a full forty-five minutes early to ensure a pew that the TV cameras would cover. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I suspect they’re here for Lady Muck, are they?’ he nodded in Tatiana’s direction, scowling disapprovingly. ‘Some people have no shame.’
‘Indeed,’ Reverend Slaughter said archly.
The organist, Frank Bannister, struck up the opening chord of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
‘I believe that’s my cue,’ said the vicar, scuttling up the pulpit stairs like an excited, bright red beetle. ‘Merry Christmas, Dylan.’
‘Merry Christmas, Vicar. Good luck.’
Every year at Live Crib, either an animal or a local child usually provided some sort of amusing distraction. Last year the baby Jesus had opened her lungs and howled piteously for the entire one-hour service. The year before that, an angel had fallen asleep in the rafters, falling twelve feet onto the stone church floor and breaking his arm, just as the three wise men were depositing their gifts. This year, brilliantly, dear old Wilbur the donkey had completely stolen the show, first by farting loudly immediately after the line ‘And lo! An Angel of the Lord appeared’, and then by lifting his tail and emptying his bowels dramatically during ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, thereby eliciting a string of deeply unholy turns of phrase from both Mary and Joseph, not to mention howls of laughter from the congregation.
‘That was priceless,’ said Tati, wiping away tears of mirth as she and Jason filed out into the churchyard after the service. ‘I do so hope it makes the BBC South East news.’
‘If it doesn’t we should send it in to You’ve Been Framed!,’ said Tom. ‘That’s got to be worth two hundred and fifty quid. What the hell were they feeding that animal, that’s what I’d like to know. Prunes?’
‘Poor Reverend Slaughter,’ said Angela. ‘He looked mortified. We shouldn’t laugh.’
‘Oh, Mummy,’ Logan poked her in the ribs affectionately. ‘You were laughing as hard as the rest of us.’
‘No I wasn’t,’ lied Angela.
‘Then why has your mascara run all over your cheeks?’
‘Oh, God. It hasn’t, has it?’ said Angela, stifling another giggle and hunting through her bag for a tissue.
Tatiana was already outside, standing at the bottom of the steps where a pool of parishioners had started to gather. It was a stunning evening. The sky glowed Christmas-card blue beneath a full moon, and a light shower of snow was beginning to fall, heavy, fat flakes floating gently down onto ground already thickly blanketed with white.
She recognized almost all of the families filing out of the church, and waited for people to come up to her and say hello, or Merry Christmas, but nobody did. One or two of them spoke to Jason, and acknowledged her curtly with nods or smiles. But there was no warmth, no recognition, no ‘Congratulations on all your success, Tatiana,’ or ‘How have you been, Tatiana?’ or ‘Welcome home, Tatiana.’
Trying not to feel hurt, she slipped away from Jason and his family and wandered alone into the churchyard. She hadn’t intended to do so, but she found herself walking towards her father’s grave. Set about forty feet from the church walls, up a small hill, the Flint-Hamilton family plot consisted of a simple, unostentatious row of stone slabs lying flat to the ground. Rory lay next to his parents, Edmund and Hilda, on one side, and his wife Vicky, Tatiana’s mother, who had died when Tati was just eight, on the other. His grave was only seven years old, but it was as worn and lichened as the others already. Behind her parents and grandparents, a string of Tatiana’s more distant ancestors were buried, with Flint-Hamilton stones dating back to the early 1720s. It was a peaceful place to be buried, particularly tonight, in the snow, and with the Christmas bells of the church pealing above them through the smoky night air.
‘Tatiana.’
Max Bingley’s voice made her jump.
‘Merry Christmas.’
He smiled, that same warm, crinkly-eyed smile Tatiana remembered from her St Hilda’s Primary School days. Ridiculously, she found herself welling up, and had to bite her lower lip hard to stop the tears from coming.
‘Thank you. And to you.’
‘I understand you and Jason might be buying a place down here. Missing the cut and thrust of Fittlescombe life, are you?’ Max teased her gently.
‘I do miss it,’ said Tati. ‘Terribly. Although I’m not sure many people around here miss me.’
Too honest to correct her, Max said simply ‘Well, I do. I miss you at the school, for one thing. Now that you have an empire to run, I imagine you’re far too busy to teach yourself. But you were very good at it, you know.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tati, touched. It was a sincere compliment, which meant a lot coming from a man like Max Bingley.
‘Your father would have been very proud of you I’m sure,’ added Max, nodding down at Rory’s grave.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Tati gave a short, brittle laugh. ‘Pride in me was not something my father was known for.’
‘You were very young when he died, Tatiana,’ Max said kindly. ‘You’ve achieved so much since then. A booming business, a glittering career, a happy marriage.’
Tati felt each word echo emptily inside her. Her life didn’t feel glittering or happy. Looking at Max Bingley, newly engaged, completely content in his work and his life in his modest cottage in Fittlescombe, the truth was that she felt wildly envious. She’d have traded places in a heartbeat. And yet, when she’d lived here herself and taught at the school, she’d felt like a failure, miserable and trapped. She’d built Furlings up over the years as some sort of talisman, the missing piece of the puzzle in her life – if she could just get that house back, she’d be happy. Standing here tonight at her father’s graveside, the crisp night air biting at her face and hands, she realized what nonsense that was. Happiness wasn’t made of bricks and mortar. It must come from within, or not at all.
‘I do miss teaching,’ she told Max, stamping her feet against the cold. ‘I miss the children.’
‘Well,’ he put a paternal arm around her shoulders. ‘I expect you and Jason will have your own one day. Believe me, Tatiana, no matter what you achieve in life, there’s no sense of purpose quite like being a parent. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it,’ he kissed her on the cheeks. ‘I just wanted to say hello and congratulations on everything. Oh … and welcome home!’
He walked off with a cheery wave. Tati watched him rejoin his fiancée and some other villagers outside the church, then head off to his car. He’d been so kind, but their encounter had left her feeling awful, a deep, crushing sadness weighing on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
‘There you are.’ Jason caught up with her. ‘You disappeared on me. Everyone’s waiting in the car. Shall we go?’
‘You go on ahead,’ Tati forced a smile.
‘I’ll stay here for a while and walk back.’
‘Walk?’ Jason frowned. ‘It’s freezing. And pitch-dark.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Tati.
‘You don’t even have a torch.’
‘I know the way. Anyway, I’ve got my phone, I can use that if I need to.’
Jason hesitated. ‘I’ll walk with you. I’ll just go and tell Mum we’re not coming …’
‘No,’ Tati said, more firmly than she’d intended. ‘Thank you, darling, really. But I prefer to be alone. I’ll see you back at the house in half an hour.’
Reluctantly, Jason left. Tati stood and listened as the last of the cars from Live Crib pulled out of the church car park. She watched as the beams of the headlights melted into the night. At last she was alone in the churchyard. Only the moon and the distant lights of the village remained to guide her, but her eyes soon adjusted to her surroundings. An owl hooted twice, then fell silent. Tatiana listened to the crunch of her own feet on the snow as she paced back and forth, examining each of her family graves in turn. She ran her fingertips slowly over each rough stone, like a blind woman trying to read Braille. As if she could somehow find meaning in the dead, in the past.
A terrible emptiness threatened to overwhelm her, numbing her senses, making it hard for her to move or think or do anything. Tears would have been a relief, but they refused to come.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d been crouching there, trance like, when the cold suddenly hit her. Her limbs ached, and it was hard to stand up. Glancing at the screen on her phone, she saw that it was past ten o’clock. She’d better get home.
Walking quickly up the lane towards Furlings, it took her less than ten minutes to reach the entrance to the drive. Once there she did have to be careful, as the trees arched above her, blocking out what little moonlight had been guiding her thus far, and making it hard to pick her way along the rough, icy track. Her phone made an inadequate torch as she picked her way over the potholes, and it took another ten minutes before she rounded the corner and the lights of the house hove into view.