Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

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.’

‘Right — I’ll keep an eye out for him! But I do hope the other two have understood the situation and made other arrangements for Christmas Day?’

‘I don’t know, old habits are hard to break.’ Becca shook her head. ‘Like Tilda — she talks as if she still does all the cooking, but really that Edwina of hers does most of it now, with Tilda getting in her way and bossing her about. So it’s always been very convenient that they can come here for a week at Christmas while Edwina has a break.’

‘Mr Martland’s absence does seem to have created quite a lot of disappointment and difficulty,’ I said, thinking that since he must have known how all these elderly people relied on him, it was very selfish indeed of him to flounce off abroad like this, even if he had been crossed in love.

‘Well, it’s not your fault,’ she said briskly.

‘Do you have time to come in and have a cup of tea?’ I asked. ‘I brought a fruit cake with me.’

‘Lovely, lead the way!’

She didn’t take her scarf off, but removed the wax jacket, revealing a quilted gilet and cord riding breeches of generous and forgiving cut. Merlin hauled himself out of his basket to greet her.

‘Hello, old fellow,’ she said fondly, stroking his head with a large hand. ‘Stayed here in the warm, did you?’

‘He’s already had a run, I thought he’d be better in,’ I said, making tea and taking the cake out of the tin. ‘The house seems a little chilly despite the central heating, so I thought I’d light the big fire in the sitting room later.’

‘Jolly good idea. There’s always been a fire lit there in winter, it’s the heart of the house, but Jude’s been neglecting the place since the Jacksons retired, though they were getting a bit past it and glad to go once my brother died. Noël told me you’d just lost your grandmother, too — sorry,’ she added abruptly, but with sincerity.

‘Thank you, yes, it was quite recent. She brought me up because my own mother died soon after I was born.’

‘Sad,’ she said. ‘Jude’s mother died several years ago now, but he adored her. I think that must have been where he got his arty ways, because there was never anything like that in the family before. And I expect that’s why he dotes on Lady too — but then, he loves all horses, even if they do sometimes look a bit tortured in those sculptures he makes!’

‘I don’t think the one I’ve seen near Manchester looked tortured, just. . modern. You could still tell what it was.’

‘He has a studio in the woods just above the lodge — the old mill house. You’ll see a path going off the drive to it, but it’ll be locked up, of course.’

There was nothing in the instructions about looking after that as well, thank goodness, though I expected I’d walk down that way with Merlin one day.

Even though the family’s disappointment over Christmas was none of my doing, my conscience had been niggling away at me slightly, so when she got up to go I said impulsively, ‘You wouldn’t like the enormous frozen turkey and giant Christmas pudding the Chirks left, I suppose? Then you, your brother and sister-in-law and Jess could have a proper Christmas dinner together.’

‘Oh, I can’t cook anything more complicated than a boiled egg! So it looks like I’ll be eating Tilda’s roast chicken dinner at the lodge on Christmas Day and then going home to cheese, cold cuts and pickles.’

That made me feel even more guilty, though why I should when none of these broken arrangements were my fault, I can’t imagine! It is all entirely down to the selfishness of Jude Martland!

When Becca had gone (with a big wedge of foil-wrapped cake in her coat pocket), I finally had time to take another look around the house, Merlin at my heels. He had taken to following me about so closely now that if I stopped suddenly, his nose ran into the back of my leg. It felt quite cold and damp even through my jeans; generally a healthy sign in a dog, if not a human.

I wanted to familiarise myself with the layout and especially with the position of anything that might be valuable, and make sure that I hadn’t missed any windows last night when locking up. I would mainly be living in the kitchen wing, unless the urge suddenly came upon me to watch the TV in the little morning room. . Though actually, I’d really taken to the sitting room, vast though it was, so I might spend some time there once I’d lit a fire.

I can’t say I found any valuables, apart from a pair of tarnished silver candlesticks and an engraved tray on the sideboard in the dining room, and a row of silver-framed photographs on the upright piano at the further end of the room.

When I lifted the lid of the piano I was surprised to find it was only slightly out of tune and I wondered who still played it. I picked out the first bit of ‘Lead Kindly Light’ (a hymn Gran taught me to play on her harmonium), which echoed hollowly around the room. It was a lovely instrument, but in the event of a fire I’d be more inclined to snatch up the silver than heave the piano out of the window.

Closing it, I examined the photographs, most quite old and of family groupings — weddings, picnics, expeditions in huge open-topped cars — all the prewar pleasures of the moneyed classes.

At the end of the row was a more recent colour picture of two tall, dark-haired young men, one much bigger, more thick-set and not as handsome as the other, though there was an obvious resemblance. The handsome one was smiling at whoever held the camera, while the other scowled — and if this was Jude Martland and his brother, then I could guess which was which, even after speaking to the man once!

The library held a very mixed selection of books, including a lot of old crime novels of the cosy variety, my favourite. I promised myself a lovely, relaxing time over Christmas, sitting beside a roaring fire with coffee, chocolates and cake to hand, and Merlin and the radio to keep me company.

The one wall free of bookshelves was covered with more old photographs of family and friends — the Martlands were easy to pick out, being mostly tall and dark — but also of men strangely garbed and taking part in some kind of open-air performance. It might have been the Twelfth Night ceremony Sharon mentioned, in which case it looked to me like some innocuous kind of Morris dancing event.

The key to the French doors in the garden hall was on my bunch and I let myself out into the small walled garden, after pulling on an over-large anorak. If this belonged to Jude Martland, then he was a lot bigger than me — about the size of a grizzly bear, in fact!

The garden had a schizophrenic personality: half being overgrown and neglected, with roses that had rambled a little too far and encroaching ivy; while the other was a neat array of vegetable and fruit beds. The large, lean-to greenhouse against the back of the barn could have done with a coat of paint, but inside all was neat and tidy, with tools and pots stowed away under benches or hung up on racks, and a little hidey-hole at the end behind a sacking curtain where Henry hung out, though it was currently vacant. He had a little primus stove, kettle, mug and a tin box containing half a packet of slightly limp digestive biscuits and some Yorkshire Tea bags.

I went back indoors, shivering. It was definitely getting colder and if we did get ice and snow, as the forecast for next week had hinted we might, I was sure that the steep road down from the village would quickly become impassable and we’d be cut off. This was a situation that had often befallen me in Scotland, so I wasn’t particularly bothered by the idea, though I made a note to check that I had all the supplies in the house that I needed, just in case. I could call in at the lodge and make sure they were well prepared too.

Upstairs I wanted to check on the attic, but the door to that was locked and I didn’t have the key — which would be unfortunate if the pipes or water tank leaked or froze! But perhaps it had been entrusted to Noël for emergencies and I made a mental note to ask.

I stopped by my bedroom to hang up the rest of my clothes and stack the books I’d brought and my laptop and cookery notes on a marble-topped washstand, ready to take downstairs later. Gran’s little tin trunk looked right up here, the sort of thing a servant might once have had. . I sat on the edge of the bed and flicked through the first journal until I found where I had left off reading last night: the next few entries seemed to increasingly mention the new patient. .

Firmly resisting the urge to skim, I closed the book: I was enjoying slowly discovering my gran through her journals every evening, a couple of pages at a time, and didn’t want to rush that.