Sue Moorcroft - The Little Village Christmas

The choking fingers of panic closed around his throat. The slaking of his desire had transported him briefly out of the bleak place he’d inhabited. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so bad if he hadn’t enjoyed it so much, but her smile had made him feel better, more worthwhile, and her enthusiasm had poured into the air like a rainbow on a grey day.

Desperate not to wake her and have to rationalise these warring emotions, he eased backwards until he could scoot out from under the covers.

Yes, go. That’s how you cope, isn’t it? By being alone.

Alexia stirred, muttering in her sleep. He groped his escape across the little landing and down the stairs.

In the kitchen, breathing came easier. He pulled clean clothes from the tumble dryer and fumbled into them, heart beating too loudly for him to hear whether Barney rustled in his tub. Grabbing the rechargeable torch from its holster on the kitchen wall he cast around for his boots.

Then he crept out of the front door, refusing to look at that sheet of paper headed decree nisi on the table by the door, lying as it had landed when he’d flung it from him this morning.

The period between nisi and absolute exists for a reason. It’s for last efforts, second thoughts. For now, Imogen’s still your wife.

He stumbled through the door and out of the clearing, the torchlight lighting the path unevenly, the same path he’d trodden along with Alexia a few hours ago; a woman he’d wanted. A woman who’d excited him.

For two years his libido had been sulking, but last night Alexia had unleashed it and it had flown out, fizzing and spinning.

Now, the memories of all the mornings he’d woken wrapped around Imogen’s body swept in.

You’ve been unfaithful.

It can’t count. We’re nearly divorced and—

And your heart and your guts are telling you that you’ve been unfaithful.

Like one of the animals that wandered the night Ben trudged around the path edging the lake, where the water lapped and the breeze stirred the leaves.

The negativity always won in the dark hours.

He should have remembered that before he invited Alexia to share his night.

Alexia woke slowly, languorously stretching sleep-heavy limbs. Through the windows she could see patches of blue sky hung with hurrying clouds. But it wasn’t her window.

The events of last night rushed back at her.

The Angel. Ben. Coming back to his enchanting little house in the woods.

The ashes in the grate were grey and cold now but last night the fire had roared up the chimney as she and Ben enjoyed each other’s bodies, the shadows dancing across his skin as he rose above her.

It had been a damned shame that neither of them had had a condom to allow them the satisfaction of the final act. Still. Hands and mouth had provided a fine substitute.

She glanced at the other side of the bed, but already she knew it would be empty from the absence of warmth stealing towards her along the sheets. She yawned, then stopped and listened. The house was quiet.

‘Ben?’

No answer. She felt a little as Goldilocks might have done if there had been no bears, waking alone in a strange bed in a cottage in the woods. She rolled out of bed and wandered to the head of the stairs. ‘Ben?’

Silence. Shrugging, she entered the bathroom, glancing at herself in the mirror and laughing at the way her hair was sticking up. Last night’s dusty clothes lay on the floor but she stepped over them to try Ben’s upmarket shower, experimenting with the buttons that controlled the jets. Enjoying the hot water, she thought of Ben’s hands on her last night. Maybe he was a wizard. He’d certainly worked a little magic on her body. Her limbs still felt heavy and relaxed. Sated. She smiled gently at the memories as she allowed the hot water to sluice the scent of Ben from her body. Then she borrowed his towel and had little choice but to climb into yesterday’s clothes, combing her hair with her fingers.

‘Ben?’ she called again as she ran down the stairs. It didn’t take long to check the ground floor. In the kitchen she pulled out Barney’s tub and crouched to peep at him. ‘Where’s he gone, Barney? Did he have to work today? It’s Sunday. I thought most of the estate workers had weekends off.’

Barney’s beak flipped open. ‘ Hehhhhh. ’

Rising, she gazed out of the window at the clearing and the tree trunks crowding beyond it. The silver truck she could see was presumably Ben’s. Briefly, she debated hanging on to see if he returned but then decided he wouldn’t be so rude as to leave her to wake up alone unless he’d gone out to work for the day. Maybe an elm had needed urgent surgery. She glanced at her phone to check for texts before remembering there had been no reason to give him her number.

‘He could have left a note, eh, Barney Owl? But maybe he told me last night – parts of it are a little blurry. Never mind. He’ll come back to feed you so tell him I said bye.’

‘ Hehhhhh ,’ remarked Barney, tilting his head.

Alexia let herself out into the brisk September morning and headed up the path to the village, hurrying to keep warm until she left the tree canopy and made it out into the sunshine.

In fifteen minutes she emerged from the bridleway and crossed Port Road, electing to traverse the playing fields to access Main Road rather than taking Cross Street, which would mean passing the village shop. ‘News and Booze’ for many years had been A & G Crowther but now Gwen Crowther’s niece, Melanie, had taken it over and made it an off-licence. Melanie was even more beady-eyed than Gwen had been and Alexia could just imagine her throwing open the door and yelling, ‘Where have you been to get your jeans dirty this early on a Sunday?’ Her huge friendly smile wouldn’t in the least prevent her from later sharing Alexia’s reply with every customer to enter the shop.

So, crossing the village by way of the playing fields, Alexia waved at a couple of people she knew who were pushing their children on swings and spared a glance for the sad sight of the closed-down village hall.

Her trainers were damp from the grass by the time she got home. Like Ben’s cottage, 44 Main Road was made of stone, but there the similarity ended. Long and low, its windows peered out from under its slated roof. Grandpop, Alexia’s grandfather, had left the cottage to Alexia and her brother, Reuben – bypassing his son, Clifford, their dad, because he knew its proceeds would be swallowed by the insatiable maw that was Clifford’s finances.

Alexia, who hadn’t inherited the rubbish-with-money gene, had taken on a mortgage to buy Reuben out, who, living happily in Germany with his wife Hanna, had been delighted.

It was Alexia who’d been close to Grandpop anyway, spending hours with him in his workshop at the side of the house ‘making sawdust’ as he’d called it. Her workshop now, Grandpop’s tools mingled happily with her sewing machine and paintbrushes, the perfect place for the projects that brought her touch to her clients’ homes.

She let herself in, acknowledging wistfully that though she planned to take down all her lovely handmade Christmas ornaments early in the holiday this year, she’d be packing them along with everything else ready to move out in January. It would cause her a pang to leave number 44, even knowing Jodie and Shane would look after her little house and that Alexia could return. But Grandpop would have understood her leaving Middledip for a while to give working with Elton a try. ‘Upwards and onwards,’ he’d have said.

The house was silent, though it was past ten o’clock. Shane’s truck wasn’t outside so presumably it was still where he’d left it at The Angel last night and he and Jodie were still upstairs, oblivious.