Sue Moorcroft - The Little Village Christmas

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Sue Moorcroft 2017

Cover illustration © Carrie May

Cover design © Head Design 2017

Sue Moorcroft asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008260019

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008260026

Version 2019-02-26

To Mark West and Dominic White.

Thank you.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

‘Are you serious ?’ Ben stared at his mother.

Penny twisted a tissue in her hands. ‘I’m only telling you that Dad said if you hadn’t taken up with that girl then none of this would have happened. Lloyd wouldn’t be … where he is.’

Ben sank onto his parents’ floral sofa, the cotton cold beneath his sweating palms. ‘ That girl ’s name is Imogen.’

‘In a way, I can see Dad’s point. Everybody in Didbury knows her family. The Goodbodys breed like rabbits, live off benefits and their garden looks like a scrap yard. They’re like something from a reality TV show.’

‘Imogen’s never claimed a benefit in her life. She’s put in long hours in a demanding sales environment, in spite of her background and in spite of people badmouthing her.’ Ben wasn’t sure whether he was more outraged by his parents’ prejudice or by being put in the position of defending Imogen.

His mother didn’t let his dig deter her. ‘The Goodbody men are chancers and the women are slu—’ She flicked Ben a glance and chose a primmer adjective. ‘The women are man-eaters. If she was supposed to be on a spa weekend with an old uni friend, why was she in a car with Lloyd in the middle of the night? Dad warned you you’d never have a quiet mind if you married her, so why did you insist on working away so much? You’re such a decent, straightforward man, but didn’t you see that it was like throwing petrol and a match together? At least Lloyd’s single. Imogen was married to you—’

Ben leapt to his feet. ‘Lloyd’s my brother !’ He ought to have been used to being the second child in all senses, but no way could he get his head around his mother holding him in any way responsible for this mess.

Penny buried her face in her hands. ‘And those aunties of Imogen are going round painting her as an innocent victim and you as a callous husband!’

‘Do you think I don’t know? The Auntie Mafia never pass me in the supermarket without asking what happened to “For better, for worse”.’

And his petition for divorce had goaded them to literally hiss at him in the street. He hadn’t wasted his breath defending himself because he understood Imogen’s family’s loyalty lay with their own. They’d never heard Imogen’s words: I don’t think we’re going to get past this, Ben. If you can’t forgive me then divorce me. Her pain when he’d demanded to know how he could forgive her when she refused to tell him what had really happened that night had been too deeply personal and painful a moment to share with anyone but her.

Penny gulped. ‘And now the Goodbodys are giving you a hard time and you’re selling up and leaving Didbury.’

Her words reminded Ben of the depressing task that had been interrupted by this conversation: dismantling their home. Stilted phone calls to Imogen about what she wanted packing into her brothers’ vans, his heart convulsing as he imagined her, white-faced, trying to be brave.

The very same heart that couldn’t forgive her.

He turned wearily for the door. ‘I’m not leaving because of Imogen’s family, Mum. I’m leaving because of mine.’

THE MIDDLEDIP COMMUMITY WRECKING PARTY

Help us strip out The Angel pub

ready for its transformation into

THE ANGEL COMMUNITY CAFÉ

and we’ll give you …

BEER AND BBQ

Saturday 9th September

TONIGHT!

Over the course of the wrecking party, enthusiastic villagers had shifted the rubbish of decades from the once-splendid Angel public house to the skips outside. Most of the Victorian building’s fabulous period features had been dismantled.

Alexia clambered up on a stepladder in what used to be the ‘Bar Parlour’ of The Angel to make an announcement above the hubbub. ‘I declare the “wrecking” over! Now let’s party!’ Jumping down amidst cheers and calls of, ‘Thanks, Alexia!’ she ignored the surge of people towards the cool boxes of beer and instead she gazed around the long-neglected room. The lovely old door with its etched glass had been moved to storage along with the once-polished Victorian bar. Dozens of flickering tea lights had been lit in place of the industrial lights rigged for the stripping-out.

Someone had brought a docking station for their iPod and music began to echo off walls freshly stripped of red flock wallpaper and nicotine stains. Dusty people chattered around the mood boards that depicted Alexia’s vision of the pub’s transformation to The Angel Community Café.

Alexia’s best friend, Jodie, appeared at her side, her long dark hair overlaid with a cobweb, and pushed a cold can into Alexia’s hand. ‘Here. You deserve a drink.’