Alexandra Brown - The Great Christmas Knit Off

‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking the flashlight on and thinking how generous she is. I could run off with this for all she knows.

‘There’s a girl!’ She nods cheerily. ‘It’s not usually this pitch-black in the village. Blasted snow puts the power off, you see. The pylons don’t like it.’ And she points again, this time above the bus stop to an overhead cable that’s laden with snow. So, Dolly was on the ball. ‘Good night.’

‘But what about the flashlight?’ I say, waving it in the air.

‘Just leave it with the others in the crate by the bar.’ And with that, she pulls the window back up and chugs away.

With the powerful beam from the flashlight guiding the way, Basil and I step onto the cobbly street that’s flanked either side with rows of small black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops which I presume is the village centre – a far cry from London with all its multi-storey concrete tower blocks and big flashing neon signs. I shine the light towards the end of the little street and sure enough, there’s the pub, the Duck & Puddle, cloaked in darkness, just past the village green. I take it we’ve missed last orders, then.

Pushing the suitcase, Basil and I make our way towards the pub, but I can’t resist having a nose through the mullioned windows of the shops. There’s what looks like a clothes boutique on my left across the road, vintage maybe, because there’s a swishy pink polka-dot Fifties’ prom dress on a headless dressmaker’s bust in the window. Opposite is a place called The Spotted Pig – a double-fronted café, by the looks of it, there’s a menu in a glass case on the wall in the little alcove by the front door. I take a closer look and see that the Christmas special is panettone bread pudding with creamy rum custard. Cor, I love the sound of this; maybe I can bring Cher to The Spotted Pig for afternoon tea tomorrow. Aw, a pet parlour is next door. I can see the sign, PAWS, in elegant mint green and cream letters above the door.

‘One for you, Basil.’ But he’s too busy biting the snow. There’s a bookshop now, a proper musty, old-looking one. Using the sleeve of my parka, I wipe a space on the window and press my nose up to the glass. Wow! There must be a billion books filling every shelf, table top and nook and cranny; old books too, ones that you might have to wear special white gloves for before being allowed to thumb through them. A fruit and veg shop is next door with a stack of empty fruit boxes piled up neatly in the doorway.

We cross over and next to the one with the prom dress in the window is a butcher’s, a traditional one with a ceramic-tiled counter and a row of silver meat hooks dangling in the window. Next, there’s an antiques shop, then a chemist, a florist and a bakery. And here’s the village store that Dolly mentioned, and, last of all, there are a couple of empty shops at the end nearest the green. I’m impressed: a butcher and a baker; all they need is a candlestick maker – which, given the apparent frequency of the power cuts around here, might very well be a good thing. A real money-spinner.

We reach the green. Ah, this is nice. There’s a very plump Christmas tree set right in the middle, and it must be at least twenty feet tall. It has glittery baubles hanging from the ferny fingers, glistening in the glow from the flashlight. My heart lifts. It’s truly magical – so quiet and peaceful and in such utter contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of what I’ve left behind. I think I’m going to really enjoy my weekend here. And then I realise that I haven’t thought about May the fourth, or indeed, Jennifer Ford, since I stepped on the train in London, which right now feels like a million miles away – and that’s a good thing, surely? These past few months, I have honestly been rapidly reaching the point where I feel as if my head might actually explode. A mini-break in the beautiful, cosy, bubble of Tindledale is just what I need.

It’s like that film, Deliverance , when I push open the door of the Duck & Puddle – all that’s missing is a man in dungarees chewing tobacco and strumming a banjo.

Ten or so pairs of eyes turn to stare at me as I stamp the bulk of the snow from my legs and feet, push down the hood of my parka and pull off my bobble hat, it’s like a furnace in here. And I haven’t missed last orders at all; in fact, from the number of full pints lined up on the bar, I’d say ‘drinking up time’ has only just begun. The windows all have heavy velvet blackout curtains blocking the light from the numerous candles dotted around the tables, which explains why the pub looked closed from the other side of the village green, and the source of the heat is an enormous real log fire with crimson, blue-tinged flames crackling and wheezing in the ceiling-height inglenook fireplace to my right.

I smile tentatively and scan behind the bar, but Cher isn’t here.

‘Well, don’t just sit there. Give the girl a hand,’ a chunky woman wearing a woolly poncho (handknitted) bellows to the extremely tall, robust-looking man sitting beside her, before elbowing him sharply in the ribs.

‘Will you turn it in, woman?’ he pretends to chastise her as he shoos her hand away. ‘I was just getting my bearings.’ There’s a collective good-natured laugh from the crowd as the man downs his pint in one and then steadies himself on the table before hauling himself into an upright position.

‘That suitcase looks heavy enough to house a body,’ the woman continues. Oh God, don’t say that! They’re already eyeing me suspiciously – probably thinking I’m some kind of crazeee looper on the loose, come to their village to strangle them all in their beds as they sleep.

The man strides towards me and hauls the suitcase up over his shoulder in one swift movement. He extends his free hand.

‘I’m Cooper.’ He nods firmly, as if to punctuate the point. Ah, yes, I remember, the butcher with the hog roast.

‘Pleased to meet you.’ I quickly pull a woolly mitten off with my teeth and shake his hand. ‘I’m Sybs,’ I finish quietly, but he’s already dropped my hand and turned his back to go in search of a suitable spot in which to deposit the suitcase.

‘Now, where do you want this?’ he yells back over his shoulder.

‘Oh, well, I’ve come to visit Cher, so behind the bar perhaps, for now?’ I suggest, quickly going after him, scanning again and thinking where is she? This is really awkward. They are all still staring at me – and the only sound comes from the pop and whizz of the log fire. I spot the crate next to the bar, stacked high with an assortment of torches and flashlights and deposit my borrowed one on top of the pile.