Alexandra Brown - The Great Christmas Knit Off

‘SONNNNYYYYY!’ Jesus, that was right in my ear. Cooper sure has a big, booming voice. And Basil has obviously heard him from outside as he’s now barking like a mad dog – woofing over and over and over. Another guy jumps up.

‘That’ll be the cocker from the country club,’ he says to nobody in particular. ‘Perishing thing is always getting free and roaming around the village like it’s lord of the manor. I’ll herd it up and take it back.’ He heads towards the door with a determined look on his ruddy weather-beaten farmer’s face.

‘Oh, well actually, that could be my Scottie, Basil. He’s tied up securely though,’ I say, shrinking a little inside as they clearly don’t approve of dogs barking late at night. I wouldn’t usually risk leaving Basil on his own outside, certainly not in London where he could get kidnapped in the twinkling of an eye, but I’d figured he was probably safe until I found Cher and could get him upstairs out of the way. Besides, I thought the villagers would all be in bed asleep – I mean, don’t they all have to be up at the crack of dawn to milk cows or something? Obviously not, they’re all in the Duck & Puddle – the shepherd’s second home, theirs too by the looks of it! I glance at the wall clock and see that it’s after eleven. The farmer guy stares at me like I’ve just sprouted another head.

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Pardon?’ I blink, wondering what he’s going on about.

‘Leave your dog outside?’ he says, frowning and giving me an up-and-down look.

‘But, I thought—’

‘Get him in quick before he wakes up Mark.’ Who’s Mark? ‘And put him by the fire – he must be freezing half to death, the poor thing.’ Oh God, now they think I’m cruel to animals. He points to a dog bowl brimming with water next to a tartan blanket by a log basket at the corner of the tiled hearth.

‘Oh, that would be lovely. Thank you.’ There’s a little ricochet of chuckles as I dash back outside. How was I supposed to know that dogs were actually allowed inside the pub? And with special provisions too – blanket, refreshments, cosy log fire to bask beside – Basil is going to be in his element.

‘Did someone bellow?’ Clive has appeared behind the bar when I return with Basil. ‘Sybs! Hello darling. What a nice surprise,’ he beams on spotting me. ‘And Cher will be made up to see you.’ He lifts the hatch and motions for me to come through. I smile with relief at seeing a familiar face, and then, as if by magic, everyone starts chatting and laughing amongst themselves, doing normal pub banter – just like a scene from Emmerdale in the Woolpack Inn when the director has just yelled ‘action’. How strange … I feel as if I’ve passed some kind of initiation ritual and that they’ve all relaxed and gone back to whatever it was they were doing before I burst through the door of their local, a stranger in their midst, but it’s all OK – now Clive has verified me, that is.

I take off Basil’s snowy wet coat and settle him in the designated spot by the fire (he instantly looks right at home, sprawled out on the blanket and he’s practically comatose already as he relishes the intense heat) before I head towards Clive. Cooper follows behind, dumping my suitcase in the hall next to a mountain of boxes containing cheese and onion crisps.

‘Thanks, Cooper,’ says Clive.

‘No problem, Sonny.’ And he strides off through to the other side of the bar.

Clive gives me a hug and then steers me through to a cosy private lounge out the back. Once the door is closed and I’m satisfied that the locals can’t overhear us, I give Clive a quizzical look.

‘Er, why is he calling you Sonny?’ I ask in a hushed voice, creasing my forehead. Clive smiles and shakes his head in amusement.

‘Because I’m Cher’s boyfriend.’ Clive shrugs as if it’s the most obvious reason ever, and then he explains. ‘On our first day here, one of the regulars said it for a laugh, you know, as in, “so if our new landlady is called Cher and you’re her fella, then you must be Sonny” and it’s stuck. Now everyone in Tindledale calls me Sonny, as in Sonny and Cher.’ And he belts out a line from their iconic song, ‘I Got You Babe’.

‘Ha ha, of course they do,’ I laugh and give him another hug. ‘And my second question – who is Mark?’ I shake my head.

‘Oh! He’s the local bobby – lives in the police house next door to Dr Darcy who’s the village GP. Mark gets upset if he’s woken up in the middle of the night, hence Pete wanting to get Basil inside quickly,’ Clive explains in a matter-of-fact way.

‘But Mark is OK about you having a lock-in?’ I ask, lifting my eyebrows. I’m surprised; it’s not something Cher usually goes for.

‘Weeeeell … ’ He gives me a shifty look and shoves his hands into his jeans’ pockets. ‘Cher isn’t actually here. She’s on a course at Brewery HQ. A last-minute space came up after one of the others dropped out so she jumped at the chance of staying in a hotel for a few nights.’

‘Oh no!’ My heart sinks.

‘But she’ll be back by Sunday afternoon,’ he adds quickly, seeing my face drop. ‘And Mark’s fine about a bit of banter after hours as long he doesn’t know about it, if you know what I mean. Discretion, that’s the key.’ Clive winks and grins before tapping the side of his nose with an index finger. ‘Now, how about I get you a drink before we find you somewhere to stay.’ He rubs his hands together.

‘Er, I thought it was OK to stay here. Cher said …’ My voice trails off and for some ridiculous reason I can feel tears threatening. I push my top teeth down hard on my tongue to focus my mind and stop the tears from tumbling out. I’ve cocked up again. I should never have just rocked up here. What was I thinking ? I can’t imagine there’s a Travelodge anywhere in Tindledale so I’m going to have to go back home – which is where I probably should have stayed to face the music in the morning with Mr Banerjee.

‘Hey, of course it is,’ Clive says kindly. ‘Cher has been going on and on about you coming. Like I said, she’ll be made up that you’re here. And it’ll sweeten the blow when she returns.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come and see.’ And Clive pulls open a little timber-slatted door in the corner that I hadn’t even noticed, and after ducking his head under the low frame, he motions for me to follow him up the narrowest, twistiest, higgledy-piggledy stairs I think I’ve ever seen. I feel like Alice in Wonderland as I crouch down and place the palms of my hands on the steps in front of me just to get low enough to climb up to the next floor.

‘Oh dear! I see what you mean.’ We’ve emerged into a tiny, exposed beamed bedroom with a mattress on the floor, one side of which is propped up on a row of wooden blocks next to a window so low and bowed it’s practically a continuation of the carpet. ‘What are they for?’ I point to the blocks.

‘So we don’t tumble away when we’re fast asleep in the middle of the night and end up going through the window.’ He manages a wry smile, but he also has a very good point, because the floorboards slope so severely that there’s every chance this really could happen. ‘We can’t get any of our furniture up those doll’s house stairs. The pub was built in 1706 as a coaching inn originally – even the old stable buildings are still intact. And currently storing all of our furniture, I hasten to add. People were clearly pocket-size in those days.’ He shrugs and pulls a face. ‘We’re lucky to even have the mattress; if it wasn’t for Pete lashing it up tight like a bale of hay, we would have never squeezed it up the stairs. No, we need a new bed, one that can be assembled in situ, as it were.’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘But until then, this is it, I’m afraid. So unless you and Basil fancy bunking down with me on the mattress …’ He laughs, slings a friendly arm around my shoulders, and jiggles me up and down in a big bear hug.