Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Jude Martland: I just caught up with my emails and found one from Homebodies saying the Chirks had had to leave and you were taking over.’

‘That’s right, and I’m so glad you’ve rung, because—’

‘No, it’s damned-well not all right!’ he rudely interrupted. ‘I’ve just called my uncle, and apparently you’re not only alone in the house, but you’ve also no experience with horses whatsoever!’

‘Look, Mr Martland,’ I said soothingly. ‘I always house-sit alone and your instructions were very comprehensive — exhaustive , even. Well, apart from the goat,’ I qualified.

‘What?’

‘Billy. There was no mention of him.’

‘Of course there was — you just didn’t bother looking for it! But what really matters is that I left Old Place, Lady and Merlin in safe hands, with people I knew and trusted — then suddenly I hear that someone totally unsuitable has been drafted in, without a by-your-leave!’

‘Actually, I’m repeatedly rebooked by the same clients, year after year,’ I said evenly. ‘You were lucky that my Christmas placement had also fallen through, so that I was free to step into the breach! And thank you, Holly Brown, for coping with the emergency,’ I found myself adding acerbically.

There was a pause, then he growled, grudgingly, ‘I suppose there was no alternative, but I’m not happy with the arrangement — or that Homebodies went ahead and did this without asking me.’

‘Ellen did her best to contact you and, in any case, she knows I’m completely trustworthy and capable.’

‘Sending a young woman to look after an isolated house alone, especially over Christmas, can hardly be ideal.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t celebrate Christmas, I’m not actually that young and I prefer isolation.’

‘Noël mentioned you didn’t celebrate Christmas — and that’s another problem, because my aunt and uncle were looking forward to having Christmas dinner with the Chirks and I felt better knowing Tilda wouldn’t have to cook it. I know she still does most of their cooking, but she’s looking quite frail these days.’

‘Yes, so she said, but I don’t think she’s going to attempt the full monty — they’re having a roast chicken instead,’ I said. ‘And I expect her granddaughter will help her.’

‘Oh God, I’d entirely forgotten about Jess being there on her own this year!’

‘Mmm. . I’m afraid you don’t seem to be her favourite person at the moment, Mr Martland.’

There was a pause, and then he suggested, ‘Perhaps you could cook the Christmas dinner instead of the Chirks? You can cook?’

‘I’m a professional chef, that’s what I do during the summer,’ I said icily, ‘and my charges are very high. In winter I prefer to house-sit for a rest. Catering for family dinner parties doesn’t come into my current plans and besides, as I’ve said, I don’t celebrate Christmas in any way.’

‘But—’

‘Mr Martland,’ I interrupted firmly, ‘while I’m sorry your arrangements have been put out, you can rest assured that I’ll keep an eye on your property and look after the animals until your return on Twelfth Night.’

‘But how can I be sure of that when I know nothing about you, except that you have no knowledge of horses and—’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘you don’t have any alternative! If you think I’m going to drink your gin and fall into a drunken coma over Christmas, neglecting the animals and burning the house down, I suggest you email Ellen for my CV and references. Good night , Mr Martland.’

And I slammed down the receiver.

I regretted my lapse into rudeness almost immediately. It must have been tiredness, but also there was something about his manner that rubbed me up the wrong way. While a bit of snappishness might be allowable in a cook of my calibre, provided I produced delicious meals, which I always did, it’s not such a good idea with house-sitting clients.

The phone rang again almost immediately. Sighing, I picked it up.

‘You hung up on me!’ he said incredulously.

‘I’m sorry, but the conversation seemed to have run its natural course. Now, it’s been a long day and I was just on my way to bed. . Oh, and by the way,’ I added as an afterthought, ‘your cleaner has resigned, with effect from today. But going by the filthy state of the house, I daresay you’ll hardly notice.’

This time when I put the phone down, he didn’t ring back. I filled my hot water bottle, patted Merlin, and took myself off up to bed where, despite my exhaustion, I found myself going over and over the conversation with the irritating and unreasonable Jude Martland. I would be sure to leave long before he came home on Twelfth Night!

In the end I switched on the bedside lamp and read a few more entries in Gran’s journal until, soothed by the small dramas of the hospital ward and her battles with her awful landlady, I finally fell asleep.

After breakfast next morning I checked on Lady and her smelly little companion, fed them a few chunks of carrot, then clipped back the top of the stable door to the courtyard.

They both looked fine, but I thought I would leave them where they were until it was fully light and took Merlin for a walk up Snowehill. He seemed to be moving a little easier this morning and I suspected he’d missed a couple of his pills and regular exercise in the last few days.

The closer we got to the red horse hill figure, the harder it was to make out what it was. It had been cut out of the turf and the earth banked on either side to make a raised edge. The natural red sandstone lay revealed, though it didn’t stand out like the white horse ones I’d seen elsewhere and was on a much smaller scale. I wondered if it was ancient, perhaps Celtic? I seemed to recall that Celts were keen on horses. Or perhaps it was a more modern addition to the local scenery?

A track up to the beacon ran right by it and, looking down, I could see that it met the road above Old Place, where there was another farm. It was well trodden, so I expect lots of walkers come here to climb up to the folly. I’d do it myself one day, too, only not this particular one: I had too much to do.

I was just about to go back down when there was a quick spatter of Mozart from my pocket. The ringtone somehow didn’t seem quite right for a windswept Lancashire hillside, but I’m not sure what would. Ride of the Valkyries?

‘Caught you!’ Ellen said triumphantly. ‘I tried the house but there was no reply.’

‘No, I’m up on the hill behind the house. In fact, the only mobile reception is up here, or down near the village, so you’re lucky to have caught me at all.’

‘What are you doing on the hill?’

‘Walking the dog — and he’s old and arthritic so I can’t keep him standing about here very long.’

‘I only wanted to warn you that I found a flood of emails from Jude Martland in my inbox this morning and he isn’t happy about the change of home-sitter, though he should be grateful I could find anyone at such short notice!’