Trisha Ashley - Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Not celebrate Christmas?’ Noël looked as stunned as if I had admitted to some abhorrent crime.

‘No, I was brought up as a Strange Baptist.’

‘Oh — right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I think I’ve heard of those. . And the lady who runs the Homebodies agency — Ellen, is it? — mentioned that you have not long since lost your grandmother, so I don’t expect you feel particularly festive this year?’

‘No, not at all. . or any year, in fact.’

‘My dear, I am so sorry,’ Tilda said and added, graciously, ‘We quite understand — and if you feel at all in need of company at any time, you are always welcome to call on us.’

‘But surely — with a name like Holly — you must have a birthday to celebrate during Christmas?’ Noël asked suddenly.

‘It’s Christmas Day, actually, but I don’t celebrate that, either.’

‘So is mine and I feel just the same,’ he said understandingly. ‘It would simply be too presumptuous to share the Lord’s birthday, wouldn’t it?’

Safely back in the car I tried to decide what had been in the pinwheel sandwiches. Whatever it was had tasted like decayed fish paste, but looked like black olive pâté. It was a complete mystery to me and I might have to ask Tilda for the recipe, out of sheer curiosity.

The drive went up one side of a steeply-banked stream through the pine wood and then turned away, opening up onto a vista of sheep-nibbled grass across which, beyond a ha-ha, I could see a long, low, Jacobean building. It was rather larger than I had expected, though I suppose the size of the lodge should have given me some idea. The low-slung wintry sun sparkled off the mullioned windows, but there was no sign of life: not even a wisp of smoke from one of the line of four tall chimneys.

I drove over a cattle grid and pulled up on the gravel next to a battered red Ford Fiesta, noting as I did so that the flowerbeds that flanked the substantial front door inside an open porch looked neglected and the doorknocker, in the shape of a Green Man with frondy foliage forming his hair and beard, had not been cleaned for months.

I longed to have a go at it with Brasso. It’s not that I love cleaning, because I don’t, just that I like things neat, clean and orderly. I really have to fight the urge sometimes in other people’s houses; you’d be surprised what a mess they can leave them in.

As I got out of the car, a youngish woman came out, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand. Her magenta hair was scraped back into a ponytail, apart from one long, limp strand that hung over her face like wet seaweed, and she was wearing a salmon-pink velour tracksuit that left a goose-pimpled muffin top of flesh exposed.

‘Hello,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘You must be the cleaner, Sharon? I’m glad you’re still here, I’m late and I thought you might have gone by now.’

‘I was just about to when I heard your car,’ she said, taking my hand as if she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it and then letting it go immediately. ‘Call me Shar — and I’m not really a cleaner, I’ve just been helping Jude out for a bit of extra cash since my Kevin’s been laid off. Not that he pays me the going rate, he’s too mean.’

‘Isn’t that illegal?’

‘Cash in hand, innit? He’s got me over a barrel. You’d better watch out you get your money.’

‘Oh, that’s okay, the agency pays me.’

‘You won’t see me no more after today, because I’m starting behind the bar in the pub in Great Mumming after Christmas, a regular job. So Jude Martland can stick his miserly money and his smart-arse comments where the sun don’t shine.’

‘Right,’ I said noncommittally, reeling slightly under this information overload. ‘So. . Mr Martland knows you’re leaving?’

‘I told him I wasn’t doing Christmas and no-one works over New Year,’ she said sulkily, ‘especially if they don’t get a bonus. Then he said since he could never tell whether I’d been in to clean or not, I didn’t even deserve what he paid me, let alone any extra. He’s such a sarky bugger!’

‘I see.’

‘So if I’ve took another job, it’s his own fault, innit? I’m not bothered.’

‘I expect it is.’

‘If he rings, you can tell him I’ve had a better offer.’

‘If he should ring, I’ll certainly tell him you’ve resigned from your job,’ I agreed. ‘Now, before you go, do you have time to quickly show me over the house and where everything is?’

‘I don’t know where everything is, do I? I only vacuum and dust, and that’s too much for one person. An old couple used to do the cooking and see to the house and generator, but they retired after the old gent, Jude’s dad, died. January, that was.’

‘So I’ve heard. . and did you say there was a generator ? I thought the house had mains services.’

‘It does, but the electric’s always cutting out and the phone line is forever coming down between here and the village because the poles need replacing. The TV doesn’t work very well either, because there’s no Sky dish, though they’ve got one at the lodge. It’s a complete hole, I don’t know what you’re going to do with yourself.’

‘That’s all right, I’m not bothered about TV. I’ve brought my radio with me and lots to read.’

Sharon looked at me as if I was a strange and alien species with three heads. ‘There’s no mobile phone reception either, unless you walk halfway up Snowehill, or down past the lodge,’ she informed me as a clincher.

‘Well then, if the phone line goes dead, the exercise will do me good,’ I said pleasantly. I have worked in remote places before — the house I should have been minding in Scotland was much more isolated than this — though I had not, admittedly, previously had to cope with a generator. I only hoped the electricity didn’t cut out before I found the instructions on how to operate the thing!

I smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Now, I’d really appreciate it if you could quickly show me round? Normally we try and visit a property beforehand to meet the owners and get the lay of the land, as it were, but obviously in this case it wasn’t possible.’

Sharon sullenly and reluctantly agreed and stood back to let me past her into a long stone entrance chamber. It had a row of heavily-burdened coat hooks, a brass stand full of walking sticks and umbrellas, and a battered wooden bench, under which was a miscellaneous collection of wellingtons and walking boots.

‘Go through the door at the end,’ she directed and I found myself standing in a huge, high-ceilinged sitting room the size of a small barn with an open fireplace practically big enough to roast an ox in. A worn carpet in mellow, warm colours covered most of the stone floor and an assortment of occasional tables, velvet-covered sofas and chairs was grouped on it. A dogleg staircase rose from one corner to a balustraded gallery above, that ran around three sides.

‘What a lovely room! It looks as if it started out as a great hall in a much older building?’

‘They say this is the really old bit in the middle, the rest was added on later,’ she said indifferently. ‘There’s two wings — the kitchen one is set back, you go through a door behind that wooden screen over there. This other side is bigger, with the family rooms and another staircase. Come on, I’ll show you.’