The Magic of Christmas

She smiled. ‘I expect Roly told him to keep an eye on things after that animal rights group started targeting you.’

‘More likely he’s keeping an eye on his freezer,’ I said, though it was true that the only evidence of ARG (as they are known locally) I’d spotted around the place lately were the occasional bits of gaffer tape where a banner had been ripped off my car or the barn. ‘Perhaps they just aren’t bothering with me that much. I mean, I can see why they might target Unks and Caz, especially since no one knows what Caz does with all those grey squirrels he traps, but why me? I’m not battery farming anything.’

All my fowl lived long, happy and mainly useless lives, except for an excess of male quail and the occasional unwanted cockerel, which Caz dispatched for me with expert efficiency.

‘I expect they just include you in with the Pharamond estate, since your cottage is part of it,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not personal.’

We cleaned up the mess in the kitchen as well as we could and then Annie left, since it was clear enough that Tom wasn’t coming back that night, at least – and I thanked heaven for small mercies.

‘What happened to your face, Mum?’ Jasper asked, getting his first good look at me in the light of the kitchen, when a friend dropped him home later. ‘That looks like a bruise coming up. And why are you wearing one of Auntie Annie’s horrible cardigans?’

‘Your father dropped a plate and a piece hit me,’ I explained. ‘Annie loaned me the cardigan to cover up the gravy stains on my T-shirt and I forgot to give it back when she went home.’

He looked at the dent and new marks on the plastered kitchen wall and said, ‘He dropped a plate horizontally?’ in that smart-lipped way teenage boys have.

‘Yes, he was practising discus throwing,’ I said, and he gave me a look but let the subject drop.

He didn’t ask where his father was. But then, at that time, he never did.

Chapter 2: All Fudge

We are in the middle of a hot spell and the air is fragrant with sweet peas and roses and full of the dull, drowsy drone of bees drunk on nectar. Yesterday I divided up the bigger clumps of chives and began drying herbs for winter, crumbling them up as soon as they were cool and storing them in cork-topped containers, though the bay leaves have simply been left in bunches hanging from the wooden rack in the kitchen. But soon they, too, will be packed in jars and put away in the cupboard until needed.

As I used up the final jar of last year’s mincemeat for brownies, I wondered if mincemeat would also work as an ingredient in fudge – maybe even in Spudge, the mashed potato fudge I invented while we were living in Cornwall …

The Perseverance Chronicles: A Life in Recipes

Tom had been gone a couple of days when Jasper pointedly enquired after dinner one night if there was anything I wanted to discuss, but I just said we would have a little chat before he went to university and he gave me one of his looks.

I knew he was now an adult, and at some point I’d have to explain to him that I was going to leave his father and the cottage as soon as he’d gone off to university, but at that moment he was so happy that he’d got the exam grades he needed for his first choice, I didn’t want to rain on his parade.

Next day, when I let out the hens, I found it was one of those delicious late summer mornings that reminded me of the early honeymoon weeks of our marriage in Cornwall: dreamy swirls of mist with the warm sun tinting the edges golden, like pale yellow candyfloss wisps. You could easily imagine King Arthur and Queen Guinevere riding out of it in glorious Technicolor, all jingling bridles and hooded hawks, though if they had they would probably have been surprised to find themselves transported from the land of legend into a Lancashire backwater like Middlemoss.

The last remaining acres of darkly watchful ancient woodland that crowded up to the back of Perseverance Cottage would have looked normal enough to them, I suppose – apart from Caz Naylor, who as usual was camouflaged from headband to boots, Rambo-style. I spotted him flitting in and out of the trees only by the white glint of his eyeballs and the sweat glistening between the green and brown streaks on his naked chest. A blink and he was gone, back to wage war on the dangerous alien life form known to the uninitiated as the grey squirrel.

Still, even in Arthurian times they would probably have had some kind of shamanistic Green Man and so would be used to such goings-on, and the duckpond, chickens and vegetable patch out front would look reassuringly normal to them. But what would they have made of the huge, tumble-down old greenhouse, the remains of a previous tenant’s abortive attempt at market gardening? Or my battered, once-white Citroën 2CV? A 2CV that, I now noticed, had its hood down, so the seats would be soaked with dew and very likely lightly spattered with hen crap. Or even, which was much, much worse, duck gloop.

It was also listing drunkenly on one seriously flat tyre.

Tossing the last of the feed to the hens, I stuck my head inside the cottage door.

‘Jasper?’ I called loudly up the steep stairs, expecting him to be still asleep. By nature, teenagers are intended to be nocturnal, so it felt cruel to have to drag him out of his lair under the eaves each morning.

Instead, he loomed out of the doorway next to me, making me jump. ‘I’m here, Mum. What’s up?’

‘Flat tyre. You have your breakfast and get ready while I change it. I hope it’s a mendable puncture – the spare’s not that brilliant and if I have to buy a new one it’ll be worth more than the rest of the car put together.’

One of the Leghorns had followed me into the flagged hallway (a Myrtle: all the white hens are called that; and the browns, Honey) and I shooed it out again. There’s something terribly cement-like about hen droppings when they set hard.

‘I’ll change it,’ he offered. ‘Or I can cycle over.’

‘No, I’ll have it done by the time you’ve had breakfast, and you’ll be late otherwise.’

The medieval dig he was working at was only a few miles away, but the lanes between the site and us were narrow and twisty, so I worried about his safety. Annie calls it ‘mother hen with one chick’ syndrome, but she is just as dotty about Trinity, her rescued dog. And if I hadn’t been an anxious mother, then maybe I wouldn’t have demanded the right treatment for Jasper’s meningitis that time he was rushed into hospital, even before the tests came back positive … It didn’t bear thinking about.

Jasper wandered out again a few minutes later holding a piece of toast at least an inch thick, not counting the bramble jelly and butter, removed the wheel brace from my hand (giving me the toast to hold in exchange), and unscrewed the last nut.

‘Thanks, that was stiff. You’d think if I’d tightened it up in the first place, I’d be able to undo it easily, wouldn’t you?’

‘Dad not back yet?’ Jasper asked, glancing across at the large, ramshackle wooden shed Tom used as his workshop, with the ‘Board Rigid: Customised Surfboards’ sign over it.

‘No.’

‘Well, remember that time you asked him to go and buy a couple of pints of milk, and you didn’t hear from him for a week?’ he said, clearly with the intention of comforting me should I need it. But actually, I was sure he shared my feeling that his father’s increasing number of absences were a blessing, even though I was usually the one on the receiving end of Tom’s viciously sarcastic outbursts.

He couldn’t help but have noticed the way Tom had estranged himself from both of us, behaving more like a lodger than a husband and father.

Just let me get him safely off to university in October, then I can sort my life out – somehow, I prayed silently.

Jasper said nothing more, but retrieved his toast and went back into the house.

The first golden glow of the morning was fading, much as my love for Tom had quickly vanished once I’d grasped what kind of man I’d married: the mercurial type, an erratic moon orbiting my Mother Earth solidity. For years I’d thought that deep down he loved and needed me, and he’d always managed to sweet-talk me into forgiving him for anything and everything, although my exasperation levels had slowly risen as my son matured and my husband remained as irresponsible as ever. Have you ever imagined what it would be like to be married to Peter Pan once the novelty wore off? A Peter Pan with a dark side he kept just for me … like a sweet chocolate soufflé with something hard at its centre on which you could break your teeth – or your heart.

His cousin Nick, whose Mercedes sports car was slowly bumping down the rutted track towards me, scattering hens, wasn’t any kind of soufflé – more like one of his own devilishly hot curried dishes. He does cook like an angel, though, and he’s an expert on all aspects of food and cooking, writes books and articles and has a page in a Sunday newspaper colour supplement.

The Pharamonds didn’t seem to do marriage terribly well and he’d had a volatile, semidetached relationship with Leila for years. She’s another chef, which was at least one too many cooks on the home front, by my reckoning. I was glad to see she wasn’t with him that day, because Leila is a lemon tart. Or maybe, since she’s French, that should be tarte au citron?

Miaou.

I resolved not to be catty about her, even if every time we met she contrived to make me feel like a lumbering great carthorse. She’s an immaculately chic, petite, blue-eyed blonde, while I am tall and broad-shouldered, with green eyes flecked with hazel, fine light brown hair in a permanent tangle, and the sort of manicure you get from digging vegetable beds without gloves on.

Unks – Great-uncle Roly – didn’t like her either. He said if it weren’t for her refusing to stop working all hours in her restaurant in London and settle down, there would have been lots of little Pharamond heirs by then. But he couldn’t have thought this through properly, because if they were a combination of the scarier bits of Nick and Leila, that would be quite alarming indeed.

Leila was married before and was fiercely independent, with her own swish apartment above her restaurant; while Nick had a small flat in Camden. And considering he spent at least half his time at Pharamond Hall, which Leila rarely visited, you’d wonder when they ever saw each other.

I certainly hadn’t seen Nick for ages. He always phoned up for any eggs, fruit or vegetables he needed when staying at the Hall and working on recipes, but I just dropped them off with Unks’ cook, Mrs Gumball.

Yet here he was, deigning to pay me a visit. As his Mercedes pulled up I removed the jack and then slung the punctured tyre in the back of the car, where Jasper’s bike already reposed. You can get anything in a 2CV, if you don’t mind being exposed to the weather.

Nick got out. He was wearing dark trousers and an open-necked soft white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the glossy, thick black plumage of his hair spikily feathering his head. His strong face, with its impressively bumpy nose, can look very attractive when he smiles, though the last time he’d wasted any of his charm on me was in the hospital when Jasper had meningitis. And after the way I’d bared my soul to him in the night hours, I could only feel profoundly grateful that I hadn’t seen much of him since then.

I distinctly remember telling him how I hoped that once Jasper was at university, things would get better between me and Tom – and instead, from that very moment they’d rapidly got worse and worse …

I became aware that Nick was waving his hands slowly in front of my face, like a baffled stage hypnotist.

‘Planet Earth to Lizzy: are you receiving me?’

‘Oh, hi, Nick – long time, no recipe,’ I said, wiping my filthy hands up the sides of my jeans – they were work ones, so it wasn’t going to make a lot of difference. I only hoped I hadn’t run them through my hair first, though since I didn’t remember brushing it this morning, a bit of grease would at least hold the tangles down.