Page 11 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘No, I eat most things.’
‘Good,’ Angela says approvingly. ‘That’ll make my life a lot easier. I mean, if you had been I’d have coped, of course. I can cook most things, and quite well if I do say so myself.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ I smile at her. ‘But I’m easy when it comes to food.’
‘Lovely.’ Angela nods. ‘See you in a bit then.’ She then hurries back down the stairs to the kitchen, leaving me to unpack.
Unpacking is the last thing I feel like doing after moving all my stuff, so instead I take a seat at the desk and gaze out of the window, ruminating on how my life has changed so suddenly.
How can it be only yesterday that I was sitting on the banks of the Thames at my wits’ end, and today I’ve got rooms in a Georgian townhouse in Bloomsbury? My mind wanders back to the man who sat down next to me on the bench. ‘You said to follow a new path,’ I murmur as I watch the comings and goings on the square below me. ‘And so far I’m liking this one very much indeed.’
As I speak, I see a familiar figure crossing the road outside the house. It’s Ben, our next-door neighbour. He’s wearing a long dark wool coat over his suit today, with the collar turned up as he hurries to get out of the cold. He glances up and sees me watching him, and he pauses for moment to smile.
‘Hi,’ he mouths silently up at me.
‘Hello,’ I whisper back, waving my hand.
He briefly lifts his own hand in reply, before disappearing out of view as he heads up the steps to his front door.
My heart is beating far too quickly for my liking at the end of this brief exchange.
Oh, no, you don’t!I tell myself sternly. ‘You’ve just escaped one disastrous relationship. You are not heading straight into another. You are taking a long-extended break from men – even if they are as handsome as your new neighbour!’
To take my mind off Ben, I do a little necessary unpacking, and just before one o’clock I head downstairs. I’m about to go into the sitting room when I hear Estelle and Angela talking to each other. Not wanting to interrupt, I pause outside the door.
‘Already?’ I hear Angela saying. ‘Are you sure? She’s just arrived. Isn’t it a bit too soon?’
‘No, we’ve got a lot to get through,’ Estelle replies firmly. ‘We need to start as soon as possible.’
I assume they are discussing Estelle telling me her stories of the house and her family. It feels rude to disturb them, so I decide to take a quick look around my new home.
I walk a little further down the hall, pausing to glance at a painting and some photographs hanging on the wall. The painting, which looks quite old, is of a kind-looking man, wearing a long black jacket with an embroidered waistcoat and britches that end just under his knee. He is standing next to a seated, pretty, pale woman wearing a long cream embroidered dress, with a big skirt and long puffy sleeves. The plaque underneath reads:Joseph and Celeste Christmas 1750. I wonder if the house is named after them? I think as I gaze at the portrait for a few moments.
Next to them hangs a sepia photograph of a Victorian couple posed in a similar way to the painting, the man again has a kind face even though he’s not smiling – as was the way back then – and the woman has a European look about her. Then next to that some black-and-white photos. A man in uniform that looks like it’s from the First World War. An elegant but fragile-looking woman wearing a pretty dress, that looks like it might have been taken in the late twenties or early thirties, and a few colour photos that look like they could be from the sixties and seventies judging by the clothing the young people grouped in them are wearing, including one of a young man in graduation robes.
After I’ve looked with interest at all the photos, I continue on past the closed door that Estelle had said was her bedroom, past the downstairs bathroom and towards the kitchen, which I can just see at the end of the hall through a door that’s been left ajar.
I pause in the doorway. It looks pretty spacious for a kitchen. The spotlessly clean floor is tiled in a black-and-white check. Traditional stripped-oak cupboards line two of the tall, whitewashed walls. Against the third wall, a large Aga-style stove stands, with a pot of soup bubbling away on it, and against the fourth, a tall, modern fridge-freezer stands, looking a little out of place among all its vintage neighbours. Cooking utensils rest in striped ceramic pots along the countertops, next to sharp knives in large wooden blocks. Above them, copper pans and black cooking pots hang on hooks. On a scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room sit several thick slices of bread on a wooden chopping board, and soup bowls waiting to be taken through to the sitting room on a tray. Angela is clearly ready to serve our lunch.
It’s not hard to imagine, as I stand in the doorway, the kitchen as it once might have been when the house was first built. I’m sure a house this size would have had several servants scurrying about in this area preparing meals for the family of the time.
‘Can I help you?’ I hear Angela say sharply, making me jump.
‘I … I was just having a look round.’ I turn and I’m surprised to find Angela looking quite cross behind me. ‘Sorry. I haven’t touched anything.’
‘Oh, I’m not cross at you,’ Angela says to my relief. ‘I was just having words with Estelle. She has a way of winding me up with even the simplest of requests.’
‘Yes, I heard you … chatting,’ I say tactfully. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’
Angela looks surprised, then immediately suspicious. ‘What did you hear?’
‘Nothing really, honest. Just you both discussing when Estelle was going to start telling me her stories.’
Angela considers this. ‘Of course. That was it.’
‘Should I go in there now?’ I ask, wondering why she’s reacting oddly. ‘The sitting room?’
‘Yes, I think you should. I’m about to serve the lunch.’
