Page 15 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
Ben heads over to the plug socket.
‘Do you possibly have an electric screwdriver and some rubber gloves?’ he asks Angela. ‘Just in case it’s still live.’
‘I think so,’ Angela says. ‘The electric one has a clear handle, yes?’
‘That’s exactly right,’ Ben says. ‘Clear handle, small head.’
Angela hurries off to the kitchen. She quickly returns with a screwdriver and a pair of yellow washing-up gloves, which Ben pulls tightly over his hands.
‘Now then,’ he says, gently removing the plug. ‘Let’s have a look.’
Ben carefully unscrews the plug, and then the socket, and examines them.
‘I can’t see anything wrong with either of them. Perhaps I should try the plug in the socket again.’
I’m about to ask him if that’s a good idea after what happened to me, but before I can say anything I hear Estelle and Angela’s words of encouragement.
‘Right then,’ Ben says, pulling off the gloves and putting the plug in the socket once more. ‘Here we go. Three, two, one!’ He flicks the switch, and I see the same thing happen to him that happened to me just now – a bright light that fills the whole room, followed by a body shooting a little way across the polished wooden floor.
‘Whoa,’ Ben says, blinking a little and sitting up as I rush to his side. ‘I think you might need to get that socket looked at. But it seems my efforts haven’t been in vain – look.’
I follow his gaze and realise that unlike when I tried to switch the socket on, this time the lights have actually lit up. The tree, which had looked pretty good before, now looks amazing. Tiny, coloured lights illuminate all the ornaments we’d hung so carefully, so they shine and sparkle like precious gems.
‘Merry Christmas!’ Ben sings, looking up at Estelle and Angela gazing at the tree. ‘May the season of goodwill bring you everything you both desire.’ He glances at me sitting next to him on the floor. ‘It seems the festive season has started with a bang for both of us, Elle.’
‘It certainly has,’ I agree.
‘Now Christmas can really begin,’ Estelle announces from her chair. ‘And I’ve a feeling this year is going to be a magical one for us all.’
After dinner – which Estelle tried to persuade Ben to stay for, but he politely declined, explaining he already had other plans – I settle down in the sitting room for the first of what Estelle is insisting we call ‘Christmas Story Time’.
I baulk a bit at the name, but this is what I’m being paid for, so if Estelle wants to call it that, then who am I to argue?
The fire is burning brightly in the hearth, making the room feel warm and cosy. Surprisingly, the tree lights have remained on, making the atmosphere in the room feel very festive, and Alvie, curled up on top of his red tartan blanket in his basket by the fire, only adds to the scene, making it look very much like a charming vintage Christmas card.
Also surprising is the fact I’m feeling no after effects of my earlier electric shock. Before Ben had left we’d had a brief word with each other about our shared experience. But as neither of us felt any worse for wear, we decided to let it go as just ‘one of those things’.
So, as we settle down to hear the first of Estelle’s stories, all is well in Five Mistletoe Square.
‘What’s that?’ Estelle asks as I put my smartphone down on the table to record our conversation.
‘It’s my phone – I’m going to use it as a Dictaphone to record what you tell me. It will make it easier for me to type up my notes later.’
‘What’s wrong with paper and a nice fountain pen?’
I smile. ‘Nothing, I just find this is a lot easier.’
‘Hmm … ’ Estelle looks suspiciously at the phone. ‘I’ve never trusted those things. They have a tendency to malfunction in my experience.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I assure her. ‘Now, let me worry about how I’m going to record your stories, and you worry about recalling them for me.’
Until now, everything that went on in the house felt like it was very much at Estelle’s behest. Now we are finally about to begin my part in this agreement, I suddenly feel a little more in control.
One of the reasons I wanted to become a journalist was because I liked hearing people’s stories. Not necessarily exciting or adventurous stories, but just everyday tales that meant something to the person telling them.
I get the feeling from what Estelle has said so far that the stories she’s about to tell me mean a lot to her, and I’m determined to record them as best I can.
Angela returns to the sitting room with a pot of tea for us all, which she insists on pouring into more china teacups – this time with a suitably festive holly and ivy pattern on them – before finally she settles down in a chair next to Estelle and me by the fire so we can begin.
