Page 52 of A Not So Quiet Christmas
“I’ve wanted to do that since I very first saw you, by the way.”
As we continued on our journey, no way was I admitting I’d felt the same about him.
“Speaking of odd characters,” I said, instead. “What’s the story with the chap outside the shop?” While I seemed to be getting an angle on most of the people I’d come across, I’d yet to understand Flat Cap Man. “You must have seen him? Smart appearance, drives an old car?”
“You’re talking about Lewis. The local landowner.”
Thinking about it, he did look quite the squire.
“He has a thing for Marianne, the shopkeeper.”
I frowned. “Why doesn’t he just tell her? Explain how he feels?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not, indeed?”
I gave him a playful tap on the arm.
“It’s not that he hasn’t tried, but Lewis isn’t the most confident of individuals. Every time he goes in, she never looks up from her book long enough to notice him, so he bottles it, buys the first thing to hand and leaves.”
“So all that pacing up and down is him trying to pluck up the courage to ask her out?”
“It is.”
“The poor man.”
“He’ll get there,” Oliver said.
Picturing Lewis’s desperation as he strode back and forth, I couldn’t say I shared Oliver’s optimism.
Oliver turned to face me. “We’re not really as mad as we seem, you know. I get that you probably think us a weird bunch, but stay long enough, and you’ll find we’re actually quite normal. Plus, we accept people for who they are.” He smiled. “Even skip rats.”
I let out a laugh. “Roadside reclamation specialist,” I replied, correcting him.
He smiled. “Those too.” He faced the road again. “Seriously, people in Little Leatherington are hard-working. They don’t always have time for niceties, they’re too busy trying to earn a living. Most of us come from farming stock, and believe me, that way of life isn’t easy. Look at Barrowboy. He runs his place more or less single-handed. I can’t remember when he last had a day off.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to get me to stay.”
He looked at me direct again. “Would that be a bad thing?”
I felt my cheeks redden, while he got back to his driving.
“Here we are,” Oliver said, in a change of subject. He flicked on the car’s indicator for a second time, before slowing the vehicle and making his turn.
Wondering where we were, my curiosity grew. I scanned the area as we drove down a long, sweeping, tree-lined drive, straightening up in my seat as a huge English country mansion came into view. Built from yellow limestone, it stood proud, three floors high, against the blue sky, four central pillars heralding its grand entranceway.
“Welcome to Missingham House,” Oliver said, a big grin on his face.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
The man’s refusal to give anything away continued. “You’ll see.”
I couldn’t wait to find out and unclipping my seat belt in readiness, I absorbed the grandness around me. I thanked goodness I’d made an effort on the attire front, at the same time wondering if we were about to enjoy a festive afternoon tea in the house’s – no doubt posh – dining room. I might not have been a fan of cucumber sandwiches and Christmas cake, but I did love a good Victoria sponge. I readily envisaged myself drinking from a vintage floral cup and saucer, my little finger protruding accordingly.
My excitement grew as Oliver manoeuvred the car towards the car park off to the side of the building. Looking at the number of vehicles around us, Missingham House was evidently popular and as we disembarked, I began walking back towards the front of the property.
“It’s this way,” Oliver said, indicating we were headed around the back.
“Oh, okay,” I replied. Forced to ignore the chink in my enthusiasm, I followed in Oliver’s footsteps as we made our way round to the tradesman’s entrance.
