Page 1 of A Snowy Seaside Christmas
ONE
SUNDAY 30TH NOVEMBER
Lark crunched her way over the newly fallen snow that covered the ancient, cobbled pathways of Old Micklewick, her head bowed against the swirling snowflakes as she clutched tightly onto the old leather suitcase. Her cheeks and nose were pinched red from the cold, her fingers and toes numb. The scent of woodsmoke, whipped from the squat chimney pots, permeated the air, mingling with the ever-present tang of seaweed.
‘Brr!’ she exclaimed, as a bone-chilling wind swept in from the North Sea and stole its way around the old part of town, biting mercilessly at any exposed bits of skin. Though she was wrapped up well in her heavy wool coat and brightly coloured tracker hat and scarf, the wind still managed to sneak its way in. It didn’t help that she was already shivering before they’d even left Crayke’s Cottage.
Tucked away in Micklemackle Yard, the place had stood unoccupied for years, its walls and furnishings absorbing winter’s icy chill. The fridge-like cold had seeped into her bones during the time she’d been there, and at this very minute she couldn’t imagine ever feeling warm again.
Walking alongside her was Nate, his chin tucked into his scarf, eyes scrunched against the driving snow. He’d been at thecottage, too, and was carrying the larger of the two old leather suitcases they’d found that afternoon. Despite the inclement weather, he still strode along with his familiar, easy lope.
Dusk had fallen early in Micklewick Bay on the North Yorkshire Coast thanks to the dark, brooding clouds that had gathered over the quaint Victorian seaside town. It was what had forced them to leave the cottage when they did, the electricity supply being switched off years ago. The batteries in their torches had started to fade, making moving around the place treacherous, so they’d called it a day. Lark hadn’t been sorry about that, and not just because of the permeating cold.
Now, the vintage-style streetlamps cast their golden glow on the newly fallen carpet of snow, while fairy lights from the Christmas trees in the windows of the higgledy-piggledy cottages that huddled together limpet-like on the steep cliffside twinkled cheerfully. If it hadn’t been so bitterly cold, Lark would have taken delight in the jolly, festive atmosphere, but right now her focus was on getting home and into the warm as quickly as possible.
They continued on their way, hurrying past the entrance to Blatherin Alley, as much as the slippery, snow-covered pathways would allow, rounding the corner onto Gabblewick Gate where they walked head-on into a ferocious gust of wind. It hurled yet more snow at them, making Lark’s pale green eyes water. She gasped, blinking quickly. ‘Argh! Could it get any more Arctic?’
‘Aye, the weather sure has taken a turn for the worse,’ said Nate, swiping a gloved hand over his face, his dark fringe that peered from beneath his woollen beanie hat now soaked.
The freezing temperature and wind-chill factor made the distance from Crayke’s Cottage, where they’d spent the last few hours, seem twice as long. Lark couldn’t wait to get back to Seashell Cottage, glad she’d had the foresight to light the log burner before she left. It was much more efficient than thedecrepit combi-boiler that had previously fuelled the central heating Elfie, her godmother – whose house it actually was – had installed years earlier, and the compact cottage was now toasty warm. Lark loved her little home and regularly felt the word “cosy” could’ve been coined for it.
They eventually came to a halt before the characterful cottage painted a soft shade of sugared-almond pink. Lark had swapped the wreath of seashells that usually adorned the old oak door for an oversized festive version. A window box, jam-packed with winter-flowering plants, sat beneath a wonky sash window to the left of the door. Like the wreath, it was threaded with fairy lights.
‘Oh, thank goodness we’re here! I can’t wait to get out of these icy temperatures,’ she said through chattering teeth, her frozen fingers fumbling to push the key into the lock. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so glad to see her home.
‘Aye, me too,’ agreed Nate. ‘That wind’s what I’d call savage.’
The door, which had swollen in the damp weather, was reluctant to open, but after giving it a hefty nudge with her shoulder, Lark stumbled into the tiny vestibule, the warm air instantly wrapping itself around her along with the fragrance of the lavender and rose geranium aromatherapy oils; a scent which anyone who knew her would say was unmistakably Lark Harker. Nate stepped in after her, quickly closing the door on the freezing night air that seemed eager to push its way in like an unwelcome guest.
Once they’d divested themselves of their snowy coats and boots – which wasn’t easy in such a confined space and with the two suitcases to negotiate – the pair headed into the small living room. Lark flicked on the light, pleased to see the stove was still glowing and chucking out a welcoming warmth. Luna, her fluffy grey and white cat, leapt down from one of the armchairs leaving a gentle dip in the squishy cushion, and sauntered over, purring as she rubbed herself against Lark’s legs. The cat pulledback in an instant as she came into contact with the cold air that still clung to her owner’s thick, patchwork trousers in shades of purple and blue, making Lark chuckle.
‘Hello there, Luna.’ She bent to give her pet a scratch between her ears, the metal bangles she always wore jangling around the cuff of her purple woolly jumper, her blonde mermaid plait falling over her shoulder. ‘Ooh, you’re lovely and toasty.’ Beneath her chilly fingers, Luna’s soft fur felt blissfully warm from the heat of the stove.
Apparently unimpressed, the feline slinked her way back to the seat where she made herself comfortable once more, watching them with knowing, soft green eyes.
‘By, it’s nice and warm in here,’ said Nate, rubbing his hands together. ‘You’re in the best place there, Luna.’
‘She is,’ Lark said with a laugh. Luna had only resided at Seashell Cottage for a couple of months, but she’d settled so quickly anyone would think she’d lived there for years. Lark’s friends suggested it must be something to do with the calm atmosphere of the place, since whenever any of them visited Seashell Cottage they’d instantly succumbed to the wave of relaxation that washed over them.
Lark had returned home from work one evening early last October to find the cat on the doorstep, looking up at her with enquiring eyes, mewing gently. It was as if she’d been waiting for her. On opening the door, the cat had sauntered in and proceeded to give the downstairs rooms of the cottage a thorough appraisal which had tickled Lark. Apparently satisfied that the place passed muster, she’d curled up on the armchair and made herself at home. She’d been a permanent fixture at Seashell Cottage since that day, with Lark naming her Luna.
A week after Luna had turned up, and concerned that such an adorable creature was more than likely a much-loved pet whose owner would be frantic with worry as to her whereabouts, Larkasked around Old Micklewick, placing notices on lampposts, as well as in shop windows and on the town’s noticeboard, enquiring if anyone had lost a cat. But, despite her efforts, no one had come forward to claim her houseguest. Lark had found herself secretly hoping no one would; she’d grown fond of Luna’s gentle presence, not to mention the warm welcome she received as soon as she stepped through the door, the cat weaving through her legs, purring happily, as pleased to see Lark as she was to see her.
Luna was shamelessly fond of her creature comforts and regularly bagged herself the toastiest spot in the armchair by the inglenook fireplace, just as she had that evening. ‘Luna and I are both pleased you encouraged me to get the wood burner fitted,’ Lark said as she headed to the window where a stout Christmas tree sat, its bushy boughs bedecked with a multitude of colourful baubles. She pushed a plug into the nearby socket and in an instant, the Christmas tree was aglow, its twinkling fairy lights adding to the cosiness of the room with its low beamed ceiling and uneven chunky walls. ‘I’d say it’s the best investment that’s been made on the cottage in a long time; works well alongside the new combi-boiler.’
‘Glad you think so.’ Nate beamed at her, his kind brown eyes crinkling at the corners. At over six feet tall, he seemed even taller in the snug proportions of the living room. ‘Shall I grab the suitcases? Might be a good idea to put them by the wood burner for a bit.’
‘Good point, they could do with drying off,’ she said, flicking her plait over her shoulder. Though she was excited to find out what was inside the old pieces of luggage, Lark preferred to wait until she was alone. That way she could take her time to examine the contents and give herself the chance to get a proper feel for them, just as she did when considering items to sell in Lark’s Vintage Bazaar, her shop that sold a variety of vintage clothingand accessories in the town’s Victoria Square. Being highly sensitive to not only atmospheres, but also the energy of people, places and even inanimate things, meant Lark could detect the slightest trace of negativity. Anything that triggered a feeling of unease, was instantly discarded; there was no way such an item would find its way into her shop for her to pass its negative energy onto someone else.
‘Righto.’ Suitcases in hand, Nate skirted around the small sofa and armchair and placed them either side of the hearth. While he was there, he threw a log onto the stove which immediately sprang to life, flames dancing merrily behind the glass.
The compact room looked achingly cosy. A squishy sofa covered in a vintage quilt sat in front of the wood burner. It was flanked by a couple of mismatched armchairs set with plump, colourful cushions. Underfoot was a sisal carpet that had seen slightly better days, the worst of its wear and tear hidden beneath strategically placed Persian rugs, while a basket filled with logs sat to the right of the fireplace. An old Victorian pine sideboard that belonged to her godmother, and had come with the cottage, was set against the wall on the right. Its surface was arranged with an array of Lark’s treasures, including a selection of books on crystal healing and aromatherapy that were wedged together by a couple of angel wing bookends carved from rose quartz. It was a favourite crystal of hers thanks to its soothing, calming qualities, amongst many others. In fact, she had several pieces of rose quartz dotted about her home and always kept a piece in a pocket or about her person on a daily basis.
‘You’re welcome to stay for your tea, if you fancy.’ Lark thought it was the least she could do after Nate had generously said she could have the suitcases and their contents from the house clearance. Plus, it would give him a proper chance to dry off and thaw out after their icy stint at Crayke’s Cottage beforehe had to head off home. ‘I’ve got some homemade soup ready to heat up – it’s tomato – and there’s a chunky loaf of basil bread from the deli to go with it.’
‘Mmm. Can’t think of owt better for a snowy, winter’s evening. And since your tomato soup’s a favourite of mine, I’d love to, thanks.’ He grinned at her, ducking to avoid the low beams as he stood up straight.
‘Fab, you can give me a hand getting it ready, if you like? Maybe slice the bread.’
