Page 26 of The Christmas Retreat
Cariad abandoned a plate of cheese and pickles on cocktail sticks, which she’d been wolfing down, and stared at me.
‘Did you write the Mrs Snowboots books? I’ve got all those!’
I nodded.
‘Not that Ireadbaby books now, of course,’ she said hastily, ‘but I’m collecting your Hedgehoppers series. The new one should be in my Christmas stocking, because it was on the list I sent to Uncle Noel.’
‘To Santa,’ corrected Nerys.
‘Same difference,’ Cariad said. ‘I know Uncle Noel stands in for him sometimes, so he must have a hotline.’
I thought Cariad had reached the age where she couldn’t believe in Santa any more, but was willing to play along with it, to please the adults.
‘That’s right,’ said Noel. ‘I’m a deputy Santa, so I can stand in for him when he’s too busy to come here himself. But how lovely for you, darling child, to have your favourite author staying here!’
‘Children’s board books!’ snorted Kate Komodo. ‘Still, at least there are two serious novelists here beside myself.’
‘In what way do you consider writing for young minds less serious than writing for adults?’ asked Evie, suddenly and combatively. She’d been so unwontedly quiet I’d managed to forget she was in the room, but I expect she’d been sizing the other guests up. ‘Ginny, you always put yourself down, but your books wouldn’t be so hugely successful if they were not both brilliantly written and illustrated – especially given that you refuse to do any promotion at all!’
I stared at her. I’d given copies of all my books to her and Liv, but I hadn’t realized she’d ever so much as opened one!
‘Do you two know each other?’ asked Nerys curiously, looking from one of us to the other.
‘We’ve met,’ said Evie enigmatically, but I was not going to fall in with her idea of being a secret Watson to her Holmes in order to ferret out family information from Nerys, who I already very much liked.
‘Evie’s my mother,’ I said shortly. ‘She’s Evie Chase, the art historian.’
‘And a very distinguished one, too,’ Timon said, riding gallantly to the rescue in the ensuing silence.
‘Feminist art historian,’ Evie corrected. ‘Some of you may have seen my TV series,Reassigning Brilliance, or read some of my many books on the subject of underrated female artists, like my biographicalPainted Back Inseries?’
There was an indistinct answering murmur – no one wanted to admit they hadn’t, with Evie’s bright beady eyes on them – but Verity suddenly leaned forward and exclaimed: ‘Oh, I saw those TV programmes, where you proved masterpieces painted by famous male artists were really the work of unknown female painters! It didn’t make you popular with the galleries and museums, did it?’
‘No, but I wasn’t out to win a popularity poll. I want justice and recognition for underrated or forgotten female artists.’
‘I think you are quite right,’ Nerys said. ‘I loved the series. Are you working on one of your biographies now?’
I wasn’t sure Evie wanted to come out into the open so soon with the subject of her current research – and I certainly felt I’d had enough revelations for one day – so it was a relief when a gong rang so loudly you could practically feel the walls vibrate along with your eardrums.
‘Dinner!’ announced Timon brightly.
8
Cheesed
We all trooped after Nerys to the room at the back of the house, which she called the refectory.
It was large, with a dark wooden floor, and was big enough to accommodate a long trestle dining table down the middle, as well as several smaller ones, a table-tennis table, and an upright piano in one corner. There was a long serving table against the further wall, next to a door. A large artificial Christmas tree, hung with bright baubles and twinkling with fairy lights, and the paper garlands criss-crossing the ceiling lent an air of festivity.
‘Come along in!’ urged Nerys, as we bunched together in the doorway like a lot of nervous sheep, but by then my mother, predictably, was already leading the way. If wehadbeen sheep, she would be the one who jumps down into the middle of single-track roads and dares cars to come any further.
Tudor, clad in a blue-and-white-striped apron, was setting a water carafe in the middle of a bright scarlet runner, which ran down the middle of the long table, whistling between his teeth. He turned and beamed at us.
‘This is Tudor Parry, everyone,’ said Timon. ‘He and his wife, Bronwen, look after us all so well. Oh, and hereisBronwen!’ he added, as a plump, middle-aged woman, with her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a no-nonsense French plait, backed into the room through the swinging door, carrying a tray of glasses.
A wonderfully savoury smell of cooking came into the room through the swinging door with her and I realized I was ravenous!
She gave the tray to her husband and said briskly, in a manner that reminded me strongly of Liv, ‘Good evening, everyone. Who are the two vegetarians?’
