Page 73 of A Brambleberry Manor Christmas
Thinking about him is so bitter-sweet. If my head hadn’tbeen quite so scrambled by everything that had happened during that emotionalweek, I’d have made sure Noah understood that Harvey was well and truly in mypast, and that I was now ready to move on – with someone else.
I had my chance but I blew it. I let him walk away. And mychances of seeing him again are about as remote as the real Santa arriving onmy doorstep today for afternoon tea…
There’s a knock at my door, and Tavie calls, ‘Are you comingdown, Jenny? I think Santa’s been. The mince pie and sherry have gone.’
My heart lifting, I play along with our delicious tradition,bounding out of bed and calling, ‘Wait for me! Don’t you dare go down and openthe presents without me!’
It’s a tradition I didn’t think would ever happen again.
I go out onto the landing, where Tavie is waiting for me,her blue eyes sparkling.
‘Merry Christmas, Jenny!’
‘Merry Christmas, my darling.’
We hug. And then, smiling, we walk down the stairs together…
*****
It’s three o’clock and I’m reclining on the sofa atTavie’s insistence (‘You have to relax and do nothing today, okay?’)
I have one ear on the Queen’s Speech, and the otherstraining to hear signs of activity in the kitchen. She disappeared in therethree hours ago and shut the door firmly behind her. I tried to check on herabout an hour ago, offering to help, but she wouldn’t let me in.
‘How are the fish fingers?’ I called through the closeddoor.
‘They’re very…fishy.’
‘Could I have a side order ofharicots blancs a la saucetomate?’
‘Oh, there’s no way I’m doing anything fancy!’
‘They’re not fancy.’
‘So what are they?’
‘Baked beans.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, I can manage that. And anyway, you can’thave fish fingers and chipswithoutbaked beans, can you?’
‘Quite right. You can’t. It’s against the law.’
‘Good. Now please go away,’ she says, sounding harassed.‘I’m busy.’
Laughing, I retreated to the sofa.
I keep having visions of the kitchen in chaos. She’s neverdone anything like this before. We’ve baked together, of course, when she wasyounger. But apart from making herself beans on toast occasionally, she’s aproper novice in the kitchen.
What will I be faced with? Burnt fish fingers. Burnt teatowels.Burnt ice-cream?I’m determined to be very appreciative,whatever she presents me with. Actually, I’m so ravenous now, she could feed mebin liners and mashed potato and I’d tuck in with gusto!
At last, at going on for four o’clock, Tavie appears in theliving room doorway.
She’s red in the face, her corkscrew hair even wilder thanusual, and there’s a streaked and crumpled tea towel slung over her shoulder.She looks frankly knackered. ‘Lunch is served, Madam,’ she says in a superiorvoice.
I get up, rubbing my hands together with glee.
She frowns. ‘I wouldn’t get too excited. But you’d betterhurry up before it gets cold.’
I glance at her, realising with surprise that she’s actuallyquite nervous about this. I was thinking it was all just a bit of fun. But Ican see that she wants to impress me, and my heart expands with love.
