under the table to see what’s going on, his little nose twitching as he licks his lips in anticipation of a cake somehow rolling off the table and into his salivating mouth – ha ha, dream on, Basil! ‘Did you make them?’ I ask, scooping a sliver of icing sugar off with my fingernail before popping it into my mouth.
‘Sadly not. Kitty is the baker in Tindledale.’ He pauses before adding, ‘And some of the other villagers bake too – the WI ladies’ Christmas cake sale in the village hall is legendary and always gets a good turnout, but Kitty owns the café called The Spotted Pig and she takes orders for special occasions and does all the village birthday, christening, and wedding celebration cakes.’
‘Ah, yes, I saw her café yesterday when I first got here. The menu looks amazing,’ I say, remembering the panettone bread pudding and rum custard Christmas special.
‘Oh, you really must try her food while you’re here, it is to die for.’ He stops talking abruptly, and glances away. ‘Oh God, I really shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Is everyone OK?’
A flash of sorrow shoots into his eyes.
‘Yes, yes fine,’ Lawrence shakes his head, sounding flustered. ‘It’s just that, well, the whole village was devastated when it happened, and she’s such a lovely, warm, kind person, and everyone knew him – his family has lived here in Tindledale for generations too, still do – that’s why she moved here, to be closer to them as she doesn’t have any family left of her own.’
‘What happened?’
‘Her husband, Ed, he died, you see. Recently too, and he was only twenty-nine. It was insensitive of me …’ his voice trails off.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, immediately realising what a close-knit community it is here. Back home in London I’m not sure I would even know if my next-door neighbour had died, unless it was Poppy, of course, and even then I might only realise that something was amiss because she hadn’t been downstairs to fetch Basil. ‘Was he ill?’
‘Oh no! No, nothing like that – he was a soldier in Afghanistan. A landmine. It was terrible, he was due home on the Sunday, a gloriously sunny day and the village square had even been decorated with banners and balloons for his homecoming – but then Kitty got the visit – she was pregnant too at the time, with little Teddie. Dreadful, dreadful business it was – she was in the café and the vicar heard her screaming all the way from the pulpit at the far end of the church. He was conducting a wedding rehearsal for Gabe and Vicky from Pear Tree Cottages and they all stopped and ran across the village to the café.’ I clasp my hands up under my chin. Lawrence looks down at the floor. Silence follows.
‘I, um, I don’t know what to say.’ And it’s true. Poor Kitty, I don’t even know her, yet I feel bereft on her behalf. To have the person you love snatched away without a second’s warning … I only have an inkling of what that feels like because when I think of Luke I know it’s absolutely no comparison: at least he’s still alive, even if he doesn’t want to be with me, but in that moment at the altar when I realised, it was as if he had died and taken all my dreams and hopes for the future with him. Disappeared in an instant – just like the flame of a candle snuffed out between a thumb and index finger. And then I remember the column candle burning brightly in the snow beside the memorial. A scratchy sensation forms in my throat as a cold shiver trickles down my back. I wonder if Kitty left the candle there for Ed. Oh God, that’s so sad.
‘Sometimes there just aren’t any words,’ Lawrence sighs and another momentary silence follows. ‘Would you like to take the rest of the cake upstairs?’ I nod solemnly. ‘I’ll get you a plate and bring you up a nice mug of hot chocolate with squirty cream too.’
*
Back in my room, having polished off the truly scrumptious cake and settled Basil on the complimentary dog bed, I lean back in the armchair next to the window and close my eyes for a few seconds, letting my mind wander. Crying earlier, what was that all about? I know I’m exhausted, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling so emotional and then, with Cher not being here, well, it’s another let down, and on top of everything else that’s happened, I’ve just had enough, I suppose. And I need to break out of this rut of sleepless nights – keeping going on practically no sleep doesn’t help, it makes me extra emotional. I have to find a way to stop the dark thoughts and pity parties for one. I want to sleep all night long and feel invigorated and excited about life, and do my knitting and needlecraft for fun, just like I always used to before May the flaming fourth.
Opening my eyes and pushing the chiffon away from the window, I stand up and look out towards the puffy sky and watch the snowflakes sprinkling down like tiny diamonds against an almost Tiffany blue backdrop. The same sky that everyone around the world can see, and it makes me think of all the happy couples doing happy things, and I really want to be happy too – what’s that old adage? Love like you’ve never been hurt. But it’s hard, really hard. I think of Kitty again, and her husband Ed, and how the whole thing with Luke just pales in comparison. And I make my decision. I’m going to call the number on the newspaper. Why not? What have I got to lose? Nobody will know, not even Lawrence if I don’t tell him, especially if it turns out to be a big joke.
And then when I’ve done that, I’m going to venture over to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and see what treats she has in store. I’m going to buy loads of wool and some needles and knit something just for fun, like I always used to, and I might even get the material to start a new quilt. A lovely, cosy Christmassy one. Ha! I could even sell it online. Oh yes I could! I can still have my dream; I’ll just go about in a different way, tweak it a bit and see what happens. And I can worry about Jennifer Ford and Mr Banerjee on Monday morning, but until then I’m choosing happy!
I pick up the newspaper and wander over to the phone on the nightstand next to the bed, and take a deep breath. OK, I can do this. It’s just a phone call. The number is ringing. One, two, three, four bbrrrrring-bbrrrrrrings. And then I get cold feet and quickly end the call. I sit on the bed. Basil is staring at me with his head tilted to one side as if to say, ‘You big wimp, get a grip, Sybs!’ So I do, and lift the receiver back up. This time I’m going to speak – I’ll just say ‘Hi, it’s Sybs,’ in my best breezy voice, and the man with the kind-looking eyes will say, ‘Hi, I’m so pleased you called,’ and we’ll have a laugh about Basil trying to pinch his Costa cake, and it’ll be brilliant. Yep, of course it will.
The phone stops ringing.
There’s a pause.
And then: ‘Tindledale Books, how may I help you?’
It’s a woman’s voice, which completely throws me, so I promptly slam the phone down.
Basil is right. I am a big wimp – but at least I now know where to find the mystery man from the train.
Invigorated by this key milestone in my as-predicted-by-a-monk year of heartache, I press an index finger down too hard on the brass bell, nearly causing it to shoot right off the reception counter. Luckily, I manage to grab it just in time and I’m carefully placing it back where it belongs, when Lawrence appears through an archway from behind a crimson velvet curtain.
‘OK, OK, where’s the fire?’ he asks, making big eyes and pulling a face. It makes me giggle.
‘Er,
