his gloved hands together and stamping his welly-clad feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘Nippy one tonight. Where are you heading? There won’t be a bus along until tomorrow, you know. First one is at eight so you’ll have a bit of a wait.’
‘Oh, um, hello,’ I start, awkwardly. I’m not used to complete strangers making eye contact in public, let alone talking to me. It isn’t the done thing in London. What if they have a knife? But he looks harmless in the candlelight, wizened but friendly, jovial even, and Basil likes him; he has his front paws up on the man’s knees and his tail is wagging from side to side. ‘Basil! Stop that. Sorry, he’s still learning,’ I say, grabbing Basil’s collar in an attempt to pull him away from the man.
‘Ah, he’s OK. Can probably smell my dogs. Got six of them at home. Not Scotties, mind. Working Collies – for the sheep.’ The man treats Basil to a vigorous rub behind his ears.
‘That’s nice. Are you a shepherd?’ I say, and then instantly wish I could push the words back into my mouth. I sound ridiculous – from what I’ve already seen of Tindledale, it’s obviously a bit behind the times but hardly biblical. Then the man surprises me.
‘Yes, I guess so. Ah, those were the days!’ He chuckles. Wow! I’ve just met my first shepherd. ‘It’s all changed now, but I’ve still got sheep, hundreds of the bleaters. So where have you come from?’
‘Um, London,’ I reply, a little taken aback by his directness. ‘I’ve just walked from the station,’ I add, to clarify.
‘Well, that’s certainly a trek.’ He lets out a long whistle. ‘Oh, here she is.’ The man stands up as a mud-splattered old tank of a Land Rover judders to a halt in front of us, its diesel engine still chugging as the window is cranked down a few inches, gets stuck and a woolly-mittened (definitely homemade) hand appears over the top to force it down the rest of the way.
‘Been bothering you, has he?’ A blowsy woman in a floral silk headscarf pops her head out.
‘Oh, no, not at all.’ I shake my head vehemently and smile to assure her.
‘Well, that makes a change – fancies himself as a ladies’ man when he’s got his drinking goggles on, don’t you, dear?’ She chuckles as he plants a big kiss on her plump cheek before heading round to the passenger seat. ‘Do you need a lift?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, feeling ever so slightly displaced, a bit parallel universe, even. It’s surreal. I’m standing in Narnia with the shepherd and his wife chatting like they’ve known me my whole life.
‘Where are you heading to?’
‘The Duck & Puddle pub, do you know it?’
The woman roars with laughter like I’ve just cracked the funniest joke ever.
‘Indeed, I do! Very well, in fact. It’s my husband’s second home. End of the High Street, over the village green – watch out for the duck pond – and Bob’s your uncle.’ She points into the dark over my left shoulder.
‘Is it far?’ I ask, looking in the direction of her index finger.
‘Minutes. But here, you’ll need this.’ And after leaning down and rummaging around in the footwell for a while, her head bobs back up and she hands me a flashlight. It even has its own plastic carrying handle. ‘Switch that on and you’ll be able to see as far as Market Briar,’ she instructs. ‘I would give you a lift, but you can be there in the time it’ll take us to load you, the dog and the suitcase into the car.’ She roars again.
‘Thank you,’ I say, flicking the flashlight on and thinking how generous she is. I could run off with this for all she knows.
‘There’s a girl!’ She nods cheerily. ‘It’s not usually this pitch-black in the village. Blasted snow puts the power off, you see. The pylons don’t like it.’ And she points again, this time above the bus stop to an overhead cable that’s laden with snow. So, Dolly was on the ball. ‘Good night.’
‘But what about the flashlight?’ I say, waving it in the air.
‘Just leave it with the others in the crate by the bar.’ And with that, she pulls the window back up and chugs away.
With the powerful beam from the flashlight guiding the way, Basil and I step onto the cobbly street that’s flanked either side with rows of small black timber-framed, white wattle-walled shops which I presume is the village centre – a far cry from London with all its multi-storey concrete tower blocks and big flashing neon signs. I shine the light towards the end of the little street and sure enough, there’s the pub, the Duck & Puddle, cloaked in darkness, just past the village green. I take it we’ve missed last orders, then.
Pushing the suitcase, Basil and I make our way towards the pub, but I can’t resist having a nose through the mullioned windows of the shops. There’s what looks like a clothes boutique on my left across the road, vintage maybe, because there’s a swishy pink polka-dot Fifties’ prom dress on a headless dressmaker’s bust in the window. Opposite is a place called The Spotted Pig – a double-fronted café, by the looks of it, there’s a menu in a glass case on the wall in the little alcove by the front door. I take a closer look and see that the Christmas special is panettone bread pudding with creamy rum custard. Cor, I love the sound of this; maybe I can bring Cher to The Spotted Pig for afternoon tea tomorrow. Aw, a pet parlour is next door. I can see the sign, PAWS, in elegant mint green and cream letters above the door.
‘One for you, Basil.’ But he’s too busy biting the snow. There’s a bookshop now, a proper musty, old-looking one. Using the sleeve of my parka, I wipe a space on the window and press my nose up to the glass. Wow! There must be a billion books filling every shelf, table top and nook and cranny; old books too, ones that you might have to wear special white gloves for before being allowed to thumb through them. A fruit and veg shop is next door with a stack of empty fruit boxes piled up neatly in the doorway.
We cross over and next to the one with the prom dress in the window is a butcher’s, a traditional one with a ceramic-tiled counter and a row of silver meat hooks dangling in the window. Next, there’s an antiques shop, then a chemist, a florist and a bakery. And here’s the village store that Dolly mentioned, and, last of all, there are a couple of empty shops at the end nearest the green. I’m impressed: a butcher and a baker; all they need is a candlestick maker – which, given the apparent frequency of the power cuts around here, might very well be a good thing. A real money-spinner.
We reach the green. Ah, this is nice. There’s a very plump Christmas tree set right in the middle, and it must be at least twenty feet tall. It has glittery baubles hanging from the ferny fingers, glistening in the glow from the flashlight. My heart lifts. It’s truly magical – so quiet and peaceful and in such utter contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of what I’ve left behind. I think I’m going to really enjoy my weekend here. And then I realise that I haven’t thought about May the fourth, or indeed, Jennifer Ford, since I stepped on the train in London, which right now feels like a million miles away – and that’s a good thing, surely? These past few months, I have honestly been rapidly reaching the point where I feel as if my head might actually explode. A mini-break in the beautiful, cosy, bubble of Tindledale is just what I need.
It’s like
