Christmas at Spindlewood

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L aura Engleby stood at the tall window of the turret room, her arms wrapped around herself for imaginary protection against the morning chill. The circular room with its lofty vaulted ceiling was her favourite place to sit and read, or just daydream. Overlooking the front of the house, it afforded far-reaching views of the garden, extending across the downward slope of the lawn and beyond the winding drive to the stretch of road just visible between the trees. The sky was a mass of low grey cloud. A fine mist hung over the rooftops of the village of Charnley Acre and shrouded the homely, rounded shapes of the South Downs.

Ten soft chimes sounded from the grandmother clock in the hall downstairs. And there, turning into the gated entrance of Spindlewood right on time, was the bright-green van with ‘Green and Fragrant Gardening Services’ painted in orange on the side. By the time Laura had abandoned her look-out point, bounded down two flights of stairs and opened the front door, the van was parked on the gravelled forecourt, the driver’s door flung back.

Clayton Masters, the owner of the gardening business, jumped down from the driver’s seat and gave her a cheery ‘good morning’ as she approached. Saul, his young assistant, muttered a gruff greeting through the wound-down window on the passenger side. He looked half asleep.

The first time they’d come to work on the garden, over a year ago, Laura had asked which of them was which, nodding towards the sign on the van and pretending she thought those were their actual names. Clayton had played along, although he must have heard the joke a hundred times before.

‘Well, he’s Green, obviously, and I’m…’

‘Obviously,’ Laura had said, laughing.

She’d noticed the elder man’s appreciative up-and-down glance at her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from doing the same to him; she’d hoped he hadn’t noticed. He’d been wearing what she now knew to be his work uniform: a chunky fisherman’s jersey, combat trousers and a well-worn wax jacket. The jacket had been unzipped, giving a hint of a lean but solid physique. In that split second, Laura had also seen mid-brown hair, curling about his collar and ruffled by the wind into unruly waves, dark, earth-brown eyes, and a warm, winning smile.

The same smile as she saw now.

Saul slid down from the passenger seat, banged the door shut and rounded the van to stand beside Clayton.

‘Is Holly back from uni?’ he said, looking past Laura to gaze up at the house.

‘Not yet, Saul. She’ll be down at the end of term, around December the fifteenth. Or so she says.’ Laura’s daughter wasn’t known for sticking to a plan. Basically, she would expect Holly when she saw her.

‘Ah.’ Saul nodded resignedly. He must have known what the answer would be, but that hadn’t quelled his hopes.

Saul’s devotion to Holly was ninety per cent her doing – at least, that was Laura’s guess. Her daughter had flirted unashamedly with him back in the summer, and when she’d come home from Birmingham for the October reading week, she’d spent most evenings in the Goose and Feather where the younger set of Charnley Acre, including Saul, usually hung out. The village being small and not exactly overendowed with night spots, the pub was the only option. Laura had casually questioned Holly about her relationship with Saul, purely out of motherly interest, of course. Holly had been quick – too quick – to explain that he was just a part of the group and they were all mates together, some of whom she’d known since school days. Holly had vastly underestimated the power of the village grapevine.

‘Never you mind about Holly.’ Clayton winked at Laura. ‘The top beds could do with a tidy up. Fetch the clippers and sacks from the van and get going on that while I talk to Mrs Engleby, would you?’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean either of you to do any work in the garden today. There’s nothing that can’t wait.’ Laura glanced towards the deep borders which were now a mass of drooping foliage and brown seed heads, the remains of summer. She quite liked the way they looked, but Clayton seemed determined so who was she to argue?

‘He’s best kept busy. Have this one on me.’

Saul was already opening the back doors of the van and tugging out a couple of green plastic sacks. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll pay for his time,’ Laura said. It wouldn’t feel right to have work done for free.

‘As you like.’

A flicker of something approaching amusement passed across Clayton’s face as he fell into step beside Laura on the way to the house. She was puzzled for a second, and then it occurred to her that perhaps he wanted to keep Saul occupied in the garden so that he could talk to her alone. No, of course that wasn’t the reason. Where had that come from? Annoyed with herself, she pushed the thought away.

As they reached the front door she went ahead, hurrying along the passage to the kitchen so that Clayton couldn’t see her face which she suspected had gone a bit pink, and not only from the cold air.

‘Tea?’ She filled the kettle and switched it on without waiting for his response, keeping her back towards him.

When, eventually, she turned round, Clayton was sitting at the table, leaning back in the chair, hands behind his head. He looked settled, and very comfortable. She’d noticed that about him before, an air of confidence which wasn’t overt, and all the more appealing for that. Again, her own thoughts struck her as entirely inappropriate and hugely embarrassing. What on earth was the matter with her this morning?

Passing Clayton his tea in a blue-and-white Cornishware mug, she sat at the other end of the table and set down her own mug with a firm clunk.

‘Now,’ she began, keeping her tone deliberately businesslike, ‘what do you think of my idea?’

‘Would you mind running it past me again?’ Clayton leaned in to the table. ‘Only I wasn’t too sure… You didn’t stop long the other day.’

On Tuesday morning, as Laura left the Ginger Cat Café, she’d spotted the Green and Fragrant van parked in a bay, further along the high street. Her mind buzzing with the news she’d just heard in the café, she’d nipped along and tapped on the driver’s side window. Clayton and Saul had obviously been taking a break; Clayton had been nursing a plastic cup from a flask, Saul a can of Coke.

Clayton had wound down his window and offered a questioning smile. Hardly pausing for breath, Laura had rattled off her suggestion. It sounded half-baked to her own ears. Clayton’s eyebrows had risen fractionally. It was true they’d become friendly since she’d employed him to sort out the garden at Spindlewood but no doubt he was friendly with all his customers. He must have wondered why she was so keen to help him out of his predicament.

As, indeed, she’d had cause to wonder herself, several times since.

She wasn’t acting out of guilt, definitely not. The loss of the space to hold Charnley Acre’s traditional Christmas market, and Clayton’s Christmas tree sales plot along with it, was down to Spencer Jennings. Laura’s boyfriend he might be, but his business decisions were nothing to do with her. In fact, he hadn’t said a word to her about it. In the same way, the decision she was making now was entirely hers, and wasn’t a clumsy attempt to make amends for Spencer’s actions. She hoped Clayton didn’t see it that way.

Needing to end the conversation in the street as fast as possible – it had started to feel just a tiny bit awkward – Laura had asked Clayton if he wouldn’t mind coming to the house so that they could talk properly, and then, time and day having been settled, she’d set off briskly for the walk back home.

She’d only half expected him to turn up today, but here he was. It was too late to back down now.

‘You’ll want to start selling the Christmas trees in a couple of weeks, I imagine?’ she said.

‘Yep. I usually get started around the first week in December to cater for the people who like to get their trees up early.’ He set down his mug of tea. ‘What exactly have you heard?’

‘That the Christmas market’s had to be cancelled because the place where it’s usually held has been earmarked for new housing – well, we’ve known that for ages – the village is pretty much alive with the news – and the property developers want access, much sooner than we’d thought.’ She deliberately kept Spencer’s name out of it; pointless, as Clayton knew as well as everyone else who was behind the development. And as for Laura’s relationship with Spencer, that was pretty much common knowledge, too. With the eyes of the village upon them at every turn, there’d never been any point in trying to keep it secret.

The expansive square, reached by a twitten off the high street from one side and opening onto a wider road on the other, wasn’t just home to the Christmas market. There was the May Day mini-fair with maypole dancing, the art club outdoor sessions, and the vegetable and flower auction once a month in summer. Once Spencer’s company’s plans had been made public and passed in outline – in double-quick time, it seemed – by the local planning authority, the village had been divided. One half could see the sense in affordable housing – people had to live somewhere, and the county had its targets to meet, after all. The other half fumed at having an integral part of the village destroyed in order to line the pockets of Spencer Jennings.

But Spencer himself was generally well-liked if, in some cases, a little grudgingly. It was hard not to like him. It helped his cause that he’d always been generous when it came to projects like St Luke’s stained-glass window fund, the restoration of the gardens around the war memorial and the resurfacing of the children’s playground in the park.

In any case, the council had spoken. The deal was done, whether people liked it or not. The complaints had simmered down and Charnley Acre did what it did best, and just got on with it.

Laura sighed. ‘I love the Christmas market. It’s so festive and it smells marvellous, with the toffee apples and candy and everything. It’s an outlet for people to sell their crafts, and the kids love it, too.’

‘It hasn’t been cancelled,’ Clayton said, shaking his head. ‘The market’s still going ahead. It’s being relocated, that’s all. Some of the stalls will be in the car park and some along the street itself. That’s all been agreed. The council moved fast on that one, for a change.’

‘Oh. That’s good, then.’ Laura realised she didn’t sound that pleased about it. Well, shame on her. It was her fault; if she’d stayed in the Ginger Cat for longer she might have had the full story.

So, why had Clayton not told her that in the first place, instead of letting her drag him all the way up here for nothing?

‘Not that simple,’ Clayton said.

‘It sounds it.’

‘The council needed to give permission for the stalls to operate from the car park and the street, which they did, as I said. All the stalls except mine. Selling Christmas trees, apparently, is a different thing altogether. Whoever rubber-stamped the gifts and sweets and all that sort of thing refused to issue the necessary for my little enterprise.’ Seeing Laura’s face, Clayton threw up his hands. ‘I know. You tell me. Something about selling trees being purely for profit and not in the same community spirit of entertainment as the rest of the market.’

Laura was appalled. ‘That can’t be right. Have you appealed?’

‘I tried. The council won’t budge, and that’s that.’

‘But what’s it to them? It’s just another stall. And it’s one of the most festive things in the damn market, plus, it’s a kind of public service, profit or not. People rely on you for a decent tree, and nowhere else in the village sells them.’ This was true. The greengrocers in the high street didn’t sell Christmas trees, nor did any other shop. Not everybody wanted to go to a garden centre or a supermarket, miles away. It was so unfair.

‘It is a bit of a mystery, I know. The reasons I was given sounded pretty vague. I did ask if I could set up somewhere else in the village, separate from the Christmas market, but there’s nowhere it wouldn’t cause an obstruction. I can see that. So, it seems there’s naff all I can do about it. In any case, time’s running out. I haven’t got time to fight it anymore. My order for the trees has already gone in to the plantation.’

‘My offer hasn’t come a moment too soon, then?’ Laura smiled a question.

‘If I’m understanding you right, no, it certainly hasn’t. Look, Laura, are you really sure about my setting up shop in your garden?’

There was a wariness in Clayton’s tone. There was still a question there about her motivation, then.

‘I am, totally. There’s that flattish grassed area in front of the rhododendrons which should be big enough. You know the spot I mean. You’ve mowed it enough times. Customers can park up here, by the house. You could put up a sign by my gate, as big as you like, and advertise it around. People would soon find their way.’ Spindlewood, Laura’s house, was on the outskirts of the village, situated halfway up Charnley Hill. Those who usually bought their tree from Green and Fragrant, which included most of the residents of Charnley Acre, wouldn’t have much further to go than before. ‘It’s a village tradition, your Christmas tree plot, with the carols playing, and the hot chestnuts. People look forward to it. We can’t let it go.’

Clayton’s eyes widened just perceptibly. She’d said ‘we’, aligned herself with him with that small word. But this wasn’t a matter of taking sides and she hoped Clayton understood that. It was purely business, as Spencer was so fond of saying.

Clayton looked away, turning his gaze towards the kitchen window where the tangled tendrils of wisteria had caught in the wind and were whipping the glass.

‘I must cut that back next time,’ he said, clearly prevaricating.

Laura sighed. ‘It’s all right, Clayton. If it’s a bad idea let’s forget I ever said anything. I’m sure you’ll sort out something much better.’

‘No.’ Clayton’s head snapped round. ‘It’s a great idea. Thanks, Laura. I’ll pay you a fair price for the use of the space, obviously.’

‘You accept?’

‘Why not? It’s a business arrangement. I can work with that.’

Laura frowned. That was an odd thing to say, wasn’t it? It was almost as if Clayton was trying to convince himself. Okay, having Spencer and Clayton ostensibly on opposing sides wasn’t ideal but as Clayton had said, the fight was over; it was time to move on. He was being cautious because of her involvement with Spencer – she understood that – but it didn’t have to be that complicated. And in any case, Christmas would be over in a flash, sadly. Yes, it was all going to be fine. She got up out of her chair.

‘Come on, let’s walk down and have a proper look at the space.’

If there’d been any doubt in Clayton’s mind before, there was no sign of it as they walked down the drive. He strode on eagerly, and Laura had to lengthen her own stride to keep up with him.

‘Here, yes?’ Clayton smiled at Laura as they reached the spot she had in mind.

‘Yes. You can spread out as far as you want to.’

Clayton stood in the middle of the grassy space and spun round in a circle with his arms flung wide, making Laura laugh. They’d passed Saul on the way. He’d looked up from filling the sacks with debris from the flower borders, and now his curiosity brought him down to join them.

‘Bloody marvellous,’ Saul said, when Clayton had explained.

‘Language.’ Clayton shot Saul a look and raised his eyes at Laura.

‘Sorry.’ Saul gazed around as if he was seeing something wonderful instead of a patch of grass. ‘Tis though. It’s perfect. Thanks, Lau… Mrs Engleby.’

Laura smiled. ‘Laura will do.’

Saul probably couldn’t believe his luck, now he knew he’d be spending his days on Holly’s home ground.

‘You’re very welcome,’ she said. ‘I’m glad my garden will be of some use, and not just something pretty to look at.’

Clayton turned to Laura. ‘You do realise the grass’ll get churned up where people are constantly treading? I’ll lay some boards down, which will help protect it but it won’t be pristine afterwards.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. The grass will recover, won’t it? You’ll have to give it some of your special TLC afterwards.’

‘Yep, TLC is what it will get, in spades. Literally, if necessary.’ Clayton smiled at Laura, a kind of private smile that made it hard to look away. He turned to Saul. ‘Bring the sacks down and stick them in the van if you’re done. We mustn’t hold Mrs Engleby up any longer.’

‘I’ll be in touch about the dates and the deliveries and so on,’ he said, addressing Laura.

‘Fine. I’ll look forward to it.’

Laura went indoors as Clayton started up the van. Resisting the urge to run upstairs to the turret room and watch the van pulling away from Spindlewood, she went to the kitchen and slowly washed up the two mugs in the sink while gazing out at the wintry back garden.

Had she just made a stupid mistake? Only time would tell.