Chapter Seven
Today isn’t as nice as Thursday, Eloise thought as she trotted down the road the following morning.
She was disinclined to go far since the weather was somewhat on the dreary side, so her planned walk along the promenade to the harbour would be perfect.
She mightn’t bother going all the way to the café on the opposite end, but she’d still have a wander around the shops.
It would be interesting to see whether the place had changed at all.
She reached the seafront in short order, her knitted hat low on her forehead and her scarf wrapped around her chin.
The wind whipped in from the sea with a restless energy, sending gulls wheeling overhead with loud, raucous cries, and making her eyes water and nipping her nose.
The air was sharp with salt and cold, each breath filling her lungs with the sting of winter and the scent of damp stone, seaweed, and something faintly fishy.
Though the sky was grey and heavy with lowering cloud, and the sea heaved and tossed in the bay, the harbour wall provided some protection for the boats bobbing roughly at their moorings.
Lines creaked and strained, slick with sea spray, and the masts clinked like wind chimes—an odd, metallic music playing to the rhythm of the wind.
A fisherman with red knuckles and a face chapped by the weather hauled seaweed-draped lobster pots up from a boat onto the quay, his breath rising in clouds above his head, and Eloise stopped to watch for a moment.
“We’re going to be having some snow, they reckon,” a gruff voice said, and she turned to see a grizzled old chap wearing a sou’wester hat, a waterproof oilskin coat, and Wellington boots standing behind her.
He was coiling a length of rope in his hand, and attached to it was an orange buoy daubed with green slime.
Surprised to hear that, she replied, “I haven’t seen a weather forecast for a few days. Will it be a lot, do you know?” The idea of snow at the seaside excited her.
“Might be. They don’t rightly know. That’s no good for us fishing folk.”
“No, I doubt it is.” The lack of accurate forecasting wasn’t good for anyone.
The old chap wasn’t finished. “If we do get a lump of it, it’ll bugger up all those Christmas things they’ve got pla—” He broke off as a hacking cough took hold, and he thumped his chest with his fist.
Eloise took a precautionary step back in case it was contagious. She’d barely recovered from this cold and didn’t want to catch another. “Nice talking to you,” she said, edging away, but his attention had wandered to three teenage boys who were tossing stones into the water, and he didn’t hear.
Turning from the harbour, she was surprised at the number of people around for a bleak December Saturday. Since it was the final weekend before the big day, she’d assumed everyone would be frantically shopping in the nearest decent-sized town or retail outlet.
And what was that noise?
Hurdy-gurdy music was the best way she could think of to describe it, the kind you’d hear in a fairground, but worse, because the tunes were unmistakably Christmassy.
There were quite a few people on the beach too, heads down, scarves pulled high, and some of them were clutching spades. Was there some kind of treasure hunt taking place?
And when her attention was drawn to the caves in the cliffs, she blinked, because, unless she was hallucinating, red, green, yellow, blue, and purple lights were emanating from them.
What on earth was going on?
Whatever it was, Eloise had no intention of lingering any longer to find out. She’d dallied enough already, and the chill was seeping into her bones. She had a hankering for a nice cup of tea and a sit in the warm, and after she’d thawed out, she’d have a gander at the shops.
Picking the nearest street, she dived into it as fast as her cold, aching legs could carry her.
It was narrow and cobbled, and far busier than she’d expected.
People bustled about in thick coats, hats, and mittens: couples, families, groups of friends, all with glowing faces and smiles.
Or were they simply pink-cheeked from the cold, and the smiles were actually grimaces at having to jostle their way through the crowd?
Why was there a crowd, anyway? What is going on? she asked herself for the second time.
Fairy lights were strung overhead between the lampposts and above the shop fascias, and the air was fragrant with the scent of mulled wine, cinnamon, and roasting chestnuts.
As she glanced around for a café, the window of the bakery caught her eye, its shelves brimming with mince pies and sugared buns, gingerbread men and reindeer cookies.
Next door to it was a bookshop called A Bee C, with a Christmas tree in the window constructed entirely out of books, and on the opposite side of the street was a knickknack shop called Beedazzled.
It was also decked out for Christmas, with a holly wreath on the door and a winter scene in the window.
It was to be expected, she reminded herself.
People would want to buy Christmas-themed things, and the shops and businesses would want to cash in.
But what dismayed her was the number of locals in evidence.
To her mind, it seemed as though every resident of Honeycombe Bay must be on this one street.
But when she turned a corner, she was shocked to see just how much busier this little seaside village could get.
The street was bursting with people, and not only that, the place was awash with festive spirit, from the cutesy wooden huts selling things such as scented candles and handmade decorations, to the large tree with a group of carol singers amassed beside it. There was also a pop-up ice rink.
What the—!
Then she saw it. The billboard.
Welcome to the Honeycombe Bay Christmas Extravaganza!
Seven fun-packed days of festive activities.
Meet Santa in his actual grotto! Have fun on the ice rink! Win a prize for the best sandman!
Plus many more festive frolics for all the family.
And don’t forget the Chilly Dipper Swim on Christmas morning! Are YOU brave enough?
Festive frolics? Horrified, Eloise stared at it, bug-eyed.
This is Honeycombe Bay, she thought. This is supposed to be the off-season, when nothing is open and nothing happens.
She’d been misled. Far from escaping the madness and sickly sentimentality of Christmas, she’d clearly landed slap-bang in the heart of it.
So much for her get-away-from-Christmas getaway, she grumbled.
She’d been looking forward to a quiet mooch around the shops, but instead she was faced with a full-on Christmas festival.
If she’d known the village was going to be swarming with crowds of people and seasonal cheer, she’d have found somewhere else to escape to.
Her wind-numbed face and frozen nose now thawed by the heat of her growing irritation, Eloise straightened her shoulders and girded her loins.
Bartholomew Knott had some serious explaining to do!
Bart was shoving a load of laundry into the washing machine when the doorbell ding-donged. Warily he went to answer it, hoping it was too early in the day for carol singers. Not that they often ventured this far along the lane.
“Hello, Bart,” his neighbour said cheerily. She lived two doors up, in one of the little row of terraced cottages.
Audrey was stout, middle-aged, and grey-haired, and she held a bunch of leaflets in her hand, one of which she thrust at him.
“I was going to pop this through the letterbox, but I thought I’d see how you were doing.
” She was looking past him into the hall, her eyes darting around before coming to rest on him. “Awright, me luvver? How are you?”
He took the piece of paper without looking at it. “You know how it is, Audrey,” he said. “Up one minute, down the next.” She’d lost her husband several years ago, so she should understand.
“And are you up or down today?” she enquired, tilting her head to peer at him like an inquisitive bird. “I see you have a visitor.”
Ah, so that’s why she’d rung the bell instead of availing herself of the letterbox. She was being nosy. “Not a visitor—a guest,” he informed her.
Startled, her eyes widened. “A guest? An actual paying guest?” When he nodded, she exclaimed, “Are you open for business again?”
“I suppose so.” He hoped so, because if he wasn’t, then selling up would be inevitable.
He still hadn’t decided how he felt about running the guest house by himself, but so far, having Eloise here had been a refreshing change.
After that first night, he’d kind of become used to having her around.
However, she was only one person—how he would feel about having a succession of them through his door, and having to run this place entirely on his own, was a different matter.
“That’s marvellous news!” Audrey beamed, her rosy cheeks as round as a couple of Gala apples and her eyes crinkling into folds. “I’m glad to see you’re getting into the festive spirit.”
“It’s not like that, it’s—”
“The village needs to pull together if we’re to put this place on the Christmas map,” she interrupted excitedly.
The Christmas map? What was the woman prattling on about?
“Not just a Christmas one, obviously. We need this place to be alive all winter. You know, a sort of ‘Honeycombe is for life, not just for Christmas’ kind of thing,” she chirped.
“It’s in all our interests to be as busy off-season as we are in-season.
I’m thrilled you’re on board. If you could make your guests aware of the activities we have planned, starting today, that’ll be a great help in spreading the word. Kickoff is at noon.”
“What activities?” Bart was baffled.
“It’s all in the leaflet. The ice rink is located behind the Pavilion, and we’re hoping it’ll be a real draw.
” She leant towards him. “Ilfracombe doesn’t have an ice rink,” she said in a lowered voice, and glanced down the road as though she expected the residents of Ilfracombe, one of the larger resorts on the North Devon coast, to be lurking behind a bush and listening in to the conversation.
“Have you seen the little wooden market stalls yet? No? You must! They’re so cute—very German Christmas market vibes.
Who needs to go to Bavaria when you can buy your Christmas bratwurst here, in Honeycombe? ”
Amongst this barrage of information, all Bart could think was Is bratwurst particularly festive?
Audrey hadn’t finished. In fact, she was on a roll.
“We’ve got a sandcastle competition today, with a festive theme, of course.
Not a snowman as such, but a sandman—not sure whether that will actually work, but you get the drift, and there’s a prize for the winner.
” She paused for breath, and Bart jumped in.
“Who came up with that idea? And why wasn’t I told about it?”
“Are you particularly good at making snowmen?” she queried, peering at him quizzically. “If we’d known, we could have asked you to judge it.”
“We? Who’s we?”
“The Festive Fun Committee. I was hoping you might have got involved, you know, get you out of the house a bit more. It’s been, what, two years since Penny left us?”
She didn’t leave you, he wanted to growl, she left me. And it wasn’t as though she’d had any choice in the matter. The way Audrey was talking made it sound as though Penny had gone to live in Spain or something.
“Twenty months, actually,” he said through stiff lips.
“That’s right, two years. I was only saying the other day that I hadn’t seen you for ages and it was time you got back out there.”
“Out where?” Bart was dangerously close to losing his temper and slamming the door in his neighbour’s face. And he might have done if he hadn’t been so polite and if he hadn’t spotted a young lady walking past, accompanied by a little boy; he didn’t want to cause a scene or set a bad example.
“The village. We hardly see you anymore. But I’m pleased you’ve decided to support the Festive Fun effort.
If we’re to make this work, we all need to pull together.
Oh, and I forgot to mention, the caves are being put to good use.
Not all of them obviously, because some are below the high-tide mark, but the ones above it have been kitted out with lights and stuff.
They look like a real Santa’s grotto. A bit damp and chilly, but the North Pole isn’t exactly tropical, is it, so I suppose you could say it’s realistic.
Except for the snow. We’ve had to use fake stuff.
It’ll be a nuisance to clean up afterwards, but it’ll be worth it.
We’ve already sold loads of tickets to see Santa,” she chortled happily.
“I can’t believe how busy it is! There’s not a vacant room to be had at The Bumblebee Inn.
” She squealed and hugged herself. “Ooh, this is so exciting!”
Bart had stopped listening to the details. He was too busy trying to process the news that Honeycombe Bay hadn’t shut down for winter after all. From what Audrey was telling him, it was going all out to attract visitors for Christmas.
Why hadn’t he known about this?
Oh yes—because as Audrey so eloquently said, he hadn’t been “putting himself out there.” For a long time he’d been so wrapped up in his grief that he hadn’t wanted to know.
He hadn’t given a fig about the bay, the tourists, or anything else.
He’d just wanted to be left alone to wallow.
And wallow he had. Spectacularly, since he hadn’t had the tiniest inkling that all this was being planned.
And even when his grief had become less raw, it had been a struggle to interest himself in village life, and he’d been too indifferent to give a hoot what went on.
So he hadn’t known, but if he had, he never would have—
Oh, God…Eloise!
She wasn’t going to be happy when she found out that Honeycombe Bay was turning itself into the Devon equivalent of Lapland.
How the hell was he going to explain that!