Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wednesday 14th December, Kendric House.
Raff is no help with menu research but he takes care of everything else.
Yesterday, he went out with Evan to Darling wood and selected a Christmas tree to put in the kitchen. He also took pictures to make Christmas cards. Pictures of the holly bushes, the pine trees, cedar fronds, and close ups of the best mosaics that Alex restored. Llewellyn helped photoshop the images for the cards.
The clean-up of the west wing and the upper floors is a huge job. All able bodies take part, including a lot of teenagers from the village. How can one house have so much rubbish? Mouldy panels have to be stripped, limescale encrusted pipes and plumbing have to be removed and most of the walls has to be replastered. volunteers walk out with threadbare carpets, disintegrating curtains, broken lanterns and torn wall paper. The process is slow because of Alex and the conservation expert Evan has invited. They check every item to decide if it has historical significance, and if it can be restored or should be dumped.
Needless to say, the teenagers are all in favour of dumping because they’re looking forward to a massive bonfire, so Alex and Evan both have to keep a very close eye on them.
Watson is conspicuous by his non-cooperation. For two days he goes out early morning and doesn’t come back until after dark when the work has stopped.
And me? After insisting they give me something to do, Evan put me in charge of the teenagers. It takes half an hour to prove that I’m useless. They run rings around me. Alex catches them dragging out a framed portrait and a vintage writing desk to the burning pit. Raff takes over; he doesn’t shout or scold, but he has a way that gets respect. After that they follow him around competing for his approval.
I retreat to the kitchen and make hot drinks for the workers, experiment with baking shortbread biscuits and look up recipes for the Christmas dinner. All things I enjoy a lot more. I also enjoy the fact that in the kitchen, away from the crowd of workers, Raff knows where to find me. He keeps popping in for glasses of water, cups of tea and any kind of reason to snatch a moment with me, share a joke or help me. When Rhys, Evan’s deaf nephew comes home from his boarding school, he stays in the kitchen with Henrietta decorating the Christmas tree.
When I get to The Glyn, I find Vanessa and Shirley making Christmas wreathes and table settings out of pine cones and springs of holly that Raff collected from the woods.
Christmas fever has gripped everyone in the Squad even though it’s meant to be a secret. Now that Kendric House is closed to the public, the Squad can’t come over for tea. So, they’ve poured all their determination into the promise of Christmas.
Even Jack understands the danger. “No one wants your kind hosts to lose their house. I can wait to speak to Mr Kendric.”
His hope is the hardest thing for me to bear. I even ask Raff, “Is there really no way we could bring him to live at Kendric House?”
“And who would look after him?”
He gives me a moment to try to answer before he continues. “He needs specialist equipment, a qualified nurse on duty. Believe me I have thought about it myself over and over, from every angle.”
But even Raff can’t bring himself to tell Jack the bad news. “Don’t ruin his Christmas. He will see it can’t be done, Jack is no fool, he already understands the legal issues and the threat to the house. In time he will also understand the logistical implications of housing someone who needs more support than the house can offer.”
Haneen had said something very similar when I told her about it. “ Let the axe fall by degrees. Give him time to accept it.”
So, I visit with the Squad, take them little cakes I baked at home, we sit and chat and joke, but mostly I watch for any glimpse of Raff.
He, too, contrives to keep popping into the games lounge and sit with us. Just knowing he’s close makes everything more fun. I laugh more, my heart is lighter, and it feels like I can do anything. Even a Christmas dinner.
Philomena hates turkey and asks for chicken instead. Gething wants goose, and Bill doesn’t care about the meat but he wants lots of bread sauce. And everyone wants real roasties. That’s roast potatoes, they inform me, with crispy outside and fluffy inside. Vanessa makes only one request, interesting vegetables because all the vegetables cooked at The Glyn come out soggy and grey.
Shirley too has only one request. Lots of real sage and onion stuffing.
DeNiro’s only request is cranberry and apple sauce to off-set (his word) the rich meat.
Then they all realise how many requests they’ve racked up and tell me not to worry, and that anything I make will be wonderful.
“You know,” I tell Raff as we walk out to the car park later. “It’s clear they hate the catering at The Glyn. They’ve been craving things without a hope of ever getting them.”
We get into my car, this time Raff driving. It’s quite a thrill to watch him push the seat as far back as it’ll go, then adjust the mirrors. My little Feat fits around him like a glove, who’d have thought it.
Raff, throws an arm over the back of the seat and twists around to look over his shoulder while reversing out of the car park. Quickly, I drag my eyes away and pretend to make notes on my phone.
“When we are stuck somewhere with bad catering,” he says, continuing the earlier conversation. “We just resolve never to eat there again. They can’t. They’re stuck there forever.”
He gives me a quick glance. “Now you understand why I wanted them to have this special Christmas dinner.”
Yes I do. I understand. I understand him perfectly. Because just like the Fiat 500, my own life seems to have wrapped itself around him and fits him like a glove.
“But how will I satisfy all their wishes?”
“I think whatever you cook will make them happy.”
“Can you drive us to Llancaradoc first? I want to go to the butcher and see if I can order a goose and a big ham.”
“You’re going to make all that?” he asks
I won’t tell him, not until I’m sure I can find the ingredients. But secretly I’m planning to make all their wishes come true – at least all their Christmas dinner wishes.
“I may as well try, one turkey was never going to feed all the Squad as well as Kendric House.”
He glances at me as we drive up the hill, his expression amused. He keeps shooting me looks even though the road is unusually busy because of the Christmas market.” It makes me nervous and I have to flick my eyes up from my task list on phone.
“Are you going to watch the road?” I ask finally tucking my phone away. “Otherwise, pull over and tell me whatever it is that has you so amused.”
He turns the car into a farm lane and stops.
“Three days ago,” he turns to me after pulling the handbrake. “You didn’t think you could do this at all. Now you’ve expanded to include the entire household, and if I’m not mistaken, a few of the volunteers.
“What did you imagine, I cook a Christmas dinner but then stand guard at the kitchen door and” – putting on my best Yoda from Star Wars – “Roast turkey you cannot eat. Too young are you.”
Raff laughs then holds both hands cupped in a good Oliver Twist imitation. “Please, sir, I want some more?”
“You always want more?” I tease him.
“Can you blame me?” He leans over and unbuckles my seat belt; then he pulls me out of my seat, over the handbrake and into his lap. It’s a tight bit between him and the steering wheel. Yet, we fit – provided I straddle him and we’re pressed against each other.
When we stop kissing, he says in a very good imitation, “Use the Force, Leonie. The force is strong in you, learn to use it.”
I have to laugh because his face does for a moment look like Alec Guinness.
But I too can play this game. With my best Shakespearean stylings, I say. “Sir, I see thy Obi Wan Kenobi and raise thee Macbeth. Oh what vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself and falls on the other .”
His eyes sparkle. “Not bad. But you named the Scottish Play. Now we shall have bad luck.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck, at least not from saying Macbeth.”
“Stop saying that.” He laughs.
“Don’t tell me you—”
“Not really,” he says quickly. “But it upsets too many people. So, I’ve trained myself not to say the name.”
I wriggle off him and back into my seat. “We will have lots of bad luck if you don’t get up to that market quickly. All the good stuff will be gone and I’ll have to feed people bread and water.”
It’s true. I don’t believe in this old superstition about the Scottish Play. And everything is going very well.
Even better, because all the activity in the house drives away the one person in the house who’s been a problem.