Christmas at Hope Cottage: A Magical Feel-Good Romance Novel(28)

He sighed, ‘Ay. No wonder I’m always confused.’

Emma laughed. ‘I was too, trust me. When I first came here.’

‘Weren’t you born here?’ he asked.

‘No, I was born in London, then came to live with Evie when I was about six, after my parents died.’

A shadow fell across his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’

‘Thanks. It worked out. Evie was great.’

‘I can imagine – she’s barmy.’

Emma laughed. ‘Barmy – picking up the lingo?’

‘Bob’s yer uncle.’

Emma laughed. ‘You know, the first time I heard that expression, I was about six, from old Harrison Brimble. He said it to me about something, and I didn’t speak at the time so I didn’t ask, but for ages afterwards I thought that I had a mystery uncle named Bob.’

He laughed. ‘Really?’

‘Afraid so. I can only imagine, you being Spanish, how strange some of it must seem.’

‘A little, but I like it.’

‘Why did you move here?’

He shrugged. ‘Just wanted a change.’

‘So, you came to Whistling?’

He shrugged. ‘Yeah. I like it, especially the moors. It’s peaceful out there, wild, time feels different in a way, slower, it’s good.’ His dark eyes were solemn, and she found herself staring. She did know. The moors were one of her favourite places on earth.

‘Sorry, I interrupted you,’ he said, turning back to the column, and she snapped back to reality.

‘You said something about a Mr Sandwich?’

She laughed. ‘The Earl of Sandwich,’ she said with a grin. ‘The accidental inventor of the world’s most famous lunchtime meal. Who allegedly, while working late one night or at a party with friends, depending on the version you believe, asked his butler to bring him a piece of beef with two slices of bread around it as he was busy and wanted something he could eat quickly and easily…’

His eyes were huge. ‘That’s how the sandwich was invented – barmy, so barmy.’

After their third cup of tea they were done.

‘Thank you for doing this,’ she said, surprised that she’d enjoyed it as much as she had.

‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I had a lot of fun, Pajarita.’



* * *



‘Have you heard the news about the Galways?’ asked Dot, later that afternoon, when Evie had cajoled Emma into getting out of the house for a bit.

The Galways lived just outside the village in a run-down council flat. Their son Jimmy had been a few years younger than Emma at school, and last Thursday was the first time she’d ever seen Mary Galway come knocking on Hope Cottage’s door.

They were sitting in Dot’s cosy living room, a tray of Eccles cakes before them. Despite this, Emma was feeling uncomfortable; her head was pounding, she was in desperate need of another nap and her foot in her cast was itching. She’d been using one of Dot’s knitting needles to scratch it, only of course the knitting needle felt a bit like a heat rod due to her muddled senses. She sighed, wiggling her foot, trying to concentrate on something else.

Dot’s favourite time of year was Christmas and she’d already put up her decorations, despite it being only November. The tree was festooned with baubles in her favourite colours, pink, lilac and silver, and the room was festive and inviting, with a cheery fire and some soft music playing in the background. Growing up, Emma had spent many evenings here, playing cards with her aunts and secretly feeding Pennywort bits of Dot’s excellent teacakes.

‘No?’ said Emma. ‘What happened?’ She shot a look at Evie, thinking, despite her better instincts, of the other day when Mary Galway had come by.

‘She moved out.’

‘She didn’t!’

‘Oh yes. I saw her down at the Brimbles’ store, you wouldn’t even believe it was the same woman. Apparently she went down to Fritz, where the Caleb boys live, you know, and fetched Jimmy back herself. You know he ran away because he and Steve are always at odds? He got involved with a bad crowd who live in that dodgy area, by the old factory that closed down. Anyway, I heard that she gave those Caleb boys a talking-to, told Jimmy to get in the car, and then she told the boys that if they came near her boy again she’d give them what-for.’

‘But that’s not all.’

‘It isn’t?’ asked Emma, surprised.

‘No – she’s left Steve. Said she’d had enough of him being a bully. She’s gone and got herself a job and a flat too.’

‘Mary Galway?’ said Emma in shock. ‘The same woman who is liable to burst into tears if you look at her wrong?’

‘Our same lass,’ agreed Dot.

‘The same one who walks into doors because she is so afraid to look up because she might see something she doesn’t like? That Mary Galway?’

‘Yes!’ cried Dot. Then she looked at Evie, eyes shining. ‘What did you make?’

‘Moxie Maker Chicken in Cream.’

‘Really?’ asked Aggie, who had been engrossed in a novel, her legs in their customary riding boots thrown over the back of the chair. She marked her place with one long paint-splattered finger and then folded the page before closing it.