The Reluctant Elf (Kindle Single) (6 page)

‘You look beautiful, Mabel.’

‘Well we have to look our best for our guests, don’t we?’

I stare down at myself. My jeans are covered with paint. Mould and lord knows what else streak my once-white top. Even if I could get them clean, Mabel is right. I don’t look fit to be a twenty-first century B&B host, let alone a Victorian lady.

Unfortunately when I’d packed my bag at three a.m. to come here, I wasn’t thinking about impressing a B&B reviewer and his family.

‘Morning,’ she says to Danny, who’s on his knees in the hall rubbing the floorboards with tan shoe polish. There was no floor varnish among Aunt Kate’s paint pots but for some reason she has an entire box of shoe polish in the closet. Danny is touching up the spots where we had to clean up his paint splatters with nail varnish remover. For someone who claims to be a sculptor he really doesn’t seem to have great hand-eye coordination.  

‘Can we have scrambled eggs this morning?’ Mabel asks.

‘Sure, if we’ve got eggs.’ He looks at me.

Oh god, I forgot all about the chickens!

‘I’ve just got to check something outside, okay? Mabel, do you think Mingus is awake yet?’

My question sends her rushing off to find the cat while I hurry outside, hoping I haven’t accidentally killed Aunt Kate’s flock through neglect.

The back garden is wild and overgrown with once-manicured hedges and the uncut grass is flattened and streaked brown by the Welsh winter. It looks pretty grim but we don’t have time now for any more gardening. Our guests are due at two pm.

My feet squelch in the wet undergrowth as I stomp to the crumbling garage, behind which I spy the chicken run. At one end is a hen house but I don’t see any hens.

Creeping into the pen, I peek into the hut’s doorway.

A dozen sharp beaks gnash in my face and two dozen beady eyes stare me down as the birds erupt into a chorus of threatening clucks and squawks. Naturally I scream my head off and run back to the house.

‘Danny, what do you know about chickens?’

‘I know how to eat them,’ he says.

‘It may come to that if our food doesn’t arrive today. Cook said
Don’t forget the chickens
in her email. I assume that means they lay eggs and might need feeding. Could you please go see if there are any eggs? They’re just out back behind the garage.’

‘If you were just out there why didn’t you…?’

‘I had a quick look but they seemed angry.’

‘You’re frightened of chickens.’

‘You may not recall
The Birds
, but I was traumatised by that film. They go for the eyes.’

He shakes his head, mumbling, ‘Then I’d better watch out for rampaging chickens.’

He’s back ten minutes later, his eyes and entrails intact. ‘The chickens are fed, and look what we’ve got!’

I peer into his basket. ‘Those aren’t eggs are they?’

Some are round, some oblong, others as tiny as grapes.

‘Don’t let the chickens hear you say that. They’re very proud of their efforts.’

‘Well if they’re happy then I shan’t complain. It’s not like I can lay any myself.’

The shops in the village will be closed for Christmas by now anyway. They’ll have to do.

Danny goes, whistling, to the kitchen to cook us an omelette.

The FedEx driver turns up just before noon, as grumpy as those in London always seem to be. But at least Posh Food Fast hasn’t let us down.

Danny looks over my shoulder as I unpack. ‘Mmm, look at this!’ I say.

‘Tinned tuna?’

‘Psh, you need glasses. It’s caviar! I wasn’t sure if they’d be able to get it. It was out of stock on the website. Ooh and look at this beef.’

There’s also a whole salmon and smoked salmon and kippers and Christmas pudding. My mouth is watering just thinking about the feast ahead. Of course, technically being the hired help, we’ll be eating the ample leftovers, but good food is good food.

‘We can offer oatmeal or cooked breakfast in the mornings, okay? I wonder if I should write up a little menu to hand out. That’d be a nice touch. And I thought we could have the salmon for dinner today and the beef for tomorrow. Maybe you can make a nice sauce to go with the salmon and do something special with the carrots and potatoes. We’ve got lots of bread for sandwiches later. You’ll do them with the crusts cut off, right?’

‘Erm, all right, if you want. How do I cook the salmon?’

‘However you want. You’re the chef! I’m just going to check on Mabel and get out of these clothes before everyone arrives. I’ll let you make a start. We should probably eat around three.’

After making Mabel and Danny triple-promise and cross their hearts not to flush the loo, I have a quick shower. Then I survey my suitcase for the millionth time, hoping my clothes have turned couture in the night. I’ve got only jeans, tee shirts and a few worse-for-wear jumpers.

Rupert Grey-Smythe and his family will just have to overlook my appearance. I can’t magic up an outfit out of thin air…

Although maybe I can find one in Aunt Kate’s closet. She’s bigger than me but if there’s a dress that won’t make me look like a sixty-year-old B&B owner, I might be able to adapt it.

My heart sinks when I fling open the closet doors. There are loads of wide legged trousers and long colourful tunics, but not a single dress.

Unless Mabel lets me borrow her tutu, I’ll have to make do with what’s in the closet. A belt will at least hold up the trousers. At worst there’s clothesline downstairs.

The closet is bigger than I thought. It seems to run along the entire length of the wall.

I get my phone out and shine the light into its murky depths.

What greets me takes my breath away.

‘Danny! Mabel, come in here!’

I pull the tunics and trousers off the rails and fling them on the bed.  

Mabel has Mingus clasped to her chest as she runs in. Danny is close behind.

‘What do you think of these?’

Half an hour later, I look every inch the Victorian lady (as long as you don’t see my trainers beneath my dress). Aunt Kate’s opera frocks, made of rich dark velvets and silks, are a bit wrinkled but unbelievably beautiful.

And it seems she wasn’t the only singer to be paid in clothes. Ivan’s knee breeches and embroidered waistcoat are big for Danny but the clothesline sorted him out.

‘You look like a princess!’ cries Mabel.

I drape a deep purple embroidered shawl over her small shoulders. ‘Would you like to wear this?’

‘You do look good,’ Danny says. ‘Whereas I feel like a prat.’

‘Oh come now, you could be Caruso himself.’

He doesn’t look too sure.

‘They’re here!’ Mabel shouts from the parlour window where she can see the driveway. ‘They’ve got a lot of bags.’

Danny and I go out to greet them.

‘Mr Grey-Smythe?’ I look between the two men taking luggage out of the boot.

‘Yes, that’s me. Please call me Rupert.’ The taller man shakes my hand. ‘Are you Kate?’

‘Oh, no, I’m not. I’m her niece Lottie Crisp. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Unfortunately my aunt has been in an accident and she’s not able to be here.’

His brow creases with concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she’s all right?’

‘Yes, she’ll be fine, thanks.’

‘Did I miss a memo somewhere?’ he asks, scanning my dress.

‘Ah, yes, well. Welcome to your Victorian Christmas!’

I bob into a little curtsey like they do on Downton Abbey.

‘This is Danny, our chef.’

Danny just nods. ‘Can I help you with your bags?’ he asks.

‘Thank you, yes. Hugo, leave those. The man will get them.’

Rupert strides toward the front door as I hurry to beat him to it.

His nose twitches as he enters the hall.

‘It smells of shoe polish,’ he says.

‘Uh, yes, it’s a complimentary service. You can just leave your shoes outside your door in the evening and we’ll polish them. We’ll take care of everything for you here.’

He nods.

‘Yes, well, as I said, welcome to your Victorian Christmas. And you are?’ I stick my hand out to the forty-something slender woman who hasn’t cracked a smile since she arrived.

She doesn’t bother making eye contact when she speaks. ‘Prunella, Rupert’s sister.’ She waves her hand at the others. ‘These are my twins Oscar and Amanda and my husband Hugo.’

The children look around Mabel’s age, both pale and slim like their parents. In fact, Prunella and Hugo could be twins themselves with their beaky noses, close-set watery blue eyes and very high foreheads. Rupert, on the other hand, though slender like his sister, is darker with strong but not sharp features that assemble into a pleasing, if austere, countenance.

Hugo scans me up and down as he offers me his soft damp hand.

‘Have you got Sky?’ Prunella asks.

‘No, I’m sorry, there’s no television.’

‘Mother!’ says Oscar, glaring at me. ‘How are we supposed to watch
Bad Santa
without a TV?’

‘Never mind, darling, we’ll watch it on the computer. You do have fast broadband, right?’

Her look dares me to disappoint her again.

‘There’s 3G in the conservatory.’

‘Rupert,’ she whines, ‘I told you this would be the middle of nowhere.’

‘I suppose it’s meant to be rustically charming, Pru.’

This isn’t the start I hoped for. ‘It will be charming, but I promise you it won’t be rustic.’

‘We’ll make the best of it, Pru,’ says Hugo.

‘Oh do shut up, Hugo, you always say that. I want a bath now. We’ve been traveling all day to get here. Where’s my room? And my luggage?’

Danny is just struggling in with all the bags.

‘I’ll show you upstairs then. Your rooms are all together on the first floor. You’re going to love our bathtubs. As part of the service, we’ll run your baths for you, so that all you’ll have to do is step into the soothing water when you’re ready. After all, ladies and gentlemen didn’t prepare their own baths in Victorian days. There’s a button in each of your rooms by the door that rings a bell in the kitchen. Just press that when you want anything and someone will be right up.’

‘Whew,’ I say when I get back to the kitchen after drawing Prunella’s bath. Danny is pulling food from the fridge and larder. ‘This is going to be hard work. Is everything under control here?’

‘Controlled chaos, thanks.’ He wipes his brow. Pots are boiling on the hob and the work surfaces look as if there’s been a mass vegetable suicide.

‘Okay, if you’re sure.’

The bell for Hugo and Prunella’s room tinkles.

‘I’m sorry I told them about those service buttons. I’ll go see what they want.’

Upstairs I knock on the closed door.

‘Come in,’ says Hugo.

‘Hi, did you want something?’

He’s lying on the bed in his bathrobe.

‘Oh, excuse me.’

‘Ah, Lottie, yes. I wondered if I could have a brandy? I’d like to relax while Prunella is in the bath. She’ll be ages.’

‘I’ll check downstairs. Dinner will be in about an hour. You can go down to the dining room whenever you’d like. Is that all right?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. Oh, and please don’t think my wife is ungrateful. Today is just a bad day. We’re very much looking forward to our stay, and I do appreciate your costumes very much. Yes,’ he says, his eyes flickering to my chest. ‘Very much.’

‘I’ll see if I can find that brandy.’

And some pepper spray.

He’s a bit creepy. I hate to think what he’ll be like after a few drinks…

Oh no. I haven’t. Have I? I have.

I can’t believe I forgot to put wine on Danny’s shopping list. Or brandy or anything stronger than the elderflower cordial we had last night.  

I hurry to the kitchen. ‘Danny, you haven’t run across a stash of wine, have you? Or spirits? Anything?’

‘No, why?’

‘I completely forgot to get any alcohol.’

Of course they’ll want to drink. It’s Christmas. And they’ll need alcohol just to put up with each other.

 ‘How could you forget something like that?’ He brushes a lock of his unruly hair out of his eyes.

‘Because I don’t drink.’

After the drunk driver turned my world upside down, the thought of taking even a sip is too unappealing.

‘Hugo has already asked for brandy. They’re going to expect wine at the very least. The shops are closed now, aren’t they?’

I know the answer.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘I do have something at home, but you may not like it.’

‘It doesn’t really matter if I like it, as long as we’ve got booze for the guests.’

‘Then I can run home and get a few bottles. You’ve still got lots of that cordial, right? We’ll use that to cut the— as mixers. Can you please keep an eye on the potatoes and take them off the heat when they’re ready?’

‘Sure thing. Thanks, Danny.’

At least you can’t overcook potatoes.

Chapter Eight

‘You’ve overcooked the potatoes,’ Danny says half an hour later, poking the mush with a fork. ‘Did you check the carrots?’

As instructed, I haven’t taken my eyes off the potato pot. ‘You didn’t say anything about the carrots.’

He frowns when he peers into the pot. ‘I guess we’ll add enough butter and salt to make up for it.’ Holding up a green bottle, he adds, ‘By the time they get through this, they won’t be able to taste anything anyway.’

‘What is it?’ There’s no label on the bottle.

‘This is gin.’ He pulls another bottle from his bag. ‘And this is brandy. Just make sure you always serve it in very small quantities. Whatever you do, never leave the bottle with the guests.’

‘And why aren’t there any labels on the bottles?’

‘I don’t bother having labels made. I know which is which.’

‘As long as it doesn’t blind anyone.’

‘My eyesight is perfect.’

‘Then let’s mix one with the cordial.’

I start pouring the gin into the pitcher I used for our drinks last night, but Danny grabs my hand.

‘Hey, hey, stop. You’ll kill them. Seriously, you need about a dessert spoonful for each glass, that’s all. You’d better let me do it.’

Everyone is assembled in the dining room waiting for  lunch. Prunella’s mood wasn’t improved by her bath and the twins are rocking back and forth in their chairs, absorbed in a game of who-can-break-it-first. At least Hugo has his clothes on.