Winter’s Children (34 page)

She watched as he put two sugar lumps in a glass with a silver spoon and poured enough boiling water to cover the bowl to dissolve the sugar. He slanted the glass at an angle over the spoon and drizzled the whisky slowly over the surface of the liquid. Steam was rising as he waited for the whisky to heat through to flavour the whole glass with its peaty aroma …

‘Slowly slowly for the best effect.’ He was looking at her with a twinkle, and somehow she knew he was not talking about the toddy, or was he?

She appraised his long fingers caressing the glass, stroking the curve of the crystal, and she could feel herself steaming up. Lips and hands, hands and lips to the glass, sipping, savouring, warming her growing Christmas heart.
I could get used to this but I’ve had far too much to drink already.
Though she sipped his offering nonetheless. It was awfully hot in the room.

He brought down an old box to the fire for her to examine. The contents were covered in brown tissue paper and Nik brought out the most exquisite Christmas cards she had ever seen. Some were hand-made, padded with silk, watercolour scenes of figures skating on a river.

‘I like an excuse to bring these out for an airing. They’re part of old Jacob’s collection; some are hand-painted, others are printed. What do you think?’ He handed each one to her slowly and she fingered them in turn with a gasp.

‘Nik, they’re amazing. Are they originals?’ She looked up and he was bending down so close, she could smell his aftershave and tobacco-drenched jacket. She liked his scent.

‘My great-grandfather, the one on the hall stairs, was what you might call a Nativitist. He was obsessed with all things Christmas. They used to call him Mr Christmas in the district. He kept every card he was given, and all his invitations. Anything to do with Christmas was stuck in his boxes,’ he said. ‘Sadly, most of them have disappeared. He was a glutton for ephemera. Thank goodness he also kept envelopes and their postage stamps. They are worth a fortune to the right collector.’

‘You’re not selling these?’ Kay gasped.

‘No, but they were my insurance until now. If that is a genuine Turner sketch how did it end up hidden behind the portrait?’ Nik turned from her gaze and stared out of the window, watching the snow falling down in streamers. ‘You don’t think it was put there deliberately for someone in the family to find one day or was just slipped in there and forgotten? This has been such a strange time, I could believe anything tonight.’ He smiled across at her. ‘And once again it’s you we have to thank.’

‘It’s about time you had a lucky break,’ she smiled back. ‘Doesn’t everything look beautiful under snow?’

‘It’s a rare sight, is snow, when it first comes, but after a few hours it’s a nuisance. In normal times I should be up at the crack of dawn to check the feed, but these aren’t normal times, are they?’ There was such a look of sadness on his face.

‘It’s been so hard for you both this year,’ Kay said, still holding the decorated cards with reverence. ‘I never realised just how unpredictable a hill farmer’s life could be. You have to see the devastation, the emptiness and the sadness to understand. There are no guarantees, are there?’

‘You can say that again, especially when you forget to pay your insurance bills,’ said Nik grimly. ‘My cover for the contents of the barn is fine but not for the building.’ Nik was sitting opposite her, looking into his glass.

‘What will you do now?’ Kay leaned across concerned.

‘I’ll get help and start small, build up slowly, but I’m going to restock. I have to. I’m not giving up now. As for the other, I’ll have to put it down to experience. The Side House is more or less a write-off. I’ve no mind to do it all again. Were you serious about all that stuff about doing up a place into a retreat or a studio?’ he said, staring at her intently.

‘Tonight,’ she laughed, ‘I was just talking off the top of my head, but I’d like to build something up in my life. Do you think there’d be a market for it?’ Suddenly the idea was growing before her eyes. What if she bought the Side House off the Snowdens? ‘I think you’re very brave,’ she added.

‘Stupid, more like, and out o’ my head. There has to be a way forward out of this mess and happen I’ll have to sell the barn, but if I flog off this bit of treasure, my accountant will be relieved.’

‘Give me first offer when you decide to sell the barn,’ she heard herself say. ‘We’ve both grown to like it here, fire and storm, bad weather or no. I can be just as stubborn too. I must get that from my mother’s side, from the Norton gene pool.’

‘Doing up a place is a tall order. It’ll cost you. The National Park are sticklers for getting it just so. Labour is expensive too,’ he said, gazing into the firelight with tired face, weathered cheeks, the flecks of grey at his temples spreading fast.

He’s a comfortable man to talk to by firelight, she thought. I like this man. I like his no-nonsense gruffness, his sense of his own rootedness in this place. I envy him his tenacity in fighting for his livelihood and what belongs to his family, she thought. I should miss him if we went.

He looked up at her and smiled as if reading her thoughts.

‘I’ve got used to you two being around,’ he confessed, cocking his head to one side and grinning. ‘I never expected to hear myself saying that to a holiday let. I don’t mix much with offcomers, but you’re a bit different, especially Evie.’

‘I hope there’s only one Evie Partridge in the world; one of her is quite enough, believe me. She’ll keep getting into more scrapes than a puppy in a pie shop,’ Kay smiled, surprised by such a back-handed compliment from him. ‘What will your mother say to you staying on?’

‘She can have her cottage now,’ he said, waving the picture in the air. ‘I’ll see to that. She deserves a change, but not me. I’m not ready for my pipe and slippers just yet awhile. I’ve got plans. If you bought the barn how would you manage?’ He leaned forward and she knew he cared what became of them.

‘I don’t know. If I can rebuild my life after all that’s happened to us recently then I can learn to put a roof on. Perhaps I’ll go to college and learn to build a house from scratch. I like taking things to pieces so why shouldn’t I learn to put something back together again like you rebuild stonewalls? We shall have to rent somewhere in the village so Evie can continue at school. It’ll take some time before I get some skills. I could see if I can get a job doing farm accounts for a while, or doing business plans for clients. I’d want to redesign the whole thing my way. What am I dreaming of? I must be drunk,’ she laughed, carried away by her ideas.

‘We owe you for your rental up front until the spring, and then you could rent some rooms off me, if you like. Once Mother goes, I’ll be rattling around here. It’s much too big for one.’ Nik raised his eyebrow, searching out her response.

‘Evie would love that but I’ll have to give it some thought,’ Kay smiled, wondering what people would make of his mother leaving and them taking up residence.

As if reading her mind, he suddenly jumped up. ‘You can do me a business plan – I’m going to need one – or you can be the housekeeper and Evie can be the guardian of the hearth, like old Hepzibah. It’ll be a New Year and a new start for all of us.’

She nudged him and he nudged her back, and then they both locked eyes. ‘Merry Christmas, Nik,’ she whispered, raising her glass.

In the firelight of this farmhouse, with the snow falling, she knew now why Christmas night was so magical. With new friendships, new possibilities, new dreams racing through her mind, she stood up and kissed him on the cheek; just a Christmas kiss with no mistletoe.

There was a tobacco and whisky tang to Nik’s breath and a strength in his embrace, a gentle tentativeness to his response as he kissed her back.

‘Think on, there’s a place for you here, if you want it. Merry Christmas and welcome to Wintergill.’

The candles flicker as Nik glides up the stairs to check his kingdom. He stops to wind the grandfather clock, to tap the barometer, all part of his nightly routine. All is well, and so it should be this Christmas night. Everyone is sleeping and the child is tucked up for the night with her sledge, waiting for morning light.

There are twelve days of Christmas to come, with parties, rugby matches and farm visits to establish their newcomers around the district. Time off to party for a change.

Now the darkness of the season is broken. The days will soon be pulling out. This old house needs new life to be born again, new ventures to protect against the anxious times ahead. Where men and maids meet oft comes mischief, he winks to his ancestors on the stairs.

What this house needs is a pram in the hall and a tiny occupant in the rocking crib, if Wintergill is to stand firm in years to come. There must be a succession. He pauses, savouring those whisky kisses on his lips. Who knows after tonight?

Is the present not child of yesterday and father of tomorrow? There’s still time yet for seedtime and harvest if he gets his act together.

Kay slipped downstairs and opened the front door. She wanted to walk down the driveway to the far bench and sit in the snow, looking up at the house with awe. From Nora’s window there came the softness of a bedside light; from Evie’s room the glow of her toadstool lamp burning through the night; from the upstairs drawing room, the flicker of candlelight, and in the dining hall the candelabra shone. Over the stone porch the storm lantern waved in the snowy light and at the hall window the Christ candle blazed out its welcome to all wanderers.

Her house of dreams had become a home. Wintergill was truly a Christmas house.

‘Thanks, to all of you, wherever you are. Thanks for bringing us home,’ she whispered as she walked towards the lights, and closed the door.

About the Author

 

WINTER’S CHILDREN

 

Leah Fleming was born in Lancashire to Scottish parents, and is married with three sons and a daughter and six grandchildren. She writes from an old farmhouse in the Yorkshire Dales and an olive grove in Crete.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

By the same author:

 

Remembrance Day
Mothers and Daughters
Orphans of War
The War Widows
The Girl From World’s End

 

Author’s Note

 

In May 2001 I was witness to how foot-and-mouth disease closed our local farms and footpaths for over a year. Farmers had to reassess their livelihoods, rethink their strategies for survival and come to terms with the loss of pedigree livestock built up over generations. All the incidents apart from the above are entirely fictitious but I hope I have captured the spirit of the Dales community during this terrible time. I have watched with admiration how nearly ten years on, they have risen to the challenge.

Turner, the artist did visit the Yorkshire Dales in the summer of 1816. For further reading on this I recommend:
In Turner’s Footsteps: Through the hills and dales of Northern England.
By David Hill. John Murray 1984.

Not being in any way psychic, I have relied on the many sightings and anecdotes of others who believe that energy both positive and negative leaves a residue in buildings and landscapes. For further reading I recommend:
Cutting the ties that bind.
Phillis Krystal. Element Books 1989.

Most of the recipes I’ve used are tried and trusted family favourites. Of the many books I read while researching, I’d like to make special mention of:
Traditional Food East and West of the Pennines.
Edited by O. Anne Wilson. Sutton Publishers 1991.

I’d like to thank the Wiggin family for showing this Scots lass how Christmas is done and recommend
Memoirs of a Maverick
by the late Maurice Wiggin (Quality Book Club 1968).

I would also like to thank our village school, now sadly closed, for providing such great Christmas memories and the carollers of Langcliffe who know how to keep up local traditions.

I’d like to say a huge thanks to all the team at Avon for their support and enthusiasm for this story, especially Caroline Ridding and Kate Bradley. Their attention to detail has raised my own writing awareness and confidence.

Finally I’d like to imagine my reader enjoying this Christmas tale curled up by the fireside supping mulled wine with Sting’s album:
If on a winter’s night
… in the background. His music certainly helped me along.

Leah Fleming.

Read on for Exclusive Reading Group Questions

 

Reading Group Questions

 

Compare and contrast the different male figures within
Winter’s Children.
What are their values, concerns and priorities? Does Nik differ from his forbears in his motivations?

Hepzibah and Blanche can’t see things the same way. Why do their respective viewpoints differ so much? Could either of them have done things differently?

How have the women through the centuries shared their burdens? Nora keeps everything bottled up but Kay is more open. Do they share any similarities?

The role of motherhood is shown as having the greatest importance in
Winter’s Children.
How have their different parenting styles been shaped over the centuries?

Discuss the relationship between Evie and Nora. What role does Nora provide for her?

In which ways is the theme of death explored in the book?

Praise for Kitty Neale:

 

‘Full of drama and heartache.’ Closer Magazine

‘Heartbreakingly poignant and joltingly realistic.’ Annie Groves, author of
Some Sunny Day

‘This pageturner is a gritty tale of survival.’ Tesco Magazine