He wondered whether she still lived in Picklewick. The last he’d heard was that she was married with a baby, but that was ages ago.
Mark drove past the stables and continued up the lane until he came to the farm. A sign directed him to the rear of a large barn where there was a gravelled parking area. It was surprisingly busy for a dreary Saturday afternoon in November, and he felt a glimmer of hope that maybe the farm would kickstart his flagging creativity.
The place certainly looked festive. Fairy lights and lanterns were strung everywhere, a twenty-foot tree sat in the middle of the yard, and next to the entrance to the barn was a red post box with a sign above it urging children to “post your letter to Santa here”.
Mark paused for a moment to admire the tree. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to decorate it. But although it was very pretty, it failed to move the dial on his internal festive-ometer.
Glancing around, he saw signs for a shop, a Christmas kitchen, a craft barn and a Grinch’s Grotto, and excited chatter and squealing filled the air as children queued with their parents.
Feeling self-conscious because he didn’t have a small person with him, he thought it best to have a word with whoever was running the place, to let them know why he was here.
As he debated whether to wait in line to explain to the elderly lady selling the tickets or whether to go into the shop and ask, his attention was caught by a woman dancing across the yard. She was dressed as an elf and was beaming so widely that he couldn’t help smiling as he made to intercept her.
‘Excuse me?’ he said.
‘Don’t you just love Christmas?’ she smiled, coming to a stop.
‘Not as much as some,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow at her outfit. ‘Can you point me in the direction of the manager or the owner?’
Her smile dimmed. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not a complaint or anything. I just need to have a word.’
‘Are you from Environmental Health?’ The smile had entirely gone.
‘Not at all.’
She pursed her lips then nodded. ‘Come into the house. Will this take long?’
‘A couple of minutes, tops.’
‘Good, because the Grinch needs a comfort break. He’ll get grouchy if he has to cross his legs.’
Bemused, Mark followed her into the house, then blinked when she led him into a state-of-the-art kitchen. ‘Wow.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’m too scared to use it. My partner, Otto, had it installed. He owns The Wild Side in the village.’
‘Ah, yes, the restaurant.’ Mark hadn’t eaten there yet, having taken his evening meals in The Black Horse, but he intended to give it a go at some point.
The woman leant against one of the stainless-steel units and folded her arms. ‘I’m Dulcie Fairfax and this is my farm. What do you want to have a word with me about?’
‘My name is Mark Stafford and I’m a children’s author. I was born and bred in Picklewick, although I live in Bristol now, and I’ve come to the village to write my next book. Or to get ideas for it, at the very least.’
‘What’s that got to do with my farm?’
‘I’m a bit low on festive spirit and it’s a Christmas story, so I’m hoping your Christmas Wonderland might help.’
Dulcie’s stern expression softened. ‘A real-life Grinch, eh?’
He dredged up a smile. ‘You could say that.’
‘So, why did you need to speak with me?’
‘Because I want to pay a visit to The Grinch’s Grotto and as I haven’t brought a child with me, I thought it might look a bit weird.’
‘You’re right, it may have done. Would you like me to see if I can find one for you to borrow?’
Mark was aghast. ‘No, I—’
