Prologue
Christmas Eve in an old Welsh water mill
The fragrance from the bundles of cinnamon sticks tied to the wreath on the mantelpiece wafts through the air. I may have gone a teeny bit overboard at the wreath decorating event in the village hall, but who cares if the house is beginning to smell like a Christmas market? I love Christmas markets! I look at the wreath with its holly and pine cone cornucopia and admire it. Not bad work, if a bit OTT, I tell myself.
Going overboard at Christmas is something I have always done. After all, it is my favourite time of year. All that glitter and tinsel, parties and presents, there is nothing I don’t love about it. I go by the adage thatmore is definitely morewhen it comes to Christmastime, and I enjoy spoiling everyone.
I get so excited about Christmas that I am one of those annoying people who start buying gifts in the January sales. Of course, it doesn’t always make financial sense as very often I forget what I bought and where I stashed the stuff. But, as soon as January rolls around, I begin to look forward to the next festive celebrations.
I am pleased with myself that, as usual, I am super-organised and prepared for when Aunt Grace is due to arrive for Christmas dinner tomorrow. She isn’t getting any younger, and I want to make the most of sitting down with her and listening to the stories she recalls from the past, which are mostly about family members.
So, by lunchtime, I have the vegetables peeled for the following day, the turkey is in the oven to pre-cook for tomorrow’s lunch, and the brandy has been slowly seeping into the fruit-laden Christmas pudding over the past few months. Everything is exactly as it should be. All I have left to do is to wrap the last-minute presents that I picked up for Aunt Grace at the Christmas stalls that I came across at the wreath-making morning. Then, I can sit down with a mince pie and a sherry. I might even have two mince pies. Why not? It is only Christmas Eve once a year, after all.
Popping on some Christmas tunes, I sing along as I carefully wrap some Lily of the Valley smellies for Aunt Grace. The rest of her presents lay beside me in a pile. Looking at them all, I realise that it is not only the cinnamon sticks that I went overboard on. I don’t care, though, as Grace is the only aunty I have left. She is the only one of four sisters to live to the age of eighty, which she jokingly credits to a daily avocado for its antioxidant properties and having slept in a separate bed to her late husband, my Uncle Harry. Some days, when Craig tries to pick a fight with me over nothing, I can see where she is coming from.
With Craig having some time off over Christmas, I can’t quite decide if this will be a good thing or a very bad thing. Inevitably, it will either lead to arguments from nowhere, or time together to try and get our relationship back on track. It’s not that I ever expected him to be an old romantic. Far from it. The signs were always there from the moment we met at a bowling alley when he had too much beer and couldn’t remember my name the next day. Once I had repeated my name approximately five times, he remembered it, and I subsequently forgave him due to his dashing smile and naughty wink. I suppose it was meant to be, as next year we will celebrate thirty years of marriage.
I can’t say our relationship has been the fairy tale that I dreamed of as a young girl. I always thought I would have children, a boy and a girl with ridiculously cute names, but it wasn’t to be. Craig and I have always dealt with everything that has been thrown our way and are happy enough. Sometimes, it feels like we are a pair of comfy old socks. There are a few holes in them, but we can’t bear to chuck them away just yet. Talking of which, fortunately for Craig, there are plenty of new socks all wrapped and waiting for him under the tree.
As I reach for the last of the Sellotape to wrap the final pressie, I mentally say my thanks to the universe for all that we have to be grateful for. Health, of course, is number one on my Christmas list of gratitude. Followed by the fact that we can afford a nice home, food on the table and modern-day comforts.
Craig’s work as a mechanic in a neighbouring town keeps him busy, and my job as a bank teller helped us afford the mortgage on the beautiful eighteenth-century mill house that we live in. It sounds grander than it is, and when friends visit, they think we must be rich. However, the mill wasn’t expensive since it was rather dilapidated when we first saw it, with its for-sale sign blowing in the wind outside. For once, Craig and I agreed on something, and we had to buy it; the moment we set eyes on this house we both fell in love with it at first sight.
I am hoping Craig will also fall in love with the special Christmas present I got him this year. I am rather pleased with the thoughtful, super-duper remote-control car that he is going to love whizzing around the grounds here. I can’t wait to see his face when he opens it. He has wanted one for ages. He is such a big kid.
I lean at the foot of the Christmas tree that Craig chopped down from the garden and place the final gift carefully to the side. I feel a sense of satisfaction seeing everything in place for another year. I can’t wait for Craig and Aunt Grace to open their presents.
With my Christmas preparations complete, I look out from the living room window to see if there is any sign of Craig yet. The River Towy that runs alongside our mill is starting to freeze over; I do hope Craig will be home soon. It is going to be a cold night, and I pray that the roads won’t be too icy tomorrow when I drive over to pick Aunt Grace up from her home.
With the chilly blast outside, it is at times like this that I am grateful for the inglenook fireplace, which is burning bright and warms up the room. I love it when it is cosy like this with the Christmas tree lights twinkling beside the fireplace. I only hope the candy canes on the tree don’t start to melt in all this heat.
Since everything is done for tomorrow, I pour myself the long-awaited Christmas sherry and take two mince pies out of the Tupperware container. I admire one of them and congratulate myself on the pastry coming out perfectly. Homemade pastry has never been a speciality of mine. But this could be the best Christmas ever if these mince pies are anything to go by.
I make myself comfortable whilst I wait for Craig to return from his last-minute shopping. I expected him to be back by now; he really must be struggling with gift ideas this year. I told him I wanted a new dishwasher, but I doubt he is going to manage to get one sorted this last minute. There was a time when he would buy me jewellery, or a nice dress, but I guess over the years, I have become appreciative of practical items that make life easier.
I finish munching my second mince pie when I feel a draught behind me as the door opens.
‘Is that you, love?’
I turn around and see Craig standing there.
‘Did you manage to get everything you needed?’ I get up to my feet to kiss Craig’s cheek, as I usually do when he walks in. He steps away from me as I get nearer.
‘I’m not stopping, but I need you to sit down.’
‘What do you mean?’
He appears anxious, and his cheeks are red from the cold. Maybe he didn’t manage to finish his Christmas shopping after all. I refuse to sit down and wait for him to explain whatever it is that is wrong. He looks a bit dishevelled, and I fear something bad has happened while he was out. Has he had an accident on the treacherous icy roads and only just made it home safely?
‘You’d better sit down, Olivia.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. What’s up?’
‘I’m leaving you.’
‘You’re leaving me to go where? It’s Christmas Eve.’
‘There’s never a good time to tell someone their marriage is over. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to come out like this, but I’ve met someone else. It wasn’t planned. It all just kinda happened.’
