One
‘A pinch and a punch for the first of the month. Good morning!’
I had answered my phone, having seen it was my best friend, Madi, calling, and despite being in the middle of a mini crisis, I smiled on hearing her cheery voice.
‘A slap and a kick for being so quick,’ I replied. ‘Good morning to you too. Although to be honest, it isn’t such a good morning here.’
‘Oh no. What’s wrong?’ The concern in Madi’s voice was genuine.
‘The heating’s playing up. I’m in the utility room right now and I believe I’ve fixed it temporarily. I checked the boiler and the pilot light was lit, so I googled what, if anything, I could do, and it said to turn the boiler off, wait for thirty seconds and then turn it back on again, so that’s what I did. And, hey presto, the heating burst into life about a minute ago. But according to the internet searches I made, I think that means either the thermostat or the programmer is faulty. Which means I’ll have to call out a heating engineer. And today’s Sunday, so that’s not good either. But hey ho. Such is life.’
‘That’s not good, you’re right,’ Madi agreed. ‘Especially not on your anniversary.’
‘Luckily,’ I said, ‘I have this lovely, thick and cosy dressing gown you bought me last Christmas, to help keep out the freezing cold. But it’s a shame it happened on my anniversary, I agree, and it’s not a great start to my favourite month of the year. Still, …’ I added bleakly. ‘I suppose things could’ve been worse.’
Madi and I were referring to the anniversary of the day I moved into my cottage. Exactly one year ago today, the first of December.
I had grown up in the nearby seaside town of Fairlight Bay and had often admired the row of three cottages that stood on Midwinter Ridge, the group of hills that rose behind the town sheltering it from the worst of the winter winds from the North. As a child, I wondered who had decided to build a row of just three cottages and on such a high and exposed place, away from the town. Dad told me they were farm cottages, rebuilt in the early 1800s to replace the original but much smaller ‘hovels’ that had stood there since the Middle Ages, and that all the land as far as the eye could see had once been part of the extensive and ancient, Midwinter Farm. These days, the farm consisted of a few fields of sheep and cows, some chickens and ducks, and an Elizabethan Farmhouse, that had also replaced the original farmhouse, but that was now far too grand for what was little more than a smallholding.
I never expected to live in one of those cottages myself, and when I was twenty-one, I moved from my parents’ house, and away from Fairlight Bay to pursue a career in London.
When I decided to return to my hometown, as I had always thought of it, I saw one of the cottages up on Midwinter Ridge was on the market, and I immediately made an offer. I moved into the aptly, if somewhat boringly named, Middle Cottage (it being the middle of the row of three) on Midwinter Lane lastDecember. The other cottages being End Cottage, to the left of mine, and Far Cottage, to the right. Oh, how I would’ve loved to meet the person who had decided on those names! I would’ve given them a few tips on using their imagination.
The day I moved in was a bitterly cold day, just like this one, but unlike today, the sun shone and the clear sky was an icy blue. Today the sky was gunmetal-grey and there was no sign of the sun. Although to be fair, it wasn’t due to rise for another ten minutes.
‘I can’t believe you’ve been there for a year,’ Madi added.
‘Neither can I. It’s absolutely flown.’
I clamped my phone between my shoulder and my ear and adjusted my dressing gown, tying the belt tighter to keep out the chill of the December morning air.
The cottage was usually warm and cosy by this time in the morning; the timer being set for the heating to come on at exactly five-thirty each day, including Sundays, when most people I knew had a lie-in. But when I awoke this morning, just before seven, having overslept for the first time in months, my bedroom – and I had correctly assumed, the rest of the cottage, was as cold as the bedrooms in the Ice Hotel in Sweden.
Not that I’d been to the Ice Hotle in Sweden. Or to any hotel made of ice, so I couldn’t say for sure, but Madi and I had watched a documentary about it and how they built it from scratch each year. We had promptly added, ‘spend a night in an Ice Hotel’ to our respective lists of ‘Things I should do before my hair turns grey.’ Our lists were so similar, that we could’ve had just one list. We had both squeezed it in between ‘see the Northern Lights’ and ‘go on a husky drawn sleigh ride’.
Spending the night – and no doubt a fortune – to stay in sub-zero temperatures seemed like a worthwhile and rather thrilling experience when I had added it to my list. Waking up in my ownfreezing bedroom this morning, was another thing entirely. And not at all thrilling.
Normally, I had showered and dressed long before seven-thirty, but not wanting to leave the warmth of my cosy bed, I had remained curled up beneath the duvet for almost fifteen minutes. The temptation to stay there all morning was strong, but I had places to go, and people to see, so I had no choice but to brave the cold.
I hurried to the utility room half expecting to find the boiler had completely given up the ghost, but thankfully, there still seemed to be life in the old thing, and having discovered how to resolve the problem – albeit temporarily, I had heating once again.
‘It’s great that you managed to get it working,’ Madi said. ‘Things can only get better from here. But you don’t sound like your usual cheery self. Is everything else okay?’
I snuggled my neck into the deep collar of my dressing gown as I removed the phone from beneath my chin and held it in my hand.
‘Apart from the fact that this place is freezing, and polar bears would feel at home here, you mean? I think there’s actually ice on theinsideof my windows!’
I laughed as I padded from the small utility room into the kitchen of my bone-tinglingly cold cottage, grateful not only for the cosy dressing gown but also for my furry, slipper boots, shaped like reindeer heads. Each one had hand stitched eyes and a grinning mouth between which there was a plastic nose that lit up with each step I took. Or every move I made if I was sitting down, or sprawled out length-wise on the sofa. I bought them as a present for myself from the Christmas Market in town last year, and I loved them so much that I bought some for Madi, and also for my mum. Madi loved them too. Mum, not so much.
‘Oh!’ Mum had said when she opened her present on Christmas morning. ‘Are these for me?’ And when I nodded in the affirmative, she gave me an odd look, glanced at my dad, who shrugged, and then with a smile as false as Gran’s teeth, added, ‘How lovely.’
Luckily, I had also bought Mum the cardigan I knew she wanted, so it wasn’t a complete disaster. Gran pinched the slippers when neither of us were looking and she’s apparently been wearing them every day since, even in the summer.
I placed my phone on the counter and pressed the speaker icon so that I could continue the conversation with Madi while I filled the kettle. I was dying for a mug of steaming hot coffee, partly to warm up my hands, but mainly because I needed the caffeine rush.
‘Yeah. Apart from that.’ Madi laughed.
I let out a small sigh as I switched on the kettle. ‘Yeah. Everything’s great. Except I overslept, and I think I may have a teensy, weensy hangover. Foolishly, I joined Berry for – to use her exact words, “one quick drink in The Dog and Duck.” Four hours and at least six large red wines later, I can’t remember how I got home. I believe Paul might’ve carried me from his car, but I must’ve got myself to bed … at least I hope I did. I was wearing my PJs when I woke up, and the top was on back to front, so …’ I gave a little shrug even though Madi couldn’t see me, ‘somehow I got undressed.’
