Page 1 of Christmas All the Way

CHAPTER ONE

‘A lady might travel the Seven Wonders of the World and never see a sight so welcome to her as that of her dearest friend.’

The Mistress of Pendennis, ELIZA NORTON

The great British public could be broadly divided into two sorts of people, Grace Murphy thought as she surveyed the freshly stacked shelves of the supermarket with a faint frown: those who were outraged by the appearance of mince pies for sale in the middle of an August heatwave, and those who welcomed them and everything they represented no matter how many months it was until C-Day.

For years, Grace had been in the latter camp. Her Christmas countdown would begin on the first day of the new school year. She got the box of decorations down from the loft as soon as the leaves started to turn, booked her online grocery slot the moment the notification email landed, spent hours planning the merry mischief her son’s Elf on the Shelf would get up to, and took pleasure in ticking off the items on his Christmas list, which was, of course, written long before December. But as Jack left childhood behind, the list had grown shorter and more practical, easy to source on the internet. The elf’s antics drew smiles rather than delighted giggles, and she found herself putting up the tree with the cast of Love Actually for company, while Jack hid in his room, bellowing cheerfully at his games console. If she was totally honest, decorating the tree on her own hadn’t been so bad, especially with a large glass of Bailey’s at hand, but wild reindeer couldn’t have dragged the admission from her. And this year, there would be no need to hang a stuffed stocking over the fireplace at midnight, nor would her festive food shop contain enough snacks to feed a small army, or one ravenous teenager. This year, for the first time in nineteen years, Grace would be waking up on Christmas Day without Jack. He would be thousands of miles away, enjoying a year on the other side of the world with his father, in Sydney. Three days had passed since she’d held back tears to wave him through the departures gate at the airport and the ache in her chest showed no sign of easing. How bad would it be when the festive period arrived in all its sparkly, full-on glory, and every advert declared the importance of gathering loved ones near? She could hardly bear to think of it.

‘What you need is a change of scene,’ her friend Keeley had prescribed over the phone, when Grace had confessed she was finding it hard to adjust to the Jack-shaped hole. ‘Between an empty nest and the redundancy, it’s no wonder you’re feeling a bit lost. Why don’t you come and stay with me for a few days?’

It was a tempting offer. The Chelmsford library where Grace had worked for the past decade had fallen victim to cost-cutting measures in June, and there hadn’t been a suitable position in the city’s remaining libraries to accommodate her. She’d reluctantly taken the proffered redundancy package, grateful that her long service ensured it was generous enough to give her some breathing space before having to find something new. Quite what that might be, she wasn’t sure. Was there much demand in the current economic climate for highly qualified librarians in their early forties? It seemed doubtful.

‘But you’re busy,’ she reminded Keeley. ‘The last thing you need is a house guest.’

‘I’m never too busy for you,’ her friend responded firmly. ‘And it will be nice to have some company. I’ll even drop my dirty socks in the middle of the floor, if you like. Make you feel more at home.’

Grace had laughed at that. One thing she hadn’t missed in the immediate aftermath of Jack’s departure had been scooping up his discarded clothes, empty wrappers and used crockery. But perhaps Keeley was right. Perhaps a break would do her good, even if it was only for the weekend. And the village of Freezy Tye, where Keeley lived and worked, was certainly a charming spot for a mini-break. Nestled in the heart of the Essex countryside, it was as though someone had gathered together all the ingredients of the quintessential English village and painstakingly arranged them for maximum quaintness. Pastel-painted cottages with pristine thatched roofs overlooked a lush village green and lily-covered duck pond, a sixteenth-century coaching inn welcomed locals and thirsty travellers alike, and a flint-bedecked Norman church had presided over it all for almost nine hundred years. Freezy Tye had also once been home to a well-respected Victorian author, Eliza Norton. A contemporary of the Brontë sisters, her work had yet to reach the same level of universal adoration but she had produced a number of sharply observed romantic novels that had a dedicated fan base around the world. Her cottage was open to the public, and was curated by Keeley herself, along with a team of enthusiastic volunteers. Yes, Grace thought as she considered her friend’s offer, a few days in Freezy Tye might be exactly what she needed.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘How soon can I come?’

They had agreed on Friday evening, when Keeley would have ushered any remaining members of the public out of Juniper Cottage and locked it up for the night. ‘Not that we’ve been overrun with visitors lately,’ she sighed. ‘But at least that makes it easier to close on time.’

‘I’ll pick up something for dinner,’ Grace offered. ‘And maybe some cake.’ Did mince pies count as cake, she wondered now, her hand hovering over the luxurious crimson and gold boxes. Keeley loved Christmas – she had to, living in Freezy Tye, which had been voted Britain’s Most Christmassy Village seven years in a row – but Grace wasn’t sure how she’d feel about breaking out the festive food before summer was even over.

‘Tempting, aren’t they?’ A wistful voice at her shoulder caused Grace to turn and find a woman standing there, staring at the shelves. ‘My husband mutates into Ebenezer Scrooge if I buy them this early. I have to hide them at the back of the cupboard.’

At least that wasn’t a problem Grace or Keeley had to contend with; cantankerous husbands were thankfully a distant memory for them both. ‘His loss,’ Grace said cheerfully. ‘I like them warm, with a bit of brandy butter, but it’s probably too soon for that to be on sale.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ the woman exclaimed, grinning. ‘Although a bit of clotted cream does very nicely too.’

It certainly did, Grace decided, placing a box of mince pies on top of the other treats she had piled into her basket. Evidently emboldened, her new friend took one too, and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile as they parted company. On a whim, Grace passed down the booze aisle on her way to the checkout. August might be too early for brandy butter but Bailey’s was a different matter. Especially in Britain’s most Christmassy village.

The gardens of Juniper Cottage were Keeley Cotterill’s happy place. Even now, as the exuberance of the summer blooms began to fade, the flowerbeds were still a riot of colour and scent. These bright, blue-skied mornings were her favourites, when she could wander the cool, meandering paths before the heat of the day had set in and the first visitors arrived.

Sometimes she imagined turning a corner to happen upon Eliza Norton herself, a trug tucked into the crook of one arm as she trimmed the roses. From extracts of letters the author had sent to her sisters, Keeley knew she had been a keen horticulturalist, but gardens had featured prominently in her novels too. Her most swoon-worthy hero, the noble and dashing Captain Forsythe, had proposed to Sylvie de Villiers among the gloriously described orchards of Pendennis House, in a scene that Keeley had always felt was deserving of the most sumptuous BBC adaptation. But for reasons she’d never truly been able to fathom, no one had ever approached the trustees of Eliza’s estate with a view to adapting any of her work for the screen. Perhaps it was because none of the novels had achieved the kind of enduring success seen by those of Jane Austen, despite sharing a similar talent for writing sparkling dialogue laced with astute social commentary, and creating memorable characters that lived on in the imagination long after the story had concluded. Austen had been published some forty years before Eliza, and by the 1850s literary tastes had taken a turn for the gothic, so perhaps it was simply that she was writing the wrong thing at the wrong time, but it had always puzzled Keeley that her books hadn’t found favour with modern readers. They were well regarded by scholars of nineteenth-century fiction, and had a respectable following among dedicated lovers of historical romance novels, but her name was rarely mentioned alongside those of her more illustrious peers. It was why Juniper Cottage enjoyed a considerably lower footfall than Austen’s house in Hampshire, or the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth, but, despite the best efforts of Keeley and the board of trustees who managed Eliza’s estate, it was proving difficult to attract more visitors, even at the height of the tourist season. At least that meant the gardens were rarely crowded, Keeley thought as she listened to the industrious buzz of bees in the early morning sunshine.

Reluctantly, her thoughts returned to the conversation she’d had with Malcolm Davidson earlier that week. ‘The bottom line is we need more punters,’ the trustee had told her at their quarterly meeting in London, his faded blue eyes sombre as he regarded her across the mahogany table. ‘What with the repairs to the summer house, and the improvements to the toilets, we’re looking at a worrying increase in expenditure this year and visitor numbers are down again.’

It wasn’t anything Keeley hadn’t already known but she’d still felt the need to defend herself and the team of volunteers who kept Juniper Cottage running on a day-to-day basis. ‘The talk by Dr Barnard in June was well attended,’ she pointed out. ‘Almost forty tickets were sold and we shifted quite a few copies of his book, as well as seeing an uptick in gift shop sales. And we’ve organised a children’s treasure hunt over the holidays, to try to encourage more families.’

Malcolm had rubbed his forehead wearily, bushy white eyebrows beetling as he frowned. ‘We appreciate all your hard work, Keeley, but you know the problem – reading isn’t as popular as it once was and there are so many other, flashier attractions making a grab for people’s attention and money. Virtual reality exhibitions and escape rooms and the like.’

Keeley blinked. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting we turn Juniper Cottage into an escape room?’

‘No, of course not. But the fact remains that we need to freshen things up.’ He paused and squared his shoulders. ‘To that end, the trustees have decided to engage the services of a creative director. Someone who can work with you on a part-time basis to raise the profile of Eliza and the house, and hopefully encourage greater footfall.’

‘Okay,’ Keeley said warily, because the title of creative director had the ominous knell of seniority when compared with her own position as curator. ‘Do you want me to help draw up the job description? I can put some feelers out too, see if there’s anyone who might be a good fit.’

Malcolm’s features crinkled into a smile, although Keeley thought she detected a hint of anxiety in his eyes. ‘No need. We’ve, uh, already found someone. Offered him the role and he’s accepted. Just two days a week, but every little helps, eh?’

‘Oh.’ Keeley blinked, taken aback both at the speed with which the trustees appeared to have moved and by the fact that they hadn’t felt the need to consult her first. ‘Who is it?’

‘A chap called Xander Jones,’ Malcolm said, and hesitated. ‘He’s not traditionally the kind of candidate we’d choose but he has a very impressive track record. One of those behind-the-scenes social media wizards. I think he’ll shake things up quite nicely.’

The words sent a shiver of foreboding through Keeley. ‘Shake things up in what way?’ she asked slowly, picturing the understated elegance of the cottage, its rooms painstakingly arranged the way Eliza’s diaries had described, with simple printed displays that explained her daily routine and gave context to the items on show. The aim of Juniper Cottage had always been to preserve Eliza’s life and work for posterity, much the same as other properties belonging to artistic luminaries did. The idea of shaking things up suggested some of that might get broken.

‘Bad turn of phrase,’ Malcolm said, his weathered pink cheeks turning even more florid. ‘What I meant was, he’ll be a breath of fresh air. He put together a presentation with some suggestions and we all agreed they sound exciting and innovative.’