Escape for Christmas

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

‘So I need to finalise the guest list for the do.’ Louise McKenna’s pen was poised ominously over her clipboard.

‘Sure,’ Brody muttered, busy adding a log to the fire in the snug. Harold was snoozing as close to it as he dared. Both he and Brody liked to spend the winter evenings in the smaller room, with its cast-off furniture and shabby rugs that had been relegated from the much larger sitting room, which they saved for when they had guests, although that was rare these days.

Not counting as a guest, Brody’s mother perched on the sofa.

‘I’ve ordered the canapés. I don’t have time to be making them myself, so the caterers will deliver late on the afternoon of the party. I’ve based it on six per person. We have salmon blinis, mini-Yorkshires with beef and horseradish, two vegan options and two sweet ones. How does that sound?’

Sparks flew from the hearth as Brody settled the log on the fire with a poker and a puff of wood-smoke filled the air.

He sat back down in the armchair, trying to give his mother the full attention she deserved, but it was hard to feign interest in party-planning such as canapé choices. He noticed that his mum looked tired underneath her make-up. At sixty-five, she was still a powerhouse, juggling her role as a director of the McKenna family business with numerous activities and community groups. But she was his mum, and he couldn’t help worry that she was doing too much and needed to ease up a bit.

‘You always sit in your dad’s chair,’ she remarked with a wistful smile. ‘It looks ready to fall apart.’

‘Um, I don’t mind.’ Brody shrugged.

‘You will when you fall through the seat. Why don’t you let me have it re-upholstered for you? I could arrange it in the New Year?’ she offered. ‘Call it a late extra Christmas present?’

A spring creaked as Brody shifted in his seat, which didn’t help his case. The chair was falling apart, although he felt an ache in his chest at the thought of parting with his beloved armchair, even if only temporarily. He felt close to his father, Ralph, when he sat in it.

His mum had been incredible since his dad had died suddenly of a heart attack when Brody was only seventeen, helping to run the business and support so many worthy causes in the village, but he knew it was also for her, because keeping busy was good for Louise and meant she couldn’t wallow.

His father had loved the wingback chair that Brody liked to occupy now. Once Brody had qualified as a vet at twenty-five, his mum had asked him to take on Felltop Farm, preferring to move to a new-build cottage in what she called ‘the heart of the action’ in Bannerdale. He now owned the house jointly with her and was gradually paying her off. It had meant he could get on the property ladder, and his mum could have a fresh start, away from a place that was too big for her and filled with too many memories.

‘True,’ he said, seeing the tenderness behind her eyes and that she was trying to do something thoughtful concerning the chair. She might try to manage him too much, yet Brody understood that it was her way of showing she cared. ‘Good idea at some point, but I’ll pay.’

‘I was going to treat you,’ she said.

‘No,’ he replied firmly, wanting complete control over the process so that he could steel himself and do it when he felt ready.

‘OK. I know that look. It was the same one your father used to roll out when he was about to dig his heels in with me. As you’re busy, I’ll leave it with you, shall I, and then remind you after Christmas?’

‘Thanks.’ Brody leaned back in the chair, silently hoping it would still feel the same chair when it returned from its makeover. If he ever got round to arranging it.

His mum sighed triumphantly. ‘Wow, that was easier than I thought. I was expecting a battle lasting for months, at least.’

‘I hate to be predictable,’ he said, suspecting the chair saga would go on for months, with a bit of luck.

‘Shame we can’t sort it before the party, but I’ve got a nice chenille throw that will hide it.’

‘The guests won’t come in here, will they?’ Brody was unable to hide his dismay. ‘I thought this was going to be Harold’s haven.’

‘Harold can go … wherever. We need all the rooms open, for guests to mingle around, and in tip-top shape. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan,’ she said, tapping the clipboard with her pen. ‘On that note, here’s the schedule for the party day. I’ll come round at lunchtime while you’re at work, with Samira from swimming. She’s a whizz at the decor for these kinds of things.’

Brody listened, knowing he wasn’t required to answer anyway.

‘Your job will be collecting the booze from the wine merchant on your way home from the surgery,’ his mother went on. Brody nodded, just so she’d think he was engaged on the subject. ‘We can keep it in one of the outhouses until it’s time to serve it. You don’t have the fridge space anyway. The caterers are loaning us some glasses and china. They said not to worry if anything gets broken because they’ll bring spares.’

Brody felt his phone buzz against his thigh. It must have slipped between the cushion and the frame of the chair. His fingers itched. He ought to answer it. It might be urgent, because he was on-call this evening.

His mum looked at him sharply. ‘Brody, did you get all that? Are you listening?’

‘Yes, I got it all. Six canapés, pick up the booze. Don’t worry about breaking anything because it doesn’t matter.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t actively try to break anything. It’s only that Oliver said not to worry if anyone does have a mishap. Caterers expect that sort of thing.’

Brody grinned. ‘Mum, it’ll be fine. Don’t stress so much. It’s only a few drinks for a few friends, not hosting royalty at Downton Abbey.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t stress? You can say that because you’re not organising a drinks gathering for sixty of Bannerdale’s most influential members of the community. I have to stress about it! You can’t simply let an event like that happen. You have to be prepared in advance, and check and double-check the details. By the way, do you have enough diesel for the emergency generator, just in case?’

‘I think so.’

‘ Think isn’t good enough.’ His mum scribbled on her clipboard sheet. ‘Here, I’ve added it to your personal list of responsibilities.’ She showed it to him. At the top it read: brODY: TO DO . It was underlined and was twice as long as he had imagined. The last item was: Check toilets are respectable!

He groaned. ‘Oh, Mum, I don’t need it …’

‘I work from a list, so I’m damn sure you do. You can’t bumble through life.’

‘I don’t bumble. I run a busy vet’s practice.’

‘Correction: Cora Hazeldine runs the practice. You do the …’ she didn’t bother hiding her shudder, ‘unpleasant stuff.’

‘You mean the unpleasant stuff that keeps animals healthy?’

His mother wrinkled her nose. ‘All that stuff involving plastic gloves going where the sun doesn’t shine and – the horrible things.’

Brody knew what his mother meant; there were really difficult parts of his job, and the worst was helping animals have a peaceful end to minimise their suffering.

‘Mother, the plastic gloves and horrible stuff go with the territory. I can hardly avoid either, if I want to do my best by the animals and their owners.’

‘You didn’t have to do it. You could have had a nice cushy time running the business, which would have been much more conducive to family life. All these long hours on-call.’ She carried on as if she held his career responsible for not having a grandchild yet.

Brody tamed a flare of annoyance into a weary sigh. ‘But I didn’t want to. It didn’t appeal to me. I love animals and I want to help them. Uncle Trevor is much better at being a business mogul than I am. I’d never have felt passionate about agricultural machinery, the way he does, and as a result I’d have bankrupted a successful company within six months.’

Brody had been earmarked by his dad to take over McKenna Machinery, even though from a young age he’d shown way more interest in the livestock on the farms than in the tractors and combines and had wanted to study veterinary medicine at university instead of engineering. His father was only just coming round to the idea when he passed away, which made Brody regret that Ralph never got a chance to see what a good vet he made now.

‘Hmm.’ His mother rested the clipboard in her lap. ‘I suppose you’re right. Look, I’m sorry if you think I’m nagging you, and it wasn’t fair to mention the business. It’s a manic time of year and I’m tired and stressed …’

‘No wonder. Organising this do on top of everything else.’ Brody took the clipboard from her and tore off his to-do list, to show willing. ‘I really appreciate all the hard work and effort you put in. I know it’s going to be a triumph and I won’t forget my part of the bargain. I’ll check the generator and diesel tonight as soon as you’ve gone, while I’m feeding the menagerie.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘Would I?’ He patted her arm. ‘Stay there. I’ll make a cup of tea.’

‘Just a quick one. I’ve got a Christmas supper with the wild swimmers this evening and I ought to go home and get changed first.’

‘You look great as you are, to me. Is that a new jumper?’

‘Ha-ha. I told you I had it the last time I saw you. Maybe I will go straight from here. It’s only at the pub – nothing too fancy.’

Brody went into the kitchen and made the tea in a pot for a change. He usually lobbed a bag in any old mug, but tonight he added the teapot, two mugs and a carton of milk to a tray. Just in time he remembered the box of mince pies that a grateful client had made for him, so he put a few on a plate.

His mother was a tour de force and Brody was in constant awe of her, when he wasn’t frustrated by her attempts to manage him. On this occasion he had to admit that she was probably right to organise him. Sixty people for drinks and canapés in the farmhouse was a pretty big deal, especially when many of them were community and business leaders who were used to professionally planned events.

The farmhouse was spacious, with several reception rooms, but it could also be cold and draughty, with its low ceilings and panelled walls. However, once it was decorated and the fires were lit, it would feel very homely and a characterful place for entertaining. Even as a child, he’d loved every quirk and dusty corner of it, grateful to still be able to live in his childhood home. Living at Felltop helped him feel closer to his father and perhaps, one day, he might be able to bring up children of his own here.

When he returned from the kitchen, his mother was scrolling through her phone, but put it down on the lamp table as he entered the room. Her eyebrows lifted in shock as he placed the tray on the table. ‘Wow, an actual teapot and mince pies! To what do I owe this honour?’

‘I know you like things served in the proper way.’

‘It’s a step up from a chipped mug with an ad for worming tablets on the side and, my word, you’ve been baking too?’

‘Not quite, they were a present from a client. She has a rabbit called Earl Grey, appropriately enough.’

‘Earl Grey … it makes a change from Peter, I suppose. The mince pies look lovely, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take one home for tomorrow, because I don’t want to spoil my dinner.’ His mother sipped her tea. ‘Not bad.’

‘Thanks.’

She peered around the room over the top of her cup. ‘You know, this is a big place for you to rattle around in on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own – I have Harold,’ Brody insisted wearily, having heard similar comments before and knowing where this was going. ‘And to be fair, you did suggest that I should live here instead of you, Mum.’ He bit into a mince pie to avoid meeting her eye.

‘That was when I thought there’d be you and a family in it,’ his mother said, then smiled. ‘But let’s hope that might be going to change in the not-too-distant future.’

Brody choked, then coughed.

‘Are you OK?’

‘J-just the mince-pie crumbs,’ he said, gulping his tea. He rested his plate on the table. ‘I’ve been thinking …’ he said, jumping in to change the subject before she could press him any further. ‘I don’t think you and Samira should take on the job of decorating this place for the party on your own. I want to help.’

‘You do ?’ Louise sounded surprised at his sudden enthusiasm.

‘Yes, it’s not fair on you, and I ought to take responsibility for my own house. Gather some greenery. Light the fires. Hang some tinsel.’

She laughed. ‘That’s very noble of you. The greenery would be great, thanks. And if you can keep Harold under some vestige of control, that would help.’

At the mention of his name, Harold opened one eye, but immediately closed it again. He wasn’t a fan of mince pies unless they had actual mince in them.

‘I’ll leave the surgery early and come home to join you,’ Brody said, crossing his heart. ‘Promise.’

‘Thank you, that would be much appreciated.’

She finished her tea and got up. Brody followed her into the hall, Harold trotting after them, his paws clattering on the stone flags.

‘I see he’s making sure I’m really off the premises,’ she said, with a stern glare for their canine security man, and a peck on the cheek for Brody.

‘Harold just wants to say goodbye properly,’ Brody lied, knowing that the Labrador recognised he’d be able to go outside with Brody as soon their visitor had left and was eager for his evening walk.

‘Hmm …’ She zipped up her puffer coat and collected her scarf from Brody. ‘Oh, I almost forgot to mention, I saw Sophie in the village this morning. I had a few words with her while we were queuing in the bakery. She was buying a load of croissants for her guests. She told me she’d been to see you or, rather, her cats had.’

‘Yes, it was their annual check-up today.’ He shrugged on his old Barbour and a pair of muddy Hunters from inside the porch, deciding that leaving himself would be the only way to get his mother out.

‘Hmm, she’s a nice girl. Pretty in an English-rose way, and very polite, but also, don’t you think, a little bit odd ?’

Brody decided it was best just to grunt in agreement, even though ‘pretty in an English-rose way’ implied that Sophie was some kind of delicate flower, which she very much wasn’t. On the contrary, he admired the spark in her green eyes and the courage she’d shown in moving to the Lakes to start a new business. There was surely some story behind that, but he never felt like it was his place to ask.

‘“Odd” in what way?’ he asked, even though the comment had rankled with him.

‘Well, I asked her if she was looking forward to Christmas, and you’d think I’d asked her if she was looking forward to the dentist’s. Her face was an absolute picture. Then I remembered she’s the one who’s been advertising the anti-Christmas holiday …’

Brody’s heart sank. ‘It’s not exactly anti-Christmas. I think it’s more of an alternative Christmas. From what I’ve heard,’ he added. He didn’t want his mother to know that he’d leapt to Sophie’s defence, in case she read too much into it, but he’d also corrected one of the local hoteliers who had sneered about Sophie down the pub the other day.

‘Whatever it’s called,’ his mum said. ‘Imagine being so against the festive season that you want to spend it with a bunch of strangers who can’t stand to see other people enjoying themselves. It really is so sad. I wonder what’s happened to that girl to make her so hostile to it all?’

‘I’ve no idea, Mum. She didn’t tell me about her tragic past, as you imagine it, while I was sticking a thermometer up her cats’ bums this morning.’

‘Brody!’ Louise cried. ‘Do you have to be quite so graphic?’

He grinned, thrilled that his shock tactic had worked. ‘Sorry.’

Harold let out a low woof, which Brody knew meant: hurry up and get rid of her, so I can go out for my evening walk.

His mother shook her head. ‘You’re not sorry at all. Anyway I might see you at the lantern parade, although I’ve been roped into manning the WI tombola in the church hall, so who knows?’ She patted Harold’s head. ‘Try to stay out of trouble until then.’

‘Who? Me or the dog?’ Brody quipped, opening the oak front door for her.

‘Both of you!’ she called back.

He stood on the doorstep, seeing his mum off, with Harold by his side.

‘Don’t forget the diesel!’ she called through the car window. Finally she drove out of the gates to the yard into the sleet.

Brody walked around the side of the farm to the rear outbuildings.

‘Come on, let’s deal with the “menagerie”,’ he said to Harold, using the word that his mother had always used to describe his succession of pets and strays over the years.

Anyone would think he owned a full-on zoo, Brody thought wryly as he strode across his cobbled yard, and not simply two sheep and a donkey, all of which he’d acquired by accident in the past couple of years. The Jacob sheep had arrived after a client, who owned a smallholding, had had to go into a nursing home. Their previous owner had died, so Brody had taken on Jackie and Jill, who’d been beloved family pets.

He’d been called out to Gabriel, the donkey, by a local and found the poor creature in a sorry state of neglect by the river, his owner having abandoned him. Now both Gabriel and the sheep seemed to live quite happily together in the field that separated Felltop from Sunnyside, which was just as well. Gabriel had a cosy shelter, created from an old stable block at the end of Brody’s cobbled yard. The donkey could wander in whenever he wanted, and the sheep had also been brought in out of the cold. Tonight was definitely a night to keep them all inside, out of this freezing night air.

He tipped some fresh feed in the donkey’s manger and filled the sheep’s trough with corn.

Even when he’d had a stressful or exhausting day at work, he found it therapeutic to care for his charges. He loved the scent of them, and the connection he felt when stroking or checking them over. He didn’t even mind the heavy work or clearing out the stable. OK, mucking out wasn’t the most fun, but it kept him warm on a cold day and took him away from worries about the practice and his personal life. Feeding and cleaning out the animals was simple and straightforward, unlike the rest of his life these days.

He stood back, watching the animals eating – having a donkey and two admittedly grown-up lambs in a stable felt very seasonal.

Gabriel started to tuck in. Brody patted his back, feeling the warmth of the animal’s body. ‘Good lad, Gabe. I don’t blame you, staying inside in this weather. I’d be the same.’

Sophie drifted into his mind. What a pity she was so against Christmas.

‘So the chances of her coming to the party aren’t great, mate,’ he said aloud to Gabriel, who carried on eating his dinner. ‘And I oughtn’t to feel disappointed about that, but I do.’

His voice echoed around the cold stone of the stable. Perhaps his mother was right: he had lived alone for too long at Felltop Farm, if the only conversations he had were with his animals. Yet Brody couldn’t see a way of that changing soon.