Winter Wishes at the Farm on MuddypuddleLane (The Farm on Muddypuddle Lane #8)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Friday was one of those bright winter days where a weak sun shone out of a silvered sky and mist blanketed the valley floor. Dew-coated cobwebs were spider-strung over the bushes along Muddypuddle Lane, and the red berries of the hawthorn trees glistened like rubies in the morning light.

Beatrice parked her car in the farmyard and took a deep breath of autumn-chilled air. This was her first day in her new job and she couldn’t imagine a more scenic location. At the moment, she felt incredibly blessed; whether she would still feel that way after a five-hour shift remained to be seen.

The tree in the centre of the yard was lit and it looked very festive, despite Christmas being five weeks away. But, as Dulcie had explained when Beatrice had come for the interview (which hadn’t been much of an interview at all), the farm was gearing up to open its gates to visitors who would hopefully enjoy the Christmas experience.

Beatrice was rather looking forward to it and had happily agreed to work Saturdays on the run-up to the ‘Big Day’ because it meant more money to buy presents. However, she wasn’t doing this just for the money. Beatrice was also doing it for herself. The pride she’d felt knowing she had a job, had made her glow all last night, and as soon as the children were tucked up in bed, she’d got straight on the phone to Lisa.

Lisa had been thrilled for her, and suggested they go out for a drink to celebrate but Beatrice had declined – she was already putting her mum out by asking her to collect the children from school. She could hardly ask her to babysit this evening as well, while she went out boozing with her best friend.

Dulcie was serving a customer when Beatrice entered the shop, so she quietly stowed her bag and coat underneath the counter and had a quick look at the chillers and shelves to see what was for sale today.

The farm’s staples of milk, cheese, eggs, soaps and scented candles were well stocked, and she was also pleased to see a selection of festive-themed biscuits, milkshakes and chilled soups.

Dulcie greeted her warmly, looking frazzled. ‘Am I glad to see you! I’ve got such a lot to do today. I’ve got a Grinch’s grotto to finish, a seating area to set up, a—’ She stopped. ‘I could go on, but if I do I’ll be jabbering away until lunchtime. Will you be alright in here on your own?’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Shout if you need me. Oh, and do you think you could have a go at making up some festive hampers? I want to post photos on the website later.’ Dulcie pointed to a box behind the counter. ‘Here’s one I made earlier,’ she said. ‘I’d like to offer different products and a couple of different sizes.’

‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Beatrice offered.

‘You might regret saying that.’ Dulcie pulled a face. ‘I’d better get going. I’ve got smelly socks to fill. Actually, you don’t happen to have any odd socks lying around at home, do you?’

Beatrice chuckled. Knowing that the farm had a Grinch theme going on, she realised immediately why Dulcie wanted them. ‘I’ve got a drawer full. I’ll bring them in tomorrow. How many do you need?’

‘All of them? I’m scared we won’t have enough, but I’m also worried that I’ve ordered too much, and we’ll have loads of stuff left over.’

‘What are you putting in them?’

‘Grinch dust – you sprinkle it on your doorstep to stop the Grinch stealing your Christmas – bags of green sweets, a Grinch bauble for the tree, Grinch Stickers and a stretchy Grinch toy.’

‘I sense a theme,’ Beatrice laughed. ‘It’s also rather a lot, don’t you think?’

‘Is it?’ Dulcie’s expression was dubious.

‘It must have cost a bit, and whenever my two visited Santa in his grotto, the gift was usually something inexpensive. How many children are you expecting? By the way, is it alright if my parents bring the girls to see the Grinch tomorrow?’

‘Of course it is! As for how many kids – I honestly don’t know.’

Beatrice had an idea, but she hadn’t been here five minutes yet, so she wasn’t sure how well it would be received. ‘I’ve got a suggestion – and please tell me if I’m speaking out of turn because you know more about this than I do.’

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Dulcie said.

‘Why don’t you keep some stuff back, and add a Grinch biscuit to the sock instead?’ She looked at the iced snowflake biscuits as she spoke, thinking it would be easy to make a green version.

Dulcie was staring at her and shaking her head.

Oh dear, Beatrice thought, that didn’t go down well.

‘I could kiss you!’ her new boss declared with a smile.

‘You could?’

‘That’s a perfect solution. Otto can make an endless supply of Grinch cookies, and if we do have any non-food items left over, they’ll keep until next year. The Grinch isn’t going away – I’m determined to get my use out of the outfits I bought, and the grotto.’

Beatrice offered, ‘If you want, I can fill the socks for you tomorrow.’

From the grateful expression on Dulcie’s face, she did want.

Pleased that she’d already managed to make herself useful, Beatrice settled down to enjoy the day. She had a feeling that this job was going to be the best thing to have happened to her in a very long time.

For Mark, driving up Muddypuddle Lane on Saturday afternoon brought back boyhood memories of warm summer days playing in the ferns on the hillsides above Picklewick with his friends, making dens and building makeshift dams across the tumbling mountain streams.

It also brought back memories of when he was quite a bit older and had gone on long walks on this very hillside with his first love.

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—’

‘Just joking,’ she laughed. ‘Go ahead and look all you want. Would you like me to show you around?’

‘That’s kind of you, if you can spare the time.’ He would have felt very odd going in on his own.

‘I was on my way to the Grotto anyway, so it’s no bother.’

She led him back across the yard, and when they reached the entrance to the Grinch’s Grotto where another elf was checking children and their parents in, Dulcie said in a low voice, ‘Carla, can you put the rope across for five minutes? Walter needs a break.’ Then she ushered him inside.

Mark hadn’t known what to expect when he stepped into the barn, so he was pleasantly surprised to see it as exuberantly decorated as the yard. More lights, more bunting, and more lavishly decorated trees surrounded by mounds of fake snow, formed a path which led deeper into the barn. It was quite magical, despite being over-the-top, but as they ventured further in and turned a corner, the lights became less twinkly, the bunting disappeared, and the trees lost their decorations.

It was a gradual thing, and Mark didn’t notice at first, not until a structure that had been painted to look like a cave came into view. A Santa Stop Here sign was in front of the door, and someone had written ‘ Don’t’ between Santa and Stop .

Three families were waiting to see the Grinch and as Mark and his guide approached, the door opened and a green face topped by a Santa hat, peered out.

‘Bah! I hate Christmas!’ it growled, then disappeared back inside and slammed the door shut. A second later, the door opened again, and the Grinch beckoned the nearest child forward. Mark caught a glimpse of a badly decorated and extremely bent Christmas tree, and a haphazard pile of presents stacked in the corner. Lying by the door and gnawing on a bone, was a black and white sheepdog wearing felt antlers.

The theme was green, red and white, and rather well done, but Mark’s festive-ometer still didn’t budge. The Grinch had originally been drawn in black, white and red. It wasn’t supposed to be green, and this was why he was having so much trouble writing a Christmas book – because he couldn’t get his head around the way everything about Christmas was so distorted. Take St. Nicolas, for instance…

Dulcie waited until the Grinch had seen all three children and the families had left the grotto, then said, ‘Break time, Walter?’

The Grinch sagged a little. ‘Thank God.’ He pulled off the mask and took a deep breath, and Mark saw that underneath it was an elderly gentleman with grey hair and a lined face. He looked exhausted.

Dulcie helped him out of the costume. ‘Are you okay to carry on, Walter, or would you like me to take over?’

‘You have enough to do,’ he said. ‘How long have I got?’

‘Ten minutes, but we can make it longer.’

He blew out his cheeks. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Of course not. I’ll let Carla know.’ She hurried towards the entrance, leaving Mark alone with Walter.

The elderly gent said, ‘This is the first time she’s done this. Just a couple of teething troubles, that’s all. I’m sure everything will work out fine.’

Mark wasn’t so sure; Walter didn’t look too good and as Mark watched him leave, he wondered whether he should say anything to Dulcie or whether he should mind his own business.

But when Dulcie returned to the grotto, he could tell by her face that she already knew.

She picked up the discarded costume and sighed. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for Walter to carry on. It’s too much for him. Right, I’d better do it. Have you seen enough, or do you need more time to find your Christmas spirit?’ Dulcie froze, her eyes widening. Then a smile spread across her face as she stared at him.

Mark guessed what was coming, and he shook his head as he backed away. ‘Nuh-uh. Not a chance.’

‘Aw, go on,’ she pleaded. ‘Just think of all those hopeful little faces – and you can indulge your inner Grinch at the same time. I’ll even pay you,’ she added, and he realised she was serious.

‘You’d trust me with this?’ He waved an arm at the grotto.

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

Dulcie fished around in the pocket of the pixie skirt and brought out a phone. ‘I looked you up.’

‘When?’

‘Just now. You’ve made appearances in schools and libraries. You like kids.’

‘I do, but I don’t like Christmas. Anyway, I’m here to write,’ he protested.

‘Research is writing.’

‘Who says?’

‘You do.’ She showed him the screen.

Mark groaned. On it was an interview where he had given advice to new authors. He remembered stressing how important research was when it came to writing.

‘Just for today?’ she pleaded. ‘Three hours, at the most. Please?’

And that was how Mark Stafford, successful children’s author, came to be dressed in a Grinch costume, trying his best to entertain small children on the farm on Muddypuddle Lane.

Beatrice was so busy she didn’t know what to do with herself and was loving every minute of it. The hampers were flying off the shelves, as were the gift boxes of soaps, and every time the door opened she caught a whiff of mulled wine along with a blast of cold air, which made her thankful for her many layers and for the electric heater behind the counter that kept her legs and feet warm.

Things appeared to be going equally as well outside the shop. Although Beatrice didn’t have a view of the barn, from the snippets she’d overheard from her customers, there was a queue to see the Grinch, the petting area was popular, and the food was going down a storm. In order to encourage repeat custom over the next few weeks, Dulcie and Otto were varying the food on the menu, hoping to tempt visitors back, and there was also a selection of today’s offerings in the shop, so if people wanted they could purchase some to take home.

Beatrice didn’t know how Dulcie and Otto managed to fit it all in, although they had some help in the form of Dulcie’s mum Beth, and Otto’s dad Walter, plus Nikki, one of Dulcie’s sisters, and a couple of others. But it was still a lot of work, and whenever she glanced out the window she saw Dulcie dashing around in her pixie outfit.

Between serving customers, Beatrice filled the ‘smelly socks,’ and made up more hampers, and as she worked she kept an eye on the time.

Her parents were due to arrive shortly with the children, and she couldn’t wait to see her girls’ faces. Sadie had been so excited this morning at the prospect of meeting the Grinch, that she hadn’t stopped talking. Mind you, she was also thrilled at the thought of stroking a goat, petting a rabbit and having a ride on a Shetland pony. Taya hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic, but she was nearly ten, which was almost a grown-up as far as Taya was concerned, and such childish things were beneath her.

Beatrice was gift-wrapping a box of soaps when she noticed her dad peering through the window, waving to catch her attention.

‘Two minutes?’ she mouthed, and as soon as she’d served her customer, she sent a quick message to Dulcie to alert her.

Dulcie, bless her, arrived in seconds.

‘I won’t be long.’ Beatrice assured her.

‘Take as long as you need. You’re due a break.’

Beatrice removed her apron. ‘It looks busy out there.’

‘It is!’ Dulcie beamed. ‘The Grinch is a big hit, and Otto can’t keep up with the mince pies.’

‘I’ve made up more socks,’ Beatrice told her. ‘Do you want me to take them to the grotto?’

‘It’s okay, I’ll take them later,’ Dulcie said. ‘You’d better go, I think someone is getting impatient.’

Beatrice saw Sadie jumping up and down outside, tugging on her nana’s hand.

‘Mummy!’ she cried, letting go of Deborah and barrelling towards Beatrice as soon as she stepped outside.

Sadie grabbed her around the waist and buried her face in Beatrice’s stomach. Beatrice hugged her back. She would have liked to cuddle her eldest child too, but knew that Taya would hate it. Cuddles in public had become a no-no recently.

As the five of them headed towards the Grinch’s Grotto, Beatrice took the opportunity to look around the yard. Several families were queuing at the kiosk for tickets, and more were waiting to enter the grotto itself. There was a steady trickle of people in and out of the petting area, and the tables in the makeshift cafe were all occupied.

No wonder Dulcie was pleased. This first Saturday was proving to be a runaway success, and Beatrice was thrilled for her.

Before long, Deborah was handing their tickets to the elf on the door and they went inside. Although Dulcie had shown Beatrice the entrance to the Grinch’s Grotto when she’d come for the interview, none of the Christmas lights had been lit, and she gasped at how pretty it now looked.

Beatrice wasn’t the only one who was impressed. Sadie was gazing around in awe, her cheeks glowing, her mouth open. Even Taya’s eyes were wide, and Beatrice smiled: her little girl was still there, hidden beneath the urge to grow up as fast as she could.

They shuffled forward slowly, and Beatrice used the time to remind her daughters of the story of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas , even though it was a tradition that they watched the film every year, so they knew it inside out.

After ten minutes or so, the family in front of them were summoned into the cave by a cross face and a claw-like hand, and Beatrice’s children were next in line.

‘Mummy, look!’ Sadie pointed to a black and white sheepdog lying next to the entrance to the Grinch’s cave. It was happily gnawing on a chew, and there was a bowl of water beside it. But what made Beatrice smile were the felt antlers it wore, not on its head, but attached to a harness around its chest.

Sadie frowned. ‘That isn’t Max. Max is brown.’ She was quite indignant.

Beatrice thought fast. The Grinch’s dog was brown in the film. ‘That’s because this isn’t Max. This dog’s name is Rex, and he’s keeping the Grinch company because Max is off practicing to be a reindeer, because he’s not very good at it, is he?’

Sadie thought about it, then nodded, the explanation accepted.

Finally, it was Taya and Sadie’s turn.

Beatrice watched the entrance to the cave expectantly and chuckled when the Grinch stuck his head out. He glanced at them, paused, then went back inside as though he couldn’t stand the sight of them, and slammed the door shut.

The girls looked up at her. ‘Is he coming back out?’ Sadie asked.

‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ Beatrice said.

A few seconds later, he shouted, ‘What are you waiting for? Come in if you must.’

‘Ooh, he’s really grumpy, isn’t he?’ Beatrice said to the children, as she ushered them inside, then she said to her mum who was behind her, ‘I don’t think he’s acting either. I reckon it’s genuine.’

‘Shh!’ her mum hissed. ‘He’ll hear you.’

Beatrice giggled. ‘Oops, for a minute I forgot I was working here.’ Whoever the Grinch was, she didn’t want to upset him, not if they had to work together. She didn’t think she’d met him yet, although there was something about his voice that was familiar…

Abruptly her good mood dimmed. How bizarre that someone wearing a Grinch outfit reminded her of a man she had tried so hard to forget. And for the remainder of the brief visit to the Grinch’s grotto, Beatrice kept her attention firmly on her girls.

The last person she wanted to think about right now was Mark Stafford.

‘Don’t bother telling me your names,’ Mark said to the two children standing before him. ‘I don’t care. And I’m not interested in what you want for Christmas, either.’ He scowled. ‘Christmas shouldn’t be allowed. How old are you anyway?’ He aimed this comment at the younger one.

‘Five.’ She gazed at him confidently, not the least bit intimidated by his (or should he say the Grinch’s ) grumpiness.

‘Pah! That’s too old for Christmas. Or too young.’

‘Why is your face green?’

‘Why is yours not green ?’

The child giggled. ‘You’re funny.’

‘No, I’m not. I don’t like funny. If I give you a smelly sock, will you go away and leave me alone?’

She nodded and he made a show of shoving a sock at them both. The eldest, a girl of about nine or ten he guessed, looked far less impressed with his performance than her sister.

The youngest one said, ‘Mummy, can I give him a hug?’

’No!’ he cried, louder than he meant to. ‘I hate hugs, and I hate children who want to give them.’ He didn’t look at the mother. He daren’t. But he did notice her left hand. It was ringless. Did that mean she was no longer married?

His stomach fluttered for a second, before he told himself that it didn’t matter.

Mark kept the scowl on his face until Beatrice and her family left the cave, then he slumped into his seat.

He’d recognised her instantly of course. How could he not?

His whole body tingled from the shock of seeing her, and it had taken all the strength he possessed not to react. She hadn’t recognised him, and he was grateful for that. How embarrassing if her first sight of him in almost twenty years was when he was dressed from head to foot in lurid green fur and wearing a rubber mask.

She hadn’t changed much – she still had the same eyes. Eyes that had once looked deep into his soul. Eyes he had run away from because he had begun to fall in love with her and she hadn’t loved him back.

If he’d thought for one instant that seeing her again would make him react like this, he would never have returned to Picklewick.

It briefly occurred to him that he should leave, go back to Bristol. But being in the city hadn’t worked out too well for him recently, and he was here now, so… Anyway, he had only reacted like that because he hadn’t expected to see her here, that was all. It had been a bit of a surprise, but he was over it now. If he bumped into her again (which he probably would, considering Picklewick wasn’t very big) he’d be more prepared. Not that he had anything to prepare for. They’d dated for a while, but it hadn’t been serious. She was an old flame, nothing more. Or so he told himself.

Mark drew in a deep, calming breath, then let it out in a whoosh when he heard her voice coming from just outside the grotto.

She was saying, ‘I’d better get back to work. Poor Dulcie is run off her feet, and she’s got more important things to do than cover for me. Stop by the shop later? I’ll treat you to some snowflake biscuits to take home.’

‘We will,’ Beatrice’s mother said. ‘But don’t work too hard and make sure you take a proper break.’

Mark closed his eyes and counted to ten. Beatrice worked at the farm?

Oh, hell. All he hoped was that he could escape with his dignity intact.

‘How did the rest of your day go?’ Deborah asked when Beatrice walked into her mum’s house later that evening to collect the children. ‘They’ve had their tea,’ she added.

Beatrice gave her a grateful hug, then stuck her head around the living room door and told the kids to collect their things, before she answered. ‘I’ve been rushed off my feet. The time has flown by.’

She’d loved every minute of it, thoroughly enjoying the interaction with the customers, and she’d had so much fun bringing their attention to things they hadn’t considered buying, such as a Christmas Eve Box or a gingerbread milkshake. She felt part of the team already, and she really wanted Dulcie to do well.

‘Thank you for bringing the girls to see the Grinch,’ she added.

Once again, her thoughts turned to the man in the green costume. She had been thinking about him on and off for the rest of the afternoon and hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he reminded her of someone. His voice had been achingly familiar, but it couldn’t have been…

‘It was a pleasure. We loved it, and you know your father – he’s a big kid himself, so he was in his element.’

‘I really do appreciate you looking after them.’

‘I know, sweetheart. I’m just pleased you’re doing something for yourself at last.’

Beatrice gave her an arch look. ‘I’m doing this for the extra money,’ she replied.

‘That, too,’ her mum agreed. ‘But I can see how much you’re enjoying it. You’ve got some of your sparkle back.’

‘Just some?’ Beatrice joked weakly. She was well aware that she’d lost her sparkle. It had disappeared around the time she’d discovered that Eric had been having an affair. Then he’d disappeared too, leaving her to bring up the children on her own. Mind you, even before he’d left, Eric hadn’t been much of a husband or father. At least he was an ex- husband now, so that was something to be grateful for.

Her mum said, ‘You’ve not had a full sparkle for years.’

‘A full sparkle? Have you been on the gin?’

‘Not yet. I’m serious, Bea, you haven’t.’

‘These past few years have been hard.’

‘You lost it before you and Eric split up.’

Beatrice shrugged. ‘Two small children can rub the sparkle off anyone,’ she replied. However, she knew what her mother meant. Beatrice’s sparkle had begun to dim after she’d had her heart broken at the tender age of twenty-one.

It had taken her a long time to learn to love again – and look how that had turned out. Beatrice would happily do without any sparkle if it meant not being hurt again.

But it was nice that her mum thought she’d regained some, even if it was merely a glimmer and not a full-on shine.

Anyway, what was all this talk about sparkles? She needed to take the kids home and sort them out, not prattle on about sparkles.

They were taking their time, so she went into the hall and shouted for them to hurry up, and when she strolled back to the kitchen, her mum was mashing a teabag against the side of a mug with a spoon.

‘I’ve got some gossip,’ Deborah announced. ‘You remember that boy you used to go out with, Mark Stafford? Apparently, he’s back. Staying at The Black Horse for a couple of weeks, so Monica says. I saw her this morning when I nipped out to fetch your dad’s paper and a pint of milk. She was going into the butchers for a packet of their nice sausages, the ones with caramelised onions in them.’

Beatrice couldn’t care less about the damned sausages, not when her heart was pounding and her legs felt weak at the mention of Mark’s name. ‘Why?’ she managed. Monica ran the pub with her husband Dave, so it must be true.

Her mum looked bewildered for a moment. ‘I expect there’s sausage and mash on the menu today.’

‘Mum, I don’t care about the sausages. Why is Mark Stafford in Picklewick?’

‘Work, Monica said. He’s some kind of artist. She and Dave seem to think it’s something to do with books, but she also said Dave might have got that wrong.’

Her mother’s words washed over her, barely registering. Beatrice was too shocked to listen, because she knew exactly who had been hiding under that mask.