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

Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

Beatrice held the pub door open for the girls and in they went, wide-eyed and shedding hats and scarves as the warmth hit them. It was only a short walk from their house to The Black Horse, but it was dark and cold outside, with a chill north-easterly wind, so she’d made sure they were dressed warmly – they would need the layers on the way home.

The children hesitated inside the door, the pub unfamiliar and overwhelming. Beatrice also paused as she took in the Christmas tree in the corner, the multicoloured lights strung around the windows, and the twinkling, flashing garland festooned across the mantlepiece. Flames leapt in the log burner, and along with the smell of food and hops, there was a hint of woodsmoke and pine in the air.

Scanning the tables, she spotted Mark and some of the tension she had been carrying eased.

From behind the bar, Dave waved at her and she gave him a fleeting smile as she shepherded the girls past, feeling awkward. She wasn’t a weekly visitor to The Black Horse, but she drank there often enough not to feel discomforted that she was here to meet a man. This was her local, for goodness’ sake – she’d had her first legal drink in this very pub (and her first illegal one, too), but this evening, she felt as though she’d walked into a strange bar and everyone was staring at her.

Actually, quite a few people were , and she knew all of them, including Dulcie and her younger sister Maisie, who had recently opened a boarding kennels on the mountain above the farm. When Dulcie saw whose table Beatrice was heading towards, she smirked and raised her eyebrows.

Beatrice stuck her nose in the air and fixed her gaze on Mark – which was a mistake, as she felt her cheeks pinking up, especially when he got to his feet and went in for a hug. The contact was brief, but it set her nerves jangling nevertheless as her body remembered what it was like to be held by him.

Heat flooded through her and she hastily shrugged out of her coat.

‘Sit down, girls,’ she instructed, folding it over her arm as she pulled out a chair for Sadie. Sadie ignored it and sat next to Mark. Taya sat next to her sister, leaving one unoccupied seat on Mark’s other side.

Sadie shuffled her chair closer to him. Ironically Beatrice moved her own chair further away; not by much, but enough to give her a little more space to breathe. Right now, it felt as though there wasn’t enough air in the room. Or was that due to the heat the log burner was spewing out?

Yes, that was it. Probably.

Sadie had begun chatting away as soon as she’d sat down, but Taya was more reserved and hadn’t said a word, and Beatrice had the impression that her eldest child wasn’t as keen on Mark as her youngest was.

It took a while to choose their meals, mainly because Sadie couldn’t decide, but with the food eventually ordered, Mark settled down to business. Taking a digital tablet out of its fabric sleeve, he proceeded to discuss his idea with the girls, and both were fascinated with the artwork he’d done so far, Taya especially, who was emerging from her shell now that she had something electronic to focus on.

‘I assumed you used paper and paint,’ Beatrice said.

‘I do, but digital art is less messy, and because digital lets me layer my work, if I want to change something, the colour of the dog let’s say, then I can do so easily without having to repaint the whole thing.’

‘Can I have a go?’ Taya asked. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the screen.

Mark said, ‘You can, but on one condition – you give me your honest opinion about the story. I know it isn’t aimed at someone your age, but your input is still valuable. Yours, too, Bea; as a parent.’

By the time their meals arrived, Mark’s idea for his new book had been thoroughly discussed, and Taya had become totally enthralled with digital art.

‘Can I have a tablet, Mum?’ she asked.

Beatrice’s heart sank; she’d been expecting her daughter to ask, but she was hoping she wouldn’t. Tablets like this weren’t cheap. Even with her new job at the farm, she was pretty sure she couldn’t afford to buy one, especially with Christmas being only a few weeks away and she’d already begun buying gifts, not wanting to leave everything to the last minute.

Maybe if she had a word with their father? It was about time Eric pulled out his wallet.

‘We’ll see,’ Beatrice told her.

‘I won’t ask for anything else ever again,’ Taya promised earnestly.

Beatrice highly doubted that.

‘Look what it can do, Mum.’ Taya angled the screen so Beatrice could see.

Mark said, ‘It’s only a tool, Taya. It didn’t create that – you did.’

Beatrice studied the image, pride swelling in her chest. Although she knew Taya was good at drawing and painting, until she saw what she’d created on Mark’s tablet in a matter of minutes, Beatrice hadn’t realised just how good. Taya appeared to have found her niche.

But was it just a fad? It was a lot of money to spend on something if it wasn’t going to be used.

Mark put the tablet away while they ate and didn’t bring it out again, which Beatrice was thankful for, and the conversation moved on from book writing and digital art. By the time they were ready to order dessert, they were discussing weird food combinations.

‘Ice cream and chips!’ Sadie cried.

Mark pretended to think about it. ‘Do you know, I think that might be quite nice. How about popcorn and tomato sauce?’

‘Gross!’

‘Bacon and chocolate?’

‘Ew!

‘Pineapple and pizza?’ he suggested.

Taya narrowed her eyes. ‘Duh, that’s a real thing.’

‘No! It can’t be!’ Mark looked shocked, but Beatrice caught the twinkle in his eye.

‘It’s called a Hawaiian,’ Taya said. ‘ Everyone knows that.’

Sadie wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s yucky.’

Beatrice was inclined to agree with her, but ham and pineapple was Taya’s favourite pizza topping.

‘Haribo and porridge,’ Sadie suggested.

Mark tapped his chin. ‘Does your Mum make porridge in the microwave?’ he asked, and when Sadie nodded he said, ‘Would you put the Haribo in first, so they went all melty, or after the porridge is cooked?’

‘ All melty? ’ Beatrice laughed. ‘Melty isn’t a word.’

‘It is. It’s a made-up word. Us authors are allowed to make up words,’ he replied loftily. ‘Ask Lewis Carroll.’

‘Who’s Lewis Carroll?’ Taya wanted to know.

Mark said, ‘He wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’

‘That’s a film, not a book,’ she told him.

‘It was a book before it became a film. Lewis Carroll wrote it over a hundred and fifty years ago.’

‘Is he dead?’ Sadie asked.

‘Very.’

‘Then how can you ask him about made-up words?’ Sadie looked confused.

‘You can’t, but he wrote a poem called The Jabberwocky and it’s full of them.’ And to Beatrice’s astonishment, he recited the whole poem whilst the children ate their chocolate sundaes and she sipped her coffee.

The kids were enthralled, despite not understanding most of it and when he finished, she gave him a round of applause and he gave a mock bow.

‘Bravo!’ she cried, impressed.

In fact, she’d been impressed all evening by how good he was with the children, and she thought it such a pity he didn’t have any of his own – he would make a great dad.

When Sadie started to yawn and Beatrice announced it was time to go, he insisted on walking them home, despite her protestations of it not being far.

As the girls trotted ahead, the adults followed at a more sedate pace. It felt surreal to Beatrice. How many times had she walked along this very street with him, their arms around each other’s waists or holding hands? It was almost as though she’d gone back twenty years, and she had to stop herself reaching out to take his hand.

Beatrice shivered, but not from the cold. It was from a longing so intense that it stole her breath.

You can’t turn back time, she told herself.

But it wasn’t a longing for the girl she’d once been and the life she had yet to lead that was making her feel this way – it was Mark .

Sadie’s giggle broke into her thoughts, and she brushed them away. It didn’t do to dwell on the past and no good ever came of it. Anyway, it wasn’t as though she could have changed anything. Even if she had told him she loved him, he still would have left, and she still would have been dumped. The only difference was that she would have had a generous dollop of humiliation to go with her heartbreak.

‘I think they enjoyed themselves, judging by the amount of food they packed away,’ she said, trying to rein in her wayward thoughts. ‘Thank you for inviting us.’

‘I did have an ulterior motive, if you remember.’ His shoulder brushed against hers as he dodged around a lamp post with a flashing snowman at the top of it.

‘I don’t think Taya will allow me to forget. She was quite taken with your tablet.’

‘There are cheaper options on the market, ones that will do roughly the same job,’ he said quietly.

‘That’s good to know.’

‘Do you want me to send you some links?’

‘It wouldn’t hurt to take a look,’ she replied, thinking that Mark’s version of cheap mightn’t be the same as hers. Maybe if she and her parents clubbed together, they could buy Taya one between them?

Beatrice came to an awkward halt outside her house, wishing he hadn’t insisted on walking her home. Even with the children present, it felt too much like a date, and she hoped he wasn’t expecting to come in.

She said, ‘I’d better get Sadie into her PJs. If I don’t put her to bed, she’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow.’

‘Speaking of tomorrow, Dulcie has roped me into playing the Grinch again. I can’t believe I let her do that.’

‘Green suits you.’

‘Why do I get the feeling that’s not a compliment? See you at the farm tomorrow, Bea. Bye, girls.’

And with that he was off, striding back along the street, leaving Beatrice standing on her doorstep, wishing that she had asked him in after all.

The evening was still young so Mark had two options: sit in his room and watch TV, or return to the bar and people-watch. He chose the latter.

Perching on a stool, he ordered a pint and took out his mobile. After a bit of scrolling, he found what he was looking for and pinged off the promised links to Beatrice, then he leant against the counter and tried to marshal his thoughts.

He’d done what he’d set out to do in coming here; Picklewick had well and truly got his creative juices flowing, and although there was a great deal of flesh to be put on his new book, the bones of it were there. The artwork was rough and the story a ghost of what it would eventually be, but the hardest part, the premise – which was what he had been struggling with – was done.

He needn’t stay in Picklewick any longer. He could return home, where it would be far more comfortable and much less expensive. Nothing was keeping him here, he had no reason to hang around.

However, an image of Beatrice flashed into his mind and it gave him pause. But only for a moment and then he pushed it away. Even if he did stand a chance with her, he wouldn’t try. It wouldn’t be fair on either of them. She was firmly rooted in Picklewick and he lived in Bristol.

He would keep his promise to Dulcie to play the Grinch tomorrow, then he’d head off home.

Decision made, he took a long draught of his beer, almost spilling it down himself when a woman bumped his elbow.

‘Oops, sorry,’ she began, then recognition flashed in her eyes and Mark realised he knew her. ‘Mark Stafford,’ she said. ‘Well I never! I’d heard you were in town.’

‘Lisa Spencer, you haven’t changed a bit.’

‘Liar, but thank you anyway. And it’s Lisa Edwards now.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’ve got three kids, a husband with a broken arm, two dogs, a hamster, and a full-time job, so I think ‘frazzled’ is a good description.’

‘Wow! That’s a handful. I still think of you as being, like, twenty. It’s a shock to see you all grown up, a real responsible adult.’

‘I’m faking it. I don’t feel in the least bit responsible or adult. Bea and I were saying that very thing the other day. Now, there’s a lady who definitely hasn’t changed much, don’t you think?’

‘She hasn’t,’ he agreed. ‘She hardly looks a day older than the last time I saw her.’

‘Which was the day you dumped her.’

Ouch. ‘It might have been. I honestly don’t remember.’

‘I do. So does Bea.’

Where was Lisa going with this? There had been a lifetime of water under that particular bridge.

‘Why are you here, Mark?’ she asked, and he frowned. It was none of her business.

She carried on, ‘Bea told me that you’re writing a book, but surely you can do that anywhere? It doesn’t have to be in Picklewick.’

That was out of line, so he felt he could also be blunt. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘I picked up the pieces last time. I don’t want to see her hurt again.’

‘What pieces? What do you mean?’

Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. ‘Nothing. Ignore me. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

He wasn’t going to let it drop. ‘Are you saying I hurt her? I didn’t think she was that into me. I mean, we dated for a few months but we weren’t in love, or anything.’ Actually, maybe he had been – a little. But she hadn’t.

‘Ten months and three weeks,’ Lisa shot back. ‘And Bea was in love with you.’

Mark blew out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t know.’ Bloody hell. Was Lisa telling the truth?’

‘Would it have made any difference?’ Lisa asked.

‘No. Maybe.’ He thought again. ‘I honestly don’t know. I was young, ambitious. Hungry.’ Would love have been enough to keep him in Picklewick? He would never know.

Lisa said, ‘What are you now? Are you still ambitious?’

‘Not as much,’ he admitted.

She pursed her lips. ‘Look, forget I said anything. Bea will kill me if she found out I told you.’

‘So why did you?’

She shrugged, as though she wasn’t sure herself. ‘She’s been through a lot lately.’

‘The ex-husband?’

Lisa nodded. ‘He cheated on her – twice.’

Mark experienced a surge of anger on Beatrice’s behalf. Beatrice was right, her ex was an arse. He said, ‘I don’t believe there’s any chance of her being hurt again. I think she’s well and truly over me by now, don’t you?’

‘Yes, you’re right, of course she is. I’m being silly.’

‘You’re looking out for her, that’s all. It’s what good friends do. You two go back a long way.’

‘We do.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’d better go. My husband will be wondering where I’ve got to. I only came to the bar for a packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Nice seeing you again, Mark.’

‘You, too.’ He noticed that she left without buying a packet. Had she decided she didn’t want any after all? Or had the crisps merely been an excuse to speak to him?

He finished his pint and ordered another, and as he leant against the counter and sipped it, he thought about what Lisa said. If Beatrice had been in love with him and she had been hurt when he ended their relationship, it might explain her initial frostiness towards him, although she’d thawed somewhat since.

But why had Lisa felt the need to say anything now? It was ancient history.

Or was it?

Mark loved those moments of inspiration or insight when ideas sprang into his mind, whether they be for a story or an article. When he’d been a journalist, he used to be pretty good at joining the dots, at seeing connections. It was sometimes described as a lightbulb moment, and he was having one of those moments right now .

Beatrice hadn’t just been in love with him back then – she still was in love with him. Or so Lisa believed. Mark wasn’t entirely convinced he’d arrived at the correct conclusion, but if anyone knew Beatrice’s heart, it would be Lisa.

She was warning him off because she didn’t want Beatrice to be hurt again. And that could only happen if Beatrice still had feelings for him.

Mark straightened up in shock. This could change everything.

The mask wasn’t the most pleasant thing to wear, and two hours was all Mark could manage in one go. Thankfully he didn’t have to play the Grinch for longer than that, as Dulcie was taking over from him as soon as she was done decorating pinecones.

She arrived, flustered but looking happy, wearing her elf outfit and carrying another Grinch costume in a bag. ‘The one you’re wearing is too big for me,’ she explained, pulling it out and stepping into it.

Mark took his mask off with relief. ‘That’s better. I can breathe again.’ He held it aloft. ‘What do you want me to do with it?

‘Can you turn it inside out and pop it in the bag? I’ll clean it later, before the next poor sod has to wear it. I’m beginning to think I should have plumped for a regular Santa Claus costume, but the Grinch seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘He appears to be quite popular,’ Mark said. ‘The children love him.’

Dulcie beamed widely before putting on her own mask. ‘They do, don’t they? Right, time to get into character. Thanks again for helping out, and don’t forget I owe you a meal at The Wild Side.’

Mark hadn’t forgotten.

He left Dulcie to it and strolled across the yard, drawn towards “Otto’s Christmas Kitchen” as the food area was called, by the tantalising smells issuing from it and his rumbling tummy.

The doors were open and framed by thick garlands which were dotted with red ribbons and gold-painted pinecones. Inside was equally as festive, with centrepieces of twinkling lanterns surrounded by a woven ring of holly and ivy on each of the picnic benches. Mark had come to expect fairy lights, and he wasn’t disappointed because they were everywhere, strung from the rafters and draped around hay bales, and there was yet another Christmas tree just inside the door. The red and green plaid blankets were a lovely touch.

Dulcie had thought of everything.

Mark queued for a bowl of pumpkin soup topped with roasted chorizo, and a hunk of sourdough bread, and devoured it quickly. It was so good that he briefly considered going for seconds, but that would be greedy. Licking his fingers, he scrunched up the paper napkin and popped it in the bin, then blew out his cheeks.

As he was plucking up the courage to go see Beatrice to ask if she would have dinner at The Wild Side with him, he noticed a woman staring.

She smiled and walked towards him. ‘Are you Mark Stafford? I’m Grace Daley.’ She thrust out a hand. ‘I’m a reporter with The Picklewick Paper.’

‘Gosh! Is that still going?’ He’d forgotten about that. Taking her hand, he shook it.

‘It is, although we’ve had to change with the times. May I ask you a few questions?’

‘It depends on what they are,’ he replied warily. Reporters, as he was all too aware, needed to be treated with the same degree of caution as a microphone – always assume that anything you said could potentially appear in a tabloid somewhere, or in the case of a mic, be broadcast to all and sundry.

‘Nothing controversial,’ she assured him. ‘Just about your books, where you get your inspiration, what you’re working on now… That kind of thing. Can I buy you a coffee?’

Mark was used to interviews, having done several over the years and, as his agent kept stressing to him, getting his name out there was part and parcel of being an author. ‘Books don’t publicise themselves,’ she was fond of saying.

‘How about I buy you one?’ he suggested, guiding her towards a free picnic table. ‘They do some incredibly festive flavours.’

She chose a chestnut praline latte and although he was tempted by the chestnut syrup, whipped cream and caramel drizzle (it smelled divine), he opted for an orange espresso spiced with cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg.

When they had their drinks, Grace proceeded to ask him all the usual sorts of questions that he’d come to expect, and he answered them readily enough, even the ones about growing up in Picklewick, which were a little more personal than he liked. He tended not to respond to those, deeming that his private life should be, well, private.

But as they were about to wrap it up, the reporter asked a question that Mark didn’t find as easy to answer, when she said, ‘Where next after Picklewick?’

‘Home,’ he replied automatically.

But as the word passed his lips, he wondered where ‘home’ was, because for some reason Bristol no longer felt like it.

Beatrice was surprised to see him, and Mark wondered whether she’d forgotten he would be at the farm today.

She sent him a little smile, before turning her attention back to the customer she was serving, and while Mark waited for her to finish, he explored the shop. It wasn’t very big, but it had a variety of items for sale, from foodstuff to soaps and candles. He was sorely tempted to buy a carton of that wonderful pumpkin soup, and if he had a way of reheating it, he would have done.

The place seemed to be doing a roaring trade and as more customers piled in, he wondered whether he would get a chance to speak to Beatrice in private.

Should he message her instead? If he did, the rejection he would invariably receive might be easier to deal with if she wasn’t watching his face while she said it. Conversely though, she might be less inclined to say no if she did see his face, and by springing it on her now, she mightn’t have a chance to think of an excuse.

It wasn’t that he was desperate to take her out for a meal, but he was desperate to talk to her on her own, so doing it over a meal in a posh restaurant was better than having a drink in The Black Horse where every man and his dog might overhear.

Mark lingered for a while, picking things up and putting them down, and every so often when she’d finished serving one customer and before she started on the next, he’d try to have a conversation with her.

After several unsuccessful attempts, he realised that the only way he was going to speak to her was if he bought something, and even then he’d probably have to talk fast.

Mark looked longingly at the soup again, before picking up a gift box of handmade soaps. They looked like slices of cake, almost good enough to eat, and smelled lovely.

He took it to the counter. ‘I thought my mother would like it,’ he said, somewhat defensively in case she thought he was buying it for himself.

‘Would you like it gift wrapped?’

‘Yes, please.’ Gift wrapping wouldn’t take long, but he might need the additional time that the service would provide.

As she selected a length of pre-cut wrapping paper, he said, ‘Dulcie isn’t happy with me.’

She glanced up. ‘Why is that?’

‘I refused to take any payment for playing the Grinch.’

‘That’s kind of you.’ She was frowning, and he hoped she didn’t think he was telling her this just to show her what a nice guy he was.

‘She feels really bad about it,’ he added, watching her expertly fold the paper around the box. ‘So I ended up accepting an offer of a meal in The Wild Side instead.’

‘I’ve heard it’s nice.’ She used little gold stickers to keep the paper folds in place and reached for a ball of red string.

‘You’ve not eaten there?’

She shook her head.

‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I don’t fancy going on my own. The meal is for two, so would you like to come with me?’

Beatrice was in the middle of tying the string into a bow, and she didn’t look up.

He explained, ‘I’m not going to go on my own. It’s one thing eating a meal in The Black Horse on my tod, but in a posh place like The Wild Side, I’ll look a real saddo.’

She popped the gift-wrapped parcel into a paper bag with the words Lilac Tree Farm written on it.

Mark held up his credit card, ready to pay. ‘If you don’t say yes, I’ll tell Dulcie it’s your fault that I won’t be taking her up on her offer, and she can be cross with you instead.’

The look Beatrice gave him could have frozen mercury. ‘When?’

‘Whenever suits you.’

She rang his purchase up and handed him a receipt. ‘I’ll have to see if I can get a babysitter. Maybe Lisa could do it. You remember Lisa? We were best mates. We still are.’

He remembered Lisa all too well. ‘What about your mum and dad?’ he asked hurriedly. After his conversation with her last night, it might be better if Lisa didn’t know about this – although he suspected she would get to hear of it at some point, whether Beatrice told her or via the local gossip mongers. But he hoped it would be after the meal, and not before it.

‘I’ll let you know,’ she said, her attention already turning to the next customer. ‘Thanks for the links, by the way.’

‘Glad to help.’ He smiled, but she didn’t see it, and he left thinking that he mightn’t hear from her again, or if he did it would be to tell him that she couldn’t get a babysitter or that she’d changed her mind.

But he did hear from her, and when she suggested Tuesday, a huge grin spread across his face.