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

Chapter Nine - 2

The aroma of his mother’s famous mulled wine permeated the house, filling Mark’s nostrils with the scent of cloves and cinnamon. It was the epitome of Christmas, yet Mark couldn’t remember a Christmas where he felt less festive. Today was Christmas Eve, but to him, it could have been any random Wednesday.

‘I hope you’re not going to mope around like a wet weekend, like you did yesterday,’ his mother said. ‘You’ve got a face that would turn milk sour.’

‘I can’t help the way my face looks.’

‘Nonsense! Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to guess?’

‘There’s nothing wrong.’ He dropped into a chair, wishing he’d gone to Bristol for Christmas. At least there he could be alone with his misery.

‘Are you ill?’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Did being heartsick count as being ill?

‘Are you having financial troubles? Because if you are, your father and I can help you out.’

‘My finances are fine. But thank you anyway.’

‘Problems with your book, your publisher, your Muse?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘Why ask?’

‘I wanted to be sure. What’s her name?’

Mark tensed, then gave a small shake of his head and stared at the tinsel draped around the guilt-framed mirror above the fireplace.

‘Have you fallen out, or is it unrequited love?’ his mother persisted.

‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

‘I doubt it.’ She opened her mouth to say something else but the shrill ring of the telephone in the hall interrupted her, and she bustled off to answer it.

Glad of the reprieve, Mark slumped back into the cushions and closed his eyes, the thought of trying to be jolly for the next few days filling him with dread.

His mother came back into the sitting room. ‘It’s for you.’

‘What is?’

‘The phone.’

‘It can’t be.’

‘It is, if your name is Mark Stafford.’ She gave him an arch look.

‘Who is it?’

‘Do I look like your secretary?’ she demanded, then relented as he heaved himself out of his chair. ‘She says she’s your agent, Angela somebody-or-other. I didn’t catch the surname.’

‘Angela? Why is she calling me here? ’

His mother tutted. ‘Don’t ask me – ask her. ’

Mark sidled into the hall and picked up the handset. His parents had an old-fashioned phone with a curly cord. They called it retro; he called it archaic.

‘Angela?’

‘Thank god! I’ve been calling and messaging you for two days!’

‘I switched my phone off.’

‘Clearly. Is your computer off as well?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You’re not answering your emails either.’

‘It’s Christmas Eve.’

‘I sent it on Monday. And again yesterday.’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘An educated guess.’

‘How did you get this number?’

‘Does it matter? Do me a favour and check your emails.’

‘Why?’

‘For god’s sake Mark, just do it!’

‘Wait there.’ His phone was upstairs, so he went to fetch it, wondering what could possibly be so important, but not really caring. Surely whatever it was could wait until after Christmas.

He turned it on and went back downstairs while it caught up with itself, and when it did, he was assaulted by a barrage of notifications.

He said, ‘Seven missed calls and nine messages? Really, Angela?’

‘ Eight messages.’

He looked again. She was right. She had only sent him eight.

The other was from Beatrice.

His heart clenched, a spasm of pain in the middle of his chest so acute that he gasped.

‘I know, right?’ Angela cried.

‘What?’

‘It’s a tasty advance,’ she continued and said something else, but Mark had stopped listening. He was trying to find the courage to read Beatrice’s message.

Would there be any point? It would only make his heartbreak more acute. He’d suspected she might try to contact him, to apologise or to explain, and he hadn’t wanted to hear it. He still didn’t. Damn Angela for making him switch his phone back on.

‘Mark? Are you there? Mark! ’

‘I’m here.’ His reply was wooden.

‘What do I tell Estelle?’

‘About what?’

‘The advance . Have you been on the eggnog already?’

‘What do you suggest?’ He didn’t know what she was talking about and neither did he care: he simply wanted Angela to leave him alone so he could decide whether to read Beatrice’s message or not.

He was leaning towards not.

‘My advice would be to take it,’ his agent said.

‘Okay.’

‘Great! I’ll let her know and she can draw up the contract.’

‘Fine.’

‘You might sound a bit more enthusiastic.’

‘Sorry… I’m thrilled. Honestly.’

‘Good. A deal like that, isn’t to be sniffed at. Right, that’s me done. Have a lovely Christmas and I’ll speak to you in the New Year.’

‘You, too.’

He replaced the phone on its cradle and stared at his mobile’s screen. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he muttered, knowing that he would end up reading it sooner or later.

But when he opened it, it was the best Christmas present he could have wished for.

The living room was warm and cosy; the lights on the tree twinkled, and Christmas songs played in the background, Beatrice having insisted that the TV be turned off for an hour.

Taya and Sadie were in the kitchen making a gingerbread house, but making a mess would be a more accurate description, as there were blobs and smears of brightly coloured icing all over the kitchen table and all over the girls as well.

She was glad to see Taya having fun though, so she would put up with a bit of mess. Considering it was Christmas Eve, her eldest child was oddly subdued, and the only explanation that Beatrice could come up with was that the events of the past few days had affected her more than she’d thought, and now that things were kind of back to normal, it was beginning to catch up with her.

That was something else Beatrice blamed herself for, but she’d had to focus on Sadie – Sadie had needed her more than Taya – but for a few days Beatrice had neglected her other child. And what really hurt, what she felt so incredibly guilty about, was the suspicion that she might have taken her eye off the ball when it came to her kids. She had been so wrapped up in her new job and her new (old) love affair, that she hadn’t seen what was happening under her very nose.

No more. From now on, all of Beatrice’s love, care and attention would be on her children. No distractions. And after Christmas she would have to have a serious think about whether she intended to carry on working. She loved her job, but if she hadn’t been so worried about missing work and letting Dulcie down on Thursday, would she have listened to her instincts and kept Sadie home from school?

Rationally, she knew it wouldn’t have made any difference – Sadie would still have needed her appendix removed. And by being in school and Eric being in the audience, Sadie had got to the hospital faster than if she had collapsed at home.

But all the rationalising and reasoning in the world couldn’t prevent Beatrice from feeling as guilty as hell.

Lisa reckoned she was using the guilt to deflect from the misery of a broken heart, but Beatrice didn’t think that was true, and even if it was, she’d take it, because anything was better than thinking about Mark.

The lights on the tree created a soft warm glow, but inside her, the chill of loneliness settled over her. She never should have let him into her heart again. The wound of his first abandonment had fleshed over, the scar on her heart still there, but buried deep. He had ripped it open again and it was now raw and bleeding, with a pain so acute she knew she would never risk loving anyone again.

Her heart ached, not just from his absence, but from the dreams she had woven in the quiet hours of her mind which were now lost. She had painted a future together in colours more vibrant than the pictures in his books. When she’d read his letter and understood that he didn’t love her after all, her world had darkened, the colour leeched out of it. Hers was a story without a happy ending, and she hated herself for letting him write the first word on her heart.

Each day since he’d left had felt like a slow unravelling, a reminder of the love that had slipped through her fingers for a second time.

As she sat in the fading light, tears welled, but she refused to cry over him again. She’d shed enough tears, so with a shaky breath, she blinked them away and resolved to take it one day at a time. And if she never heard his name again, it would be too soon.

The doorbell rang.

With a deep sigh, she got to her feet. It was probably her parents. They’d taken to calling in most days to check on her and the girls. Sadie had scared them, too.

Sadie beat her to the door, thundering into the hall. ‘Mummy! It’s Mark!’ she yelled.

Beatrice hurried after her. ‘What have I told you about answering the door to strangers—’ She stopped. It was Mark.

‘Mark isn’t a stranger,’ Sadie said, grabbing his hand and trying to tug him inside.

Wasn’t he? Beatrice had thought she knew him, but she hadn’t. Not then, and certainly not now.

‘Can I come in?’ he asked.

‘No.’

Confusion flitted across his face. ‘I thought—’

‘That you could rock up again and I’d welcome you with open arms?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Sadie, go to your room. You too, Taya,’ she added, when she saw her in the kitchen doorway.

‘Mum, let him in,’ Taya said.

‘Go to your room. Now!’ She didn’t want the children to witness this – whatever this was. Turning her attention back to Mark, she hissed, ‘You’d better leave.’

‘But you—’

‘Go! Before I call the police.’ She put her hands on her hips. She didn’t know what game he was playing, but she wanted no part of it.

‘Bea, don’t do this to me,’ he pleaded. ‘You can’t tell me you love me one minute, then tell me to go away the next.’

‘I never said I love you.’

‘You did!’ He yanked his mobile out of his pocket. ‘You sent me a message—’ He stopped, the colour draining from his face. ‘It wasn’t meant for me, was it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t sent any messages telling anyone I love them.’

He hung his head. ‘Sorry, my mistake. I’ll go.’

‘Mum?’

‘Not now, Taya. I thought I told you to go to your room.’

‘ I sent it.’ Taya’s voice was small. ‘I borrowed your phone and sent it.’

‘You did what? ’ Beatrice’s gaze flew to Taya, appalled, and Taya began to cry. ‘Why?’ she demanded.

‘Because I heard you talking to Aunty Lisa. When you got drunk.’

‘I wasn’t drunk,’ she replied automatically. ‘Taya, sweetie, what have I told you about listening to other people’s conversations? Especially adult ones, when you don’t understand what they’re saying.’

‘You said you didn’t love Dad, but you love Mark. Is it true?’

Beatrice groaned. ‘I care for your dad, but—’ Oh hell, how do you explain something that complicated to a nine-year-old.

‘You and Dad aren’t getting back together, are you.’

Her eyes filling with tears again, Beatrice said, ‘No, Taya, we’re not. But that doesn’t mean Mark and I are.’

‘Why not? Mummy, you’re so sad now.’

Mummy? Taya hadn’t called her that in a while. ‘I’m not sad,’ she fibbed.

‘You are. You were really happy when Mark was here, and now you keep crying.’

Blast, she didn’t think the kids had noticed. She’d thought she’d hidden it well. ‘Please Taya, go to your room, and take Sadie with you. I need to have a quick chat with Mark.’

But Taya wasn’t done with her yet. ‘Mark saw you kissing Dad.’

Beatrice’s mouth dropped open. She looked at Mark. ‘Is that why…?’

‘Yes.’

‘You left because you thought…?’

‘Yes.’

‘ You eejit .’ She glared at her daughters and waited until they had beaten a hasty retreat up the stairs. ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’

‘How could I? What could I say – Bea, I saw you snogging your kids’ dad, but do you have any feelings for me?’

‘That’s exactly what you should have said.’

‘I’m going to be honest – I love you, Bea. I think I always have, but I was too stupid to realise it. I don’t want to lose you again. Can you forgive me?’

Beatrice didn’t have to think about it. She had forgiven him the moment she realised that he was willing to put her children’s happiness before his own. He’d walked away to give her and Eric a chance – because that was the right thing to do. Mark Stafford was a nice guy. How could she not forgive him?

To think Taya had sent Mark that message! It made her heart melt. Beatrice owed her daughter a massive debt of gratitude, and she was so full of love that she thought she might burst.

She said, ‘I think you'd better come in. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

Mark gathered her into his arms and kissed her gently. ‘The catching up can wait. It’s Christmas Eve. I’ll call you later.’

‘You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to spend it with us,’ she replied firmly.

But before she called the girls downstairs, she wanted a minute to kiss him properly, and as their lips met, Beatrice’s heart – like the Grinch’s – grew three sizes.

Mark loved her .

Wishes did come true, after all.

Mark inhaled deeply and his mouth watered. The turkey smelt divine. It looked it too: white meat, crispy skin, and surrounded by golden Yorkshire puddings.

Beatrice’s father placed the serving platter in the centre of the table with reverence, saying, ‘My wife cooks a mean Christmas dinner. Mind you, by the day after Boxing Day I’ll be sick to death of turkey.’ He leant in and whispered loudly, ‘If I’m desperate for a change, I'll pop into The Black Horse and have lunch with you – no doubt the girls will want to go to the sales, so we can have a sneaky pint and get to know one another properly.’

‘I heard that,’ Deborah said, winking at Mark. ‘Little does he know, but he’ll be looking after our grandchildren. I’ll be damned if we’re dragging Taya and Sadie around the shops. Help yourself, Mark. Don’t stand on ceremony.’

Beatrice passed him a tureen of glazed carrots. The children were already spooning food onto their plates. Sadie, he noticed, was paying particular attention to the pigs in blankets, a determined expression on her face.

‘They’re her favourite,’ Beatrice said. ‘That’s why Mum cooked so many, because she knew Sadie would eat the lot if I let her.’

‘Thank you again for inviting me.’

‘I was hardly going to let you starve.’

He chuckled. ‘I’m sure Dave and Monica would have taken pity on me and made me up a plate.’

She squeezed his leg. ‘And you would have ended up eating it on your own in your room. Not a chance.’

Mark had talked Dave into giving him his old room back, on the understanding that there wouldn't be any food served on Christmas Day – although normal service would be resumed on Boxing Day – so having not had any breakfast, apart from the complimentary biscuits in his room, Mark had been starving by the time he arrived at Beatrice’s house shortly after noon this morning. They had agreed that he wouldn’t arrive before then, so Eric could spend the morning with his daughters.

By the time Mark got to Beatrice’s, he had found her sitting on the sofa with a Baileys Irish Cream in one hand, a Terry’s Chocolate Orange in the other, and surrounded by toys and wrapping paper. The girls had been glassy eyed with excitement, their mother glassy eyed with exhaustion, having been woken several times in the early hours by Sadie asking whether Santa had been yet and worrying that the Grinch had stolen her Christmas, despite the green Grinch dust that had been sprinkled on the doorstep.

The children were happy to see him (probably because he came bearing gifts, and the books were enthusiastically received), and he had spent the next hour or so playing games with Sadie and showing Taya how to set up her new tablet, before accompanying them to Beatrice’s parents’ house for Christmas lunch.

He had no idea what Beatrice had said to her mum and dad, but they had welcomed him with open arms, so Mark assumed it hadn’t been anything too awful.

‘So,’ Deborah said to him, ‘are you back in Picklewick for good?’

Mark shot an anxious glance at Beatrice. ‘I hope so. If Beatrice is okay with that.’

Beatrice rolled her eyes. ‘Why do men need things spelling out? I’m most definitely okay with that. But where are you going to live? You can’t stay at The Black Horse indefinitely.’

‘I don’t intend to. I’ve already put feelers out with a couple of estate agents.’ His original intention had been to rent somewhere, but if he sold his house in Bristol he could buy a place in Picklewick instead. And with the advance from Pinkymoon Publishers, he could afford to buy somewhere very nice indeed – somewhere with plenty of room for a wife and two little girls… When the time was right, he would ask Beatrice to marry him.

After a lovely Christmas Day spent with Beatrice’s family, it was eventually time for the tired children to go home, and Mark walked Beatrice and the girls back.

He hadn’t intended to come in. He’d intended to say good night on the doorstep, but Sadie had other plans and had grumpily insisted that Mark read her a bedtime story. He obliged by reading her favourite book, the one he had written and illustrated himself.

It had been the best Christmas ever, and when Beatrice took him to her bed much, much later; it was the perfect end to a perfect day.

And that was how Marc Stafford, renowned children’s author, began the rest of his life with a woman he had loved for most of it, if only he had realised.