Previously…

Then the fireworks began and we watched a spectacular display put on by a couple of the Potts and their clan.

Rockets, Catherine wheels–that somehow misspelled out “Happy Birtday”–plenty of whizzes, bangs, oohs and aahs.

Flames shot up into the inky black sky and burst into a riot of colours. It was wonderful to behold and I had a crick in my neck from looking up at the spectacular display of pyrotechnics.

After about fifteen minutes all went silent and we began to clap–but too soon because there was then a series of tremendous and highly colourful explosions coming from the lawns, shooting red, yellow, blue and orange fiery trails high up into the sky.
As a climax it was perfect and the clapping was even louder after the final incredibly loud and earth shattering rainbow of an explosion which made the very ground rumble, finally ended the firework display.

In a brief hush, my ears still ringing from the noise, Mummy spoke crisply and clearly in that penetrating voice that I loved so well.

‘Take that, you soddin’ moles!’

Everybody laughed.

Gazing towards the corner of the terrace, under a garden table lay Fifi, still gnawing away at the remains of the ham, not bothered by anything and anyone and looking well pleased with herself.

I know exactly how she felt–


And now the story continues…


Things seemed unusually quiet in the quaint and wonderful seaside village of Penmarris following the departure of the last of the summer visitors. Winter was upon us and we suffered the usual storms that the Devon and Cornish coasts were known for.

It seemed that every other day it rained and it was only the fact that we lived where we did, that we didn’t have snow or frost in November and early December.

David went out in the lifeboat several times and came back safe and sound with the brave crew, as did the tremendously brave fishermen. Despite ridiculous quotas which other countries seemed to ignore - but we didn’t, our people managed to eek a living out of our still rich waters. Although they had to go further and further afield to get a catch nowadays.

Without the visitors and holidaymakers, Penmarris seemed to settle down and relax a bit. The younger children went to the little primary school at the top of the hill; the new little ones in their brand spanking new, pristine uniforms that stayed pristine for about ten minutes after going into the playground.

The older kids caught the coach to the town where the large comprehensive school catered for nearly fifteen hundred children from surrounding areas. Girls, who had to wear skirts, wore them as short as they thought that they could get away with, despite the weather. The boys, regretfully, looked as scruffy as possible, not wanting to be targeted as un-cool or even, god forbid, nerdish.

The tradesmen and women carried on erm, trading. The butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker–who happened to be Abby–all continued to sell what they could, but of course there weren’t so many people to buy things at that time of year. This was why they all worked long hours in the summer to make enough to tide them over the winter months.

It was a time when I could do a bit more in my studio. I was now well on the way to completing the painting that I had promised to hand over to the RNLI Lifeboat Station. Whether they sold it or just hung it in the loo, was up to them, but a promise is a promise.

In addition to that, I was a busy beavering away with more works with which to stock up the gallery.

Tracy was busy too. She had virtually taken over the running of the gallery now, because she was such a good saleswoman. Her girlfriend Tammy had been roped in to help her out seeing as I had other fish to fry–not haddock. Tracy carried on drawing and painting herself and she had a lot of raw talent which I encouraged as much as I could. I promised that I would show a few more of her works come the summer and that alone was enough to keep her on her painted toes!

Other artists, sculptors and photographers were hard at it so they too could use the gallery to show their work. Altogether, I was very pleased that the gallery was a success and hoped for big things next year

Those other fish I was referring to were, apart from looking after Heather and my other business interests, locating a suitable large house for my pet project. Mummy was doing all she could to pull strings, gee people along and if that didn’t work using threats little short of violence to get her way. She had taken to carrying her Purdy about with her and had had more than one brush with the local PC Plod.

Evidently she said it was to keep vermin like moles down, but as the moles were holed up (or is that holed down?) underground at that time of year, feasting on deeply buried worms and not poking their noses above ground, this excuse was flimsy to say the least.

Deep joy and much celebrating ensured after it was confirmed that my darling Abby had a ‘bun in the jolly old oven’ as Mummy said rather graphically. As December started, Abby had a definite if still very slight bump–but that could have been because of the increased pasty consumption. She started glowing as only pregnant mums do, but that may have been due to the hot showers that she insisted on having.

We bought a book from eBay–the delivery cost more than the book–that showed, in pictures what size the little darling would be at each stage. According to the German white coat, Dr Frankenstein or maybe it might have been Frankenfurter from the fertility place; she was about three months gone.

According to our glossy, full colour pop out book, baby was probably about three inches long and weighed approximately .81 ounces.

Abby was on constant alert for stretch marks. She used lots of lotions and potions to stop this terrible deformity but didn’t go down the route that Mrs Pearson suggested–goose fat. I tried to knit some little booties, but gave up after my fingers got knotted up.

Abby had the added joy of wanting to use the bathroom six times an hour and feeling sick, the rest of the time. It wasn’t all fun and games this pregnancy lark!

I felt a bit like a spare part sometimes and made up for it by doing my bit with Heather and looking after her needs more and more. Not that I minded, because Heather was our little angel. Mind you, she was what I would call a fallen angel when she started to chuck her food about rather than eat it. She loved tinned rice and tapioca but hated just about everything else.

Accorded to Myrtle Styrtle the midwife–who knows if you’re fertile–I had no need to worry, as she was at least eating something and her size and weight were okay. It was a bit trying though. What I couldn’t understand was why if she was eating white stuff, did it come out the other end the colour of chicken korma?

December carried on hurtling towards Christmas. I had been looking forward to Christmas in particular as I loved that time of festivities and general jollyfication. Not that I had had much with Olivia. Her idea of Christmas was to go away to some God forsaken hotel and be pampered. She wasn’t into cooking at the best of times and the thought of her sticking her beautifully manicured hand up the backside of a semi frozen turkey, left her somewhat cold for some reason.

I would have done it, if only for the experience, but she was averse to the idea and that was that.

When I was a child, I always loved Christmas, even though my wish of becoming a girl never really materialised. Dawn, my sister, knew about my rather girlish tendencies and quite often we swopped prezzies. She had a thing going for action man and I rather drooled over Cindy, so we naturally did a few swopsies. More than once, we swopped clothes too and although my parents understood and were sympathetic, they didn’t really approve of my early attempts at trying to be a girl. I thought that it would be a really good idea to go to the Christmas carol service wearing a pretty dress, they thought that a yucky shirt and tie was more appropriate. (What, no trousers? Ed.)

Back to the present: I had been looking forward to Christmas eagerly this year. As Mrs P said, ‘You’m gonna love the Yule an be chuffed as a maggot come boxin’ day.’

On the first of December, like flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la, pretty coloured lights started sprouting out all over the place. Before long, of an evening you could see lights on houses everywhere. Trees were lit too, with twinkling lights and the High Street was a riot of colour.

The village was twinned with a German village called Pumpernickel am Oder and they had sent over a large Christmas tree. It had been given pride of place in the High Street and really made everything uber festive.

Down on the quay of an evening, the smells of the fish and chip shop were joined by chestnuts roasting on an open fire–well a brazier anyway. Mulled wine filled the air with a heady scent and a few stalls selling toys, Christmas presents and other goodies started appearing as Christmas grew ever closer.

It was cold, but Abby and I took a wrapped-up, almost totally mummyfied (get it Mummyfied?) and warm Heather down to the quay on several occasions to taste the atmosphere, but not the mulled wine, of course! It reminded me a bit of a German Christmas market, the only things that were missing was the lederhosen and the ice rink, due to the council banning the idea —not the lederhosen — the ice rink. I think that they might have actually approved of all that thigh slapping, leather stuff. No, it was the ice rink that was verboten.

Anyway, back the ice rink situation, we really had to do something about Ms Prendergast, the lady mayoress and her henchman Mr Grouser, rumoured to be her ‘yes man’ and general dogsbody (read hitman) for the county council, but now was the time for fun and frivolity and not political shenanigans and dark, underhand deeds.

We did have a few visitors to Penmarris at this time–regulars who came in the summer and had been told what a magical place Penmarris was at this festive time of the year, but happily, not too many as this was a time of village togetherness. The ones who did come were almost family anyway, having been with us year after year, come rain or shine. Although we didn’t put the barriers up to repel visitors, we hoped that we could keep a lid on it. We had done our bit in the summer to welcome one and all, but now we wanted to let our hair down and do our own thing, or so I had been told by Jo and her kith and kin.

We were to spend Christmas afternoon and evening with Mummy Dotty and Sarah. Dawn and the family were supposed to be there too but had to cry off due to a prior engagement. All our friends were going to be there, so it was going to be a jolly time for one and all.

‘It’ll be nice ter see the place full again,’ said Mummy, with a bit of a glint in her eye. Fifi looked up and wagged her tail, no doubt already planning a covert raid on a turkey leg or two.

And so it came to pass that Christmas Eve arrived and we all trouped dutifully into the small church on the top of the hill for the evening carol service. Mrs Pearson, who was tone deaf and her husband, who did as he was told, babysat Heather as Abby and I walked up to the little floodlit church, hand in hand. It was somewhat cold and windy, but we had several layers on and it wasn’t that far to walk anyway. The night did remind me a bit of the night that Olivia turned up at our door, heavily pregnant and close to death. It made me sad to think that she would not see her lovely daughter as she grew up, but I knew that both Abby and I would do our best for Heather and not let our baby forget who gave birth to her.

‘Enough sad thoughts.’

We entered the church and was welcomed by Jo and given the order of service and carol sheets.

Mummy was there sitting at the side, in the pews reserved in olden days for the nobility and gentry–posh folk to you and me. Somehow we found ourselves sitting next to her. We were in the best seats in the house as we could see the pulpit, chancel and choir stalls and most of the pews in the church. We even had extra padding on our hassocks, which can’t be bad!

It didn’t take long for the church to be full to bursting as it seemed as if most of the village had turned up. There was the general hubbub of quiet conversation, and flowers were everywhere making the whole church look almost springlike, despite the weather outside, which seemed to be blowing up somewhat.

Near the west door was a large Christmas tree covered with tinsel and lights; under it were some presents, which I had been told were for the people in the old folk’s home and had been donated by the villagers–I did say that they were nice people in Penmarris!

I realised that I knew many people in the village as I recognised nearly all of them sitting there in their Sunday best. My arm grew tired of all the waving as I saw yet another person who had come into my life in a positive way.

There were candles in special holders in front of the choir stalls and it all added to the special, festive nature of the service.

The organ–played by Miss Ethel Potts, who ran the Penmarris Chamber Ensemble and was known, inevitably, as “Chamber Potts”–emitted a long drawn out single note and the hubbub of conversation died down. As the entire congregation struggled to their feet, I took a glance towards the west door where I saw the choir assembled–boys, girls, men and women, wearing royal blue cassocks and white surplices, the children with white ruffs round their necks. One of the girls–my niece Hayley–stepped forward and in her sweet, slightly breathy voice began to sing:

Then the rest of the choir joined in–singing unaccompanied in harmony–and began to process slowly around the church, following the crucifer, Percy Potts, carrying the cross, with David Gotobed, resplendent in ceremonial robes bringing up the rear.

Then the organ began to play the tune, which, according to the printed service sheet, was the signal for us–the members of the congregation–to join in.

There were three more verses, the last one–sung with the choir installed in the candle-lit choir stalls–had a descant sung by the trebles in the choir. We of the congregation sat down noisily and David began to read the bidding prayer. Then came another carol, Up, Good Christen Men and Listen, sung by the choir, followed immediately by the hymn, In the bleak mid-winter, sung by everybody. As we sat down–noisily–afterwards, a small boy, looking angelic in his choir robes, made his way to the lectern. I recognised him as Del Timmins, a bit of a tearaway and always in trouble with his teachers; he was too small to be able to see the reading on the lectern and had to stand on a box to be able to read the First Lesson which he introduced as: ‘God announces in the Garden of Eden that the seed of woman shall bruise the serpent’s head.’ He read it very nicely, finishing with the words ‘Thanks be to God’.

In the choir, apart from my niece Hayley, I could see the Gotobed girls, Phillipa, and Jennifer as well as several other kids I recognised but whose names were unknown to me; they all looked very angelic. At six, Timothy was too young for the choir this year so he was sitting between Dawn and Adrian in the front pew, looking a bit bored and picking his nose.

The service was beautiful with the nine lessons being read between the carols and David didn’t give a sermon. It was late and there were quite a few children in the congregation, so the service was mainly carols and hymns with the readings in between. The last lesson was read by David. During the service we sang, or listened to: Adam Lay Ybounden… In Dulce Jubilo–both sung by the choir… While shepherds watched their flocks by night… O Leave Your Sheep… O little town of Bethlehem… The Angel Gabriel From Heaven Came… Away in a manger–sung by the children… See Amid the Winter’s Snow… O come all ye faithful… finishing up with Hark the Herald Angels Sing, with Miss Potts doing sterling work with the rather splendidly triumphant trumpet stops on the organ.

Then, David standing in the pulpit beamed down on us. ‘Thank you all so much for coming. It’s wonderful to see so many faces, new and old, coming and giving thanks for Christ’s birth––’

There was the sound of a distant cannon and several mobile ’phones went off, including David’s.

David frowned and Jo walked up to the front.

‘Excuse me,’ he said apologetically, and with several others–including two of the choir men–ran down the aisle and out of the church.

Jocasta turned to us and just said calmly, ‘Shall we all say the Lord’s Prayer?’

~ §~


Twenty minutes later, Abby and I, together with many others found ourselves at the lifeboat station waiting for news on the radio as David and the others ploughed out to sea to try to rescue a gaff-rigged yacht that had got into difficulties ten miles out.

It was brewing up a rare storm now and the seas were high and very rough. Jocasta stood with us, gripping the rail tightly as she stared out to sea.

I wanted Abby to go home, but silly goose that she was, she refused. So there we were on Christmas Eve, standing and waiting–

I felt bad enough, what about all these others waiting for their loved ones and not knowing whether they would ever return?

The worst thing about all this was the waiting. There was radio contact with the lifeboat, but it was patchy at best. It appeared that the yacht, “Annie Laurie”, having lost her mast in a heavy squall, had been heading for our harbour under auxilliary engine power but that had failed and she was wallowing in heavy seas and drifting. There were two adults and three children aboard. We had no idea why they went out in that weather. Surely people get a weather report first? We discovered afterwards that “Annie Laurie” was owned by the Brewster family and they were returning from a year spent cruising the Mediterranean, so they were experienced “yotties” and had not ventured out for a “Christmas Jolly”.

I felt like a bit of a spare part so I made everyone steaming mugs of tea and coffee to help keep the home fires burning whilst we all waited for news.

If anything, the weather worsened. It was now a true, full on, force 10 gale, and the sea was crashing hard against the harbour walls, throwing plumes of spume and spray high up into the air. It was dark and raining hard. We could hardly see the occulting beam of the lighthouse on the south-eastern point a mile or so down the coast.

We had to shout to make ourselves and everyone, despite wearing waterproofs, was getting rather wet as the wind blew towards us and high into the lifeboat shed, where we stood…and waited. Most of us ladies, having come straight down from the church were still wearing our Sunday best, which–of course–meant skirts. Both Abby and I were very glad of our thermal tights, but several of the other ladies only had the non-thermal variety.

This was not how I wanted to spend Christmas Eve, now Christmas Day as it was just past midnight. I couldn’t and wouldn’t leave; neither would Abby, despite dire threats of no prezzies come the morning. Whether we would open presents would depend on the outcome tonight’s launching.

I shivered involuntarily as a rivulet of water found its way past my defences and started trickling down my neck and then my back.

How much longer?

I gave Jocasta a cuddle as she stood by the rail, her eyes never shifting from the gap in the headlands where two beacons marked the entrance. She gave me a weak smile and then we just stood there. Abby, who had a few friends boarding the crew was comforting a young girl–fiancée to one of the life boatmen–with her arm around shoulder.

Mummy had evidently mobilised local forces and a mass crá¨che cum baby minding service was being held at The Manor. I briefly smiled at the thought of Jenkins changing nappies and then of our little one, safe and sound in Jellicle Cottage, totally unaware of the drama taking place off the coast.

It all seemed a world away from when we had been sitting in the church listening to some heavenly voices. It all seemed a bit much, that so many of our people were out there battling against tremendous seas to rescue a family in peril.

We were there for an hour more, then the radio crackled into life and we could hear the cox’n’s voice.

‘Am approaching harbour, all safe and well!’ Sonia, the cox’n sounded tired, but cheerful, and a collective sigh of relief could be heard from all of us who had been waiting anxiously.

We all cheered and clapped as the lifeboat, towing the Annie Laurie, hove into view through the harbour entrance.

Relief and happiness showed on all the faces around me. I glanced at Abby who seemed to be all in; I went to her and put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Come on, love, let’s get you home!’

We would leave the relatives to greet one another and catch up with everyone the next day.

The rain had stopped by the time we arrived home and the wind was dying down too. I hoped that the rest of Christmas would be less fraught and that we would be able to enjoy ourselves at long last.

~ §~


Mrs Pearson smiled as we walked in.

‘All safe?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good. Littl’n be awrigh’ not a peek from ’er. I’m off to me bed–’night.’

We thanked her profusely.

‘Twernt nothin’. In Penmarris we looks after our own.’ And with that she scuttled off, like a ferret disappearing down somebody’s trousers.

Abby and I dried ourselves off, had a look at Heather and then tumbled into bed. Christmas was two hours old.

Heather woke us up at 7.30 with a yell that would slice steel.

I told Abby not to move, which was unnecessary because she didn’t seem to be doing any such thing. Preggy ladies get away with murder, don’t you think?

I slipped my robe on and went to Heather’s bedroom. A cat had managed to find his way into the room and was playing with a strand of cotton and chasing it all around the floor whilst Heather watched on, giving giggling encouragement from her cot.

‘Google, goo,’ Heather gurgled.

‘The same to you with brass knobs on,’ I said as I picked her up and wrinkled my nose. It smelt like she needed changing and fast.

I did the necessary, still wondering if someone was feeding her illicit chicken korma and then we went to see her other mummy.

‘Wake up, sleepyhead.’ I said as both Heather and I joined her in bed.

‘Oooh,’ she yelled, ‘cold feet!’

‘Sorry; well it is cold.’

Abby turned over and gave Heather a kiss.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Happy first Christmas!’

‘Google gaga.’

‘Yes, dear, you can have a computer when you are a leeetle bit older.’

Heather smiled at that!

‘Happy Christmas, Abby.’

‘The same to you with jingle bells on. Now shift over, I need to use the loo!’

I went to the window, drew the curtains back and gasped.

‘Hey, Abby, it’s snowing!’

~ §~


We had a quiet morning, sharing gifts and playing with Heather. Quick phone calls to several people confirmed that all was well and the Brewsters were being looked after in palatial splendour by Mummy–who else.

The Christmas do at Mummy’s that afternoon was getting bigger and bigger as more of the village were invited following the trials and tribulations of the night. I wondered if Harrods had delivered enough food for all the revellers and then remembered that Jenkins was the master of these things and would think of everything.

We were told be there by 2.30 post meridian or lose out on the sherry and mince pies. I wasn’t too sure about the sherry, but I’m a bit of a piggy for mince pies, so 2.29 on the dot we rolled up in my wonderful Beemer–we left ten minutes early due to all the snow on the roads. We were not the first visitors to arrive and by no means the last either. Many had walked up the hill rather than take their cars and judging by the way my pride and joy had slipped along the road, it was a wise decision. Maybe I should get a Chelsea Tractor?*

Looking back down on the village as we got out of the car, it was like a picture post card scene; all the lovely with snow covered houses and cottages that looked so picturesque against the backdrop of the cove, harbour and the blue of the sea, now relatively calm after the previous night’s storm.

I took in all that I could see of the scene before me and put my memory of it safely away in a mental drawer so that I could reproduce it on canvas at a later date. The doors of the mansion opened and there was cool and efficient Jenkins standing there to welcome us. We passed him and made him blush as we both gave him a Christmas kiss on the cheek.

We took Heather to the impromptu crá¨che, once again manned–or should that be womanned?–by some mothers on a sort of rota scheme. I offered, but was turned down due to the fact that I had a slight cold. Alright I was sniffing a bit; well so would you if you had been standing outside all night in freezing rain. But I was a full time and fully paid up girl now and bravely remembered the fact that when men had a cold it was at least man flu, but we girls were made of sterner stuff.

After saying bye, bye to fluffybumkins and telling her to steer clear of the boys, we made our way back to the entrance hall. It was a wrench to leave Heather, but we didn’t want her to get too clingy.

Behind Jenkins, in the hall were two girls in black and white waitress outfits, each holding glasses of sherry on silver salvers, their only concession to Christmas being that they had tinsel garlands around their necks. I took a drinkypoos as I wanted to appear polite, but just sipped it minutely while others who shall remain nameless, but should know better, being a vicar’s wife, downed theirs in one.

Mummy was there looking regal and yet somehow approachable as she sailed towards us and soon I was gathered–or should that be smothered–into her ample bosom when she gave me a bear hug. I wondered distractedly whether she had ever been an all-in wrestler in a previous life.

‘Hmmmphr.’ I said.

‘What was that?’

‘Hello, Mummy and Merry Christmas,’ I wheezed after surfacing for air.

Abby got the same treatment and then after more hugs, ‘hello’s and how’re ye doin’s?’ we all moved to the ballroom where the place had been copiously adorned in Christmas decorations with a huge tree in the corner, covered with white twinkling lights.

The full length of the room was taken up with the festive table, with wonderful place settings, table decorations and lighted candelabras dotted along the full length.

Everyone including Abby and I oohed and aahed at the sight of all the finery and I must admit wondering how long it took Mummy’s staff to prepare for the occasion.

I did know that the staff would be having their own do “below stairs” later on and from the stories I had heard, their parties were legendary.

At each setting was an ornate silver duck place card holder with a name on a card held by the beak.

Abby and I found ourselves opposite each other and just one step removed from Mummy Dotty.

Something caught my eye as I glanced out of the window. It looked suspiciously like Fifi with something large and meaty in her mouth being chased across the lawn by a person in white with a chef’s hat and a meat cleaver. As Fifi was now a fit animal due to a strict exercise regime and the chef was to put it politely, rather portly, I knew who my bet was on–

‘Are yer listenin’ ter me, Samantha?’

‘Sorry, Mummy, you were saying?’

‘Not happy with the soddin’ crackers. Harrods promised jewellery inside but I have the rejects. I swear the ear rings are silver plated. The place has gorn to the dogs, in my day––’

I switched off a bit then and my eyes wandered along the table.

On one side of Dotty was Sarah in a pretty white dress and on the other was Sophie, looking equally fine in a satin top and shortish skirt. She still looked a bit frail and I didn’t like the dark circles under her eyes, but she looked a hundred times better than when I saw her in the park holding Heather and in complete shock over losing her own baby.

It was nice to see that Mummy had taken Sophie under her wing and Abby and I looked significantly at each other and wondered if Mummy had decided to add to her now extended family.

Along the table were many friends like Marcia and Brian our doctor friends, Katie, with Capn’ Ahab, Jocasta, David and their family and several Potts–but no Pans–were scattered about too.

I wondered who was on watch aboard ‘the yacht’ until I remembered I had been told that the crew were holding their own party there tonight. I would count the spoons in the morning.

My sister Dawn together with Adrian , Timothy and Hayley were visiting Adrian’s parents and so this year would be missing the festivities, but we would be seeing them on Boxing Day, so that would be nice.

The meal was the traditional one of roast turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry source, pigs in blankets** and the usual veg. It was served piping hot and was absolutely delicious. A great time was had by all and the wine and ginger beer flowed freely. I won’t go into the nitty-gritty of the meal as that would bore non participants, but what I can say was that afterwards we were all–like the turkey–well and truly stuffed!

The meal lasted for a long time and we stayed at the table for what seemed to be hours. This gave us all time for gossip and allowing the Christmas pudding to go down a bit.

‘So, young Samantha,’ said Mummy as she sipped her port, ‘How do yer like yer first Christmas here?’

I looked around at the smiling faces and just said, ‘it’s just wonderful.’

‘And, Abby, how’s the sprog doin?’

‘Fine Mummy, I swear that the little thing is going to be a footballer the way he or she is kicking me already.’

‘Probably wind,’ Mummy conjectured wisely.

‘Please may we leave the table,’ Sarah asked sweetly.

‘Off yer go then. The hop, dance, disco or whatever it’s called is in the stables.’

‘I know; I helped set it up, remember?’

‘By help yer mean tellin’ everyone else to do the hard work while you sat and watched––’

‘–Mother, how could you think––’

‘–Shove orf young Sarah and take Sophie with yer. Sophie, if Sarah asks yer to do anything, do the complete opposite and yer won’t go far wrong.’

‘Mummeee!’

Sophie giggled and went off with Sarah who seemed to be in a bit of a huff.

‘Mummy smiled at their retreating backs and shook her head.

‘I’m too soft on that gel!’

‘No you’re not, you love her to bits.’

‘Never mind that, did I tell you that I have found a great new way to kill those bloody moles–?’

~ §~


We found ourselves walking home that night. The roads had iced up quite a bit and I didn’t want to prang the Beemer. It wasn’t bad on the footpaths as they had been gritted. It wasn’t that cold and the stars and moon were out and lit our way home.

I carried Heather and Abby held on to my arm. Neither of us had drunk much if anything alcoholic, unless you count the sherry trifle and the small glass of sherry on arrival at Dotty’s, However, I felt drunk with happiness at the good time we had had today. It was certainly a different Christmas to previous ones I had experienced and I wondered if future Christmases would be as pleasurable. I hoped and prayed that they would be.

We put our baby to bed, she hadn’t stirred on the way home, and then, still feeling full and tired from the short amount of sleep and the day’s activities, we fell into bed and into each other’s arms.

The church clock struck twelve and outside we could hear some late-night revellers singing in the distance:

I smiled as I turned over and spooned into Abby’s warm and cuddly back. Then, typically Penmarris, a cock crowed and I wasn’t sure if he was early, late or just the usual nut case that this place seemed to breed with abundance.

Sighing, I went to sleep to the sound of Abby snoring gently and a cat jumping on the bed and taking up half the space–

This was the life and I wouldn’t change it for the world!

To be continued…

* Chelsea Tractor - http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Chelsea%20Tra...
**pigs in blankets - http://www.sausagelinks.co.uk/recipe_detail.asp?id=135

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines, pulling the story into shape and especially the bits in the church.