Footsteps in the Snow and other teatime treats
Trisha Ashley
Copyright
Avon
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Published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Copyright © Trisha Ashley
Trisha Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007585458
Version: 2014-08-19
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue: What the Dickens?
1. One Mans Treasure
2. Tipping the Scales
3. Melting Moments
4. Honey and Spice
5. Breaking the Ice
6. A Bit of Christmas Relish
7. Not Just for Christmas
8. Footsteps in the Snow
9. Slightly Cracked
10. A Kitten too Far
11. The Cinderella Dress
Read on for a first look at Trishas brand new novel Creature Comforts
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
Prologue:
What the Dickens?
Bestselling novelist Trisha Ashley on forging her own Christmas traditions.
As always, Christmas seems to hover tantalisingly on the horizon for ages like an unattainable mirage and then, when we glance away, suddenly rushes up and takes us by surprise. Thrown into utter panic and urged on to an insane level of consumerism by a barrage of advertising, we shop as if we were about to pull up the siege drawbridge for a month.
And of course theres a sudden rash of books and articles promising to show you how to create a stress-free and perfect Christmas, an immaculate concept with the decorations themed to the latest colour scheme, the swags hanging neatly from the staircase and mantelpiece and, above all, a festively dressed table groaning under the weight of a beautifully crisped turkey with all the trimmings, to be followed by Christmas pudding, Christmas cake and all the rest of it. Only by absorbing such seasonal advice, the authors seem to be implying, can you be sure of a happy Christmas except for the person running his or herself ragged attempting to produce all this perfection, of course.
And this supposedly traditional Christmas with all the extravagant trimmings is not what most of us grew up with. The decorations of my Lancashire childhood were a bright chaos of paper chains, garlands and clusters of balloons, the crackers were cheap and cheerful and the table decoration a couple of pine cones and some holly enthusiastically daubed with silver glitter. The turkey, a monster, would have gone into the oven around midnight on Christmas Eve and have been slowly roasting ever since, though the pork sausages that had followed the stuffing into the cavity would be removed and cooked for breakfast. The dinner itself was quite leisurely: we ate when it was ready and no one thought to add extra work by putting chestnuts into the Brussels sprouts, or anything fancy of that nature. Any slight deficiencies in the cooking, such as slightly overdone sprouts, say, were overlooked: what did it matter? Covered in my mothers thick, tasty gravy made from the juices in the roasting tin, it was all delicious anyway!
You can see Holly, the heroine of one of my novels, The Twelve Days of Christmas, preparing and cooking for just such a Christmas feast and she has it all well in hand by the day itself. And when I got married, for the first few years I too produced the kind of Christmas Id been brought up to expect, with roast turkey, cake, pudding, trifle and mincepies but always in a laid-back manner. I mean, if the legs drop off the turkey as you take it out of the oven, its a pretty good sign its cooked, isnt it? And if you dont have a set time for Christmas dinner, then its ready when its ready. And remember, there will be no Christmas police checking that the crackers match the tablecloth and decorations, that there are chestnuts in your stuffing and youve bought a hideously expensive but trendy kind of Christmas pudding, or even popping back later to ensure youre all watching the latest Dickens TV adaptation: God Bless Tiny Tim again.
But as the years passed, I began to change the Christmas traditions to suit myself, mixing old and new and forging our own way of doing things. For instance, none of us were mad about turkey, but we all loved roast duck so now we have a Christmas quacker, with delicious potatoes roasted in the fat and petits pois. This is followed by profiteroles with chocolate sauce. We do have Christmas pudding but on Boxing Day, when we are not quite so stuffed full and can appreciate it more.
I make my Christmas cake in November, to the same rich fruit cake recipe (which you can find at the back of my novel Wedding Tiers) I use for most celebration cakes, though using dark rum instead of sherry. Then I marzipan and ice it, before adding a polar bear cunningly poised on a snowy hummock, ready to leap onto a jolly and unsuspecting Father Christmas, who is waving at an oversized reindeer. Behind this little group are three bristly green bonsai pine trees and a giant robin. A fringed red, green and silver paper band is wrapped around it, secured with a dab of icing.
Nearer Christmas Ill bake a ham and a few mincepies but a lot more of the yummy mincemeat flapjacks I devised a few years ago, when pondering what to do with the inevitable bit of mincemeat left at the bottom of the jar.
Theres a large trifle to create, too, in the cut-glass bowl with a gold rim that was my grandmothers. I can take three days over this, one layer at a time. But theres no rush, is there? It will be ready for after dinner on Christmas Eve, covered in fresh cream and with a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands melting into rainbow swirls.
Then, just for fun, Ill make a batch of fondant sugar mice with string tails and dozens of spicy, crisp gingerbread stars to hang on the tree.
In early December Ill have made the annual expedition to the frozen attic in search of the boxes containing the tree and baubles, not to mention the large porcelain-faced figure of the Angel Gabriel, who seems to like to hide himself away, so that a second expedition usually has to be mounted to find him.
And when it comes to decorations well, forget themes, for Im the least likely person to wake up one day thinking, Mmm, I think Ill have an upside-down black tree this year and a black and blood red theme throughout the house. Wonder where I can buy matching holly swags and door wreaths?
No, out will come the cheap gold tinsel tree that my toddler son fell in love with so many years ago, to be heavily loaded with every treasured old glass ornament from the box birds with fibreglass tails, violins, trumpets, bears, dogs, icicles, Santas and snowflakes. And then, the crowning glory, Ill top it with a papier-mâché Santa that my mothers sister bought when she was four, which makes it over ninety years old now. The red robe has turned the colour of Brown Windsor soup and at some point hes been misguidedly embellished with a white cotton wool beard and a smattering of scarlet glitter glue, but hell still benignly preside over all.
It looks quite magical when its done and the house, garlanded and redolent of Christmas spices, seems by Christmas Eve to have acquired a heady sense of mystery and expectation, even if it doesnt remotely resemble anything in the magazines.
So I suppose you could say that I am a traditionalist; only most of the traditions are of my own devising and make for an easy and stress-free Christmas.
And every year, just as Im starting to wonder if those are snowflakes or seraphic feathers lazily swirling down from the sky, the Angel Gabriel finally turns up.
1
Previously published in the Express S magazine.
ONE MANS TREASURE
In Annie Moss, James thought hed found the perfect tenant for the cottage hed inherited from his great-uncle. She was in her mid-thirties, quiet and widowed, with no children to trample mud onto the newly-fitted carpets. Then he remembered that she was a gardener, so might well do that herself!
But as if she could read his mind, Annie smiled at him and said, Ill look after the cottage really well and leave my muddy gardening boots in the porch, I promise.
Their eyes met and held. His were a forget-me-not blue, reminding her of the fresh promise of an April sky, while her brown ones made him think of the dark velvety softness of pansies
Annie also liked the way he hadnt made the usual joke about rolling stones gathering no moss, though it was true shed moved about a lot since her husband died. But here well, there was something about the place that made her want to put down roots, spread out her branches and just possibly burst into a late flowering.
So, you already have some work lined up in the area? he asked.
She nodded. At the garden centre, though Ill be happy to sort out the garden here for free, if youd like me to? Its a bit of a mess I couldnt help noticing all those holes
She paused and he grinned.
I was treasure hunting! My Great Uncle always said he didnt trust banks, so hed hidden his valuables away at the cottage, instead
Didnt you find anything?
Only a small amount of cash under his mattress and a tin box with a few half-sovereigns in it on a ledge up the chimney. Somehow I thought hed have a bit more put by, so I did a quick sweep of the garden with a borrowed metal detector, though there was nothing there except old horseshoe nails.
Well, if I hit treasure trove Ill let you know, she promised. I have a metal detector, too you wouldnt believe how useful they can be to a gardener. I once found a whole Morris Minor buried just under a lawn, it was no wonder if was patchy!
*
As summer slid into autumn, Annie transformed the neglected cottage garden, digging flowerbeds and planting a rambling rose by the porch.
Then she turned her attention to the small area at the back, where two gnarled old apple trees stood amid a waist-high tangle of weeds. And there she came across a dogs grave, shedding a few tears over the poignant inscription:
Old Charlie
RIP
Faithful friend.
*
Oh yes, Charlie was a Jack Russell and Uncle Ray adored him, James explained when he dropped in, as he now frequently did on his way home from work.
I notice you didnt dig any holes down that end?
No, because I was sure Uncle Ray wouldnt want Charlie disturbed.
I had thought of dividing up some of the clumps of primroses and planting them on the grave, she suggested. It would look lovely in spring.
Go ahead, Im sure Uncle Ray would have loved the idea, he agreed, then smiled so warmly at her that her heart, which had entered some kind of ice age after the loss of her husband, began a rapid thaw.
*
But next time he came, he seemed different, colder. So, you planted the primroses on Charlies grave yesterday? he said.
Oh yes but how did you know? she asked, looking disconcerted and also, he thought, slightly guilty.
One of my friends saw you digging under the apple trees and then he heard you shout Eureka! he added pointedly.
She laughed. He must have thought Id gone mad, but finding it was just such a relief!
Finding what? he demanded.
My wedding ring: it must have slipped off while I was transplanting the primroses, so I took my metal detector out and found it.
He suddenly started laughing, too. You know, I thought youd been treasure hunting, even though I was sure Uncle Ray wouldnt have buried anything near Charlie.
No, of course he wouldnt have and even if he had, I would have told you.
Yes, I really should have known you better by now, Annie, he agreed, then glanced at her left hand. But youre not wearing your ring?
She shook her head. No losing it seemed like a sign that perhaps it was time to stop wearing it to move on with my life.
Oh? Then perhaps youd like to come down to the pub with me? I suppose I cant keep you to myself forever.
Are you asking me out? she said uncertainly. She knew his wife had left him for another man a couple of years before.