It took a moment or two to adjust to the light in the room that without the grey-white glow from the moon would have otherwise been cast in complete darkness. Carmen never closed her upstairs curtains: there seemed little point because in such a rural setting there was nobody around to peer in and anyway, they’d have to have a ladder to be able to see into the first-floor windows.
The square, symmetrically fronted Georgian house once belonged to a gentleman farmer who, the records and legend said, built on the highest ground available so he could survey everything he owned from each side of his home. Carmen thought he’d done a fine job because from all of the upstairs windows she had a fabulous view of the Cheshire Plain and the fields and farmland that now belonged to her.
Most days, when she reached the landing she stopped and took a moment to gaze at the lowlands that extended from the Mersey Valley in the north to the Shropshire Hills in the south. And on a clear day she could just about see the Welsh peaks to the west and the foothills of the Pennines to the north-east. The view always gave her immense pleasure. It also provided an overwhelming sense of achievement while she humbly acknowledged one undisputable fact: that she’d been thoroughly blessed when she inherited the house and land and remained duly thankful for all the things it had brought her since.
Turning, she saw that it was 5.35am – at least two more hours until dawn – but there would be no more sleep for her, not after the dream. She knew the score, had got used to the routine and owing to the time of year accepted there would probably be more. December was always a tricky month. Nevertheless, if she stayed in bed she would go over and over the past and no good ever came of that. It was best to shake it off, get up and go downstairs. A cup of tea and two slices of toast would see her right and the dogs, Arthur, Mitzi and Petra would be glad to see her, regardless of the hour.
Flinging back the quilted eiderdown she swung her legs out of bed and pushed her feet inside her slippers, pulling the dressing gown from the bottom bedpost as she made her way over to the window. It wasn’t cold in the room, the double glazing repelled the season’s icy breath and the heating system was set to tick over and created a steady, gentle heat.
Being warm was one of Carmen’s luxuries. Regardless of the bill she was determined to be comfortable in the sprawling six-bedroomed house. The days when she and her girls shivered in the mornings were never to be repeated. She remembered only too well living with a barely functioning boiler, huddling around the old range for warmth. She’d hated the winter months even before they arrived and always longed for the spring.
Nowadays the rooms never felt chilly or damp and Appleton Farm was a welcoming place, a home. It had been in her deceased husband’s family for two generations before he’d inherited it and even though he was no longer there, his name lived on. And while that fact sometimes grated, she’d lived there for almost forty years, happily, fulfilled. Recently, though, she’d felt a shift. An unsettling sense of time running out and decisions to be made.
Take your time, you’ve waited this long.Carmen must have repeated the same words a hundred times over the past few months yet they didn’t calm the impatience that constantly nudged her subconscious.
Shrugging on her dressing gown, heeding the words in her head, Carmen lingered, peering at the world outside her window as she fastened the tie around her waist. As she suspected, the softly illuminated driveway and garden below were covered with a slick layer of frost and had the lamps on either side of the door allowed her to see further, the surrounding fields would be the same.
The view in the daytime was spectacular and even the sunset was worth taking time out for. All year round Carmen was treated to her very own painting, like a landscape in oils, a rich carpet of earth, a lush forest that, with a magical stroke of his brush, the artist tinted in ever-changing hues, the colour wheel of Mother Nature’s glory. She lived her life by it.
Carmen would go to sleep or wake with the seasons, watching them turn from her bedroom window courtesy of the oaks which lined the garden. The twiggy barren branches that reminded her of forks of lightning currently signalled it was winter, as did the dusting of frost on the corners of the square panes of glass.
Looking up, Carmen could see the brave and hardy moon, a crescent hidden behind ghostly wisps of cloud, and imagined it shivering in the cold night air, not giving up, determined to stay on duty till dawn, another special time of day. When life kicked in, the birds awoke and night creatures – foxes, voles, badgers – sloped off to their burrows. And simultaneously, over on the other side of the gentle hill, at the rear of the house and just out of sight but never out of mind, Appleton Garden Centre sprang into action.
Yawning loudly she turned away from the window and as she headed for the stairs, stopped to straighten one of the frames that adorned the top of her chest of drawers. It contained a black-and-white photo of her dad and she’d been looking at it the night before, reflecting on the face of someone she hadn’t seen for more than fifty-one years and no doubt the cause of her dream.
She only had two photos but her favourite was of him on the deck of theAtlantic Conveyor, a merchant navy cargo ship, the vessel that sailed her dad to the land of the rising sun and home again to his week-old baby daughter. It was one of the tales he’d told her as she sat on his knee, gazing at the atlas as he traced her finger across the map of the globe, passing far-off lands, crossing oceans she’d never heard of but memorised ever since. The South China Sea, Strait of Malacca, Indian Ocean, Red Sea.
Sometimes they’d listen to the shipping forecast and, while she had no clue what it meant, the sombre voice of the man who read out the names, Finisterre, Dogger, Shannon, Fastnet, conjured images of fisherman being pounded by waves on ships battling through a storm. She would snuggle into the strong, tattooed arms of her dad, held safe by calloused seaman’s hands. He was her hero then and he’d remained so ever since. No matter what he’d done.
Her eyes then fell on the other rogues in the gallery: her grandchildren, Darcy, Max, Tilly, Ella and Lola and more central, next to her dad, were her precious daughters, Rosina, Violetta and Leonora.
Naming them was something Sebastian, her late husband had no interest in. They had his surname and that was enough. This left her to carry on a tradition that her dad had started so Rosina was a tribute to Rossini’sBarber of Seville, Violetta from Verdi’sLa Traviataand lastly Leonora, fromIl Trovatore.
Touching the frame, Carmen traced the face of Rosina, dark-haired like herself with eyes to match. Her whippet-thin eldest was a linchpin, reliable, hard-working and maternal, she always had been. Mother’s proverbial little helper. Next to her was Leonora, the kindest soul, with identical colouring yet where Rosina was willowy, the youngest was petite, fragile really, a legacy of premature birth most likely brought on by unhappy circumstances. And in the centre as always was Violetta, their auburn-haired firebrand who kept them all on their toes. She favoured her father in many ways. And just like Carmen, Violetta’s memory of a man she’d adored might be faded but it was something she had clung to with indomitable determination. For a while anyway.
Carmen understood how that felt more than Violetta knew, which was why she’d never sullied Sebastian’s memory as Rosina had, and allowed her dead husband to live on in a way that gave their daughter comfort.
Her own mum had done the same, albeit through gritted teeth which was why the photo of Sylvia was positioned at the edge of the collection. Even though it was just a photo, Carmen imagined her mother’s pursed lips, her squinted eyes glancing sideways along the row with a look of disgust aimed at her unfaithful husband. Instead of bringing her down, the notion made Carmen smile because that’s exactly how her mum was, who she was and she still loved her for it.
Right, enough of that. Tea, toast and Radio 4 is what you need right now, not starting the day in the past.
Yawning as she opened the door and stepped onto the landing, Carmen was glad she had the choice to get up with the lark or lie in till the barking of dogs forced her out of bed. Her days of early starts at the crack of dawn were over, being half asleep, pulling on work-clothes and boots to start a shift that stretched into twelve hours, sometimes longer, working non-stop to establish her business while bringing up three children.
It had all paid off though, and twenty years later her market garden was thriving and the garden centre booming, as were all the other offshoots that had sprung up over time. The café was always popular, the farm and gift shop even more so, the children’s petting zoo was a huge draw and a personal favourite of her five grandchildren. Even the campsite was fully booked for the year ahead while the nature and cycling trails looked after themselves.
Thanks to a brilliant team who ran the whole shebang, Carmen’s input was surplus to requirements but always heeded, even after she had handed the reins to Rosina. Everyone knew the business was Carmen’s brainchild, her labour of love. She still liked to wander down there to say hello to the staff, most of whom she regarded as friends. She’d get her hands dirty in the greenhouses, was always on hand in an emergency or if they were short-staffed but on the whole her days were spent at the house, sedate and leisurely. And that was how she liked them.
All that was about to change, though, and as she began her descent of the wide stairwell, flicking on lights as she went, there was a tickle of excitement in her stomach that brought a smile to her lips.
Christmas was only eleven days away and soon the house would be filled with family. Celebrations and get-togethers had been planned, making up for lost time and then in the new year there would be a huge white wedding – but before that, Carmen would face another hurdle. There it was again, a tickle in the tummy.
It had been a long time since she’d felt like this about Christmas. The previous year’s festivities had been a washout. Lockdown rules that had everyone’s hopes hanging in the balance, gloom and fear, no real light, just a tunnel that separated people from their loved ones or worse, took them away for good.
No wonder Carmen had a morbid fear of Christmas. She couldn’t lay the full blame on an evil virus, though, it went further back than that. Ever since her sixth Christmas, memories of a day that should have been filled with joy and happiness were doused in gloom and unshakeable, gut-swirling misery.
It had never left her, what happened on that Christmas Eve. Her father didn’t come back. Not once. Afterwards her whole life changed, her mother changed, Carmen changed. Even if, for 364 days of the year she somehow managed to live without her dad there was no escaping Christmas, one special day that tormented her for weeks before and days after.
In adulthood Carmen had forced herself to smother the demons that taunted and threatened to derail Christmas for her own children but they still lingered in the corners of her mind. Right up to the last minute she would wait for something to go wrong, ruin it all. The saving up, the wrapping up, the waking up on Christmas morning, knowing it had all gone wrong.
