The Reluctant Elf (Kindle Single) Read online

  We did find all the sheets and towels at least, and Aunt Kate’s hoarding tendency means there’s plenty of formal china and glassware for the guests. Today the heavy work really begins.

  ‘I’m trying to get a signal. I’ll try outside in a minute but I wanted to see what the reception was like in the house. So far it’s a 3G black hole in here.’

  The reviewer may not appreciate having to stand on the dining table to send a text.

  ‘These old walls might look ready to cave in but they’re probably quite thick,’ he says. ‘You could try the conservatory.’

  Sure enough, my phone whistles with new emails when I reach the ornate glasshouse.

  The noise excites one of the pigeons making camp on the floor. He takes flight through a broken window while the rest of his cooing friends watch me have a minor heart attack.

  ‘Hey Danny?’ I call back inside. ‘How are your pigeon-whispering skills? We have feathered houseguests. If you can convince them to go outside we can try to clean all the poo off the floor.’

  It’s frigid out here but with the wood-burning stove going in the middle of the room and the addition of some sofas and chairs, it might pass for shabby chic instead of just shabby. At least there’s a phone signal.

  I scroll through my emails, clicking open the one from my boss. Sorry to hear about your aunt, it reads, and of course I understand that you need to go. Just keep me updated and let me know when you think you’ll be back. I hope your aunt is okay.

  I delete the usual proposals from dying African princes to make me their sole heir and click on Bronwyn’s email.

  It’s only a few lines long, but at least it’s something.

  Dear Lottie, We’re at the airport and Bronwyn is typing this on her phone. I’m terribly sorry about your aunt and I do hope she’ll be well again soon. Our prayers are with her.

  Here’s what you need to know about the house:

  - Mingus’s food is under the sink. He prefers the fish to the chicken but he’ll eat whatever you put out when he gets hungry

  - Always wait five minutes after flushing the loo to turn on the taps

  - There’s coal in the cellar for the woodburners

  - I believe the reviewer is called Rupert Grey-Smythe

  - We have mice

  - Watch out for the 8.30 train

  - Don’t forget about the chickens

  Good luck!

  We’ve got chickens? I suppose that means Danny has a fresh supply of eggs to cook. The morning is looking up.

  I leave him in the kitchen to acquaint himself with the appliances while I check on Mabel.

  ‘Mummy?’ she calls as soon as I open the door.

  ‘Yes, sweetie. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I’m still sleepy,’ she says. ‘But I’m too excited to stay in bed.’

  ‘Maybe a shower will wake you up. I’ll go in first just to make sure it’s working, okay?’ I tuck the thick duvet around her. ‘Have another little rest and I’ll let you know when it’s ready.’

  There are three bathrooms upstairs to accommodate the seven guest bedrooms but, as Danny pointed out, not all of those rooms are habitable. Actually, depending on your definition of habitable, it’s questionable whether any of them are. They all have mould creeping up the walls. A fungal pelt covers the floor in two of them and part of the ceiling is caved in in another. That leaves four guest rooms. I just hope the reviewer won’t ask to see the others.

  Aunt Kate has clearly done a few renovations in the bathrooms though. They’re wet rooms in fact, fully tiled across their floors and halfway up the walls, with a round drain in the middle of the slightly sloping floor. But they still have all their pre-war features, which makes them so old that they’ve come all the way around to retro.

  There’s a cistern above the toilet and a claw-footed tub. The only concession to the latter half of the twentieth century is the hand-held shower nozzle mounted on the wall.

  I run the hot-water tap, waiting for it to heat. So far, so good. Gratefully I peel off my pyjamas and set my shampoo in the little tray at the far end of the tub. The round rail suspended above me is bare, so I have to be extra careful not to splash. In fact I’ll see if Danny can find a plain curtain. Even though the door is locked I feel exposed without it.

  The shampoo lathers my hair into stiff peaks. The water must be softer here than in London. Maybe it’s well water. Lovely, clean Welsh well water. That could be a selling point to the guests, I suppose-

  Suddenly the wall behind the bath moans with the anguish of the undead. Then something starts knocking on the wall, slowly at first, getting faster and faster and faster until….

  ‘Jesus!’

  The water scalds me before I can jump away. Shampoo bubbles slide into my eyes as I feel for the edge of the tub.

  Ow ow ow ow.

  Then there’s a crash. Squinting through the bubbles, I see the showerhead writhing on the floor beside the tub, soaking everything.

  With my eyes streaming from the soap, I screw the tap handles closed.

  ‘Holy shit.’

  ‘Mummy?’ Mabel calls through the bathroom door. ‘Can I have my shower now? I’ve used the loo already.’

  Yes, I gathered that from the sudden change in water temperature. Our plumbing is going to poach our guests if we let them shower.

  ‘Hang on honey, I’ll draw you a bath instead.’

  Mabel has found Mingus, who turns out to be a rather rough-looking cat. He was asleep in the dining room cabinet where Aunt Kate keeps the white linen tablecloths (now covered in brown and black fur). Mabel has decided that Mingus loves her, based on the fact that he’ll purr if she strokes him long enough. He seems perfectly happy in his role as her new best friend and I’m glad she’s got the diversion. It isn’t easy always being the only little person in a grown-up world.

  I throw the tablecloths into the industrial tumble dryer in the cellar. Hopefully most of the hair will come out in the filter. If not we’ll have to convince the guests that mohair tablecloths are the newest mealtime accessory in Snowdonia.

  I’m not fooling myself. I know we’ll never clean/arrange/paint/fix in time. We’ve got to prioritise. Aunt Kate must have planned to get the rooms painted, so I send Danny to the guest bedrooms to see what he can do.

  Meanwhile I make a start on the downstairs hall, which looks even worse now that the newly cleaned windows let in all the daylight. In some places the walls are so pockmarked that they look like the scene of an execution. Painting over them will just give us freshly painted pockmarked walls.

  Aunt Kate, what could you have been thinking, booking the reviewer in for Christmas? Did you really believe you’d get everything done in time for him to give you the rating you need?

  Even as I ask myself the question I know the answer. Of course she did. She believes she can do anything.

  This is, after all, the woman who opened a home for retired opera singers in northern Wales.

  In fairness, it was her friend Ivan’s idea and, at first, his investment.

  They were friends from their touring days in Europe in the seventies, and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Ivan. When he retired, at the ripe age of fifty, he was determined to give something back to the art that had given him so much.

  Aunt Kate had always been a wandering soul, so why not move to Wales? They used some of his family money to buy the house and offered a home to ageing singers for nearly ten years. It was rare for a tenant to be able to pay them anything, but for a while they were able to make ends meet using Ivan’s remaining savings and then an equity release loan against the property.

  The money ran out at nearly the same time that Ivan’s luck did. Aunt Kate nursed him through his final curtain call and he left all he had to her – the house, the land and the unpaid equity release loan.

  That’s why I’m sitting in a crumbling house contemplating the holes in the walls.

  I can hear Danny saying something from upstairs.

 
‘Be right up.’

  When I push the bedroom door open it slams shut in my face.

  ‘Don’t come in!’

  ‘Sorry. Are you painting the door?’

  ‘Erm, yes? Oh bugger.’

  ‘Danny, what’s going on? I’m coming in.’

  It looks like the world’s largest seagull has taken aim at Danny. ‘Spilled a bit of paint, did you?’

  ‘A bit. Sorry. I’ll try to be more careful.’

  ‘Just see if you can get some on the walls, okay?’

  ‘I’m not exactly a painting pro,’ he says. ‘Which is ironic since I went to art school.’

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘You don’t have to sound so incredulous. Yes, I did, really.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I stare at the walls. ‘I guess I can see some Jackson Pollock influences in your work.’

  ‘I stick to sculpture now,’ he says. ‘If I scrub the mould off first and do just one coat I should be able to finish the rooms by tomorrow. Without fixing the damp though, the mould will come back in a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s okay. This is a short-term fix. If we can pull it off then Aunt Kate can properly fix up the house later. All we have to do is make everything hold together for a week.’

  ‘You mean we can stick everything together with chewing gum.’

  Hmm, chewing gum.

  ‘Danny? Could we fill the holes in the walls with gum?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, that won’t work. We tried it in our halls of residence to cover the nail holes we made in the plaster. Toothpaste is what you want for that.’

  He goes back to his paintbrushes. I go to the bathroom to raid my spongebag.

  An hour later I survey my handiwork. The walls smell like toothpaste but they’ll look okay with a coat of paint. It’s a minty fresh renovation.

  I’m even beginning to enjoy myself. With a bit of ingenuity and a lot more hard work, I feel like I’ll honestly be able to tell Aunt Kate when I see her later that things are going to be all right.

  Chapter Five

  It’s after midnight again before I crawl into Aunt Kate’s bed with Mabel. I could move her into one of the other rooms once the stench of fresh paint wears off but I’d rather keep her with me. I love reaching out in the night to stroke her soft hair, or hear her rhythmic breathing on the pillow next to mine. I didn’t know I could love someone this fiercely until I had her.

  Aunt Kate always said she never wanted her own children (What would I do with my own that I can’t do with you, darling Lottie?), but that made me a little sad. Then after Mum and Dad died, selfishly I was glad. It meant that Mabel and I didn’t have to share her love with anyone else.

  She continued to look after Mabel when I got back from Australia and I slept for two straight days. She quietly and efficiently took care of all the funeral arrangements, called the friends and made all the administrative changes that a death involves.

  As we sat together on the sofa after the funeral, surrounded by Mum and Dad’s many friends, she quietly asked me if I wanted her to stay.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Lions couldn’t chase me away if you want me here.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She moved into Mum and Dad’s room and in those six months when she put her life on hold to help us learn to live ours again, she became as close to me as my own parents had been.

  I’m going to do everything I can to help her now.

  Danny is already in the kitchen when I come downstairs the next morning.

  ‘Day two,’ he says. ‘Do you want some tea?’

  ‘I could murder a cup, thanks.’ I wince at myself. At least Mabel-the-Mimic is still asleep. Being big sister to the cat is proving tiring work.

  He pours two large mugs and sits across from me at the long refectory table. I’ve got to say this for Aunt Kate. Her house might be falling down but she hasn’t skimped on the décor. At least that gives us something to work with.

  ‘Do you have everything here that you’ll need for your cooking?’

  ‘Sure. I can just make pasta every night, right?’

  I laugh. ‘Right. Imagine serving spag bol to a B&B critic. I’ve been thinking about that actually. Last night I ordered a bunch of stuff that should give us everything we need to impress them. It’s supposed to arrive by tomorrow lunchtime. You have no idea how hard it was to find a company that could deliver here.’

  I spent two hours in the conservatory with my teeth chattering before finding a shop online, called Posh Food Fast, that can FedEx their food to us. ‘We’re not exactly within the Waitrose delivery area.’

  ‘We’re probably not even within the Lidl delivery area,’ he says. ‘Will you need me to get anything from the shops today?’

  ‘I’ve made a list that should cover us for their whole stay.’

  ‘Good, because everything will close tomorrow afternoon and probably won’t open until the 27th.’

  ‘That’s what I figured. Can you go in to Rhyl today while Mabel and I visit Aunt Kate? You could do the shopping and then come back to collect us. If it’s okay, I’ll cook for us tonight after we get back from the hospital. I’d like to say thank you for helping me.’

  Danny might be joking about the spag bol, but I’m not. Hopefully he likes pasta with Dolmio.

  ‘You have paid me a packet to do it, but I’ll accept your thanks too. Is there much left to do today?’

  ‘Ha, what a naïve question. The answer is yes.’ I pull the list from my bathrobe pocket. Where to start?

  ‘I’m bored!’ Mabel whines as I’m pulling all the dead weeds and flowers from the beds at the front of the house. My back aches and my arm muscles are protesting each stretch.

  ‘Where’s Mingus? I’m sure he’d like some company.’

  ‘I can’t find him.’

  I’m not surprised. He lost his sense of humour when she tried combing his coat with her hairbrush.

  ‘Go see if you can help Danny.’

  ‘He sent me out here to help you.’

  I smirk into the bushes. He’s obviously dealt with children before. ‘Okay, let me think a minute, and I can give you a job to do, okay?’

  ‘A fun job?’

  ‘Absolutely. Is there any other kind?’

  Twenty minutes later, Mabel is surrounded by a sea of silver at the dining room table. There must be fifty pieces scattered around the house, from candlesticks and ornate candelabra to delicate mirrors, hairbrushes, sugar tongs and decorative boxes. You name it and someone covered it in silver and sold it to Aunt Kate.

  I feel a bit bad as I kiss my daughter’s forehead and leave her there with pots of silver polish. But someone will have to do it and she does have those dexterous little fingers. Besides, it isn’t exploitative child labour when you’ve given birth to the labourer.

  ‘Do you have lights or anything for the front?’ Danny asks as I rake years of dead leaves from under the overgrown bushes. We haven’t found any clippers so Mr Grey-Smythe and his family will have to accept our wild and rustic hedges.

  ‘It would look a lot more Christmassy,’ he continues. ‘You could have a ready-made Christmas tree right here.’

  Shit!

  ‘We don’t have a tree for inside,’ I say. ‘We can’t host guests for Christmas without a Christmas tree. Is it too late to order one?’

  He stares at me, smirking. ‘Order one? Is that how they do it in London?’

  As if I don’t feel foolish enough without admitting that my parents ordered our Christmas tree from the same delivery service for more than a dozen years.

  ‘I suppose you’d just go chop one down in the forest then?’

  ‘Generally, yes. Do you know where to find a saw?’

  ‘In the garage, I guess.’ My eye falls on the tree by the front door. ‘Maybe we could cut this one down.’

  ‘And leave the stump? I’m not sure your aunt would appreciate you chopping down her landscaping. We can find one in the wood.’

  ‘
Fine, then let me just get Mabel.’ She’ll love seeing a Christmas tree in its natural environment. It’ll be like the time we went birdwatching in Regent’s Park.

  We’re stomping through brambles half an hour later looking for two straight, tall trees for the parlour and the hall.

  ‘Do you usually play jolly woodsman like this?’ I call to Danny as he walks a bit ahead with the saw slung over his shoulder. He looks at home among the trees, casual, relaxed and competent. So different from my parents. They and their friends were uncomfortable when out of range of recycling facilities. Such a manly display is remarkable. Mabel isn’t the only one impressed by our outing.

  ‘Nah, usually I’d work this week and next so it’s not worth bothering with a tree.’

  ‘I guess a lot of people need taxis over the holidays.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t mean driving the taxi. I take two weeks off at the end of each year so that I can sculpt full-time. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I used to nick the soap from our bathroom at home and carve it into tiny animals, drove my parents mad. So when it came time to decide on a course, art was the obvious choice. But it doesn’t pay, so I fit it in around driving.’

  ‘A taxi driver with the soul of an artist.’ I smile. ‘Do you sell your sculptures and have exhibits and things like that?’

  ‘Yeah, but like I said, I can’t support myself yet. One day, maybe. What do you do for work?’

  ‘Oh, it’s boring. I’m a software programmer, mostly for games.’

  His eyes light up. ‘That doesn’t sound boring. Do you like it?’

  ‘Well it pays the bills and I don’t mind it. And I guess it’s only boring if you’re not a gamer.’

  ‘What about you? Are you a gamer?’

  I shrug. Despite working in the industry for five years, the gaming bug never really took hold. I much prefer curling up with a good book or crap telly.

  ‘Mummy, look!’ Mabel runs to a pretty pine and hugs it. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Mind the needles.’