I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,1
a sensible car, but a reasoned and encouraging, ‘You are on the A7501, south-west of Whitby.’
‘Where’s the nearest town?’
‘I couldn’t find any matching places.’
‘Where’s the nearest village?’
‘I couldn’t find any matching places.’
Bridge growled impatiently. ‘Siri, I know you’re a thing that lives in a phone but help me out here. Where’s the nearest farm, stable, shelter…’
‘The closest one I see is Figgy Hollow in two miles to your left.’
Well that’s more like it, thought Bridge, drawing level with the flapping sign and making out the words ‘Figgy Hollow’ and a left-pointing arrow backing up what Siri said. She would be stupid if she didn’t go there and stay put until this infernal snow cleared, even if Figgy Hollow was one of those places inhabited by strange country folk who bred werewolves and married close relatives. There was bound to be a church and, in the absence of a hotel or a pub or something, she’d throw herself upon its mercy like Esmeralda seeking sanctuary in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
‘Make a U-turn where—’
‘Oh shut up, you annoying unreliable tart,’ Bridge spoke over the satnav voice as she swung a left. She had lost all confidence in her after getting the mileage wrong. ‘I’m ignoring you in favour of Siri so save your breath.’
The road was narrow, deserted; she kept crawling forwards until she was rewarded by the sight of buildings, which drew a weary sigh of relief from her: a small church, some cottages, the roofs thickly iced with snow and – deep joy – the Figgy Hollow Inn. She projected herself forwards in time ten minutes, sitting in front of a log fire defrosting the outside of her while a large brandy warmed up her insides.
The ignition on her Porsche cut out as soon as she braked near the ‘car park’ sign; it might as well have held up a limp hand and said, ‘No more, I need to rest.’ It was like a racehorse of the car world, lovely to look at, fine on a familiar course but throw in some hardship and it became a proper wet blanket. Bridge slipped on her suit jacket, opened the car door, trading the cosy warmth for a blast of Arctic wind and hurried across to the front door of the inn, only to find that it was locked. Oh, bloody marvellous, she said to herself, noticing that in the window stood a square of cardboard with the words, ‘Open for pre-booked reservations only. Christmas Day fully booked’ written on it. But one thing was for sure, she couldn’t sit here for two days waiting for someone to open up.
She peered in the window, hoping to see a cleaner vacuuming around or a barman polishing tables, but there was no one. She rapped on the glass in a vain attempt to summon somebody who might be hidden out of view – a cellarman perhaps, having a crafty indoor cigarette. No response. She banged hard on the door with the side of her fist. Still nothing. Pulling her jacket tight around her she stepped, but mostly slid, in her snow-unfriendly Jimmy Choo boots around the side of the building, almost falling over a large iron ring attached to a cellar access door in the ground, hidden by snow. She bent and pulled it, but it was firmly secured from the inside. There was a shed full of logs opposite and at the back of the property she found another door with an iron grille over it and a long, narrow window to its right. She tapped as hard as she dared on the glass, hoping against hope that someone was lurking in the back half of the building, but really she knew she was on the road to nowhere with all her efforts; the place felt empty as well as looked it.
There was always the church, she supposed, making her way to it across the car park and the single-track road, traversing a short bridge that stood over a deep, thin ribbon of stream, slipping and sliding with none of the grace of Jayne Torvill. She tried the great arched door, twisting the rusted ring, then engaged in a bit more banging with various parts of her hand to absolutely no avail. So on it was, to the row of six adjacent cottages; she peered through the small window of the first of them, but it was too dark, the glass too dirty to see through. A knock on the door yielded