The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,31
him for company, even if he did wear the expression of an edgy sociopath. I picked him up, gave him a little kiss and sat him on the chair opposite. He smiled. I read the note.
Dear Katherine
My name is Fenella and I’m friends with Gerald. As there is no smoke coming out of your chimney, I assume you must be freezing and possibly hungry. Come down and warm yourself by my Aga. A full breakfast is waiting for you in the bottom oven. Mine is the pink thatched cottage by the harbour on the corner. It’s to the left of the shop (don’t go in unless you want to spend a tenner on a tea towel. Tourists only).
Yours, F
Thank you, Lord!
I pulled on my boots, hat, coat and gloves and was out of the door and running down the track before the elf on the shelf (or the chair) knew what had hit him.
A ruddy-faced woman – the top of her head just about reaching my nipples – opened the door. She was wearing hair rollers, slippers and a blue tabard apron over Jazzercise leggings and a Christmas jumper (at least, I guessed it was a Christmas jumper, what with the shimmering antlers popping out of the top of the tabard). Her eyes shone with the unsquashed enthusiasm of an eager puppy.
‘Hi,’ I said, waving the note in my hand as if handing in a winning raffle ticket. ‘I’m Katherine? Gerald’s niece?’
She beckoned me in. ‘Yes, yes. Of course, you are. Of course, you are. Come on in! Come on in!’
I ducked to pass under the door frame and stood in the hallway, being disrobed. Once shot of my coat, she took my hands in hers and blew on them. Her breath was like dragon breath on ice.
‘Like two little blocks of ice, they are!’ she chided. ‘Never mind, we’ll soon get that sorted out. Go on through to the kitchen. Terrible news about George, although what on earth Gerald was doing rushing off in the middle of the night – in the middle of the storm – to get to him, I will never know. But …’ she sighed, ‘I suppose that’s love for you. I’d have been the same if it had been the dog.’ She shooed again. ‘Go on through, go on through. You’ll soon warm up in there.’
Stepping into Fenella’s kitchen was like a re-entering the womb – swaddled, cosy and ever-so-slightly claustrophobic. She bustled towards the Aga, grabbed a mitt and bent – her rear end in the air – to open the bottom oven door. I pulled out a pine chair with a padded cushion on it, sat down with a contented sigh and tried to look around but couldn’t as my eyes were fixed on a small, intricately carved wooden box sitting in the middle of the table. The brass nameplate on the front read:
My Beloved Monty
Rest in peace old friend
Ah.
I decided to leave Monty as the elephant in the room and looked away, only to notice a dog’s bed by the Aga, which matched the empty water bowl sitting by the door and the lead hanging on a peg with a pair of battered walking boots abandoned underneath.
‘Gerald said you need feeding up,’ she said, placing a full English breakfast in front of me. She paused to take in my physique. ‘But by the looks of you, you’re not going to waste away any time soon. Tea?’
I looked down at my breakfast – the fried egg was utter perfection, and that’s not easily done – and sighed yet another contented sigh. ‘Ooh, yes please. That would be lovely.’
After five further minutes of bustle, Fenella eventually sat herself down across the table and watched me polish off my breakfast with the obvious delight of a woman who takes great pleasure in feeding people up.
‘How was your first night in the cottage?’ she asked, taking the wrapper off a Wagon Wheel.
I dabbed runny egg off my bottom lip with the back of my finger and tore off a piece of kitchen towel to use as a napkin. ‘Oh, it was fine. Windy, but fine. Lovely place.’
‘Best house in the village, most say. Best view, anyway. Not sure what Sam Lanyon’s going to do with it, but there’s not rush.’
‘It was very good of him to let me stay.’
Fenella snapped the Wagon Wheel in half and dunked it in the tea before swallowing her first bite. My eyes narrowed in concentration as I watched the