been converted in the 1990s into a posh house with a thatched roof, which was covered in snow. Reg had died years ago, buried in the churchyard, which now came into view beyond the fork where the lane divided. A blackbird sang from the top of the war memorial, built in the triangle of grass in front of the gate. At its foot a wreath of crimson poppies seemed to seep into the blanket of white like the blood of the fallen.
Nan complained all the way. ‘It only looks pretty for the first few hours, then it turns to brown slush and people slip and slide all over the place. I’ll probably slip and break my neck. It would be just my luck, wouldn’t it, to slip in the snow and break my neck? They should have known it was coming and put salt down. But no, it’ll turn to ice overnight and I’ll slip on it and break my neck tomorrow.’
Marigold didn’t try to change her mother’s mind. She was used to Nan’s complaints and they fell off her like rain off a tin roof. Instead, she enjoyed the sight of the village, swathed in snow. ‘Pretty, isn’t it, Dennis,’ she said, linking her arm in her husband’s free one.
‘Very pretty,’ Dennis agreed, taking pleasure from being outside in the crisp morning air, on his way to seeing his friends. ‘Isn’t this grand, girls?’ he exclaimed jovially. ‘The three of us walking in the snow together.’
‘Speak for yourself, Dennis,’ grumbled Nan. ‘You’d better hold on to me tightly or I’ll slip.’
‘I thought you were going to slip and break your neck tomorrow,’ said Dennis with a grin.
Nan didn’t hear him. She was already distracted by people filing through the gate and onto the path that led up to the church doors. ‘They’ve cleared the path, I see,’ she said, squinting. ‘But they haven’t done a very good job of it. You’d better hold on to me all the way into the church, Dennis,’ she said. ‘We should have stayed at home instead of coming out in this dreadful weather.’
Dennis did as he was told and escorted his mother-in-law up the path, greeting friends as he went. ‘Isn’t it lovely!’ they all gushed, for commenting on the weather is the British people’s favourite topic of conversation.
‘I’ve had to get my snow boots out of the cupboard,’ said one.
‘We had to clear the front drive with a spade,’ said another.
Nan gave a disapproving sniff. ‘My husband, God rest his soul, did his back in digging us out with a spade,’ she said. ‘I’d be very careful if I were you.’
The church smelt pleasantly of wax and flowers. Nan let go of Dennis’s arm. She didn’t like talking to cheerful people and went on ahead to find a seat. Dutifully, Marigold followed.
Like his father before him, Dennis was the local carpenter. There was barely a house in the village where he hadn’t worked. A dresser here, a table there, a set of bookshelves or kitchen cabinets, a Wendy house for the children or a garden shed for Grandad. He knew everyone and loved shooting the breeze. He was considered by many to be a local treasure, an honorary member of the family, for as much time was spent chatting as putting up the pieces he made, and often, once on site, he’d replace the odd doorknob that had come off or re-grout the bathroom for no extra charge. He was like that, Dennis; a good man.
However, his trade had taken its toll on his body. He had bad knees and chronic back pain from carrying heavy things, and his left thumb bore the scars from the sharp tools he used, but he never complained. Dennis had always considered himself lucky that he was able to do what he loved. The duty on his health was a small price to pay.
Marigold was proud of her husband. He was a master of his trade. ‘Just give him a piece of wood and he’ll be as happy as a beaver,’ she’d say when someone else put in a request, and it was true, Dennis was never more content than when he was working in his shed, listening to Planet Rock on the radio while Mac the cat observed him silently from the windowsill.
But nothing satisfied Dennis more than making Marigold’s Christmas present.
Every year he made her a jigsaw puzzle. It was no surprise, she knew what she’d be getting, but not what it would look