I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,84
They’d eaten in the best restaurants all over the world in their years together. When Charlie became ill and lost his appetite, Robin felt as if an integral part of his lover had died ahead of the rest of him. The wonder drug Charlie had been prescribed had given him back his love of food, his love of life because the two went hand in hand for him. It revived him so much, Robin wanted to believe the doctors had it wrong, that he’d get better, that all Charlie needed to do was give his body the chance to heal properly and eat healthily. And so Robin had pored over nutrition books, drawn up menus, trusted in superfoods, cruciferous veg, whole grains, unrefined this and organic that in the desperate hope that they would restore Charlie back to him. But a stuffed pepper couldn’t bring the sort of smile to his face that the Christmas pud had just put there.
‘Can I really fit some pudding in?’ asked Bridge, who felt as if her weight had doubled in the last half hour.
‘Course you can. Women have a second stomach especially reserved for it,’ said Luke. It was what Carmen said in restaurants. She always had dessert. She judged the worth of a dining establishment by the quality of their dessert menu. It was one of the funny little things he loved about her. And there were many funny little things that he loved about her.
‘Tremendous pudding, Luke. Did you make this yourself?’ asked Charlie.
‘Nope. According to the label it’s another product from Hollybury Farm. They must keep the pub supplied with their products.’
‘Local farm shop I reckon,’ said Bridge. ‘I might try and find it on the way home. So far everything from there’s been top-notch.’
‘There is a hamlet called Hollybury in this area,’ said Charlie. ‘They used to have a May Day fair every year. I remember my mother taking me and I won a teddy bear on the hook a duck stall. My, I’d forgotten all about that. It just shows you, doesn’t it, what’s lying there in the depths of your mind waiting for something to entice those recollections to the top.’
Charlie marvelled how the mere word ‘Hollybury’ could have unearthed such a wealth of technicolour memories. The bear was brown with a yellow ribbon around his neck and a red belly and he’d called it Robin. How could he have forgotten that?
‘I wonder what the people who should have been having their lunch here today are doing instead,’ Bridge said, to no one in particular.
‘Eating cheese sandwiches, the poor sods,’ replied Robin, his spoon diving into the pudding. ‘Think of the favour we are doing the landlord. All this food would have rotted. At least, the stuff that wasn’t in the freezer, anyway.’ He picked up his champagne. ‘He should be paying us really. We’ve kept the place aired for him, we’ve taken care of perishables and no doubt we’ll give him a glowing report on Tripadvisor.’
Jack clicked his fingers. ‘I knew there was something I meant to tell you. I bet no one’s looked at the photographs on the wall.’
There was a general shaking of heads. Mary, in passing, had noticed some small postcard-sized photos in frames, but not taken much heed apart from that.
‘Well look more closely, they’re everywhere and so interesting. And they all feature Figgy Hollow as it was in its heyday. Although to be fair, “heyday” is probably pushing it a bit.’
‘I simply cannot understand why I’ve not heard of this place,’ said Charlie. ‘There are so many small villages around here and I know them all, in fact their names could be my specialist subject on Mastermind: Slattercove, Hollybury, Briswith, Winmark, Little Loste, Ren Dullem… what an odd place that was. Like something out of a John Wyndham novel. I went as a boy and remember there were no women to be seen and some of the menfolk staring at my mother as if she were some kind of bizarre creature.’
‘Bloody northerners, they’re all weird,’ said Robin, winking at Mary.
‘There was definitely something weird about that place.’ Charlie shuddered. ‘They were breeding mutants or harbouring aliens or something there. I mean the village we live in is quite insular and I like that, it’s quirky, but Ren Dullem was right off the peculiar scale.’
‘Where do you live, Charlie?’ asked Jack.
‘We live near Tring, beautiful part of the world. In a village called Tuckwitt, please don’t laugh.’