The Magic of Christmas. Trisha Ashley

never got off the ground: an interest in food is the only thing we’ve ever had in common, whatever Annie says, and he never tires of reminding me that mine is not gourmet, and it’s largely focused on sweets and desserts.

      ‘And this is not my bill, so you’ll have to come back and speak to Tom about it later,’ I added, sincerely hoping that that was all he wanted to talk to Tom about. Clearly he was harbouring suspicions … But no, whoever Tom was having an affair with, it couldn’t be Leila, his own cousin’s brittle little acid drop of a wife, however strange the circumstances might look!

      ‘If I can catch him,’ Nick said, the grin vanishing. He abruptly changed the subject. ‘Jasper had his results yet?’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ I said, happily diverted. ‘Yesterday and they were just what he needed for Liverpool University, to read Archaeology and History. He’s having breakfast at the moment – why don’t you come in and talk to him? He hasn’t thanked you for that Roman cookery book you sent him, yet.’

      Jasper’s keenly interested in food and drink too, but only from a purely historical perspective. Delving about in medieval cesspits and middens, which was what he seemed to be spending his days doing at the dig, suited him down to the ground.

      Nick looked at his watch. ‘I haven’t time today, so congratulate him for me, won’t you? I’d better be off. I’m doing some articles on eating out in the North-West – out-of-the-way restaurants and hotels – so I need to drop my stuff off up at the Hall and get on with it. Breakfast awaits, then lunch and dinner …’

      ‘Lucky you,’ I said politely, though sitting in restaurants isn’t my favourite thing. I’d rather pig out at home than eat prettily arranged tiny portions consisting of a splat, a dribble and a leaf, in public.

      He was frowning down at me again. ‘You know, Lizzy, two thousand is peanuts compared to what I get for my books. No wonder you’re living in a hovel – especially with Tom spending his earnings as fast as he makes them.’ He gestured at the giant satellite dish, incongruously attached to the side of the cottage.

      ‘We don’t need a huge amount of money and Perseverance Cottage is not a hovel,’ I began crossly. ‘Uncle Roly had all the mod cons installed before we moved in, and it’s exactly how I like it. I’ve got everything I want.’

      ‘Have you? Or perhaps you’ve got more than you bargained for,’ he said drily, his eyes again resting speculatively on my bruised cheek.

      I hoped he didn’t think Tom had taken to physical violence – or that I would have stayed to be a punchbag if he had! I was just about to disabuse his mind of any suspicions in that quarter when he turned round to survey my domain and remarked suavely: ‘I wouldn’t say the family have come a long way from the heady days of Pharamond’s Butterflake Biscuits, but they have certainly diverged in their interests.’

      Then, before I could point out that he at least was still vaguely in the bakery line, he got back into his car and reversed away in a cloud of dust. A lot of gritted chickens shot out from under it.

      ‘Wasn’t that Uncle Nick?’ Jasper asked, coming out ready for the off.

      ‘Yes, but he couldn’t stay. He had an urgent appointment with breakfast, though he did send you his congratulations on the exam results. Get in. I’ll just wash my hands and we’ll go.’

      ‘Can I drive?’ he asked hopefully. He’d recently passed his test, lessons courtesy of a lucky win on the gees at Haydock by Great-uncle Roly.

      ‘OK. Turn it round while I get ready.’

      He’d left the cottage door open, and one of the hens had made a small deposit on the rag rug.

      Chapter 3: Bittersweet

      We are more than halfway through August, the time of year for eating fruits and salads as they come into season; but all too soon we will be bottling, brewing, jamming and preserving as if our lives depended on it and famine was sure to follow glut. And the minute the Christmas Pudding Circle receive their bulk order of dried fruits, peel, nuts and other ingredients, we will all be making our mincemeat too, for we use a marvellous Delia Smith recipe that keeps for ever.

      The Perseverance Chronicles: A Life in Recipes

      All the way to the dig, while the loud music chosen by Jasper drowned out even the possibility of conversation, I wondered whether it could possibly be Leila that Tom had been having an affair with for the last couple of years – or the main one, because I’m sure he still scattered his favours pretty widely.

      Was Nick really hinting that he suspected that, or had I imagined it? But things certainly didn’t sound too friendly between him and Leila, even by their semidetached, sweet-and-sour standards!

      And what would I say to Tom when he returned? While saying nothing would probably be the most sensible option until my plans to leave were in place, I couldn’t let what he’d done pass, even if I didn’t really think he was trying to hurt me physically.

      Maybe I should have left before, even if it did mean disrupting Jasper’s schooling? The situation had certainly been affecting him – he seemed practically to have given up going out with his friends in the evening when Tom was home. Instead, he lurked in his room with the laptop Unks bought him, only suddenly looming silently up between us whenever voices were raised.

      So now was probably the moment to clear the air and tell Tom straight that I was not prepared to put up with his behaviour any more, so I was leaving him. I was convinced this was what he’d been angling for, so he could play the hurt innocent party to everyone and, perhaps, install someone else here in my place …

      I found that a particularly horrid thought, but Perseverance Cottage belonged to his uncle Roly, so obviously if anyone were moving out it would have to be me. And I simply wouldn’t ask Roly to help me, for not only did I not want to disillusion him about Tom, whom he had treated like another grandson, but he’d already been so kind and generous to us all these years by letting us have the cottage rent free.

      I expected I could find new homes for the hens and quail, but finding a new home for me would be the major problem. While the recent influx of newcomers into the area (especially the Cotton Common crowd) might mean that Annie’s Posh Pet-sitters could expand enough to employ me part-time, on the downside, it also meant property rentals had soared out of my reach.

      It was all depressingly difficult! Oh, why couldn’t Tom just vanish into thin air, never to be seen again, like those mysterious disappearances you read about in the newspapers?

      In need of comfort, I stopped off at Annie’s cottage on the way home from dropping Jasper at the dig. It was still early, but she’d already made a chicken casserole and popped it in the slow cooker for later.

      She seemed to have learned a lot more practical stuff than I ever did on that French cookery course we did in London after we left school, where volatile Madame Fresnet screamed at us all day long in French, the language in which we were supposed to learn to cook, thus killing two birds with one stone. At the end of the six months we all emerged with shattered eardrums, shattered French and the ability to whip up tartelettes au fromage at the drop of a whisk.

      Trinity skipped up to greet me, and Susannah, Annie’s deaf white cat, regarded me with self-satisfied disinterest from the top of the Rayburn.

      ‘All right?’ Annie asked anxiously, scrutinising my face.

      ‘Fine. Tom’s not back yet and Jasper’s at the dig – I just dropped him.’

      ‘It’s great he got his first choice university, isn’t it?’ she said, getting down another mug from the rack and pouring me some coffee. ‘Do you want a chocolate croissant? They’re hot from the oven and I don’t think I can eat the last one, I’ve had two already.’

      ‘Your eyes are bigger than your belly,’ I said vulgarly, accepting the plate, and sat down at the kitchen table, keeping my eyes firmly away from Trinny’s pleading dark ones, because the last thing a dog with three