The Little Village Christmas. Sue Moorcroft

bed, but already she knew it would be empty from the absence of warmth stealing towards her along the sheets. She yawned, then stopped and listened. The house was quiet.

      ‘Ben?’

      No answer. She felt a little as Goldilocks might have done if there had been no bears, waking alone in a strange bed in a cottage in the woods. She rolled out of bed and wandered to the head of the stairs. ‘Ben?’

      Silence. Shrugging, she entered the bathroom, glancing at herself in the mirror and laughing at the way her hair was sticking up. Last night’s dusty clothes lay on the floor but she stepped over them to try Ben’s upmarket shower, experimenting with the buttons that controlled the jets. Enjoying the hot water, she thought of Ben’s hands on her last night. Maybe he was a wizard. He’d certainly worked a little magic on her body. Her limbs still felt heavy and relaxed. Sated. She smiled gently at the memories as she allowed the hot water to sluice the scent of Ben from her body. Then she borrowed his towel and had little choice but to climb into yesterday’s clothes, combing her hair with her fingers.

      ‘Ben?’ she called again as she ran down the stairs. It didn’t take long to check the ground floor. In the kitchen she pulled out Barney’s tub and crouched to peep at him. ‘Where’s he gone, Barney? Did he have to work today? It’s Sunday. I thought most of the estate workers had weekends off.’

      Barney’s beak flipped open. ‘Hehhhhh.’

      Rising, she gazed out of the window at the clearing and the tree trunks crowding beyond it. The silver truck she could see was presumably Ben’s. Briefly, she debated hanging on to see if he returned but then decided he wouldn’t be so rude as to leave her to wake up alone unless he’d gone out to work for the day. Maybe an elm had needed urgent surgery. She glanced at her phone to check for texts before remembering there had been no reason to give him her number.

      ‘He could have left a note, eh, Barney Owl? But maybe he told me last night – parts of it are a little blurry. Never mind. He’ll come back to feed you so tell him I said bye.’

      ‘Hehhhhh,’ remarked Barney, tilting his head.

      Alexia let herself out into the brisk September morning and headed up the path to the village, hurrying to keep warm until she left the tree canopy and made it out into the sunshine.

      In fifteen minutes she emerged from the bridleway and crossed Port Road, electing to traverse the playing fields to access Main Road rather than taking Cross Street, which would mean passing the village shop. ‘News and Booze’ for many years had been A & G Crowther but now Gwen Crowther’s niece, Melanie, had taken it over and made it an off-licence. Melanie was even more beady-eyed than Gwen had been and Alexia could just imagine her throwing open the door and yelling, ‘Where have you been to get your jeans dirty this early on a Sunday?’ Her huge friendly smile wouldn’t in the least prevent her from later sharing Alexia’s reply with every customer to enter the shop.

      So, crossing the village by way of the playing fields, Alexia waved at a couple of people she knew who were pushing their children on swings and spared a glance for the sad sight of the closed-down village hall.

      Her trainers were damp from the grass by the time she got home. Like Ben’s cottage, 44 Main Road was made of stone, but there the similarity ended. Long and low, its windows peered out from under its slated roof. Grandpop, Alexia’s grandfather, had left the cottage to Alexia and her brother, Reuben – bypassing his son, Clifford, their dad, because he knew its proceeds would be swallowed by the insatiable maw that was Clifford’s finances.

      Alexia, who hadn’t inherited the rubbish-with-money gene, had taken on a mortgage to buy Reuben out, who, living happily in Germany with his wife Hanna, had been delighted.

      It was Alexia who’d been close to Grandpop anyway, spending hours with him in his workshop at the side of the house ‘making sawdust’ as he’d called it. Her workshop now, Grandpop’s tools mingled happily with her sewing machine and paintbrushes, the perfect place for the projects that brought her touch to her clients’ homes.

      She let herself in, acknowledging wistfully that though she planned to take down all her lovely handmade Christmas ornaments early in the holiday this year, she’d be packing them along with everything else ready to move out in January. It would cause her a pang to leave number 44, even knowing Jodie and Shane would look after her little house and that Alexia could return. But Grandpop would have understood her leaving Middledip for a while to give working with Elton a try. ‘Upwards and onwards,’ he’d have said.

      The house was silent, though it was past ten o’clock. Shane’s truck wasn’t outside so presumably it was still where he’d left it at The Angel last night and he and Jodie were still upstairs, oblivious.

      Enjoying the peace, Alexia ran up to change her dusty clothes before embarking on weekend chores – doing laundry, humming gently to herself as she ironed, wondering, occasionally, whether Ben would get her number from Gabe.

      As the hours went by with no sound from elsewhere in the house, she revised her opinion about Shane and Jodie. They must have got up and gone out before she came home, which was pretty hard-headed of them considering how drunk Jodie had looked the night before.

      By the middle of the afternoon she was seated at her kitchen table, happily emailing Elton an update on The Angel.

       I’ve allowed twelve weeks for the project from tomorrow, but there’s a time contingency built into that. IF everyone turns up when they say they will AND we hit no snags I’d like to complete the refurb in ten. I’ll keep you posted …

      A sudden noise caused her to cock an ear towards the kitchen ceiling as what sounded like Jodie’s footsteps crossed between bedroom and bathroom. She must have been sleeping off her heavy night all along.

      Alexia returned to her email.

       … and also get my portfolio and website absolutely spot-on to include loads of pix of The Angel. Maybe that would be a good time to resume the conversation about involving me with your investor’s portfolio of properties?

      Evidently Elton was online too, because his answer pinged into her inbox in minutes.

       You know I’m waiting for you with open arms, woman. Just get your crap together and give me something I can show my investor!

      Alexia had typed back – You’ll have to give me till Christmas to get The Angel up and running, then, hopefully, in the New Year – as Jodie trailed into the kitchen wrapped in a past-its-best blue-striped bathrobe. Flopping down at the table she propped her head in her hands. ‘Bleurgh,’ she groaned piteously. ‘Have you seen Shane?’

      Regarding her friend’s waxy pallor with sympathy, Alexia shook her head. ‘I assumed he’d be with you. He’s not working at The Angel today, is he?’

      Jodie gave a tiny shrug, palms dragging her cheeks down. ‘Dunno. I’m dying, I feel horrible. Can you make me feel better?’

      Sportingly, Alexia closed her laptop and picked up the kettle. ‘I’m surprised to see you quite so hungover. I know you had several beers but—’

      ‘I only had one beer!’ Jodie protested. ‘But it did go to my head. Shane had some lovely lemon stuff his auntie had brought him back from Sorrento and he said it would set me right. We took it up to bed.’

      Alexia’s hand tightened on the tap. ‘Limoncello?’ Seriously? Shane had poured liqueur down Jodie when she was already drunk? His brain must have begun to rust from spending too much time outdoors.

      ‘Yes, that was it. I loved the limoncello,’ Jodie added, fairly. ‘But it didn’t make me better. I started to be sick so Shane got me a bucket.’

      ‘And cleared off?’ Alexia felt anger bubble up that Shane wasn’t responsible enough to stay and ensure his girlfriend was OK when he’d quite obviously encouraged her to get drunk. What kind of shitty boyfriend did that? She set a mug of coffee before Jodie. ‘Don’t you mind that he didn’t stick