Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read. Catherine Ferguson

I’d nipped over to see Mum in between shifts, only to find her in despair over a blocked toilet. We tried pouring bleach down and waiting before flushing, but that had no effect. Mum was almost in tears because she knew what was coming. I was going to have to call a tradesman.

      ‘It’s fine,’ she said, pleadingly. ‘I read somewhere baking soda can work wonders. I’ll see if I can find some.’ She went off to perform the hoarder’s equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack, and I stared after her in despair.

      ‘Mum, you have to get it sorted properly. You can’t live with a blocked toilet. I’m going to phone a plumber.’

      ‘No! I won’t let you!’ She beetled back and made a grab for my phone. It fell to the ground, smashing the screen, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself yelling at her. I couldn’t leave Mum without sorting out the damn toilet, but how could I do that without a plumber? And now my phone was broken!

      The burden of caring for Mum was suddenly too much. I escaped outside on the pretext of looking for something in the garage, and leaned against the wall, taking big gulps of fresh air and trying to calm down so that I could try to address the problem logically.

      That’s when I noticed a youngish, fair-haired man, with dark-rimmed glasses and what looked like a camera, peering intently at the ground just beyond Mum’s front gate. Wondering if he was okay, I went over to investigate.

      He looked up and I thought how handsome he was.

      ‘Do you live here?’ he asked, gazing at the house as if it was a palace.

      ‘No. But my mum does.’

      ‘Wow. Does she know she has a piece of social history right outside her front gate?’ He pointed at the circular piece of metal, with a design on it, set into the pavement. ‘Look at that. A Victorian coal-hole cover, made by a foundry that doesn’t exist any more. Amazing!’

      ‘Gosh. Now that I know it’s a piece of Victorian history, I’ll take more notice of it in future!’

      He smiled, showing lovely white teeth.

      I took out my hanky to dab my wet mascara.

      ‘Are you all right?’ He seemed genuinely concerned, so I ended up telling him all about Mum’s blocked toilet and how she hated having tradesmen in because then they’d see the state of the house.

      ‘I know a bit about plumbing,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to have a look?’

      I was so relieved, I actually laughed. ‘Would you? I’d be so grateful. If I can’t fix it, she’ll have to come and stay with me tonight.’

      ‘Oh, well, in that case, we’d definitely better do something!’

      We laughed at his joke and went inside, and I distracted Mum in the kitchen by making tea, while Harrison burrowed his way through to the bathroom. He took the piles of junk in his stride, and not once did he turn back to me to roll his eyes or give me a funny look.

      Twenty minutes later, after he’d poured a whole bottle of shampoo down the toilet, followed by a bucket of hot water, Mum was smiling with relief that her loo was flushing properly again, and offering him tea.

      His name was Harrison, and Mum seemed amazed to learn that she had a piece of social history right outside her front gate.

      I swear it was fate at work that day. I mean, what are the chances of there being a manhole cover right outside Mum’s house that Harrison just happened to be photographing at the exact time I was inside having a complete meltdown over Mum? Often, we’ll be talking fondly about the unexpectedness of our first meeting, and Harrison will heave a sigh, abandoning himself to sentimental reminiscences. ‘Remember that manhole cover!’ he’ll say.

      And I’ll smile and recall how he rode to my rescue. I’d been at my very lowest ebb that day, desperately scared about Mum’s future and feeling so alone. But Harrison turned things around.

      It’s something I’ll never, ever forget.

       Chapter 3

      When I arrive back from Mum’s, Harrison is still out, so I decide to make a start on the mince pies I’ve offered to bake for his office party on Friday.

      He’s been making a big effort lately to show that he’s worthy of a promotion at work, and he’s hoping to impress his sweet-toothed boss with my special Christmassy pies. They have a deliciously rich and crumbly orange-and-cinnamon pastry, and I add apple brandy to the filling to make them extra indulgent. I doubt my festive snacks alone will land him the job he’s after, but it’s lovely that Harrison considers my baking worth showing off.

      Thinking about Harrison’s hopes of promotion reminds me that in a few days’ time, I’ll find out if I’m to be The Pretty Flamingo’s new restaurant manager! A bolt of nerves and excitement surges through me. Everyone seems to think I’m the obvious candidate and I know Mr Hastings, the retiring restaurant manager, likes and trusts me. The fact that I’ve worked through every Christmas period for the past six years is sure to count in my favour. Plus the fact that I’m always happy to work extra shifts when they’re short-staffed. If I get the promotion, Erin might stop badgering me to leave and take up cooking for a living!

       But perhaps they won’t think I’m good enough.

      Instantly, I’m back in that kitchen doorway, a miserable ten-year-old, overhearing a bitter-sounding Martin muttering to Mum, ‘Let’s face it, she’s far too timid. She’ll never amount to anything.’

      Something inside me dies but I brush the feeling away, as I always do, telling myself I don’t care. If I get the job, great. If I don’t, it really doesn’t matter.

      The message light is flashing on the landline in the living room. Pressing the ‘play’ button on the speaker, I head through to the kitchen, already rolling my sleeves up to start baking and expecting to hear Harrison telling me when he’ll be home.

      I stop in the doorway.

      Unless he’s caught a horrible cold that’s deepened his voice and added a barrowload of gravel to it, that’s definitely not Harrison. Maybe it’s a friend of his or one of his colleagues. I hurry back into the living room, just as the stranger’s deep voice rumbles, ‘pulling out your heart by its bootstraps. But enough of that …’

      Intrigued, I hit ‘play’ to hear the message from the beginning.

      Hi Clemmy, it’s Jed Turner. Have to say it was amazing seeing you on Saturday night. Can’t believe it’s been so long since our legendary holiday in France. And by the way, you never spoke truer words than when you said about love reaching into your chest and pulling out your heart by its bootstraps. (A throaty chuckle here.) But on to cheerier matters. I’m calling to invite you to spend Christmas in the country. Log fire, hot tub and an entire forest of fir trees. How could you refuse? Phone me to say yes.

      I stand there, staring at the phone, the cogs of my brain whirring madly.

      Who on earth is Jed Turner? And who, for that matter, is Clemmy? It must be a wrong number. All the same, I listen to the message again, although it’s more out of curiosity than anything else.

      Jed Turner has a deliciously deep voice. Someone’s obviously had their heart broken with all that bootstrap talk! I wonder if it’s him?

      I listen to it twice more, shaking my head at the weirdness of the message landing on our phone, and wondering vaguely where this amazing place is with its log fire and hot tub. Somewhere quite palatial, by the sounds of things.

      I feel a bit guilty, as if I’m eavesdropping: It should be Clemmy listening to the message, not me. But that’s silly – there’s nothing I can do about it. Presumably when Jed doesn’t hear back, he’ll phone her again and, this time, he’ll get the number right.

      But