A Christmas Cracker: The only festive romance to curl up with this Christmas!. Trisha Ashley

the fraud and didn’t report it. But of course, I could be just saying that, couldn’t I?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter to me, dear, so long as you’re ready to put the past behind you and take on a challenge and a new beginning.’

      ‘A challenge?’ I echoed blankly. I’d long since abandoned the idea that Mercy Marwood could have any use for a carer – if anything, it seemed likely that the boot would be on the other foot! But what on earth could she want me to do?

      ‘Oh, of course – Ceddie told me he would leave it all to me to explain, so you don’t know a thing about why I need your help, do you?’ she said, smiting her forehead with one small, clenched fist. ‘What an idiot! We’d better get down to it straight away, because Job’s collecting me when I leave and he wants to drive me back home before it gets dark.’

      ‘Job?’

      ‘I’ll explain about Job in a minute. We have to get back to West Lancashire, so it’s quite a long drive.’

      ‘Is that where you live?’ I asked, hopefully.

      ‘Yes, my home is called Mote Farm and it’s in the hamlet of Godsend, near Little Mumming. Do you know it? Ceddie said you were brought up in the Formby area, near Southport.’

      ‘I – yes,’ I stammered. ‘It’s right over to the east of Ormskirk, beyond the M6, where it starts to get hilly, isn’t it? In fact Snowehill Beacon, above Little Mumming, was one of my mother’s favourite places while she was still mobile enough to get there,’ I added, rocked by the coincidence – for following her wishes, the beautiful hillside, carved with the figure of a red horse and topped with a small tower, had also been where I had scattered her ashes …

      ‘Then I think that’s a sign from God that you should return there, don’t you?’ she said, beaming at me. ‘Now, I’ll get us both a cup of that hot chocolate Ceddie told me about, and put you in the picture.’

      ‘Right, explanation time.’ Mercy settled back into the chair as if it was infinitely more comfortable than it could possibly be. ‘I was born a Fell, which is a very old Quaker family, and I married into another, the Marwoods, and moved to Mote Farm.’

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about farming,’ I said doubtfully.

      ‘Oh, the Marwoods haven’t farmed anything for centuries, dear,’ she assured me, ‘or the family before them, who rebuilt the original thirteenth-century farmhouse. You can still see traces of that in the central hall and we think the oak front door and the moat are of that period, too.’

      ‘Moat?’

      ‘Just a small one. The house looks as if it’s sitting on a grassy cushion, rather sweet.’

      ‘Right,’ I said, trying to picture this.

      ‘It’s not at all grand, or by any means a stately home, but it was further extended in Tudor times with two wings and a central porch, then the whole wattle-and-daub construction faced in bricks,’ she said. ‘It’s quite quaint.’

      I didn’t know about quaint, it sounded very grand to me, but I didn’t say so, only nodded as if I had the faintest idea what she was telling me all this for.

      ‘My husband died many years ago and so Mote Farm came to me, but on the understanding that, in turn, I would leave the estate to the son of his sister, which of course I intend to do. For several years I’ve been away from home for extended periods, since I felt called to go out to Malawi.’

      ‘Yes, Ceddie told me, but that you are now home for good.’

      ‘Everything has its season, and I feel that mine for working in Malawi has come to an end, though of course I will still continue with the work of finding sewing machines and other materials to send out there.’

      I suddenly wondered if that was the job I would be helping her with. But before I could ask she continued, ‘I was so busy that I seem to have neglected what was happening at home and once you take your eye off the ball, there’s no telling where it will go.’

      ‘True,’ I agreed, still baffled.

      ‘I’ve always encouraged my nephew, Randal, to make his home at Mote Farm, since it will one day be his, so he’s a frequent visitor, though of course his work means he spends most of his time either abroad or at his flat in London.’

      ‘So Mote Farm has been empty a lot?’

      ‘By no means: my older brother, Silas, who is somewhat crippled by rheumatism and a reclusive nature, has lived there since I married. Whenever I was abroad, I charged him to make sure all ran smoothly at the factory, but he hasn’t taken the interest in it that I hoped he would.’

      ‘Factory?’

      ‘The cracker factory in the mill, dear. The house itself is well run in my absence, for Job looks after Silas, and his wife, Freda, lets the cleaners in each week, sorts the laundry, reports anything that needs ordering or repairing and generally acts as housekeeper. Of course, when I’m home I do all the cooking – I do love to cook.’

      I was starting to feel much as I had done on my arrival at prison, that I was trapped in some strange dream … or nightmare.

      ‘What is this factory you mentioned? Did you say … crackers?’

      I had a vision of those thin, crispy biscuits for cheese, which was instantly dispelled when she replied, ‘Marwood’s Magical Christmas Crackers.’

      ‘Oh, yes – we had those when my grandmother was alive,’ I said, enlightened. ‘She loved everything traditional.’

      ‘I fear that may be part of the problem,’ mused Mercy absently. ‘We have not moved with the times.’

      ‘So, is the factory near Mote Farm?’

      ‘Just across the valley and it’s actually the Friendship Mill, for the Marwoods were originally engaged in the cotton manufacturing process and harnessed the power of the stream. But in Victorian times the building was turned over to the production of fancy goods, which eventually dwindled to just crackers.’

      ‘Right,’ I said, slightly dazed by this further onslaught of strange information. ‘So really, now it’s a cracker-making workshop in an old cotton mill?’

      ‘That’s it,’ she nodded. ‘And so it remains, with a much diminished workforce. They live in a little row of terraced cottages below the mill, and Job and Freda have the first one. Then …’ she ticked off on her fingers, ‘there’s Dorrie in number two, then Bradley, Lillian and Joy … and Phil, who is a widower, in number six. I suppose they must all be the wrong side of seventy – how time does fly!’

      She looked at me bright-eyed, her head tilted to one side like a bird.

      ‘But my nephew informs me that the outgoings of the cracker-making business are about to exceed the profits and, while I’m glad to see that the boy has taken some interest in what will one day be his inheritance, his ideas for rectifying this are a little too arbitrary. He wants to invest in developing the mill site and has even had plans drawn up and sent out to me in Malawi.’

      ‘You mean, he wants to turn the cracker business around?’

      ‘No, he wants to close it down entirely and use the mill as some kind of shopping and café venue for day-trippers. He seems to think the workforce should all be ready to retire, though I’m sure they are no such thing. But I can see that they must overcome their resistance to change if the firm is to continue. And this is where you come in, Tabitha – as my right-hand woman.’

      ‘Do call me Tabby – and do you mean you need a PA?’

      ‘Of sorts. I need someone with artistic flair, youthful energy and vision, who can breathe new life into the cracker business.’

      ‘But I don’t know anything about running a business; I only packed things in boxes,’ I said blankly. ‘Or about crackers