Page 7 of Christmas Spirits at Honeywell House (Ghosts of Rowan Vale #3)

The knock at the door pulled me out of my mental excursion into the past, and I blinked, somehow surprised to find myself sitting in the living room of Honeywell House, and not in that dark wood and tartan bedroom back at the hotel in the Highlands.

Realising we had a visitor, I hastily closed the sketchbook and shoved it on the coffee table before rushing into the hallway.

‘Who is it?’ Jack called from upstairs.

‘How should I know?’ I called back. ‘I’m not Madame Mariska, am I?’

‘Who?’ came his puzzled reply, and I rolled my eyes, wondering how Jack didn’t recognise the name of the celebrity psychic and medium from the popular television show, It’s Haunted! Then again, he rarely watched television apart from documentaries and the odd film he fancied.

I threw open the door and managed a smile as I found Callie and Brodie on the step.

Part of me was pleased to see them, but the other part was frantically trying to remember how tidy the living room was, not to mention the kitchen, and if Jack had managed to get the smell of the tuna out of the carpet.

‘Come in,’ I said. ‘Nice to see you both.’

‘Who is it?’ Jack called again.

‘Callie and Brodie,’ I called back, as I led them both into the living room.

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he replied.

I heard a faint wail of, ‘No, Daddy, not yet!’ from Freddie and gave our guests an apologetic smile.

‘He’s helping Freddie with his Lego,’ I explained.

‘No need for him to leave it,’ Callie said hastily. ‘Honestly, it’s just an informal visit. We’ve been out watching the huts go up and we thought we’d pop by and see how you were doing. Plus, we’ve got some big news.’

‘Ooh,’ I said. ‘Are you two?—?’

‘It’s not about us,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s the Dickensian Weekend. We’ve got our star guest to open it. Cain Carmichael’s said yes!’

Cain Carmichael had been a notorious rock star back in the dark, distant days of the 1970s.

He’d had quite a few marital scrapes and some of his records had been banned, but in recent years he’d completely turned his life around and had become a model citizen and a pillar of society, residing in a Cotswolds mansion about a thirty-five-minute drive from Rowan Vale.

‘Congratulations,’ I said, although I had to wonder if they couldn’t have found someone a bit more, well, relevant.

‘It’s one more thing ticked off the list,’ Brodie said. ‘Were you putting the kettle on by any chance, Clara?’

Callie nudged him in the ribs. ‘Brodie!’

‘What? You said you were desperate for a hot drink and it’s bloody freezing out there.’ He unzipped his coat and gave a sigh of pleasure. ‘Your radiators are lovely and warm.’

‘Here, I’ll take your coats and make that drink,’ I said.

‘Are you sure?’ Callie asked anxiously. ‘You don’t have to if you’re busy. We wouldn’t want to interrupt?—’

‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ I admitted. ‘I was supposed to be watching a film, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I might as well make a cuppa as just sit there.’

‘Brain fog again?’ Callie asked sympathetically, knowing all too well the struggles I’d been having lately.

I nodded, not wanting to talk about it. I was sick to the back teeth of the perimenopause, quite honestly. I was pretty sure there’d been a time when I’d talked about other things, but it was getting increasingly hard to remember it.

‘Tea or coffee?’ I asked, after I’d hung up their coats.

Brodie beamed at me. ‘Coffee please. We brought you something to go with it.’

Callie rummaged in her handbag and brought out a paper bag.

‘Lebkuchen,’ she said.

‘Bless you.’

Callie giggled. ‘I know! It does sound a bit like a sneeze. It’s German gingerbread.

I got them from Mrs Herron’s Teashop. Shona said Max has made them.

They’re celebrating Christmas with a whole selection of German desserts and bakes.

I’ve tried some of them and, oh my word, they’re absolutely yummy. ’

Shona was the manager of the vintage teashop in the village, and Max was the German widower she’d recently started a relationship with. He was actually a teacher but loved making treats for the teashop. His baking was already legendary.

‘I’d better stay well away then,’ I said gloomily, patting my bloated stomach. ‘I can’t fit into most of my clothes as it is.’

‘Well, if you don’t want one…’ Brodie said, grinning.

I took the bag from Callie’s hands. ‘I never said that,’ I told him hurriedly. ‘And it would be rude to say no since they’re a gift.’

Jack came downstairs, trailing a reluctant Freddie.

‘Look what we’ve got,’ I said, knowing it would put a smile on my son’s face. ‘Gingerbread!’

Freddie’s face brightened immediately.

‘You’d never think,’ said Jack, ‘that he’d just wolfed down half a packet of custard creams. The kid’s a walking dustbin.’

I handed the bag of lebkuchen to Jack and went to make drinks, declining his offer to make them instead.

Ten minutes later we were all sitting in the living room, drinking coffee (or milk in Freddie’s case) and munching the lebkuchen.

They were so tasty. Soft, chewy and spicy, and not at all as I’d expected.

Freddie decided he didn’t like them after all, but Toby happily finished what he’d started, while our youngest – clearly bored with all the grown-up chat – closed his eyes and fell asleep.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Jack said, nodding at our sleeping angel who was curled up in the armchair. ‘I thought I’d never get a break.’

‘Welcome to my world,’ I said grimly.

‘Ooh,’ Callie said suddenly, ‘is that a sketchbook? Who’s the artist?’

‘No one,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s just some doodling, that’s all.’

‘Doodling?’ Jack laughed. ‘Don’t be so modest. Not to put too fine a point on it, she’s brilliant. Has she never shown you her drawings, Callie?’

Callie shook her head and gave me a reproachful look. ‘I didn’t even know you could draw! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Honestly, they’re just amateur scribblings,’ I said desperately. ‘Nothing worth showing you.’

Before I could stop him, Jack reached over, grabbed the sketchbook from the coffee table, and handed it to Callie. ‘See what you think,’ he said, before turning to me. ‘I haven’t seen you with that for a long time, love. Are you thinking of starting again?’

‘I was just looking for something in the sideboard,’ I lied. ‘It was in the drawer. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘But, Clara, these are really good!’ Callie showed Brodie the drawing she was looking at and his eyes widened.

‘Wow, that’s brilliant. You’ve got Jack to a tee.’

‘Ooh, is that the one of me in my uniform?’ Jack winked at me. ‘You were particularly fond of that as I recall.’

‘Shut up,’ I said, blushing.

‘He does look handsome,’ Callie said. ‘I can see why you like it. Aw, and look at this one. It’s Toby!’ She waved the drawing in front of our dog, who looked suitably impressed. ‘See, it’s you, you gorgeous, gorgeous boy.’

‘Are you sure you’re not still talking about the one of me?’ Jack said, laughing.

Callie rolled her eyes. ‘You’re so talented,’ she told me. ‘Look, Brodie. It’s your grandfather!’

She must have reached the one of Lawrie, sitting on the bench outside All Souls’ church. That meant…

I jumped up and snatched the sketchbook from her hand. Callie looked startled, as well she might.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but I find it all a bit embarrassing.’

‘But why would you?’ Brodie asked, sounding confused. ‘If I could draw like that, I’d be showing my sketches to everyone.’

‘Well, I’m not you,’ I said, shoving the sketchbook back in the drawer and slamming it shut. Realising that sounded rude I added, ‘But thanks for being so nice about them. How’s the market coming on? You said the huts are going up?’

Callie and Brodie exchanged puzzled glances but kindly didn’t push me.

‘Really well,’ said Callie. ‘The huts look so cute. The village green’s been transformed, and there’s a line of them along Victoria Walk, too.

We’ve got some brilliant traders lined up.

The fairy lights will be installed over the next few days, and the Christmas tree will be arriving and put in place by early next week, so it should be all systems go for the big switch-on next Friday. ’

‘The boys are really excited about it,’ Jack said. ‘It’s going to be a long two weeks for them until the lights go on. Mind you, I’m pretty excited about it, too. We’ve never had a Christmas market in Rowan Vale before, at least as long as I’ve been alive. It’s going to be amazing.’

‘I’m looking forward to the Dickens-themed weekend,’ Brodie admitted. ‘I can’t wait to get all dressed up as Inspector Bucket from Bleak House , although I really wanted to be Ebenezer Scrooge.’

‘You’re far too generous and nice to be Scrooge,’ Callie said, laughing. ‘Bad enough that you’re going to be dressed entirely in black. It was good of Jasper to tell us where he gets his costumes from. Our own designer would have been swamped.’

Jasper Edgecumbe was the photographer who worked in a studio on the green, taking photographs of customers who had hired Victorian costumes from him.

He produced the most amazing sepia photographs which looked startlingly authentic and did a good trade all year round.

He’d no doubt make a killing from this Dickensian weekend.

He had kindly given Callie the name of his supplier, as – like she’d said – the designer who provided most of the costumes for the actors employed for the living museum would never have coped with so much demand in such a short space of time, especially so close to Christmas when there was a huge surge in fancy dress parties and events.

The one Jasper used not only made and sold costumes, but sourced and hired them from other suppliers around the country on their customers’ behalf.

‘What about the station?’ Jack asked eagerly. ‘Did you decide about what’s going to happen there? Are you still going to include The Signal-Man ?’