Page 10 of Home This Christmas
NINE
The metal sign of the Swan Inn, sandwiched between the general store and the butcher’s shop, is gently blowing in the first flurry of snow. I pull my hood up and quicken my step, before the pavements turn slippery.
As I walk, I take in how things have changed over the years.
I am surprised that the butcher’s shop is still here, although it is obviously still used regularly by the locals.
All those years back, I’d accompany Mum on a Saturday afternoon to buy a joint for the Sunday roast. Amongst the old – the grocery store and toy shop that have been here forever – there’s also the new, including one or two coffee shops.
I also spy a women’s fashion shop that I may pop into if I get the chance.
And then I notice the village bakery and remember when Mum and I would stand staring at the tempting cakes before buying something to put in the fridge for after Sunday lunch.
Custard tarts, meringues and chocolate eclairs were our particular favourites, and would always be placed in a white cardboard box and tied with string.
I quickly realise that there will be memories here at every turn.
When I turned sixteen, the owner of the bakery offered me a Saturday job, and I could hardly believe my luck.
Especially when she taught me to bake, which is something I still do from time to time – particularly if I feel a little stressed.
There is just something so soothing about folding a cake mixture or bringing together the dough for some delicious scones.
I take in an Italian restaurant that looks pretty, with white fairy lights draped across its window, and the word Roberto’s emblazoned across the glass. It takes me a moment to realise that it is on the site of the once Greyhound pub that obviously is no more.
Across the road from high street and just off the market square stands the red-brick library, where I would spend hours completing my college assignments, before I headed off to university.
The old church a little further along towers tall and proud as if watching over the village and keeping it from harm.
After a few minutes of taking in my surroundings, I am checked in at reception by a bubbly middle-aged lady.
The dark wooden reception desk that stands beside a staircase is comfortingly familiar.
A stand on the desk is displaying leaflets about Christmas lunches in the restaurant and breakfast with Santa for the children.
The thick, red patterned carpet and dark overhead beams, from which sprigs of holly are hanging, are offset by the cream walls.
‘Welcome, love, looks like you got here just in time,’ says the proprietor, noting the light dusting of snow on my coat and introducing herself as June. ‘Hope you had a good journey?’
‘I did, thanks.’ I smile, not feeling the need to go into my last-minute change of plan. All I want to do is get to my room and unpack.
‘That’s good,’ she responds warmly. ‘Anyway, there is a welcome tray in your room, but if you need anything else, just give me a shout.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ Suddenly, I feel exhausted after the long drive and the unexpected tea stop.
She hands me an old-fashioned metal key attached to a wooden fob – so different to the electronic key cards I am used to in London hotels.
‘Breakfast is between seven thirty and ten,’ I am happy to hear.
I sometimes wonder why people get up at the crack of dawn for breakfast, unless, of course, they have business to attend to.
‘Oh and we have an open fire in the restaurant area,’ she informs me as I am about to walk away. ‘It’s very cosy.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
The separate restaurant area is something new, making good use of the cavernous space.
I can imagine sipping a drink in front of the open fire after a nice winter walk. I slightly regret not bringing a pair of walking boots, but then I wanted to travel light.
An olde-worlde room of more dark beams and a four-poster bed greets me as I push open the heavy wooden door. The huge bed has an inviting-looking, thick duvet with crisp white bedding, which I fling myself onto, after kicking off my boots and wiggling my toes with relief.
As I lie on the bed, taking in the cosy room, I can hardly believe I am actually here.
I would probably be shopping in London now or enjoying some lunch with Coleen in a busy restaurant somewhere.
I have to admit, though, I did rather enjoy getting to know Henry and being introduced to his undeniably attractive son.
Maybe being here does have some advantages after all.
After unpacking, I make myself a hot chocolate, courtesy of the tea tray on a dressing table, and take it to a floral padded window seat that overlooks the high street.
As the daylight begins to fade, streetlights gently illuminate the road and the bulb lights that are strung across the road begin to gently glow.
A string of gold foil angels playing trumpets are interspersed with red foil stars and stretch from one side of the street to the other, creating a pretty, festive scene.
I observe shoppers, laden down with bags, dashing along with hoods up as the snowfall continues. It is quite a different scene from my window back home, where the lights and buildings of the city spread out in front of me, although completely enchanting in its own way.
Sipping my drink, I take in the Dickensian windows of the toy shop across the road – it makes for a rather magical winter scene as the snowflakes fall to the ground.
I immediately think of the excitement I felt as a child, when I ate the chocolates from my advent calendar as I looked forward to the big day.
One Christmas morning, I was presented with a wooden pink-and-grey-painted doll’s house that I had admired in the toy shop window every time I walked past. I still have it packed away in a box in my spare room.
I have wondered from time to time whether a thing of such beauty ought to be out on display somewhere, rather than locked away, despite me having no children of my own.
The snow settles on the rooftops and the pavement below, slowly turning everywhere into a winter wonderland. There seems to be no sign of it abating any time soon. I hug my drink and continue to enjoy the white view outside that is utterly charming.
I glance at Roberto’s, once the site of the Greyhound, and close my eyes as I remember stumbling out of the pub one Saturday evening with Nathan. We had gone down a side alley and kissed passionately without a care in the world.
My life was so different back then; I barely recognise myself these days. I was happy, though, I think to myself as I rinse my cup and place it on the tea tray. At least for a while. But I was never meant to stay in Brindleford. I have no doubts about that.
It won’t be long before I am back in London once more and as captivating as the view is outside, I can hardly wait.
As my thoughts turn to the competition tomorrow, a knot of tension appears in my stomach.
Is there a niggle of worry that Nathan will be there, along with the other villagers, but then again, why would he be?
I can hardly see him entering a gingerbread competition, after all, but perhaps he will accompany a wife or girlfriend?
And how will I react, if I do see him? Hopefully things would be cordial between us, with the passing of time.
We both have very different lives now after all.
In an ideal world, I’ll be in and out of Brindleford without encountering too many ghosts from the past.
Deciding not to dwell on things, I google the number for the Italian restaurant across the road and luckily manage to make a reservation for dinner.
If I am forced to stay here, I might as well have a nice meal – and Italian food is one of my favourites.
It will be good to relax and not worry too much about tomorrow.
I choose a simple black pair of trousers and a red jumper with a hint of sparkle to wear this evening.
As I make my way to the restaurant across the road, my coat tightly wrapped around me, I take in the quiet street with not a car or a person in sight, in contrast to the street outside my London home with its bright lights and busy traffic.
At least the snow has stopped now, leaving everywhere looking like a scene from a Christmas card.
It’s a little after eight, and the place is already half full, with the sound of gentle chatter around the room.
I pass a large table of diners wearing party hats and sparkly Christmas outfits, and wonder if they are on a work night out.
It smells divine, and a friendly waiter shows me to a table in the corner that overlooks the high street.
The table is set with a chunky cream candle, wound with red tinsel at the base, giving it a festive touch.
To the right, I have a view of the open kitchen, and my stomach gives a little rumble as I watch chefs sizzle and toss food in pans.
Glancing around, I feel as though I could be in Italy. One wall has a mural of the Trevi fountain; the remaining walls are painted a soft terracotta shade and adorned with black and white prints of various locations in Rome. There is soft lighting and ‘That’s Amore’ is playing in the background.
My starter arrives and as I tuck in, I notice a couple of waiters glancing my way.
Even the kitchen staff seem to be looking over, reminding me once more that I am someone that people recognise.
Perhaps I ought to put them at ease and say I am not here to critique the food – but first, I have my starter to enjoy.
The aubergine parmigiana is delicious, and I am awaiting my main of ox-cheek pasta, when I hear someone say, ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ My heart stops.
I steel myself as I look up, expecting to find Nathan standing in front of me, but it isn’t him.
Instead, it is Will, smiling broadly, and my heart rate returns to normal.
‘I see you have discovered the best Italian restaurant around for miles – it’s worth the drive over from my place, even in these conditions, I’d say.’ He grins.
‘Will! How nice to see you again; I didn’t realise you had a reservation here this evening?’ I say, feeling pleasantly surprised.
‘Would you believe I burned the casserole’ – he pulls a face – ‘as Dad and I were so engrossed catching up. We ended up eating a sandwich.’ He laughs.’ ‘This place is one of Dad’s favourites, so we decided to head out. We’re just leaving, actually.’
He gestures to a table, where Henry and a woman around Will’s age are tucking their chairs in. The woman pulls on her coat, and gives a little wave, and Henry quickly comes over and says hi, before they depart.
‘It’s been good seeing you again.’ Will smiles. ‘Enjoy the rest of your time here.’
‘Thank you. And safe journey home,’ I add.
‘Cheers.’ I feel as if he is about to say something else, before he says goodbye for a second time and heads off.
I am too full for dessert, so opt for a liqueur coffee that really hits the spot. As I sip my drink, I wonder why I reacted the way I did, when I thought it might have been Nathan I encountered earlier?
‘I hope everything was good?’ An Italian-sounding man pulls me out of my thoughts, as he presents me with the bill.
‘It was absolutely delicious. Really, it was wonderful.’
‘Are you going to write about it?’ he asks casually.
‘Actually, I meant to tell you earlier that I am dining for pleasure rather than business this evening, but I was so absorbed with the food. But who knows? I may mention it in a column I write.’
A huge smile spreads across his face. ‘Grazie. I am Roberto, the owner,’ he tells me proudly and shakes my hand firmly.
‘Well, Roberto, you have a beautiful restaurant.’ I glance around at the now packed-out room. ‘I am not sure you need my review, as it would appear you are doing rather well already.’
‘It is true, but after Christmas in the winter months, it’s not so busy.’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe you could mention to your readers that we are open all year round. There are lots of good walking paths around here,’ he points out.
‘I will bear that in mind, Roberto. Thank you once more,’ I tell him warmly. And he is right about the walking. There are footpaths into the stunning Yorkshire countryside all around.
I settle my bill, and as I reach the door, I can feel all eyes on me.
Either it’s just that people don’t recognise me as being from the village, which can be the case in a small community, or they know me from the television…
Or they are simply curious about a woman who is dining alone – something no one would bat an eyelid about in London.
Back at the inn, I quietly retreat to my room. Tonight, I don’t have the energy for a chat with June, and bed is calling.
I think about bumping into Will this evening, and how he turned and glanced at me when he left the restaurant.
I was so sure he was about to ask me something before he disappeared…
I felt quite flattered when he turned to look at me, although also a little surprised that he did it when he was in the company of another woman.
In bed, I scroll through my phone for a few minutes.
There is a text message from Coleen, telling me she hopes all will go well tomorrow and that she will call me when I’m home.
I also make some notes about the meal, thinking I genuinely could mention Roberto’s in one of my next columns.
It really is one of the nicest Italian restaurants I have been to in a long time and deserves a recommendation.
My eyes become heavy and start to close as a bright idea starts to take shape.
I could start featuring places outside of London occasionally.
Maybe I ought to consider getting out of the city a little more and visit places I would never usually consider. Broaden my horizons a little.