Page 9 of Home This Christmas
EIGHT
‘You made it!’
A tall, good-looking guy with fair, slightly curly hair pulls Henry into a bear hug as we get out the car, before shaking me warmly by the hand. He introduces himself as Will, Henry’s son – though I’ve heard all about him from Henry on the way here.
‘I can’t thank you enough for this. Please, come inside and have a drink,’ he suggests as he grabs his father’s holdall.
I stand mesmerised by the exterior of the house, with its floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the surrounding countryside. I imagine the oak for the construction has been locally sourced.
Glancing at my watch and realising we have made good time without traffic, I accept the offer of a drink. I would love a nosey around the amazing-looking home.
‘Maybe just a quick cup of tea would be nice,’ I tell him, thinking of how much I enjoyed my Yorkshire tea earlier in the café. Maybe I will start drinking it again when I get back to London, rather than my usual latte. At least occasionally.
Inside, Will hangs his wax jacket on a hook in the front porch, and we head into a cavernous room with high ceilings and a roaring log fire in the grate.
A tastefully decorated Christmas tree stands at the foot of a wooden staircase that leads to a mezzanine level, and the room is made cosy with rugs and well-placed art on the white walls. I don’t think it would look out of place in a home interiors magazine.
‘Right, what can I get you?’ Will offers cheerfully. ‘Coffee? Maybe a whisky?’
‘Aye, lad. I’ll have a whisky,’ Henry replies as he rubs his hands in front of the cosy fire.
‘Tea if you have it, and then I will order a taxi. My village isn’t too far from here – I’m heading to Brindleford,’ I tell Will.
‘I know Brindleford, it’s no more than a fifteen-minute drive from here – so you won’t get a cab, I will drive you there,’ he insists. ‘It’s the least I can do. Actually, you are just in time for dinner. I have had a casserole simmering on the stove all morning if you fancy joining us?’ he offers.
‘Oh no, really, I will grab something at the pub later. A cup of tea will be fine,’ I say, even though the smell coming from the kitchen is very enticing.
‘Ruby here is a food critic from the telly,’ Henry tells his son.
‘Really? Sorry I didn’t recognise you; I don’t watch much TV,’ explains Will.
‘I prefer it that way. It’s refreshing for someone not to constantly ask me questions about the celebrities I’ve met. Or to feel nervous about serving me some food.’ I laugh.
‘Ruby here is judging the annual gingerbread competition in Brindleford,’ Henry informs Will.
‘Is that still a thing?’ Will asks. ‘I have never really got the hype around gingerbread.’
‘The DIY gingerbread houses that are sold in the supermarkets probably have a lot to do with it,’ I say, thinking of how I might take one for Coleen’s nieces if I pop over at Christmas.
‘Maybe… And I am kind of relieved you are not eating here and giving my casserole marks out of ten,’ he jokes. ‘Please, take a seat; I will get that tea.’
As we sip our drinks, he asks me where I live, and I tell him all about my apartment in London.
‘A bit different to here, then.’ He glances out of the kitchen to the lush greenery surrounding the house. ‘Although if you are anything like Dad, you will appreciate the peace and quiet.’
‘I am sure I will. Although I am only here to judge the gingerbread competition, so I won’t be staying long.’
‘Sounds fun. I guess the organisers are proud to have you back in the village, now that you are a star.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, although truthfully it cannot be for any other reason. I would have been long forgotten by the villagers were it not for me popping up on their television screens.
‘You have a beautiful home,’ I compliment Will as I glance around. ‘Henry tells me you are keen to build eco-friendly houses.’
‘That’s true. A lot of the materials used in this build are reclaimed or recycled. I guess I have always enjoyed recycling things, even as a child, hey, Dad? Although we never really called it that back then.’
‘Oh aye, definitely. My garden shed was full of your junk, although I have to admit, you usually always made something from it,’ Henry concedes. ‘I remember you building a go-kart from some old pram wheels and planks of wood.’
‘With your help.’ Will looks affectionately at his father.
‘Well, I had to supervise you. I once found him trying to launch a rocket he had made with some of my lighter fuel,’ Henry tells me, and Will pulls a face.
‘Gosh! So, you are an inventor too? I am impressed! Maybe not for attempting to blow yourself up, though.’ I giggle, and Henry roars with laughter.
‘I am not quite so adventurous these days. For the last few years, I have concentrated on building projects, buying up land, and building affordable housing. There is a real demand for it in the area,’ he tells me.
‘Oh, I can imagine.’ I think of the extortionate prices of property in London. I even know of one or two young people living in extensions in their parents’ garden, as they try and save enough money for a house deposit.
‘Well, your home is really beautiful,’ I repeat.
‘Thank you, that’s very kind. As I said, it’s a passion building sustainable housing as I think it is a good solution to the housing shortages, but not everyone agrees.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘I guess they don’t like the countryside being built upon… Don’t get me wrong, I can see how it might upset someone to buy a house in a green area only to later have their uninterrupted views of nature obscured by new housing, but needs must…’
He offers me more tea, that I politely decline.
‘I guess you have to build somewhere,’ I muse.
‘Exactly. And any available land is usually only in the countryside.’
Before I set off, I use the bathroom and it is every bit as stunning as the rest of the house, with a good mix of wood and stone, and a huge free-standing bath in the middle of the room.
Apart from a dusky pink colour wall and towels, there are no female toiletries on display – unless they are neatly stored in a free-standing cupboard.
Downstairs, I shake Henry warmly by the hand, as I prepare to leave.
‘Right,’ says Will to his father. ‘Help yourself to anything you need; I will be back before you know it.’
‘No problem, the horse racing is just about to start.’ Henry flicks on the television. ‘And thank you again, love, it was a pleasure travelling with you.’ He smiles at me warmly.
‘The pleasure was all mine, and you helped me out too, remember. Merry Christmas, Henry.’
Will asks me a little more about my work as a food critic as he drives, which distracts me from the butterflies in my stomach about coming back after so long. Before I know it, we are pulling up outside the village of Brindleford.
Just then, the snow that has been threatening to fall begins to slowly drop from the sky. Huge snowflakes silently swirl onto the bonnet of Will’s Land Rover as he pulls up at the end of the village high street.
‘I won’t hang about,’ says Will, looking upwards.
‘It was good to meet you, Ruby, and thanks again for travelling with Dad,’ he says gratefully.
‘Where are you staying?’ he inquires as he climbs out of his seat and opens the door of the car for me.
He then grabs my overnight case from the back seat and hands it to me.
‘The Swan Inn,’ I tell him, once more hoping that it hasn’t changed too much. ‘And it was a pleasure – thank you for the drink and the lift.’
As far as I recall, The Swan was the only pub with rooms in the village – the other pub being the Greyhound, a predominantly male drinking establishment that my mother used to call ‘a spit and sawdust’ type of place.
I guess things must have changed a bit these days.
Perhaps there are even a few Airbnbs in the area.
As I take in my surroundings, I realise I had forgotten just how pretty it is around here.
‘Right, well. Maybe I will see you again. Although perhaps not, if you are only here for one night. Anyway, good luck with the judging,’ says Will cheerfully.
When he leaves, I find myself stood staring down the small high street and a flood of memories comes rushing back.