It didn’t matter what time of year it was, or what the weather was like, Friday night was pub night for Joseph Bell and his friends, just like Tuesday night was dance night and Thursday afternoon bingo, dominoes and card games at the community centre. At seventy-seven, her granddad had a social life she could only envy.
‘You look very dapper in your chequered shirt,’ she remarked, with a smile.
‘Thank you, love.’ He smoothed an imaginary crease along his left arm. She knew it was imaginary because she had ironed the shirt that very morning.
She took some butter, milk and half a dozen eggs out of the fridge, and a mixing bowl from the cupboard. ‘Scrambled eggs on toast all right for you?’
‘Aye, that’ll be fine, love. What were you saying about young Sophie?’
Sophie was twenty-eight like Cassie, but for her granddad, anybody under the age of fifty was a child. While she whisked the eggs in a bowl with a little milk, a pinch of salt and some black pepper, Cassie told him about Sophie’s sudden departure for Manchester.
‘Bah. Young Sophie is in love,’ he said.
‘But she’s only known John for five minutes – well, for a few months – whereas we’ve been friends forever!’ Cassie huffed. ‘We were at primary school together; we sang in that eighties tribute band, Bandanamama, in all the pubs in the area…’ And had so much fun doing so, even if, as Stefan Lambert had said, her voice had enough volume to scare the wildlife away.
‘Sophie has worked with me ever since I took over from Mum and started Bluebell Cleaning. How can she leave everything for that boyfriend, just like that? What if it all goes wrong and she finds out they are not suited at all and it was a great big mistake?’
‘Then she’ll come back. It’s no big deal. Red Moss will still be here, as will her family… and you.’
Cassie stopped whisking the egg mixture and drew in a breath. Would she always be there, like the hills and the fells and the tarns? Would she stay at Red Moss until she grew old, having never experienced life away from the village and never achieved her dreams?
‘I cannot fathom why folks would rather live in a crowded city, and breathe car fumes rather than the clean, fresh air of our fells and valleys,’ her granddad said. ‘At least you don’t believe all that nonsense about life being better in a big town, do you, Trifle?’
Aware that he was looking at her, she shook her head, added milk, whisked the eggs again and whispered, ‘Of course not, Granddad.’
How could she tell him that part of her wished she could be as free – and brave – as Sophie?
Her grandfather let out a loud sigh. ‘Sophie will be back, with or without her Romeo, you’ll see. Shall I butter the bread?’
‘Please.’ She poured the mixture into the frying pan and scrambled the eggs whilst he set the table. A few minutes later, they sat down to eat.
‘Bon appétit,’ she said without thinking, and was immediately reminded of Stefan Lambert, and the way his eyes had darkened when she had mentioned Christmas. What had happened to make him hate Christmas so much? She let out a frustrated growl and put her fork down.
Her granddad looked at her. ‘What’s the matter, Trifle?’
‘I was thinking about the new guest at Belthorn. I’m worried about him, all alone up there. Did I tell you he was French?’
Her granddad frowned. ‘French? What’s he doing at Belthorn?’
‘I don’t know. He’s a friend of Charles Ashville’s. He said he was a helicopter pilot. I think he was injured in combat or something.’ Her throat tightened at the memory of the fine scars criss-crossing Lambert’s forehead and cheeks, and the way his face had twisted in pain when he sat down.
She was expecting her granddad to come up with some silly joke about Frenchmen and onions, frogs or snails, but he only stared at her.
‘A Frenchman convalescing at Belthorn…’ he said in a slow, thoughtful voice. He put his fork down. ‘Do you remember your great-great-aunt Ruth Merriweather’s story?’
She shrugged, impatient. ‘Of course. Everybody knows that story.’
‘No, they don’t. Not the full story, anyhow. I’ll give you something to read before I go out.’
He leaned across the table. ‘By the way, I have a new joke for you. What do French people like to sing at Christmas?’
Her grandfather was practising for the forthcoming Comedy Night at the village pub. ‘Hmm… I’m not sure. What is it?’
He tutted. ‘You’re not trying very hard, Trifle. It’s “Jingle Snails”, of course!’ And he burst out laughing.
‘Oh, Granddad,’ she groaned.
His blue eyes sparkled. He looked so pleased with himself she didn’t have the heart to tell him that this may not be his best joke. Then again, it wasn’t his worst one either.
The silence was deep and absolute. Not even the faintest sliver of moon lit the night sky. No star pricked the thick, velvety blackness. Never had he felt so alone and cut off from everything and everyone else.
No one except Charlie knew where he was – and Cassie Bell, of course – and that was exactly what he wanted. He had scribbled a note for his mother, asking her not to worry, claiming that he was staying with friends over Christmas and promising to be in touch sometime in the New Year. She would be relieved to be rid of him for a while, and not have to tiptoe around his black moods whenever she felt obliged to visit. She would also be glad not to have to stand between Stefan and his father, who had practically disowned him for letting the family name down.
A retired army officer, his father had been disgusted by Stefan’s ‘fiasco’, as he called it. If he was to be believed, Stefan was the first Lambert ever to go on sick leave and ‘soft in the head’, as he referred to Stefan’s breakdown.
Stefan drew the curtains and turned back into the drawing room. What should he do now? He could read the paper he’d bought at a service station on the way, the thrillers he had packed before leaving Paris, or the training manual for a long-range tactical transport helicopter he’d been asked to rewrite. There was also a walking guidebook to the Lakes that Charlie’s sister had given him when he’d collected the keys to the manor house from her London flat.
Thrillers didn’t appeal much tonight. He wasn’t in the mood to plan a walk. As for the training guide, he had the next few weeks to get to grips with it. This was probably his last ever army job, since he’d better face the truth that he’d probably never fly again.
He wandered into the library and stopped in front of one of the tall bookcases lining the wall. His finger lingered over the spine of the books. He pulled out a couple that looked interesting then slotted them back into place again. Nothing took his fancy. Perhaps he should just pour himself a brandy and go to bed early.
He was about to turn away when he spotted a handful of books about aviation and the First World War on the bottom shelf. Among them was a leather-bound book with a small insignia etched on the spine. Curious, he bent down to pick it up and stared at it in wonder.
‘La Cigogne?’ He would recognise that insignia anywhere. It was the legendary downstroke stork of the SPA 3 – the elite French aviation escadrille of the First World War.