Saving Mr Scrooge (Moorland Heroes Book 2) Page 2

  Then Sadie's infamous cleavage had loomed into view and ruined everything.

  "I didn't really see him properly," I said regretfully. Some handsome hunk had had his arms around me, and I'd been too busy dying to notice. How typical was that?

  "He probably wouldn't have been good enough for you, even if you had," Olivia said. "So, no information on the other side, then? No glimpse of heaven?"

  I shivered. A glimpse of heaven? For a moment, I'd thought that was exactly where I was.

  When I was a kid, my grandparents had bought me a book, retelling the New Testament stories in language that children could understand. And the truth was, when I'd opened my eyes, finally, after returning to the land of the living, I'd thought for a moment that I was looking into the face of Jesus himself. He was just like the pictures in that book—not that I'd been fully aware of him, to be honest. It was more of an impression of raven curls, almost to his shoulders, and a full black beard, but there was something else. What was it? Frustratingly, it was all a blur, but I remembered a feeling of .... What? Familiarity. That was it. There was something familiar and reassuring, and so, so beautiful about him. It had felt like coming home.

  I mentally shook myself. What was I thinking? Maybe I'd had oxygen deprivation, and it had affected my brain. "No glimpse of heaven," I said firmly. "Just Sadie Black's quivering bosom. Very traumatic."

  Olivia pulled a face. "How disappointing." She glanced at her watch and heaved a sigh. "I'd better be going. I've abandoned my family for long enough."

  "Yeah, you have," I said, rather grumpily. I'd been through a terrible experience, and where was the sympathy? "David will be wondering where you are. That Sunday dinner won't cook itself, you know."

  "You're terribly ungrateful. I was up half the night, waiting at the A&E for you to be checked over. Don't know why I bother. Anyway," Olivia added, "you can mock, but I'm going home to my nice little house, the man who loves me, and three gorgeous kids. You, meanwhile, will be spending the afternoon watching telly with your mother. No offence, Mum."

  "I'm not staying here," I admitted. "I only popped round for an hour."

  "Oh?" Mum tutted. "Well, you could have warned me. When you said you'd be coming round this afternoon, I assumed you'd be staying. I've bought two microwave lamb platters for our dinner. If I'd known you were going out, I could have saved myself three quid."

  I suppressed a shudder. "As much as it pains me to miss out on such culinary delights, I'm going to visit Great Uncle Charles, so you can save mine and have it yourself during the week." What a treat for her. Two cardboard-tasting meals in one week.

  As Mum and Olivia exchanged knowing glances, I tried to quell my irritation. "I haven't been for ten days. He's all alone in the world! I can't see either of you offering to visit him."

  "Too right!" Olivia pulled a face. "I can just about manage Christmas and his birthday. And since it's almost December, I'll have the dubious pleasure of his company soon enough, thanks."

  "Well, then, don't blame me when he leaves me everything in his will," I said, stung.

  "You see?" Mum and Olivia flashed me smug grins. "Two-faced and materialistic."

  I was about to protest, but bit down on the words. Let them think what they liked.

  Besides, I had a feeling they'd regret they weren't a bit more like me, when Great Uncle Charles finally shuffled off the mortal coil.

  Chapter Three

  Moreton Cross was a large village, nestling comfortably between the Yorkshire coast and Farthingdale Moor. Its dominant feature was the church of All Saints, which, as was generally agreed, was surprisingly grand for a village church.

  The village also had a primary school, which achieved satisfactory Ofsted reports, a quirky selection of independent shops and cafés, three pubs, and a tiny police station.

  Mum and Olivia loved it there, often saying it was the best place to live in the world. Personally, I thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I suppose it had its advantages.

  Certainly, it was in a picturesque location, with the glorious coastal towns and villages of Whitby, Scarborough, and Kearton Bay not far away, and the beautiful North Yorkshire Moors on the doorstep. Then there was the pretty market town of Helmston just a short drive away, and, if you wanted to go a bit further afield, it didn't take too long to get to the city sights of York, or Harrogate, to the west, or even the less attractive, but highly industrial, Oddborough in the north.

  In spite of the growing population of commuters in the village, my family both lived and worked in Moreton Cross. Lack of choice—and, it had to be said, qualifications—meant that most of them gravitated towards the only factory in the area, Carroll's Confectionary.

  Like their parents before them, my parents had worked for Carroll's. Mum and Dad's eyes had met across a conveyor belt of violet creams, and it had been love at first sight. One thing had led to another, and the other had led to me—an unexpected development that had, apparently, been about as welcome as a coffee cream in a box of Carroll's Premium Chocolates.

  After they got married, Mum left the factory to prepare for full-time motherhood, but Dad had stayed there, making his humdrum life bearable by having a number of sordid flings with various gullible factory girls—a fact Mum only discovered when he finally cleared off to an unknown destination, eager to escape the wrath of a very angry, and rather well-built, cuckolded husband.

  Funnily enough, his departure seemed to give everyone else at the factory the green light to confess to my poor mother that they'd known about his shenanigans for years, but hadn't liked to tell her, what with her having two little kiddies, and everything. Mum had reluctantly gone back to work there as a cleaner, after he’d left—one of a handful of part-time jobs she was forced to take on, to make ends meet.

  Olivia had, like me, gone to college at sixteen, where she’d taken a secretarial course, and she'd briefly worked in an office in Whitby. Motherhood had put a stop to that, though, and when her three boys had all started school, or nursery, she'd taken a job as a production operative at the factory, working alongside her husband, much to my disgust. As if she couldn't find a better job than that!

  "It's close to home, and it's easy money," had been Olivia's response.

  "It's boring and mind-numbing," I said. "Wild horses wouldn't drag me anywhere near Carroll's Confectionary."

  Famous last words. Just five months after making that statement, I'd been made redundant from my job at an insurance company, and had grudgingly applied for, and accepted, a job working as PA to Jack Carroll. Late twenties and twinkly-eyed, he was the owner of the whole shebang. He was also happily married with a son, so I didn't have to worry about wandering hands and lewd suggestions, the way I had at my previous job.

  Jack didn't talk about his wife and child much, preferring to keep his business and private life separate, but there was a photo of a blonde woman and a young boy on his desk, and I often heard him talking on the phone to one, or other, of them.

  I didn't mind working at Carroll's Confectionary half as much as I'd expected, which had come as a massive surprise. Maybe the fact that Jack didn't discuss his private life helped. I didn't have to deal with tricky conversations, or stir up painful memories, and that suited me fine. The pay was okay, too. Not exceptional, but enough to cover my rent and bills and have a bit left over to treat myself. God knows, I needed a few treats. Nothing too extravagant—or, at least, not half as extravagant as I'd like to be—but enough to keep me going for now, since Great Uncle Charles seemed to be immortal. The rate he was going, he'd outlive me.

  He almost had, given my recent brush with death.

  As I headed to Fox Lodge, his large Victorian house on the outskirts of the village, I imagined what Mum and Olivia would be thinking of my latest visit. I knew they truly believed I only visited him for his cash, and it was pointless trying to persuade them otherwise. There was more to it than that, though. There really was. He was all I had left of Grandad, and that mattered a lo
t.

  Having said that, Great Uncle Charles had to leave his fortune to someone, and it might just as well be to me, as to some charity, or other. Not that he'd leave his money to a charity, anyway. He didn't hold with charity. He said it merely gave people an excuse not to help themselves, which just showed what sort of man he was. Personally, I often thought I should get some sort of award for putting up with him, at all. If you asked me, being left his worldly goods in his will was the very least I deserved.

  Nearing Fox Lodge, I took a deep breath and readied myself. He really was a curmudgeonly old devil. No wonder he'd never married. Rumour had it that he'd once been involved with someone, but I found that hard to believe. I wasn't sure which was least plausible—him actually managing to love someone, or someone actually loving him.

  His house, though, was beautiful. At least, it could have been, with a bit of money and love spent on it. It would be beautiful again, one day. I'd make sure of that, I thought, picturing myself living in its renovated and redecorated rooms. It would be unrecognisable once I'd finished with it, and I'd have all that space to myself. I could finally say goodbye to the poky little flat above the hairdressers, where I currently lived, and move into Fox Lodge.

  My family didn't see the attraction. Olivia and I had discussed the matter one evening at her house, over a few too many glasses of wine, when my defences were down. "Why would you want to live in that big old place?" David had asked me, overhearing our conversation and lowering his newspaper to offer his opinion. "Nothing but hard work and money down the drain, maintaining something as huge as that."

  "If he does leave it to you," mused Olivia, "why don't you sell it and buy a two-bedroomed house on our estate? So much easier to look after, and plenty big enough for you."

  "And no character whatsoever," I pointed out. "I can see why it suits you. You haven't got much character, either."

  "We're being serious," David said. "Think of the maintenance. Wouldn't you be happier in a new-build?"

  "No thanks." I'd shuddered at the thought. "Fox Lodge may be a bit too big, but it's got loads of original features, and with a bit of work, it will scrub up nicely. These houses aren't at all interesting. Besides, old houses were built to last. Not like this poxy little box. It's probably held together with Blu-Tack."

  "Charming." Olivia had glanced across at David, who'd rolled his eyes and gone back to his newspaper.

  "Anyway," I said hastily, "it's all speculation. I doubt Great-Uncle Charles will leave it to me."

  "Well, you've got a lot more chance than I have," Olivia said cheerfully. "Looks like I'm doomed to live in this poxy little box held together with Blu-Tack."

  I'd felt a bit mean at that. My sister's house was rather nice, in a chaotic, homely sort of way. It just wasn't to my taste, that was all, although it was infinitely preferable to the shoebox of a flat I rented in the village.

  Not that it mattered. Great Uncle Charles was bound to leave me some cash, as well as the house, so I would be able to renovate and redecorate Fox Lodge beautifully. I really didn't mean to sound heartless, but the day surely couldn't be too far off. After all, how old was he now? Must be nearly ninety, surely? How long could he go on for, for goodness sake?

  Arriving at his home, however, I discovered that, today at least, Great Uncle Charles looked as indestructible as ever. Standing tall and straight, he fixed his beady eyes on me and said, "Oh, it's you."

  "Lovely to see you, too," I assured him, handing him the gift I'd called into the local shop to buy.

  He looked at it, then looked at me disdainfully. "What's this?"

  "What does it look like?" I said cheerfully. "You told me the other week that you used to love humbugs when you were younger, but your teeth make it, er, difficult now, to eat them."

  His false teeth were terribly loose, and he refused to wear them half the time, which ensured that his already stern face looked rather screwed up and even more cross than it needed to.

  "So? What have humbugs got to do with this?"

  "I thought if you liked mint so much, you might enjoy it," I said.

  He glanced down at the bar of chocolate in his hand. "Carroll's Coolmint Choc Bloc," he read, then tutted in disgust. "I don't eat their rubbish. You should know that by now."

  I was determined not to show him how annoyed I felt. Bloody ungrateful old so and so! That chocolate had cost me nearly two quid. "I remember you saying you didn't like that box of chocolates I bought—"

  "I don't like Carroll's chocolate full-stop!" he snapped. "Worst chocolate ever made. Not to mention all the other rubbish they keep churning out. Surprised the place hasn't gone bankrupt."

  "Why do you hate Carroll's so much?" I'd wondered that before. It wasn't as if he had my reasons. I was the one who should hate the place, but I'd managed to overcome my loathing. Needs must, and all that.

  As far as I knew, Great Uncle Charles had no history with the factory, yet he'd never approved of the family working there, and when I took the job as PA to Jack Carroll, he'd told me I'd ruined my life, which I’d thought was a bit strong. It had taken me an awful lot of soothing and grovelling to get back in his good books again. Even so, I didn't see that he needed to take his inexplicable hatred for the company out on the chocolate. They made good stuff. Well, apart from the LuvRocks crap, which was another story entirely. I wasn't the only employee who thoroughly disapproved of those products, that was certain.

  "Because I have taste," he said, thrusting the chocolate back at me and shuffling down the hallway. "If you want a cup of tea, put the kettle on. I'll have another, while you're at it."

  Lovely chap, Great Uncle Charles. I shoved the chocolate back in my handbag and stomped into the kitchen. Looked like it was going to be another prickly visit. God, I hated going to see him. Why couldn't he be nice? I'd had glimpses, just now and then, of a different side to his nature. A softness in his eye, a wistfulness in his voice, but it never lasted long, and then I'd go from wondering what on earth had happened to make him so harsh, to thinking what a miserable old sod he was and trying to work out how he could possibly be my grandad's brother.

  Grandad Jacobs had been lovely. I'd adored him, and my heart had broken when he died suddenly, when I was just seventeen. Great Uncle Charles hadn't even bothered going to the funeral.

  Why did I put up with him? Of course, deep down, I knew the answer to that. He was all I had left of Grandad, and I was sure Grandad wouldn't have wanted me to abandon his older brother. He had no one else, after all.

  I scooped tea into the teapot, thinking I'd have to pour his out immediately, so he wouldn’t realise I'd gone overboard with the tea rations. It was supposed to be one spoonful of tea only, but since he bought the cheapest tea in the shop, that meagre amount produced a drink that was basically mildly-flavoured hot water. I couldn't bear weak tea, and always sneaked more in than I should.

  After making sure to pour his drink first, I let the tea mash for a few minutes before pouring my own. Still not great, but better than it would have been, if he'd had his way. I carried the two mugs through to the living room and placed his on the coffee table, then sat down on the sofa opposite his armchair.

  "So, how have you been?" I said, determined to keep things light and cheerful.

  "Oh, God, you're going to talk to me now, I suppose," he muttered, putting down his newspaper with a loud sigh and roll of the eyes. "Let's get it over with, then. I'm fine. Same as always. Much to my own bewilderment, and your frustration, no doubt."

  "What do you mean by that?" I said indignantly.

  "Oh, come off it," he said, shaking his head. He waved his hand around, indicating the living room. "You can't wait to get your hands on it."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Fox Lodge. You think I'm going to leave it to you in my will." He chuckled and shook his head again.

  I watched him, annoyed both at his perception, and that he’d dared to voice his thoughts like that. "That's an awful thing to say," I said coldly. I t
ook a sip of tea. "And are you?"

  He cackled. "That's for me to know, and you to find out," he said. "So, go on, then. Let's play the game. How are you? How's the family?"

  "Because you really care, of course," I said sarcastically.

  "Not particularly," he admitted. "Still, it passes the time, and I doubt you'll let me read my newspaper in peace."

  "Mum's fine," I said, deciding to play him at his own game. "She sends her regards."

  "I'll bet she does," he said, pursing his lips. "And what about your sister? Dropped any more sprogs?"

  I tutted. "No, she hasn't. She's enjoying her job and has no plans for more children."

  He gave me a sly look. "Enjoys her job, does she? Remind me again, where does she work?"

  I felt my cheeks start to burn. "You know perfectly well she's working at Carroll's."

  "Of course she is. Tell you what, why don't you tell me someone we know who isn't working at Carroll's? Probably be a lot quicker."

  I decided to change the subject. "I died last night," I informed him.

  That shut the old buzzard up. He narrowed his eyes and peered at me suspiciously. "What are you on about now?"

  "I died," I repeated smugly. "You weren't expecting that, were you?"

  "Have you been sniffing glue?" he said irritably.

  "Don't be so rude," I said. "I was out with Olivia and some friends, and I choked. I actually, literally died. I would be in a mortuary now, if it hadn’t been for some bloke who rushed over and saved me."

  "Oh, yeah?" He looked unimpressed. "You look fine to me."

  "Careful," I warned him, "that was almost a compliment. You'll be turning my head."

  "Well, honestly," he said. "You died! What rubbish. You mean, your vodka went down the wrong way, and he patted you on the back. Proper drama queen, you are."

  "I did not choke on my vodka," I protested. "My windpipe was actually blocked by a chunk of penis, I'll have you know."

  I really hadn't meant to say that. I stared at him, and he stared back.