Read Online The Great Christmas Knit Off by Alexandra Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexandra Brown
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want to call in later for your dinner, he’s doing steak and ale pie with hand-cut chips followed by sticky toffee pudding for today’s special.’ It takes me a moment to realise that he’s talking about Cher’s Clive at the Duck & Puddle.
‘Ooh, sounds delicious.’
‘Does, doesn’t it? Very hearty winter food and talking of which, how was the stollen cake?’ He glances down at the crumbs left on the plate as he takes it from me to store under the counter.
‘Mmm, delicious, thank you.’ I smile. ‘Lawrence, I was wondering if you might help me with something.’
‘Of course. Always happy to oblige if I can.’ He pats a stack of tourist information leaflets offering two for one tickets to Santa’s grotto at a garden centre in Stoneley into a tidy pile, before tilting his head to one side and smiling at me encouragingly.
‘I was wondering where the nearest shops are to buy clothes – jeans, underwear, that kind of thing? And some suitable footwear for walking in snow – I wasn’t expecting it and I can’t believe how deep it gets here in the countryside.’ I make big eyes. ‘And I should probably get a mobile phone too; I don’t want to get stranded again with no means of even calling a taxi. And maybe a hairbrush, toothbrush and some make-up because I forgot to bring mine and the stuff that I did remember to bring is ruined after wine spilt all over it and … well, I thought I might go for a wander around the village, maybe pop into the pub for today’s special.’ I smile.
And Tindledale Books too!
I know I panicked when the woman answered but I’m still intrigued to know why the man on the train, who I’m guessing must be something to do with the bookshop, would leave a flirty message on a newspaper for me, but I can hardly venture out in soaking wet jeans that cling to my legs like a pair of needy toddlers, squelchy Converse trainers and hair that resembles a cuckoo’s nest to find out.
Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.
‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’
‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of
Heartbeat
so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.
‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.
‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’
‘Brilliant,’ I grin.
‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just
‘Ooh, sounds delicious.’
‘Does, doesn’t it? Very hearty winter food and talking of which, how was the stollen cake?’ He glances down at the crumbs left on the plate as he takes it from me to store under the counter.
‘Mmm, delicious, thank you.’ I smile. ‘Lawrence, I was wondering if you might help me with something.’
‘Of course. Always happy to oblige if I can.’ He pats a stack of tourist information leaflets offering two for one tickets to Santa’s grotto at a garden centre in Stoneley into a tidy pile, before tilting his head to one side and smiling at me encouragingly.
‘I was wondering where the nearest shops are to buy clothes – jeans, underwear, that kind of thing? And some suitable footwear for walking in snow – I wasn’t expecting it and I can’t believe how deep it gets here in the countryside.’ I make big eyes. ‘And I should probably get a mobile phone too; I don’t want to get stranded again with no means of even calling a taxi. And maybe a hairbrush, toothbrush and some make-up because I forgot to bring mine and the stuff that I did remember to bring is ruined after wine spilt all over it and … well, I thought I might go for a wander around the village, maybe pop into the pub for today’s special.’ I smile.
And Tindledale Books too!
I know I panicked when the woman answered but I’m still intrigued to know why the man on the train, who I’m guessing must be something to do with the bookshop, would leave a flirty message on a newspaper for me, but I can hardly venture out in soaking wet jeans that cling to my legs like a pair of needy toddlers, squelchy Converse trainers and hair that resembles a cuckoo’s nest to find out.
Lawrence falls quiet for a moment, and then lets out a long whistle before looking me straight in the eye.
‘OK, clothes I can help you with. Make-up too. But a mobile phone?’ He shrugs and shakes his head. ‘Well, there’s really no point.’ I frown, wondering why on earth not. ‘No signal for miles around,’ he quickly adds as if reading my mind. ‘Although I think someone said Dr Darcy – he’s the village GP – can occasionally get one bar, but only if he’s in his loft conversion, hanging out of the skylight window with his arm waggling in the air.’
‘I see.’ Blimey, Tindledale really is a blast from the past and I wonder if this Dr Darcy is anything like his famous namesake, Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy? Probably not: I’m imagining a kindly, traditional country doctor in a tweedy suit who looks as if he’s just taking a break from an episode of
Heartbeat
so his matronly secretary can bring him Garibaldi biscuits with a nice cup of Darjeeling.
‘Does that go for broadband too?’ I ask, thinking there’s no time like the present to peruse online to see what hand-stitched quilts are selling for.
‘Oh no, we have our own village hub or whatever it’s called, so we get superfast internet, and there’s a laptop for guests to use in the conservatory; just give me a shout when you want to log on and I’ll set you up with the password and everything,’ he says, cheerily. ‘Although it does tend to slow down a bit when all the villagers jump on of an evening to download their Sky Box Sets, so you might want to avoid the teatime period.’
‘Brilliant,’ I grin.
‘And as for a taxi?’ Lawrence laughs, making his shoulders bob up and down. ‘You could try Tommy Prendergast in the village store, but he only takes bookings for after 4 p.m. when the shop is closed and then you’ll have to put up with him complaining about one of his many ailments for the duration of the journey. There’s a bus though, every hour on the hour, and you can go as far as Market Briar for just
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