The Inheritance

‘Terrorists have moved into Fittlescombe and are turning the village hall into a jihadi training camp.’


‘No, stop being silly,’ said Logan. Turning to her mother she announced, ‘Mr Bingley’s got engaged!’

Angela tightened her grip on the pastry cutter she was using for the mince-pie lids. ‘Who told you that?’

‘He did!’ said Logan. ‘He was at the WI stall buying parsnips or swedes or something horrid – I think she’s vegan, his fiancée – and he said hello and then he just told me. I mean really, at his age! What’s the point?’

‘He’s not that old,’ mumbled Angela.

‘Oh Mum.’ Logan laughed. ‘He’s ancient.’

‘Who’s Mr Bingley?’ asked Tom, not looking up from his puzzle.

‘My old headmaster,’ said Logan. ‘He’s nice but he’s terribly strict and sort of, stiff. You can’t imagine him getting married. Can you, Mum?’

‘Well, I … yes, I can imagine it,’ said Angela. She was surprised by how thrown-off she was by Logan’s news. ‘I’m a little surprised. He and Stella have been together for years. I suppose I thought, assumed, that they were happy as they were.’

‘Living in sin, you mean?’ said Logan. ‘I can’t imagine old Bingley doing that either.’

‘Must you talk like a tabloid reporter, darling?’ chided Angela. ‘Damn it!’

She looked down. Blood was gushing from her finger where she’d sliced it on the pastry cutter, staining the pastry pink.

‘Quick, put it under the tap,’ said Tom, leaping up and thrusting Angela’s hand over the sink while he turned on the icy water.

‘I’ll get you a plaster,’ said Logan, opening the drawer next to the fridge where the first-aid supplies, such as they were, were kept. Angela watched as the blood trickled onto the white porcelain and swirled down the drain. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. My hand slipped I suppose. I’m fine. It’s nothing, really.’ Drying her hand on a tea towel, she applied the proffered plaster and returned to her mince pies. She’d have to start again now, she thought with a sigh. All of a sudden, her heart wasn’t in it.

‘They’ll be at the Live Crib on Christmas Eve anyway,’ said Logan, returning to her gossip like a dog to an unfinished bone, now that the mini-drama was over. ‘I said we’d see them there. Tati and Jason will be here too by then, so we can all ogle the engagement ring. Do you think he gave her a big one?’

‘Nightly, I suspect,’ Tom couldn’t resist. Giggling, Logan came over and sat on his lap.

Everyone’s happy, thought Angela wistfully. Max and Stella, Logan and Tom. Even Jason and Tatiana seem to have settled down. She thought about herself and Brett, and what they’d both somehow managed to lose. She missed him, or at least, she missed what they had once had together. Live Crib, Fittlescombe’s annual Christmas celebration of the Nativity, complete with local farm animals, was truly a time for family.

Please God, she found herself praying, as she poured yet more flour into the mixing bowl. Make me happy again. Show me the way.

Outside the kitchen window, snow began to fall.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Reverend Slaughter looked happily around his packed church and wondered if the BBC South East television crew would have a sufficiently good view of his new crimson robes when he gave the opening address.

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