When Emily got up the next morning and pulled open the curtains, she found a small group of people standing around in front of the new sign, arms folded, shaking their heads. Ironically, every single one of them was standing on the grass they were being warned to keep off.
Emily took a shower and changed, then went downstairs. She could vaguely remember arranging to pick Veronica up at ten, but aside from the wine she hadn’t yet drunk and a tub of margarine at the back which had probably been left by previous guests, the fridge was empty and she had nothing for breakfast. Donning her jacket, she headed out.
Clear skies greeted her, bringing along with them a chilly wind rattling up from the valley. Cottonwood’s orientation seemed to have left it as a bit of a wind tunnel for the surrounding hills, and by the time she had crossed the street to the shop, her hair was so messy she was holding it down with one hand while wishing she had thought to wear a hat.
The shop was uninspiringly named Cottonwood Stores. It was in an old stone building separated from the pub by a single residential property, and with all three having a similar look, Emily surmised they had probably been farm cottages or the backs of old stables facing an internal courtyard. Cottonwood had the feel of a way station. Long before the A30 had been built a few miles to the south, Cottonwood might have been a stagecoach stop for travelers heading southwest from Exeter down to Launceston and Truro. Emily wondered if that sense of transit had left an impression on the locals. Her welcome had been somewhat truncated, that was for sure.
Inside, the shop was cramped, but pleasantly stocked with everything a short-stay visitor would need, albeit at a premium compared to local supermarket prices. Taking a basket and filling it with milk, bread, cereal, a few toiletries, and some canned goods in case she needed a quick meal in a fix, she remembered her grandmother’s old mantra.
‘Buying local is not just buying local, Emily,’ Elaine had said on more occasions that Emily could remember. ‘Buying local is creating connections, building relationships, and supporting the community. Tourists come and go, but the community is your heart. Always build a good, strong heart.’
As she wandered around, adding a newspaper and a couple of out-of-date women’s magazines from a rack by the door, the business mind her grandmother had installed in her over the years couldn’t help but pick out issues the shop needed to address: the lack of local produce, daily offers, fresh goods, flyers for home delivery services catering for the elderly who likely made up the majority of the village’s population. She was still thinking about how Elaine would have improved things when she turned to see a sullen young man watching her from behind the counter.
‘All right?’ he said, sounding anything but. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Emily was momentarily speechless. This had to be Peter, the boy Veronica had mentioned. At a guess, he was about twenty. He looked like he wanted to be Paul Weller but with greasier hair encircling the sides of his face. A suit jacket with enough frays to suggest a charity shop purchase was open to the waist, a black and white tie loosely encircling his neck. His shirt was untucked.
‘Um, I’m okay for a minute,’ Emily said. ‘Do you have any Marmite?’
‘Over there, next to the jam.’
‘Ah, I see it. Thanks.’
She could feel his eyes on her back as she retrieved a jar and put it into her basket. He looked quickly away as she turned around. She carried the basket over to the counter and set it down. As he began to ring up the items she noticed the way he kept glancing up at her and decided to put him out of his misery.
‘No, I’m not from round here,’ she said.
His head snapped up. His eyes widened, then he looked away. Red plumed in his cheeks. ‘I didn’t—’
‘I thought you might have wondered. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of through-trade.’
‘The odd person stops by for a newspaper but never for a weekly shop,’ he said.
Emily hadn’t considered the nine items in her basket a weekly shop, but supposed Cottonwood Stores was as affected by the rise in internet shopping and home delivery as every other rural community. She had probably doubled his weekly profits.
‘I’m staying over at one of the holiday lets,’ she said. ‘I like to shop local when I can.’
‘It’s much appreciated. Why on earth would you want to stay here? And at one of them….’
This last was said as an aside as his eyes dropped, his thoughts trailing off, but Emily picked up enough of the tone. Birchtide was a little bigger than Cottonwood, but even so, it had its share of local politics. Villagers had almost gone to war over such minor things as speed bumps, public-rights-of-way, and the hygiene—or not, depending on the person—of dog walkers. Resentments and feuds could often run generations deep.
‘I needed a break,’ Emily said. ‘Family stuff. I was looking for somewhere quiet to relax.’
‘Well, you won’t find much quieter.’
‘Are you local?’
‘Unfortunately so. I’m home from university for the holidays. I wanted to stay up in Manchester, but you know, my mum would get upset.’
Emily smiled. ‘You must be Peter.’
‘Uh, yeah. How’d you know?’
Wary of undercurrents of which she might not be aware, Emily chose her words carefully. ‘I met someone who mentioned you, that’s all. Her name was Veronica. Over at the café?’
Peter’s cheeks flared again. Despite an odd choice of clothing which suggested a certain level of confidence, at the mention of Veronica he became as awkward as a fourteen-year-old asked for a first dance.
‘Oh, her. Yeah, I know her.’
Emily decided not to force it. ‘I was just asking where I might pick up a few things, and she said you could help.’
‘Well, great. Yeah, there’s not much here, but it’ll, you know, keep you alive.’
‘Thanks.’ Emily took the plastic bag Peter had filled with her groceries and decided to put him out of his misery. ‘Anyway, thanks, and nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.’
‘Sure.’
Outside, the wind had eased and the air had taken on a welcome warmth. The sun hung low above the buildings to the east. Emily gave it a quick glance before heading back across the square to her holiday let. In the kitchen, she made herself coffee, cereal, and toast with Marmite. Her phone’s battery was completely dead, but she found an old transistor radio in a cupboard behind the kitchen door, and when plugged in she was able to tune it to Radio 2, which was playing a selection of Christmas songs.
With the sun streaming in the kitchen window and Frank Sinatra crooning on the radio, she felt more positive than she had in weeks. Perhaps, in this lonely little place, she could make a pleasant Christmas for herself.
Something wasn’t quite right about the village, though. There had been something about the shop that had been odd, but at the time she had been unable to put her finger on quite what it was. Now, after some time of reflection, it was obvious.
It was Thursday, December the twelfth. Christmas was barely two weeks away. Yet, neither inside nor outside the shop, nor on any other building, for that matter, Emily hadn’t seen a single Christmas decoration.