She started with the garden first, stringing the lights up along the fences and around the edges of a pretty pond in the bottom corner. She adorned a line of trees then set up a couple of illuminated Father Christmas figures, one riding a sleigh across the lawn, the other climbing the wall up to the rear kitchen window. At lunchtime she ate a sandwich, sitting at the kitchen table and gazing out at her handiwork, feeling a little nervous at the lights coming on tonight after the solar batteries had charged up. The lets on either side were empty, however, and there were no houses visible across the valley from the patio outside the back door. She knew that some people might consider it tacky, but the idea of being asked to switch it all off at Christmas time—especially when all the lights ran on solar power—seemed ridiculous.
Elaine had loved Christmas so much Emily could almost believe that she had died and been reincarnated as one of Father Christmas’s fairies. From the beginning of December right through until January 6th the teahouse had glowed with fairy lights. Ever creative, each year Elaine had unveiled some new style of decoration or form of illumination which she had either bought off an obscure website or made herself. Emily’s favourite had been the four-foot-tall origami snowman made out of hundreds of old Christmas cards. Keeping it secret even from Emily, Elaine had spent a week in early December hiding away in a back room every evening, until the official unveiling at her big Christmas welcome party, always held on the second-to-last Saturday before Christmas, when all cakes and drinks were reduced to half price but entry required a secret Santa gift up to a cost of ten pounds to be donated at the door. Rather than giving them back to the customers, however, Elaine and Emily would drive around local kids’ homes and care homes and redistribute them, along with a slice of some kind of delicious cake or pie.
Those days had been a laugh riot, driving around the local villages with a car loaded full of cakes and presents, singing Christmas songs so loud that pedestrians they passed would jump away from the road in fright.
Emily wiped away a tear. ‘Miss you,’ she said, sniffing as she peered out at the garden with its display of silent lights.
Next, she went into the living room and set up the tree in a corner near the window, adorning it with decorations and wrapping it with tinsel and fairy lights. She felt almost criminal as she switched off the room light and then plugged her lights into a socket in the corner. The tree lit up in an instant, filling the room with a warm glow. Emily couldn’t help but smile, her heart skipping a little at the sight of it. All it needed was some presents, the fire to be roaring, and some stockings hung off the mantel. Perfect.
It was still light outside, but weary from her activity, Emily pulled out a bargain bin Hallmark Christmas DVD she had bought at the supermarket and slipped the disc into the player. Then, after getting a glass of wine from the fridge, she settled on the sofa for an afternoon of relaxation.
She must have fallen asleep because when she opened her eyes the credits were rolling and it was dark outside the living room window. The curtains were still wide and the tree was gleaming with lights, casting its glow out onto her small front lawn. Outside, the square was dark except for the street lights around the village green and a light through the window of the pub.
Emily sat up, wondering what it was that had woken her, then heard it again, a sharp knock on the door.
She got up, shook the sleep out of her body, then closed the curtains. Out in the hall, she saw the shadow of a face through the frosted glass of the front door.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mrs. Taylor from number thirteen, up the road. It’s precisely six doors down, not counting the vacant lot where the old scout hut used to stand. So, technically seven, but we wouldn’t want to go spoiling things, would we?’
Emily opened the door to reveal an old lady standing there, a beaked nose and crinkly face framed by a rose-like shock of white hair. Her most distinctive quality was of being uncommonly tall for someone so old, at least six feet, so tall that Emily found herself looking upward like a child caught doing something naughty by a teacher.
‘Would you like to come in?’ Emily asked, aware that a chill wind was gusting, and not too pleased about having it filling her house with cold before she’d managed to get the fire or the heaters going.
‘If you don’t mind, but I mustn’t stop for long. Cameron will be wanting his tea.’
‘Come in and sit down. You said you live up the street?’
‘Yes, number thirteen. It’s unlucky for some, but we can’t be biased now, can we?’
‘Certainly not. Would you like a cup of tea while I make the fire?’
‘That would be nice. It is rather chilly in here. While I applaud you for following this village’s sticky rules, there’s no need to freeze to death.’
‘I fell asleep on the sofa.’
‘Napping at your age?’ the old lady gave an amused tut. ‘What’s the world coming to?’
Mrs. Taylor waited patiently for Emily to make tea and then start the fire. Soon, flames were flickering in the hearth, and Mrs. Taylor was entrenched in the armchair, her tea held over her knees.
‘You haven’t told me your name, dear,’ she said, prompting Emily to give her a brief, truncated version of her reason for staying in Cottonwood.
‘Well, you could probably have picked somewhere more welcoming,’ she said, echoing what Emily had heard elsewhere. ‘I mean, us locals are pretty friendly if you can find us, but we’ve been pushed about so much by all these silly new conditions that those of us not sold up already are thinking to do so. And that’s after living here my whole life. Such a shame.’
Sensing an ally, Emily said, ‘So you’re not here to complain about my tree?’
Mrs. Taylor laughed. ‘Oh, I am. But not in the way you might think. I went for my evening walk around the square and noticed you hadn’t shut your curtains. I came to tell you to keep it out of sight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the parish council—that group of twittering sparrows who somehow got in charge of everything—don’t like them. Cottonwood is supposed to be aux naturale, all eco-centric and self-sustaining. However, it’s quite clear that no one really cares about anything except for shutting down Christmas.’
‘Why would someone do that?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, but since there’s only one member of the council who actually lives in Cottonwood, I’d suppose it was his idea.’ Mrs. Taylor turned to the fire, as though addressing it directly. ‘The insolent little brat.’
‘The parish council … aren’t they local people?’
‘Well, technically. They own properties here, and perhaps show up for a month in the summer to tell everyone else what to do. Cottonwood is popular for second homes. Over half of the houses in the village are owned by people from up country. No one would much care but they’ve stolen the heart out of the village, they contribute nothing, and yet they like to have a say on how the rest of us live our lives.’
‘That’s not very nice.’
‘We could probably tell them to buzz off, except the biggest snake still lives among us, directing all the gloom-mongering from his doorstep.’
‘Trower?’
‘Oh, so you’ve heard about him? It must make you a little uncomfortable.’
‘Um, not really. I’m not sure why it would.’
Mrs. Taylor leaned forward. ‘Are you certain of that? After all, you’re renting one of his properties.’