The Great Christmas Knit Off Read Online Free Page B
Author: Alexandra Brown
husband who is waiting to greet her at the end of the platform with a big grin on his face and an enormous bouquet of festive winter blooms – rich reds, oranges and greens, and there’s even one of those little dried pumpkins on a stick nestling next to a silver-sprayed sprig of mistletoe which he plucks from the bunch and holds high above her head before leaning in for a Christmas kiss. Laughing, she bats his chest before pulling him in close. They clearly adore each other and it’s so nice to see. Maybe there’s hope for me yet …
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and realise that I really am exhausted. A few minutes later I become conscious that Basil’s beside me, so I open one eye and do a quick scan of the carriage. The guy by the window is still engrossed in his newspaper and there’s nobody else here, so I put my hand around Basil and stroke his silky soft ear. He takes the cue and snuggles into the side of my thigh, curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, instinctively knowing that he needs to be on his best behaviour or he’ll be back on the hard train floor.
*
The train stops moving and I jolt awake.
‘Er, excuse me … are we here?’ I ask the ticket inspector, as I wipe away the condensation that’s gathered on the window, but he’s already heading back off down the carriage, and the guy with the newspaper has gone too. I must have nodded off.
I peer out through the gap on the glass.
And gasp.
We’re on the set of
Frozen
! Or so it seems. Outside there’s a magical winter wonderland where Olaf could appear at any given moment – I’m convinced of it. The platform is covered in a beautiful layer of crisp, clean white snow, untouched and definitely not mottled with dirt like the sludgy grey sleet at home. It’s perfect. Just like one of Mum’s special festive placemats with the perfect Christmassy scene on them that she keeps for best, or for when Gloria from next door pops in for her annual New Year drinks soirée.
Feeling very excited, I quickly pull on my parka, loop my hand through Basil’s lead and gather up my stuff before heading for the door. I can’t wait to grab a taxi to the Duck & Puddle pub; with a bit of luck, Basil and I will make it there just in time to surprise Cher and Clive before last orders.
B ut where’s the taxi rank?
Basil and I are standing underneath an old-fashioned Dickensian-looking streetlight! And I don’t believe it – we’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow-dappled trees and standing on a postage-stamp-size patch of tarmac that I’m assuming must count as a car park around here. And it’s deserted, apart from what looks like half of a dilapidated two-berth caravan. It’s hard to tell as the top has been cut off and the rest ‘left to nature’; brambles, ten feet high with an intricate crocheted maze of snow-dusted spider webs weaving between the leaves, are sprouting from it at jaunty angles. Basil and I are the only ones here and the tiny ticket office, aka a converted Portakabin, is all locked up; we had to exit the platform via a rickety wooden side gate. So now what? There isn’t even a bus stop or a phone box that I can see, and the snow is falling thicker and faster.
We start walking.
Well, I’m walking, trudging like a Sherpa really, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me, whereas Basil is bouncing along up front, biting the snow as if it’s a real thing and generally having a good time.
We’ve been walking for at least ten minutes when we come to a fork in the road. There’s one of those traditional white wooden country signposts, so I stop walking and, after catching my breath, I reach up and wipe the snow away to see if we’re even going in the right direction.
Tindledale 2¼
Two and a quarter miles!
Sweet Jesus, when was the last time I walked that far? From what I can see, it’s uphill all the way and my backside still aches from the Zumba class. Maybe coming here wasn’t
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and realise that I really am exhausted. A few minutes later I become conscious that Basil’s beside me, so I open one eye and do a quick scan of the carriage. The guy by the window is still engrossed in his newspaper and there’s nobody else here, so I put my hand around Basil and stroke his silky soft ear. He takes the cue and snuggles into the side of my thigh, curling into a ball and making himself as small as possible, instinctively knowing that he needs to be on his best behaviour or he’ll be back on the hard train floor.
*
The train stops moving and I jolt awake.
‘Er, excuse me … are we here?’ I ask the ticket inspector, as I wipe away the condensation that’s gathered on the window, but he’s already heading back off down the carriage, and the guy with the newspaper has gone too. I must have nodded off.
I peer out through the gap on the glass.
And gasp.
We’re on the set of
Frozen
! Or so it seems. Outside there’s a magical winter wonderland where Olaf could appear at any given moment – I’m convinced of it. The platform is covered in a beautiful layer of crisp, clean white snow, untouched and definitely not mottled with dirt like the sludgy grey sleet at home. It’s perfect. Just like one of Mum’s special festive placemats with the perfect Christmassy scene on them that she keeps for best, or for when Gloria from next door pops in for her annual New Year drinks soirée.
Feeling very excited, I quickly pull on my parka, loop my hand through Basil’s lead and gather up my stuff before heading for the door. I can’t wait to grab a taxi to the Duck & Puddle pub; with a bit of luck, Basil and I will make it there just in time to surprise Cher and Clive before last orders.
B ut where’s the taxi rank?
Basil and I are standing underneath an old-fashioned Dickensian-looking streetlight! And I don’t believe it – we’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow-dappled trees and standing on a postage-stamp-size patch of tarmac that I’m assuming must count as a car park around here. And it’s deserted, apart from what looks like half of a dilapidated two-berth caravan. It’s hard to tell as the top has been cut off and the rest ‘left to nature’; brambles, ten feet high with an intricate crocheted maze of snow-dusted spider webs weaving between the leaves, are sprouting from it at jaunty angles. Basil and I are the only ones here and the tiny ticket office, aka a converted Portakabin, is all locked up; we had to exit the platform via a rickety wooden side gate. So now what? There isn’t even a bus stop or a phone box that I can see, and the snow is falling thicker and faster.
We start walking.
Well, I’m walking, trudging like a Sherpa really, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me, whereas Basil is bouncing along up front, biting the snow as if it’s a real thing and generally having a good time.
We’ve been walking for at least ten minutes when we come to a fork in the road. There’s one of those traditional white wooden country signposts, so I stop walking and, after catching my breath, I reach up and wipe the snow away to see if we’re even going in the right direction.
Tindledale 2¼
Two and a quarter miles!
Sweet Jesus, when was the last time I walked that far? From what I can see, it’s uphill all the way and my backside still aches from the Zumba class. Maybe coming here wasn’t
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