Christmas Wishes at the Lakeside Cottage

Book 0: Lakeside Cottage

by Erin Green

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Cosy up this festive season this summer with the new feel-good read for Christmas from Erin Green!

Welcome to the Lakeside Cottage . . . a place for families, friends and loved one to share the perfect seasonal escape . . .

If you love Lucy Diamond, Phillipa Ashley, Sue Moorcroft and Holly Martin, you'll LOVE Erin Green's novels of love, life and laughter, which are richly praised:

'A warm, funny, uplifting writer to celebrate!' KATIE FFORDE

'A lovely, heart-warming story . . . I was hooked!' CHRISTINA COURTENAY

'A delightful tale of friendship, family and love' JENNI KEER

'Thoroughly entertaining. The characters are warm and well drawn' SUE ROBERTS

Don't miss any of Erin Green's gloriously uplifting reads set in Lerwick - look out for From Shetland, With Love; From Shetland, With Love at Christmas; Sunny Stays at the Shetland Hotel; A Shetland Christmas Carol - perfect for any season!

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: September 28, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Saturday 23 December

Lowry

‘Here we are, folks. By far the worst case I’ve collected today but sadly nothing we haven’t seen before,’ I announce, barging into consulting room one with a wire cat carrier, just before three o’clock. My uniform is mud splattered and dusty – I had to scale a garden fence to perform the rescue – my stubby ponytail threatens to escape its hair bobble and my stomach is rumbling after a long and weary early shift. I’m tired and disheartened as I heave the occupied carrier on to the vet’s freshly wiped consulting table. ‘It’ll make your blood boil, but the sooner you examine her . . . the better she’ll feel.’ I don’t await Vet Colley’s instructions; I’ve worked alongside him for many years. Passing my clipboard of notes to young Jenny, the veterinary nurse, I continue with my running commentary as I unhook the carrier door and gently fish out the emaciated animal within – the poor thing has all but given up her fight for life. ‘Found abandoned in a rear garden, no food, no sign of water or proper shelter. The neighbour reports the homeowners left a couple of weeks ago and simply left her behind and, well . . . look.’

The cat doesn’t flinch or fight, her head hangs low, her matchstalk frame poking through dirty matted fur. She hasn’t the energy to struggle; she barely has enough to breathe.

‘How do some people sleep at night?’ mutters Vet Colley. His shoulders drop and his brow furrows as he views the neglected cat.

‘Who knows. But we need to do what we do and in time . . .’

‘In time? Lowry, can you not see what we have here?’ he says, beginning to examine the poor creature with a featherlike touch.

‘In time, with our care and attention she’ll be another survivor,’ I say, fussing the cat’s ear to offer some comfort. ‘We work wonders around here.’

‘Well, given that you’re supposed to be heading off on annual leave, she won’t be your little wonder, Lowry,’ calls Jenny, tapping the computer keyboard to create a new file from my paperwork. Jenny’s right. My shift officially ended an hour ago, but home time means nothing in my world. Here at RSPCA Salford is where I belong – amongst­­ the litter trays, the feeding bowls and faded knitted blankets – answering emergency calls from distressed but kindly neighbours. Regardless of my shift rota, I’ll happily spend hours sitting on a scrubbed floor beside a basket tending to a tiny mite disadvantaged by those who promised to love and take care of them. Because animals never renege on their promise of unconditional love shown to us. Sadly, some humans fail miserably, pushing the boundaries of moral decency.

‘Mmm, but I’m needed here . . . I’ll arrive when I arrive,’ I say, as Vet Colley gently prises open the cat’s mouth, displaying needle-­sharp teeth.

‘She’s barely older than a year, poor thing,’ he says, securing his stethoscope in his ears and listening to her chest.

‘Lowry,’ sighs Jenny, shaking her head, her eyes not leaving the screen, ‘if Roger finds you’re still here . . .’

I don’t answer – a shoddy attempt to ignore her kind warning. Big Boss Roger can go whistle for the time being; my duties and moral judgement come before family matters. Having encouraged my love of animals since childhood, my mum’s hardly going to complain; I’m simply doing what I do best. If anything, they should be praising me for having prepacked my suitcase, which is already sitting on the rear seat of my tiny car beside a selection of gift-­wrapped Christmas presents – enabling me to leave straight from work.

‘Lowry,’ Vet Colley says, his gaze fixed upon his delicate patient, ‘this little girl’s in safe hands – get yourself off and enjoy the Christmas holidays before . . .’

Bang on cue, the consulting room door opens and his booming Mancunian tone doesn’t need any introduction. ‘Are you still here? Lowry, your shift finished an hour ago. A six o’clock start means a two o’clock handover. Off home – now!’

Caught again! I turn to address my long-­suffering boss, his bulky frame holding the door wide open. His size and exasperated glare are softened by his attire, this year’s Christmas jumper depicting a comical reindeer with a red flashing hooter.

‘I was just . . .’ With the best will in the world, I’ve no remaining argument left to answer him. This happens every time I have holiday entitlement owing: I drag my feet until I’m forced to take the required days or lose them to ‘the system’. I appreciate Roger’s concern, but he needs to understand me a little better too; without a partner or children, my work is my life. He worries about my working hours and, sometimes, even I can see his point about staff wellbeing and work-­life balance. But after a decade of knowing me, having watched me work my way from a weekend volunteer, as a shy nineteen-­year-­old, through training and exam study to become a qualified animal inspector, he should accept that an extra hour won’t kill me. Though looking at Roger’s unwavering expression and fierce stance, he might.

Helen

I’m five minutes earlier than my allotted three o’clock arrival time, so I’ll happily wait here in the car, as not everyone appreciates such courtesy nowadays. I’ve parked alongside the cottage’s drystone wall, complete with a picket gate, and am delighted by the prospect beyond. An authentic country cottage with a bulky thatched roof, with possibly a second apex protruding towards the rear, a quaint kitchen garden either side of its cobbled pathway and a picturesque porch above a moss-­green door framed by the bare branches of wisteria, which must look stunning during the summer months.

It’s only taken me two hours across country to arrive from Todmorden, a pleasant and relaxed journey accompanied by Radio Four, my trusted companion. The snow repeatedly predicted by the weather lady has held off so far. Fingers crossed, the relatives arriving in the coming hours will get here stress-­free and before the night draws in. Those who’ve decided to delay their arrival until tomorrow or the day after might have to do battle with the snow. Why some folks can’t organise themselves and commit to specific arrangements is beyond me. Though they’ve never been any different, so more fool me for expecting change. Still, that’s family, and we love them for being unique.

The surrounding Cumbrian countryside wouldn’t have been my first choice. I’ve previously opted for quaint rental cottages nestled much further afield, but this location means less travelling time for all concerned and, more importantly, it’s ideal for Rupert’s Boxing Day plans.

Despite the chilly temperatures, I climb out of the car for a closer look.

Rupert’s already paid the full rental price, so technically the cottage is ours for the next six days – despite only needing it for five of those days. Unless the owners prove to be the picky sort who’ll charge for my extra five minutes stating I’m trespassing.

The metal catch on the gate has a satisfying spring­close action once you pass through and release it. So lovely. There’s a solid unevenness underfoot as the cobbles aren’t the modern flat-­topped sort but originals with a rounded mossy surface, probably laid a century ago.

I’m admiring the craftsmanship of the leaded windows staring boldly from the frontage, with the upper windows cutely peeping from beneath the thatch overhang, when the front door springs wide open.

‘Hello, I’m Josie . . . housekeeper for Lakeside Cottage. Helen, is it?’ asks a spritely lady, dressed in a pleated tweed skirt, sensible walking brogues and a well-­weathered but bright smile.

‘Helen, yes. That’s me. We’re quite a large party so we thought it best that I arrive first. It saves ushering “the gang” through each room and them getting underfoot while you explain the essentials.’

‘A wise decision. Our parties are usually quite large, given that we can accommodate sixteen guests in our nine bedrooms. On occasion, some guests have become quite tetchy during the handover tour with the named keyholder – which is only for their benefit, enabling them to have full use of the facilities.’

‘Of course. Our party would be no different, despite there being only adults,’ I say, grateful to Rupert for accepting my early-­arrival suggestion. We’ve been caught out many times before when renting a holiday retreat, and it’s never ideal to start a family gathering on the wrong note.

‘Welcome to Lakeside Cottage!’ Josie gestures towards an artistic name plaque fixed to the rustic brickwork. ‘I’ll give you a run-through of the what-­nots, and please feel free to ask questions. The rental charge covers everything you see within and around the cottage, so please use as you see fit. An added bonus for large parties, such as yourselves, is that we haven’t any neighbours for half a mile in either direction. Though the village of Hawkshead and all its amenities are just a short walk along the lane, so it doesn’t feel desolate or too remote.’

My heart melts; it’s just what we Carmichaels need – solitude and space to create special festive memories.

‘Thank you. We intend to celebrate the Christmas of all Christmases, if I’m honest,’ I say, gleefully stepping into the hallway and closing the door by its tiny metal latch, noting the other sturdy bolts and locks fitted below, for additional security. My next spot is the substantial coat rack on the opposite wall, another much-­needed facility when our family come to stay. Funny how my self-­imposed role as the organised matriarch reappears given an opportunity, but as I always remind them, we each have our talents. Mine are acceptance and organising – make of that what you will!

The hallway is a fair size, vast in fact: a wide staircase is directly before me, with a rustic newel post matching the beams overhead and polished floorboards. Tasteful decoration in a classy mustard with gold detailing highlights many original features such as the picture rail and the doorknobs complementing the four panelled doors leading off.

‘You’ve chosen the perfect location then. Firstly, I always point this out as guests usually ask: here’s our guest book with a pen, feel free to include your thoughts and memories, which add to the history of the cottage. It’s worth a little read on a quiet cosy night – it’s quite humorous in places.’ Josie gestures to a side table, on which rests a fancy ceramic dish filled with keys and a beautiful padded book complete with a pen, as mentioned.

‘Thank you, I might have a little read myself,’ I say, purely to be polite because I’ll be rushed off my feet, if previous family holidays are anything to go by. This time especially, given the jam-­packed itinerary for our five festive days.

‘There are four sets of keys in the dish; if you could ensure they’re returned at the end of your stay on the twenty-­eighth, I’d appreciate it.’

There’s no point mentioning our planned departure on the twenty-­seventh – the keys will be there waiting for her either way. From what Rupert’s said, it wasn’t worth quibbling about the cost of the extra day. He was happy to pay the full price to secure such a beautiful property, in an idyllic location.

I listen intently as Josie outlines where I’ll find the housekeeping manual, the instructions for every electrical item in the cottage and the bin collection rota. Local hospital details, doctor’s surgery and local takeaway numbers are also provided – the owners really have thought of everything and Josie diligently delivers the details. ‘A list of emergency numbers, including my own, is pinned inside the pantry door.’

God forbid we need those.

‘In here we have . . .’ Josie opens the first door on the right-­hand side revealing a huge lounge which extends the full length of the cottage. I recognise the smell of beeswax from my childhood which I assume has been used on the traditional furniture. There’s an impressive stone fireplace and granite hearth dominating this end of the room, around which I imagine the family, snuggled cosy and warm, enjoying a Christmas tipple.

‘Wow, look at those views,’ I gasp, instantly drawn to the windows along the side of the room. As if by magic, a large lake appears in the distance with a backdrop of purple-­headed mountains beyond, gently caressing a wintry sky.

‘Impressive, hey? More so in the summer, but nevertheless very relaxing whilst having a quiet moment to yourself,’ says Josie. ‘I never tire of looking at the landscape – no two hours of the day are the same.’

‘And the owners, do they live here for part of the year?’ I ask, wondering how they could bear to be away.

‘Oh no. They live in Shetland, actually. They make regular visits from time to time but never on a permanent basis.’

‘How lovely. They’ve obviously got good taste.’ Again, the decoration is high-­end and traditional; there’s nothing tacky or pretentious, just simple lines and decent quality. Very much a luxury home-­from-­home, with pale carpets, rich maroons and the odd splash of silver detailing on the satin cushions and brocade curtains. Their choice of interiors matches mine exactly, if I could afford to own a cottage such as this.

‘There’s a log pile just outside the rear kitchen door, which saves the faff of chopping wood, though some guests like to try their hand once they locate the axe in the outhouse,’ says Josie, adding, ‘They usually manage to chop one or two logs then appreciate what’s provided.’

‘It’ll keep them entertained, I suppose.’ I can see our lads doing exactly that, goading each other in a brotherly competition which will inevitably end in tantrums or a dash to the local A&E, much as it did when they were youngsters.

‘Anyway, the dining room is opposite,’ says Josie, swiftly exiting and leading the way across the hallway and opening the door to the left of the entrance. I poke my head and shoulders inside to view a massive oak dining table with ‘Two, four, six, eight . . . sixteen?’ I say, proving I can count, before realising there would hardly be fewer in a cottage accommodating sixteen guests. The leaded windows overlook the front garden, which is still lovely despite it being a little bare at this time of year.

‘Then behind the dining room, we have the snug. Ideal for quiet conversations or just a quick episode on the TV while everyone else watches the lounge’s main TV.’ Josie opens the panelled door revealing a very modern room, with two squashy marshmallow-­styled sofas and a low-­lying coffee table, abstract prints framed on each wall and a plasma TV in the corner with numerous board games stashed beneath.

‘Useful space,’ I say, sensing we might need a rota system to ensure fairness if troubles break out amongst the siblings.

‘There’s a record player directly opposite under the staircase, which seems a strange place to house it but even with the volume turned low it can be heard throughout the cottage. There’s plenty of vinyl albums and singles, stored in the cupboard below.’

‘That might come in useful for some background music,’ I say, instantly preparing for all eventualities.

‘And finally, through here, we have the kitchen. What I call a proper farmhouse kitchen.’ We exit the cosy snug to enter the rear kitchen. Josie isn’t wrong in calling it a farmhouse kitchen – it is massive! A red tiled floor, a scrubbed table in the centre, surrounded by deep countertops, various pots and pans hanging on wall hooks, a blackened hearth and a bright yellow Aga, which overshadows the modern cooker slotted in beside.

‘I’ve cooked in here many times and loved every minute of it – a proper cook’s kitchen, in my opinion,’ says Josie.

‘Now, that’s one thing we do have in our party, a true cook. Martha will be in her element, but she’s certainly not expecting this. She assumes she’ll have to slum it for a few days in a kitchen that isn’t up to her standards, but this . . . well, she’ll be happy with double-­frontage fridges,’ I say, excited to see her initial reaction.

‘Wait till she sees the scullery, the food stores and the utility room – all located along the passage; there’s everything she’ll be needing for a jolly Christmas. We’ve provided a couple of complimentary festive food hampers in the stores. Each contains a few essentials so you can enjoy a snack and a little relax before you need to venture to a supermarket. There’s a local Co-­op a little way into Hawkshead, they stock most goods.’

‘To be fair, Martha is bringing everything she needs for the week ahead. She’s like that – nothing’s left to chance. She’s been preparing food for days, but it’s great to know we won’t go short with a Co-­op on our doorstep.’ A quick scan of the kitchen suggests there’s every imaginable gadget lined up along the counter tops – so everyone else will have what they’ll need.

‘It goes without saying the rear garden, coal shed and outhouse are easily accessible,’ says Josie, pointing to the rear exit, a solid, wooden split stable door.

There’s a sense of security and safety regarding solid wooden doors. The threshold beyond is unknown until the actual moment it’s revealed. After which there’s only ever forward motion, without the option to retreat and revert to a previous time – much like our journey through life. This rear door allows you to view the prospect beyond before deciding to venture through. Now that I like.

‘Nice door,’ I say, admiring how practical it would be in warmer months.

‘It is. Very practical too as we’ve acquired a stray tabby; guests have started to feed her. She’s no trouble, other than being a little minx, but not everyone likes seeing a cat curled before the Aga.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Anyway, you can’t get lost wandering out the back. The garden is terraced and sectioned, though sadly the fence on this right-­hand side hides a gorgeous view of the lakes, which is a shame. It’ll need dismantling and re-­erecting come the spring.’

I’m impressed. Which is amazing since I didn’t locate or book this particular rental cottage; it was found by Diane, Rupert’s fiancée. And praise where praise is due, I think she has proved herself top-­notch. I really hope Rupert approves too. Though you never know with that old bugger.

‘Ready to view the upstairs?’ asks Josie, with a chuckle. I assume I look overwhelmed because that’s how I’m feeling at the thought of nine bedrooms.

‘Lead the way but if it’s anything like down here then our family will have no complaints. I can’t believe this property has ever been rented out as everything looks pristine – does no one ever ruin or break anything?’

‘Sometimes, but it’s rare. The owners insist on offering an unforgettable experience with high-­quality fittings and fixtures, and in return the guests respect their surroundings – we’ve had very few issues,’ says Josie, retracing our steps towards the central staircase. ‘There’s one master suite and a selection of doubles, singles and twin rooms with various bathrooms.’

‘My second task, which makes me sound like mother hen, is to allocate the bedrooms, so I’m hoping there won’t be too many arguments.’ I’m hoping to ensure Diane’s daughter, Lowry, has a decent room – it’ll be a nice welcome to our family.

‘I doubt you’ll hear any complaints. Most guests remark on the comfort and quality of our mattresses and bedding,’ says Josie, as we slowly ascend the staircase. The top stair gives a distinct yet homely creak as we reach the airy landing.

Chapter Two

Lowry

For two hours, I follow my trusted satnav from the familiar city streets of Salford to this vast wilderness of the Lake District. My only companions are a family-­sized bag of chocolate limes, open and scattered on the passenger seat, and my Christmas tunes playlist, from which Noddy Holder sporadically wails his festive greeting. My chin is inches from the steering wheel as I lean forward, peering into the darkness as my aged Mini creeps along this narrow, desolate lane. My bulky work jacket is uncomfortably bunched about my ears and the seat belt is stretched to the max. I’m grateful that the snow threatened in the earlier weather forecast hasn’t occurred but the bitter cold is testing my car’s heater. I don’t think my little brown Mini was built to contend with conditions such as these. Though at forty years old, and well looked after, she’s plodding along nicely through life, just like me.

These final few minutes of the drive are the most daunting – everything looks the same in the dark. Having successfully navigated winding single-­breadth lanes since leaving the motorway, I fear I might now be lost. I’ll be stuffed if I have to turn around as I haven’t seen a passing point or a driveway for ages – nothing but ancient hedgerows or shimmering lakes on either side. Despite my earlier fence-­scrambling experience, my typical day consists of trudging along busy high streets, through housing estates and industrial areas to answer emergency animal calls. I’m not used to windswept environments, wild terrain or idyllic seclusion in search of ‘a rambling cottage befitting any festive rom-­com movie’ – my mother’s description, not mine.

I’ve no one to blame but myself. I should have left work earlier so that I could drive during daylight hours but no, my heart was set on settling the new arrival, the abandoned cat, into her pen as my final festive job. On second thoughts, it’s probably the two other emergencies that I offered to assist with that have truly delayed my arrival, despite Roger’s repeated insistence that I should go home for the holidays.

Given my late departure, I didn’t bother to change from my unflattering uniform but headed straight out; I’ll freshen up on arrival – then my holiday can truly begin. I might be reluctant to take my holiday entitlement but boy, what a few days this should be! Five festive-­filled days in which my mother, Diane, has chosen to celebrate Christmas and marry the new man in her life come Boxing Day. Not that I’ve met my soon-­to-­be stepfather, Rupert Carmichael, but that’s the downside of living miles away from my parent whilst I retain my childhood roots in Pendlebury, with a vocational job where weekend shifts are essential and unplanned overtime necessary.

Not that I’m entirely to blame – the speed with which their whirlwind romance has developed in a mere twelve weeks has made my head spin! Mum’s about to have her dream wedding after a lifetime of waiting for Prince Charming. For this alone, I’m truly happy, delighted – all those wonderful life-­affirming adjectives – but still, blimey O’Reilly, they didn’t hang about in setting a date! That would be like me being married by Easter! Now, that would be a whirlwind romance – correction, a miracle romance given that I’ve not had so much as a Christmas kiss in the last, oh, now, let me think . . . two? Three? Dare I say . . . four years? My brain enters a time warp as I recall the details of my break-­up with Tommy Collins, trying to avoid igniting my emotions or reopening the wounds this late in my journey. I’ll need more than a few minutes to compose myself otherwise. If I ever arrive, that is. Does this well-­trodden lane, probably created aeons ago by a horse and cart, for a horse and cart, go on for ever?

Lights ahead! Quaint picturesque cottage lights to be precise.

I slow the car to a crawl, peering up at the chocolate-­box cottage complete with what appears to be against the starry night sky a quintessential thatched roof. A centrally positioned doorway beneath a titchy porch canopy with mellow light spilling from large windows on either side. This must be it: Lakeside Cottage.

I draw the car to a halt behind several other parked vehicles edging the lane, not totally convinced by the satnav’s announcement of ‘your destination is on your left’ and somewhat grateful that my satnav didn’t ad lib with, ‘But you’re daunted by the prospect of the festivities so would you like to return home?’ I expect the festivities are in full flow; my mum and Rupert were planning their arrival for four o’clock, after a trusted relative did the honours of collecting the keys at three.

The amber glow pouring from both the ground and upper windows suggests every room is occupied, which equals a fair number of people. I’m not entirely sure how many are invited for the five-­day stay, though Mum did say Rupert has children from a previous marriage so I’m expecting other adults, probably around my age.

Given my track record, I’m probably the last to arrive. Being an only child raised by an only child and single mum whilst living with her ageing parents – family gatherings weren’t a necessity in our Pendlebury semi. But those days of ‘just the four of us’ are long gone.

I can’t sit here all night. As I get out of the car and lock the driver’s door, a niggling thought occurs: what if I’m at the wrong address? My stomach lurches, my palms instantly sweat and my knees weaken. I’m stalling for time because be it a lame security dog hiding in a factory, chasing an escaped budgerigar through dense shrubbery in a local park or locating a pet python in an abandoned maisonette, I’ve never previously had any trouble with directions. Yet at the idea of meeting my mother’s intended and his family, I’m bricking it.

I leave my suitcase and Christmas presents in the car to collect once I’m shown to my room, unhook the picket gate and traipse along the cobbled pathway. Even in the darkness, it all looks very lovely and typical of my mum’s ideology, given her fraught and often painful wait for a real-­life fairy tale to finally come her way. Having raised me single-­handed, she deserves every wonderful moment over the next few days.

I’m hoping that the ‘Diane and Rupert’ depicted in perfect calligraphy on the snow-­white wedding invite are the happiest of couples with many years ahead of them. Hopefully my anti-­social nature can cope amidst the Carmichael company, otherwise I’ll be nipping to the seclusion of my room to escape the crowd. Horror of horrors, if I’m expected to share . . . please let me have a bedroom of my own.

‘Lowry,’ I tell myself as I approach the front door, ‘enjoy it. She’s not asking a lot, just a few days amongst newly gained relatives before she jets off on a sunshine honeymoon.’

After which I’ll return to my work – without Roger wittering on about my annual leave – and peace of mind, knowing that my mum is living her best life.

The front door’s tiny bevelled window casts a mellow light on my tired features, for which I’m grateful; despite my twenty-­nine years, I feel ancient. I’m in need of food, a warm bed and a soothing hug – much like the abandoned cat back at the Salford rescue centre. On second thoughts, it’s wrong of me to make that comparison; I haven’t been neglected or received cruel treatment, unlike that poor creature.

From the tiled doorstep, I can hear muted tones of lively bustling inside, a combination of wedding prep and festive fun. I take a deep breath before pulling the ancient bell chain. I hear a delicate tinkle, sense the ripple effect as others cease their activity to listen before someone is nominated to answer the door, probably my mother since I’m so late: it’s nearly eight o’clock.

Through the bevelled window, I watch a male figure appear in the hallway; his rapidly approaching form is distorted into abstract blocks of colour: marl grey, peachy pink face, navy top with denim.

The door is wrenched wide open, releasing a snippet of a Christmas tune, and a hulk of a guy, matching my mother’s maturity, whom I assume is Rupert stands on the coir matting in his burgundy slippers. I’m about to speak, officially introducing myself as Lowry Stephens, Diane’s daughter, before apologising profusely for my late arrival, when he cuts in first.

‘Finally! You’ve taken your bloody time – I called you three hours ago! I can’t see how that’s classed as an emergency response. Anyway, here they are . . . No, I don’t want to keep them, I’d prefer you to remove them from the premises and be done with them.’ His gruff tone sounds somewhat condescending. At this poi. . .