The Cat of Yule Cottage

by Lili Hayward

Genres: Historical Fiction; Holiday books; Contemporary Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

A magical tale of Christmas and cats, perfect for everyone who loves A Street Cat Named Bob and Alfie the Doorstep Cat. It's nearly Christmas, and Jessamine Pike needs a serious life overhaul. Jess moves into Enysyule, a centuries-old cottage in Cornwall, and begins the process of renovating the rundown house by day and finishing her novel by night, planning to have both finished in time for the holidays. She's got good company: a beautiful, arrogant tomcat stalks around like he owns the place, and seems very skeptical of Jess' tenancy. But there's magic in the air... Local legends tell of a spirit that inhabits the area, and an ancient standing stone that keeps watch over the valley. As Christmas comes closer and closer, Jess uncovers treasures from Enysyule's past, and becomes involved in a fight for its future. For Jess has stumbled into a story that's been going on for five hundred years. A story about land, love, friendship, the Yuletide... and one remarkable cat.

Release date: November 3, 2016

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 188

Sample

 

 

 

 

The house is called Enysyule.

Enysyule. The word lingers on my lips like honey from a spoon. Enysyule: grey and green. Old stone. Old trees. Thatch ochre with lichen. A tiny meadow of waist-high grass, full of sunlight, and a stream running past, a thread of fresh water flowing all the way to the sea. The house stands alone, the only dwelling in the deepest part of a deep valley. Nestled like something precious in the crook of an arm.

I crunch down the cobbled path towards it, the stones broken by time. Overhead, trees arch to meet each other. Their clothes of leaves are growing sparse and threadbare, but they still dapple the light on the ground. It’s strange, to walk into silence with only a bag on my back and suitcase in my hand, a layer of country dust replacing the city grime on the soles of my shoes.

The path leads to the front step. I stop there, listening to the scattered birdsong. Minutes or seconds could pass: they don’t seem to exist here, only seasons and centuries, measured in saplings and fallen trees. Even the key is old. It’s heavy and solid, polished by countless pockets. Finally I fit it in the lock, turn it with a low thunk. On the other side a different life is waiting.

I take a deep breath, and push open the door.

It swings into darkness, scraping to a halt. Air, undisturbed for months, floods out, engulfing me. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Worn stone and cold ash, the ghost of baking bread, the sweetness of wooden beams. And something else, something I can’t name; a scent of spice and green branches and snow, no sooner recognised than gone . . .

I let my eyes adjust. A long, low room stretches before me, one end disappearing into a huge fireplace, as wide as a creature’s maw. Tattered rugs cover the flagstones; an armchair sags in one corner, its fabric ripped to shreds. There’s not much furniture, just a long table, a dark dresser, a stool on its side. The initial scent of the house fades, replaced by other, less welcome smells. Dust and damp. Mould and mildew, rot and rust. There’s no movement inside. I peer around the front of the cottage, down into the meadow. Nothing. Just a shallow bowl by the doorstep, filled with stagnant green water.

I let my bag fall to the ground with a thud.

What have I done?

*  *  *

In the shadows beneath the ancient holly trees, something stirs. A pair of eyes blink into being. They are yellow as tallow, yellow as corn. They are old eyes, wild as a hawk’s, and now they turn towards the cottage.

*  *  *

I scuff my foot along the floor. Dust rises into the air, swirling in the light. A closer inspection hasn’t improved matters. The plaster walls are crumbling and smoke-stained. The flagstones are cracked. Several of the diamond-shaped windowpanes, so idyllic in the photograph, are broken and stuffed with rags.

This is the old man’s fault. If he hadn’t been at the letting agent’s office, if he hadn’t goaded me . . . I had only wanted to see this place, look at it, just once. I thought that might have been enough. I hadn’t anticipated a confrontation with a furious local, fuming that his aunt’s cottage was being put up for rent. Roscarrow was his name. Mr Roscarrow. He had a face like a seed potato.

‘Even if the old bird didn’t leave the place to me,’ he’d raged, ‘even if she didn’t, I won’t have city people waltzing in here, destroying everything that’s precious, squatting in our past and leaving it empty for elevenmonth. Not with Enysyule—’

The agent had tried to fight my corner. Perhaps she felt embarrassed that I’d come all the way from London to be harangued by an old man. She told him that it wasn’t going to be rented as a holiday home, that it was a condition of his aunt’s Will that the place be leased as a permanent dwelling, but that didn’t pacify him.

‘Scavel-an-gow,’ he’d sneered at me. ‘She couldn’t live there! I know that place. She wouldn’t even last a night.’

And so, I snapped. Before I knew it I was telling the letting agent that I’d take the place. I thought the old man would counter my offer with a better one; never dreamed that he was only bluffing, trying to cause trouble. By the time the letting agent mumbled something about the ‘caveats’ and ‘requirements’ of the property, I was so surprised I just nodded in agreement. Then she was handing me a pen, shaking my hand, and just like that . . . I became the tenant of a cottage. I look up at the stained ceiling, at the grimy windows, at the valley through the open door, growing cold with evening. I became the tenant of this cottage.

With a groan, I lever myself up from the sagging armchair and begin an inventory of the ground floor. The advert said the cottage was supplied ‘furnished’ but apart from a new mattress and a bottle of gas for the cooker, that just seems to mean it’s never been cleared out. There are still books on the shelves, pictures hanging from the walls. The biggest item of furniture by far is the kitchen table. It’s huge and weathered, scarred by time. My hand lingers over a deep gouge on its surface. How many dinners have been eaten here? How many bolts of fabric cut, letters written, grazed knees nursed?

Apparently, if the letting agent is to be believed, I will be the first stranger to ever live in this cottage. In its five-hundred-year history, it’s only ever belonged to two families. And now, here I am, a starry-eyed writer from the city who has never so much as looked after a garden, let alone an entire valley.

I make my way into what looks like a scullery. Jars and tins remain standing on the shelves. Almost all of them are fish of some kind: pilchards, tuna, sardines. At the back are a couple of bottles of something dark and sticky. I turn one of them around. Blackberry Wine, it says, in shaky handwriting, and a date from two years ago.

I set it back down, all at once feeling very alone in this deep valley, with only a few traces of an old woman’s life for company. I wish I could talk to someone, just for a minute, but there’s no phone service here, and even if there was, who would I call? My mother, my sister? They think I’m mad already for moving so far away, and worse, I’ve lied to them about the house. I told them that I viewed it before I signed. I waxed lyrical about its fireplace and its garden, the beautiful thatch and the deep green peacefulness, where I’ll be able to get so much writing done. If they knew I’d signed a year’s lease based on one, grainy photograph; if they knew about the unusual conditions of the agreement . . . It doesn’t bear thinking about.

The taps over the scullery sink are corroded at the edges, falling apart, like everything else. I turn them idly. For a few seconds the pipes are silent. Then there’s a deep gurgling and water explodes from the end in staccato bursts. It’s brown and gritty, but after a while it steadies, clears. I put my hands under the icy flow.

A smeared window looks over the garden, across the pocket-sized meadow and into the woods beyond. I bend my head, splashing cold water onto my tired eyes. As I blink them clear, I could swear that a shadow moves at the edge of my vision. When I look again, there’s nothing there. Just a bird, I tell myself, even though the back of my neck prickles with the thought that out there, someone – or something – might be watching.

*  *  *

Feet lighter than falling snow move around the cottage, into the brambles that grow thick beside it. The thorns do not scratch, nor do the last fruits, heavy as night, stain the coat that passes beneath them. The meadow grass cools. The bats stir. Darkness isn’t far.

*  *  *

I let the cloth fall, staring around hopelessly in the dying light. I’ve barely even made a dent. I knew the rent was probably cheap for a reason, but I didn’t think ‘let as seen’ would mean this.

Dust is thick upon every surface; dead flies and wasps crowd the sills and fall like confetti from the curtains when I shake them. The cleaning supplies I brought with me seem pathetic; a bottle of washing-up liquid, a sponge, some kitchen towels. What did I think I would achieve with them? You didn’t think at all, a voice at the back of my mind tells me, you dreamed it would be perfect.

Doggedly I move towards the huge, dark dresser that lurks in a corner. At least cleaning is better than standing still, letting my imagination run away with me. I swipe the duster over the shelves, the books that lean there. Most of them are leather-bound, warped by time. Their familiar titles make me feel better, like discovering old friends, even far away from home. I brush the dust from a few Dickens and Hardy novels, a bible that’s falling all to pieces, a fraying almanac or two. A thin, plain-spined book tempts me to lift it out, to open the cover. It looks like a sketchpad, an inked signature gracing the front page:

Thomasina Roscarrow.

Movement flashes near the open door and I almost drop the book. Fluttering wings, dark shapes. I creep closer to see. Outside, night has started to fall and bats are dipping and weaving against a sky that is purple-grey as dove feathers. Their tiny squeaks make me smile. I go back inside, searching for the light switch. There’s one by the door, clunky and old-fashioned. I flip it. Nothing happens. I flip it again, wiggle it up and down. Not even a spark.

Worry bubbling in my stomach, I dig through my bag, searching for my phone charger. Against the wall there’s a socket. It looks like something from the 1970s, but I jam the charger in and flick it on, hoping, hoping.

NO SERVICE, the phone tells me. And no electricity. This can’t be happening. Think, I tell myself sternly; there must be a fuse box somewhere. The light is nearly gone, shadows pouring into the cottage like water into a rock pool. Finally I locate the fuse box in the scullery. A spider falls from the brittle plastic casing, and for once I’m too nervous to care, just shake it off and shove the reset switch.

It clunks uselessly.

Panic begins to fill my body, all the emotion of the past few months rushing up to ambush me. I have an emergency number for the letting agent, but no signal. I don’t have a car to get to the village. Even if I was certain of which way to walk – and I’m not – I don’t have a torch, and the night here is dark. Not the street-lit city darkness I’m used to; thick, country darkness that is quick with living things, that could swallow a person whole.

Get a grip. Light the fire. Find some candles. Light will make everything better. My hands are shaking as I pull open the cupboards and drawers of the scullery, rifling through sticky cutlery and grime-spotted plates. No candles. I trip up the stairs and into the main bedroom, scarcely able to see where I’m going. A huge, dark bed stands bare, a blanket hanging limp on the wall beside it. There’s a trunk at the foot of the bed, but it’s locked.

I force open the door of the second bedroom. It’s a junk room, a few boxes, a broken lamp. It’s too dark to see clearly now; soon will be too dark to see anything at all. I run down the creaking stairs. The drawers of the dresser stick. I wrestle them free, sending books toppling from the shelves.

My fingers touch paper and plastic, string and glass before they meet something waxy and cool. I almost sob with relief as I pull out a candle. There’s a box of matches on the fireplace, and I hold my breath, pray that they’ll work. I didn’t think to bring any of my own. Stupid, stupid. I snap the first match in haste but the second one flares beautifully, brightly. Soon, a warm, golden glow fills the corner of the room. I hold the candle in my hands, like a talisman, a sacred thing that will protect me from the dark.

I know that place. The old man’s voice comes back to me. She wouldn’t even last a night.

I realise that I am shaking, with cold as well as fear. The door is still open. Swiftly I slam it shut, turn the key. Anything that might be outside can stay there. I will get through the night, alone. The old man was wrong about me. I cling to the thought, try to warm myself with indignation.

My first few attempts to make a fire die, drowning in smoke, but at last some kindling catches, then a log, flames licking up its sides. I sink back on my heels in triumph. It is fully dark outside now. I draw the mildewed curtains and for an instant, catch a glimpse of something slinking beyond the glass, shadow on shadow. I add another log to the fire, making it burn fiercer, brighter.

I won’t leave the safety of the flames. Not tonight. Instead, I drag the old armchair close to the hearth, unroll my sleeping bag and huddle it around me. I try to read a book, try to lose myself in the soft sounds of burning wood. I try not to hear the creaks and groans of the cottage, or the lonely call of an owl, like a spirit in the darkness.

Eventually I’ve had enough. I pick up one of the candles. It wavers in my hand, lighting the way to the scullery. Away from the fireplace, the flagstones are cold and damp. I don’t look through the window, just grab one of the bottles I saw earlier, and hurry back to my pool of light.

The liquid gleams ruby red when I hold it to the fire. I twist off the screw cap, take a tentative sip. Sweetness floods my mouth. I close my eyes, tasting berry-laden hedgerows, sunlight on the shining curve of fruit. Slowly, I take another drink of the blackberry wine, thinking of the old woman who must have made it. Am I the type of tenant she had in mind when she wrote her Will, or would she be disappointed to find me sitting here? Finally, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the wine, I feel myself slipping into a doze.

It doesn’t last long. A noise jolts me awake and I stare into the darkness, listening hard. It’s coming from the front door: a scratching, scrabbling of claws on wood, of something trying to get in. Legends and folk tales race through my mind, stories of lost souls, the fae and the devil’s dogs, of ghosts condemned to walk the night for eternity . . . I’m too frightened to open the door to look, too frightened to do anything except pull the sleeping bag over my head, block my ears and wait for it to stop.

I must fall asleep like that, huddled beneath my sleeping bag like a child, because I dream. Not a dream of places or people; a dream of a song. It fills my mind, gradual as dusk, deep as ore buried beneath the earth. There are no words I can repeat, no tune I can hum. Yet somehow I know what it means.

It’s a song that starts with winter. I hear the whisper of snow, the snickering of frost as it creeps across the ground. I hear grass snapping underfoot, the groan of the water, frozen in a stream. I feel my blood running slower, ice forming in my veins, and just as I think I will freeze to death, there is a shift. The cold recedes, and everything melts into spring.

There is a thundering of heartbeats as a thousand newborn things force their way into the world. I hear darkness stalking them on silent paws, waiting to attack, uncontrollable as the tide. Yet I hear those same paws frisking, leaping into summer to catch at sunbeams. I hear berries and birds and cascades of flowers that perfume the short, breathless nights.

Then, I hear that ripeness bursting, plummeting into autumn. The song slows, deepening into morning mists, into long, dark nights, ebbing towards the end of the year. I hear the leaves parch on the trees, and the blaze of All Hallows; I hear the horns of a hunt, its riders racing across the sky, chasing the old year down. I hear a night of feverish spirit, when order is lost from the world.

The song is reaching its zenith, and I realise that everything I have heard, all of it has been leading to this. The melody drops, like softly falling snow, into the Yuletide. A night where old and new meet in the burning of the hearth, when time is now and was and will be all at once; when bad blood is forgotten and hearts can be changed by a single, whispered word. And I realise that I am crying at the beauty of it, I am reaching towards the singer . . .

I wake, one hand outstretched. I try to remember the song, the melody, but between one breath and another the notes are fraying, falling to pieces. For a moment, the cottage seems filled with the scent of greenery, freshly cut from cold trees. Then that too is gone.

In the darkness outside, a sound rises, and I listen again in hope. But it isn’t the song, beautiful beyond words; it’s just a cat, yowling to the moon.

*  *  *

The song lasts all through the night. It has been sung for a thousand years at the start of every season, will be sung for a thousand more. An old song; always and never the same. It lasts until the sky turns grey, until the birds that have not fled the cold begin their cautious morning greetings. The singer listens. The woman sleeps.

*  *  *

I blink my eyes open. Soft light is filtering through the curtains, and from outside I hear birdsong, echoing around the valley. Daylight. I made it. The longest night of my life, but I made it.

Limbs stiff and cramped, I unfold myself from the armchair. The fire is almost dead, just a couple of embers slumbering in thick coats of ash. I’ll have to find more wood. I’ll also have to brave the outside bathroom. Shivering, I pull on my shoes. All around me is the evidence of my sleepless night; the dresser drawers hanging open, the burned-down candles, the books spilled from the shelves. In the light of day, it all seems rather silly. Still, I can’t forget the fear I felt, or the song that filled my drea. . .