![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Seven For a Secret, Part 1 of 3
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Jenny/Becker, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 17,559
Summary : Jenny is summoned north to Magpie Hall for the winter solstice and Christmas. And told to bring a friend…. and a shotgun.
A/N : 1) Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primeval_denial Secret Santa for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rain_sleet_snow. I hope you like it and that you recognise a couple of your prompts and preferences! 2) Thanks to lukadreaming for the beta.
With a mug of tea in one hand and a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel clutched in the other, Jenny manoeuvred her office door open using her elbow, deposited her lunch on her desk and quickly turned around the sign hanging on her door from its usual Enter At Your Own Risk to read Do Not Disturb On Pain of Death and Dismemberment.
The sign, almost as wide as the door itself, had been her present in the last office Secret Santa. Jenny loved it, and some people even took notice of it.
There was a brisk knock on the door and it opened before she had chance to respond.
“Room for a refugee? I’ve got a packet of butter shortbreads, if that helps.”
Captain Becker certainly wasn’t one of the people who took any notice of her sign. For a graduate of Sandhurst, he showed a distressing tendency to flout rules and regulations, especially ones he hadn’t had a hand in making.
Jenny mustered a tired smile. “What are you a refugee from?”
“A farting competition in the rec room.”
Jenny winced in sympathy. “I feel your pain. And butter shortbreads are always welcome.” Especially when they were as good as the ones they’d been given by the Ferring Women’s Institute.
It had been a long couple of days for both of them. She’d spent all morning doing battle with a bright-eyed and remarkably tenacious journalist from the Rustington Gazette who was steadfastly refusing to be fobbed off with Jenny’s carefully crafted story about a student prank on the beach involving an inflatable plastic triceratops. Despite her best efforts the previous day – including producing the model itself, sourced several months ago from the US’s largest supplier of dino-related toys – the woman still didn’t believe her. She’d just stared at it suspiciously and told Jenny to pull the other one, which would then play Jingle Bells. Jenny had been very tempted to do just that and none too gently.
“Morning from hell?”
“If that bloody reporter rings me again, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Still not buying the story?”
“No. It didn’t bode well when I had to explain to her editor what a DA notice was. According to him they don’t get a lot of call for that sort of thing in Rustington-on-Sea.”
“As far as I could see, all they get a lot of there is those motorised buggy things. It was like the bloody chariot race from Ben Hur, only with added pensioners. I imagine the only reason they didn’t believe the student story is that there’s no one under the age of 80 in the entire place.”
With hindsight, Jenny had to admit that he probably had a point.
Becker sat down on her spare chair and made himself as comfortable as possible for a man with bruises the size of dinner plates that were almost certainly colouring up to closely resemble the filling in a blackberry pie. He’d only avoided serious injury by the skin of his teeth when he’d prevented an overweight Labrador being trampled to death on the beach.
“What’s the verdict?” she asked. He’d refused to go to hospital the previous night, but the fact that he’d agreed to take some heavy-duty painkillers had told her all she needed to know, despite his protestations that he was fine. Ditzy had insisted on giving him a full examination when he’d arrived on duty, and had bawled out the young medic who hadn’t insisted on Becker getting checked out in hospital the previous night.
“A couple of possible cracked ribs, a few pulled muscles and a lot of bruising.”
“That’s you off rotation for the next few weeks, I presume?”
“Light duties only, no field work, and Ditz has refused to let me take the Christmas shift.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Becker, most people would be delighted to have time off at this time of year. It’ll give you a chance to see your parents.”
“I’m a holiday orphan. They’ve buggered off to New Zealand for three months. Mother’s got into genealogy in a big way and discovered a branch of the Beckers that everyone fell out with a generation ago. She wants to know why, so they’ve taken a road trip.” In response to Jenny’s look of surprise, he added, “My mother is the most inveterately nosy woman ever to walk the earth. The prospect of uncovering some dark family secret was more than enough to get her to fly halfway around the world. My dad loves Tolkien so he’s getting to visit some of the locations in return for not murdering her.”
As she sympathised with his plight, her iPad buzzed with an incoming email. Out of habit, Jenny swiped her finger across the screen and tapped the envelope icon.
Her eyes widened in surprise. Talking of family matters…
“Excuse me a moment,” she murmured.
Jenny clicked on the message and started to read.
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: I don’t believe for a moment this will work, dear, but…
….that total rogue Jeeves assures me that this message will reach you, and you know perfectly well that I have no time whatsoever for any contraption more complicated than a cocktail shaker. Nor do I understand why the wretched man won’t simply post a letter for me, but with the outrageous price of stamps and the fact that those bastards (excuse my French) have closed every post office in the entirety of Northumberland I suppose I can understand why he doesn’t want to have to drive practically all the way to Newcastle and back and anyway, they’re probably on strike again…
(Jenny could practically hear her great-aunt delivering that rant in her cut-glass accent before drawing in a deep breath then continuing…)
Now, where was I? Oh yes… Christmas. I know perfectly well that Mr Cromwell had the right idea when he cancelled it, but it would be nice to see you and I was wondering if you could spare a few days to visit your mad old aunt? Jeeves, for all his faults, is an excellent cook, and you know I always keep a room made up for you. Bring a friend. Bring several friends. It’ll serve Jeeves right for buying me this infernal device for my birthday and making me use it. So, that’s settled, is it? I do hope so. Come in time for the solstice and we can have a nice party.
Yours etc etc
Amelia
“Talking of Christmas,” Jenny said to Becker, who was busy dunking a shortbread biscuit in his coffee. “I appear to have been summoned.” She slid her tablet across the desk so he could read the message.
“I didn’t realise you had an aunt in Northumberland.”
Jenny smiled. “She’s mad as a box of frogs and lives in a bloody great big house in the middle of nowhere. If it snows, I’ll have damn all chance of getting through in anything less than a four by four.”
“Plenty of those in the garage.”
He was right and she had to admit that the thought of spending Christmas with her great-aunt was incredibly appealing. At least it would prevent her mother putting her broken engagement under the microscope yet again. That had been six moths ago but still formed her mother’s preferred topic of conversation. She appeared to have taken Jenny’s avowed intention of dying alone and unloved and eaten by cats a little too literally.
“I’d like to. I haven’t seen Aunt Amelia since I started work on the project.” Jenny had spoken to her every Friday though, as she always had, unless she was up to her armpits in dinosaurs. “She’s always spoiled me rotten. I used to go there every year in the school holidays. She even bought a pony for me. Blackie’s over 30 now, but he’s still there, still as bad-tempered as ever.” She pulled her phone out of her bag and flicked through to a picture of a shaggy Shetland pony standing in a snowy field, sliding it over the desk to Becker.
He smiled at the picture. Their tough special forces captain was actually extremely soppy when it came to animals – except when they were trying to eat him.
“You need a break,” he told her firmly.
As it turned out, Lester was of the same opinion, pointing out acerbically that he was quite capable of deploying their large stock of inflatable dinosaurs and fobbing off reporters without assistance.
“You’ll phone if you need me for anything?”
“They have telephones in darkest Northumberland?”
“They have broadband as well.”
“Then email your great-aunt and tell her you’ll be with her on Monday.”
“Christmas day isn’t until Friday.”
“I knew agreeing to that advent calendar for the staffroom would be a good investment. It may have escaped your notice, but it certainly hasn’t escaped mine, that you haven’t taken any holiday this year. And I do believe your aunt wanted you there in time for the solstice. And whilst that isn’t on the advent calendar someone persuaded me to misuse public money on, I do know when that falls this year.”
Jenny opened her mouth to protest, but Lester simply arched one eyebrow and dispensed one of his well-honed patrician stares. “Thank you,” she said, knowing when to give ground gracefully.
After fending off yet another call from the excessively persistent Hayley Burrows at the Rustington Gazette, Jenny turned on her iPad and sent a quick message to her great aunt.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Solstice and Christmas
Thank you. It’ll be lovely to see you. Is there anything you’d like me to bring?
Love,
Jenny
xx
Five minutes later, her iPad buzzed again.
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: It worked? Well, I never. They’ll be putting men on the moon next.
A friend.
And your shotgun.
xx
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Aunt Amelia, that sounds ominous....
????
Jenny
xx
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: Aunt Amelia, that sounds ominous…
Not at all. I bought Jeeves a clay pigeon thrower for his birthday. He wants someone new to play with.
Does your friend like turkey? There’s one in the freezer the size of an ostrich. I have no intention of consuming it from Xmas Day until Easter, much as Jeeves is rather partial to turkey curry, so do ensure your friend is hungry.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Aunt Amelia, that sounds ominous…
I didn’t say I was bringing a friend. And I haven’t owned a shotgun for years.
J
xx
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: Humour me, dear, it really is an enormous turkey.
:) Never mind, I’m sure Jeeves will lend you one of his.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Humour me, dear, it really is an enormous turkey.
Aunt Amelia, did you just use an emoticon?
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: Humour me, dear, it really is an enormous turkey.
Yes, dear, I did. I even know what LOL means. The internet can be most instructive.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: I dread to think what you’ve been reading!
I’ll see you on Monday, dearest aunt!
Love
J
xx
****
Becker stared glumly at the pile of paperwork on his desk and wondered how long it would be until he could next take a couple of painkillers. Despite his macho posturing last night and this morning, he really did feel like he’d been trampled by a herd of triceratops. Unsurprising, really, as that was pretty much what had actually happened, although if there had been a herd of them, he doubted he’d have lived to tell the tale. Just because the damn things ate grass and farted like Finn on a Friday morning didn’t mean they were harmless.
A light knock on his office door was followed by Jenny sticking her head into the room, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself. “Have you got any plans for Christmas?” she asked.
He looked up at her quizzically. “Eating takeaway curry, playing Death Match III, avoiding Christmas adverts on the telly and watching Where Eagles Dare. Christmas isn’t the same without it. I might eat a mince pie if I’m feeling particularly festive.”
A smile curved her lips. “Are you open to other offers?”
A sudden hope flared in his chest, reminding him rather abruptly what it had been like to be a teenager. He just hoped she wasn’t going to suggest he spent the day with Danny Quinn. Much as he’d grudgingly come to like the ex-copper, he didn’t want to spend a sad gits Christmas with him.
“How do you fancy a long drive in shitty weather to the back of beyond to be quizzed on your sex life by my great-aunt Amelia?”
His stomach promptly twisted into a knot of positively Gordian proportions. “That’s not much of a sales pitch. I thought you had a background in PR?”
“I have. That’s why I didn’t mention the fact that the house is bloody draughty and that my aunt could out-do your mother for nosiness any day of the week.”
“I’ve had training in withstanding that sort of thing. She doesn’t moonlight as an instructor in Credenhill, does she?”
“Give her half a chance and she would. Don’t feel obliged, honestly, it was just that…”
“I’d love to come,” he said hastily before she had time to regret or retract the offer, wondering exactly when in the last 24 hours, his luck had changed quite so dramatically.
“That’s wonderful!” Jenny smiled brightly at him. “Pack wellies, walking boots, sweaters and a shotgun.”
His eyebrows shot up. This was sounding better by the minute.
She laughed. “I didn’t mean the Mossberg. I presume you’ve got something a bit more suitable for clays?”
“I can hit clays perfectly well with the Mossberg!”
Two days later, Becker was staring at an open wardrobe door, dithering more than he ever remembered doing in his life.
He’d already packed all the essentials, including his two favourite sporting guns: a Blaser F3 over-and-under that had cost him and arm and a leg and his old Purdey side-by-side.
After being treated to a lecture from Ditzy the previous day when shotguns had been mentioned, he’d had to promise to wait at least a few days before trying anything and generally not overdo things. He dutifully promised to be a good little boy.
He might be occasionally reckless, but he wasn’t totally stupid. His chest was already starting to feel slightly better, and didn’t hurt nearly as much when he turned over in bed at night, which was when it had been at its worst in the couple of days after the accident, but he did actually know better than to push his recovery too hard, despite everyone’s low opinion of his common sense. His bruises had bloomed, though, making him a shoo-in for the Bruise of the Year prize, unless someone was really unlucky in the next week or so.
The shotguns and the cold weather gear had been the easy things to pack. He was now dithering like mad about what other clothes to take. Eventually, he settled on a dark blue casual jacket that his mother had bought him for his birthday and a pair of reasonably smart trousers, also a present from his mother. Becker rolled his eyes at himself. He’d better not let Jenny know that his mother was still buying him clothes – and that they were probably the only decent ones in his wardrobe. It wouldn’t do much for his street cred.
They’d agreed to set out early in the morning in the hope of getting most of the driving done in daylight. According to Google maps, they were looking at six and a half hours without stops, and that was in good weather. With both fog and some snow forecast, and allowing for stops, Becker wasn’t hopeful of getting the journey done in anything less than eight hours.
It made a nice change to be giving his own vehicle an outing. His old Land Rover Discovery didn’t get quite so many miles on the clock these days, but it would serve them far better on this trip than Jenny’s car.
He’d woken up at 5am without the need for an alarm. If several years in the military had taught him anything, it was the ability to cat-nap anywhere, anytime, and to wake up on cue, at the exact time he’d set for himself. He’d woken up with something suspiciously akin to butterflies dancing around in his stomach, and even the prospect of going out on a cold, dark, damp December morning hadn’t done anything to suppress his good mood. He was surprisingly relaxed about leaving the ARC in Stringer’s hands while he was away, even if he had being putting up with more than the usual amount of ribbing from his fellow captain as a result.
He put some bacon under the grill while he had a shower, then downed a strong mug of coffee and was ready to leave the flat in half an hour.
Becker’s chest gave a few twinges as he lugged his rucksack and gun case down the stairs, but he’d taken the precaution of taking both painkillers and anti-inflammatories as soon as he’d woken up. Even sharing the driving and taking frequent stops, he knew he was still going to be as stiff as a board by the time they reached their journey’s end.
Jenny was watching out for him from the window of her flat. As he got out of the Disco she waved to him, and a few moments later opened the door, dressed warmly in a snug brown corduroy jacket, a thick scarf around her neck and wearing matching hand-warmers. Over the time Becker had known her, her appearance had softened almost out of all recognition, the change accelerating when she’d announced quietly and without fuss that she’d broken off her engagement. Gone were the short skirts, impractical shoes and scary lipstick. She now dressed as practically as anyone else on the team, accompanying them into the field when she could rather than remaining safely behind a desk in the office.
Becker had gone from being slightly intimidated by her to admiring her calm competence and finally to enjoying her company. He’d dithered on several occasions about asking her out for a drink away from the safe buffer of the rest of the team, but someone how it had never quite happened. He was quietly hoping that this trip might change things, but he didn’t want to push his luck too far, too fast.
She swung her bags into the boot and settled down in the passenger seat to let him take the first stint behind the wheel. Traffic was light and in half an hour, they were on the motorway in light rain as a grey dawn crept very un-poetically into the sky.
The M1 was as boring as ever. They stopped at what seemed like a seemingly endless procession of identical motorway services and Little Chef restaurants, changing drivers, as agreed, on a two-hour schedule, or as close to one as their stopping places would allow. They discovered a shared liking for Kentucky fried sparrow for lunch and bonded over a hatred of the Daily Fail that had been left on a table in one of the cafes while they refuelled with more coffee that they’d then need to dispose of at the next stop.
The weather worsened as they skirted Leicester, with rain sheeting down so much that the wipers could barely keep up. Becker dropped his speed considerably and hoped it would pass over. By Nottingham, it was back to drizzle, and as they passed Sheffield, they even saw the sun for a brief but welcome period. A stretch of roadworks on the approach to Doncaster slowed them down again, but overall, they were still on schedule to arrive not long after 4pm.
The first flakes of snow appeared in the air as they drew close to the outskirts of Darlington. Jenny swore softly and reduced her speed. Luckily, it wasn’t showing any signs of settling on the carriageway itself, but it wasn’t long before the fields on either side of the A1(M) were starting to look more white than green.
Despite having every confidence in Jenny’s driving abilities, Becker was now finding it harder to relax and when they changed places, he knew it was the same for her. Their average speed started to drop dramatically, and at 3pm, Jenny phoned her great aunt and revised their arrival time by at least another hour. Fortunately, by the time they passed a sign welcoming them to Northumberland, the snow had slackened off and the road surface felt slightly less treacherous.
“We turn off the main road at Belford,” Jenny told him, as a sign informed him that Belford was 10 miles away.
Becker was relieved to hear that as the wind was once again whipping snowflakes at the windscreen. He remembered a news report from the previous year showing vehicles stranded on the A1 on snow just south of Belford. There were still plenty of heavy lorries on the road and it would only take one of them to jack-knife and they’d be in trouble.
Eventually they turned off onto a B road and started to gain height. He could feel grit beneath the tyres and was glad that someone had had the foresight to salt the road. It was fully dark now and all he could do was rely on Jenny’s commentary to give him some idea of the lie of the land. They were now crossing Belford Moor and would soon be taking the final turn down to their destination.
When they did, the road abruptly narrowed, leaving Becker hoping they didn’t meet anyone coming the other way. This road hadn’t been gritted and he didn’t want to test the Disco’s road-handling abilities by backing uphill in the dark.
“The turning’s coming up on your left in a moment,” Jenny said. “The gates will be open.”
A pair of enormous stone pillars by the side of the road loomed up and Becker could see an equally large pair of wrought iron gates standing open, as predicted. Becker wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the sight of a vast grey stone building standing at the end of a long gravel drive. He caught a glimpse of a pair of carved stone birds on top of the gateposts and a sign that said Magpie Hall.
The Discovery crunched over several inches of virgin snow as Becker drove carefully up the drive to park next to a Land Rover a good ten years older than his own. He turned off the ignition and released his seat belt with a sigh of relief. It had been a knackering drive and he was well overdue for another hit of painkillers, but he hadn’t wanted to risk dulling his reactions on the last part of the journey from hell.
Jenny rested her hand lightly on his leg for a moment. “Thank you for coming with me. I hadn’t expected the journey to be quite so grim or I’d never have suggested it.”
He mustered a tired but genuine smile. “I’m glad you did. I’m looking forward to seeing what it’s like around here in daylight.”
“Bleak but beautiful,” she said, and he could see that her eyes were shining with happiness. “You’ll love it, I promise. By the way, you’re not superstitious, are you?”
He looked at her, puzzled. “No, of course not.” It wasn’t exactly the whole truth, but the lie had come automatically. He didn’t think it would have done his hopefully macho image any good to have admitted that soldiers, him included, were a surprisingly superstitious bunch.
“I should have warned you, we have an awful lot of magpies around here, so the chances are high that you’ll see a single one, but if you do, just keep looking, there are bound to be a few more. There always are.”
“Thanks for the tip.” He’d seen a single magpie the morning he’d got the news that his best friend from basic training had taken a round in the head in Afghanistan. Ever since then he’d diligently saluted the damn things ever time he’d seen one on its own.
The doors of the hall opened, spilling out light, and a man came towards them, with something that looked suspiciously like a wolf pacing blackly at his side.
Jenny opened her door and jumped out, hugging the man and then bending down to do the same to the wolf.
“Becker, this is Ray Butler, he looks after Aunt Amelia, and Gem looks after both of them. She’s nowhere near as fierce as she looks.”
“I swear Amelia only employed me so she could tell people she has a butler,” the man said, holding out his hand. His grip was firm but without challenge. The handshake of a man who didn’t feel he had anything to prove.
Ray Butler was somewhere in his mid-30s, good-looking, with a close-cropped dark beard and equally short dark hair. Something about his appraising stare screamed military and Becker wondered if he was giving off the same vibe.
“Pleased to meet you.” Becker smiled at the man and held his hand down to the dog. “She’s beautiful.” She looked like a German shepherd with a side order of grizzly bear.
Gem sniffed his fingers then sat down in the snow and held up one hairy, snow-covered paw. Becker took it and solemnly shook hands with the dog. The gesture clearly met with her owner’s approval.
With Butler’s help, their luggage and Becker’s gun cases were soon carried into an enormous wood-panelled hall.
A tall, slender woman who bore a startling resemblance to Jenny came slowly across the hall and enveloped her niece in a hug after kissing her soundly on both cheeks. Amelia Lewis’ grey hair was swept up into an intricate knot on the back of her head, showing off fine, high cheekbones in a lined face whose beauty was very definitely undimmed by age.
The look she gave Becker was every bit as appraising as the one he’d been subjected to outside, but her smile was warm as she said, “Welcome to the madhouse. Do you like gin?”
“I could murder one,” Becker said with feeling.
“Excellent choice, dear,” she said, then turned to Jenny. “I never could understand why you put up with that ghastly Michael for so long. Never trust a man who doesn’t like gin. This one seems much more your type.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “You promised me you’d be on your best behaviour!”
“I’ve offered the boy gin and he’s accepted. What’s bad about that behaviour? Gin first, supper afterwards. How does that sound?”
It sounded like heaven on earth, and Becker said so.
His attempts to help Ray Butler with the bags were firmly waved aside with the words, “You’ve been on the road for eight hours in crap conditions. I’ve done nowt more strenuous than cook leek and potato soup and roast a large chunk of pig. Just watch Amelia’s gins, they’re industrial strength.”
“I’ll pour you one, too, Jeeves!” Amelia called, the light of mischief dancing in her grey eyes.
“Thank you, mistress,” Butler intoned, in a passable impression of K9.
The man’s enormous dog led the way into a wood-panelled room lit by a roaring log fire in a vast open fireplace with a stone lintel and logs stashed into large niches on either side. Several bottles of wine were warming in the hearth. Comfortable, mismatched furniture that looked like it had been passed down through more than one generation was set around the fire and on the far side of the room was a dark wooden table that looked like it could probably seat 20 in comfort.
Holly and ivy were liberally scattered around the room, stuck behind dark portraits of good looking, but rather severe men and women, rendered less so by the Santa hats and tinsel that decked their heavy gilt frames.
Deeply-coloured rugs were spread across a polished wood floor, a mix of threadbare and more recent, bringing a splash of rich colour to the room.
Becker looked around, admiringly. “Thank you for having me here, Mrs Lewis. This is a beautiful house.”
She delved into an ice bucket, dropped a fewcubes into a glass, poured a generous measure of Hendrick’s gin, topped it with lime and cucumber and then added what appeared to be Canada Dry ginger ale rather than tonic and handed the cut-glass tumbler. “Try it before judging,” she advised.
Becker took an appreciative sniff, then a small sip, then a much larger mouthful. It was liquid heaven after endless cups of mediocre coffee on the drive north. Butler had been right, she poured a measure that wouldn’t have been out of place in the sergeants’ mess in Hereford, but it was just what he needed to restore his sanity.
Jenny was handed an equally large glass and they were both waved to seats by the fire. Becker settled down at one end of a scuffed leather sofa, with Jenny next to him. The dog, Gem, flopped down in front of the fire, the snow that still clung to her enormous paws rapidly melting in the heat. Ray Butler joined them a few minutes later, and by the time he declared supper was ready, Becker was floating happily on a haze of extremely good alcohol.
While Butler set places at one end of the enormous table, Jenny showed Becker to his bedroom. It overlooked the front of the house, but that was all Becker could see, as thick clouds were still dropping their burden of snow, blocking out any moonlight, and they were far away from any source of light pollution. He pulled the thick curtains back across the window and gave himself a quick cat-lick in a surprisingly modern en-suite, changing into fresh clothes for the evening.
By the time he got back downstairs, Jenny had accomplished an even quicker change into a pair of old jeans topped with a claret red rollneck sweater. She looked lovely.
The soup was brought in steaming in an enormous silver tureen, accompanied by generous hunks of homemade bread. It was followed by thick slices of succulent roast pork, with a mix of roasted potatoes, carrots and parsnips. Despite their food stops on the journey, Becker was ravenous and it no doubt showed.
“I think that was the best roast dinner I’ve ever eaten,” he said truthfully. “But if you tell my mother that, I might have to kill you.”
Butler grinned at him. “Has the standard of cooking at Credenhill gone downhill?”
Becker shot him a curious glance. He very much doubted Jenny had said anything about his background, and wondered what had given him away or whether it was just a lucky guess. “2 Para?” he responded, speculatively.
The amusement in Butler’s eyes told him he’d scored a hit.
Amelia and Jenny rolled their eyes in a perfectly executed duet and demanded pudding. After an exceedingly good fruit trifle, they retired to the fireside, while Butler – firmly refusing any offers of help – tidied away the remains of their meal.
The warmed brandy that Amelia plied them both with was every bit as good as the gin before the meal and the red wine during it. Becker leaned back in the sofa, content simply to listen to Jenny chatting happily with her aunt, enquiring about various local friends, and gossiping happily about the doings of a seemingly endless procession of relatives, very few of which seemed to meet with Amelia’s approval, or Jenny’s, for that matter.
By 10.30, Becker was ready for bed, a fact that didn’t escape Amelia’s sharp eyes. She promptly shooed him upstairs, pointing out that they didn’t stand on ceremony in Magpie Hall. Becker thanked his hostess for a lovely evening and made his way to bed.
He managed to stay awake long enough to clean his teeth and turn off the electric blanket before slipping quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Part 2
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Jenny/Becker, Lester, OCs
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 17,559
Summary : Jenny is summoned north to Magpie Hall for the winter solstice and Christmas. And told to bring a friend…. and a shotgun.
A/N : 1) Written for the
primeval_denial Secret Santa for rain_sleet_snow. I hope you like it and that you recognise a couple of your prompts and preferences! 2) Thanks to lukadreaming for the beta.With a mug of tea in one hand and a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel clutched in the other, Jenny manoeuvred her office door open using her elbow, deposited her lunch on her desk and quickly turned around the sign hanging on her door from its usual Enter At Your Own Risk to read Do Not Disturb On Pain of Death and Dismemberment.
The sign, almost as wide as the door itself, had been her present in the last office Secret Santa. Jenny loved it, and some people even took notice of it.
There was a brisk knock on the door and it opened before she had chance to respond.
“Room for a refugee? I’ve got a packet of butter shortbreads, if that helps.”
Captain Becker certainly wasn’t one of the people who took any notice of her sign. For a graduate of Sandhurst, he showed a distressing tendency to flout rules and regulations, especially ones he hadn’t had a hand in making.
Jenny mustered a tired smile. “What are you a refugee from?”
“A farting competition in the rec room.”
Jenny winced in sympathy. “I feel your pain. And butter shortbreads are always welcome.” Especially when they were as good as the ones they’d been given by the Ferring Women’s Institute.
It had been a long couple of days for both of them. She’d spent all morning doing battle with a bright-eyed and remarkably tenacious journalist from the Rustington Gazette who was steadfastly refusing to be fobbed off with Jenny’s carefully crafted story about a student prank on the beach involving an inflatable plastic triceratops. Despite her best efforts the previous day – including producing the model itself, sourced several months ago from the US’s largest supplier of dino-related toys – the woman still didn’t believe her. She’d just stared at it suspiciously and told Jenny to pull the other one, which would then play Jingle Bells. Jenny had been very tempted to do just that and none too gently.
“Morning from hell?”
“If that bloody reporter rings me again, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Still not buying the story?”
“No. It didn’t bode well when I had to explain to her editor what a DA notice was. According to him they don’t get a lot of call for that sort of thing in Rustington-on-Sea.”
“As far as I could see, all they get a lot of there is those motorised buggy things. It was like the bloody chariot race from Ben Hur, only with added pensioners. I imagine the only reason they didn’t believe the student story is that there’s no one under the age of 80 in the entire place.”
With hindsight, Jenny had to admit that he probably had a point.
Becker sat down on her spare chair and made himself as comfortable as possible for a man with bruises the size of dinner plates that were almost certainly colouring up to closely resemble the filling in a blackberry pie. He’d only avoided serious injury by the skin of his teeth when he’d prevented an overweight Labrador being trampled to death on the beach.
“What’s the verdict?” she asked. He’d refused to go to hospital the previous night, but the fact that he’d agreed to take some heavy-duty painkillers had told her all she needed to know, despite his protestations that he was fine. Ditzy had insisted on giving him a full examination when he’d arrived on duty, and had bawled out the young medic who hadn’t insisted on Becker getting checked out in hospital the previous night.
“A couple of possible cracked ribs, a few pulled muscles and a lot of bruising.”
“That’s you off rotation for the next few weeks, I presume?”
“Light duties only, no field work, and Ditz has refused to let me take the Christmas shift.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Becker, most people would be delighted to have time off at this time of year. It’ll give you a chance to see your parents.”
“I’m a holiday orphan. They’ve buggered off to New Zealand for three months. Mother’s got into genealogy in a big way and discovered a branch of the Beckers that everyone fell out with a generation ago. She wants to know why, so they’ve taken a road trip.” In response to Jenny’s look of surprise, he added, “My mother is the most inveterately nosy woman ever to walk the earth. The prospect of uncovering some dark family secret was more than enough to get her to fly halfway around the world. My dad loves Tolkien so he’s getting to visit some of the locations in return for not murdering her.”
As she sympathised with his plight, her iPad buzzed with an incoming email. Out of habit, Jenny swiped her finger across the screen and tapped the envelope icon.
Her eyes widened in surprise. Talking of family matters…
“Excuse me a moment,” she murmured.
Jenny clicked on the message and started to read.
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: I don’t believe for a moment this will work, dear, but…
….that total rogue Jeeves assures me that this message will reach you, and you know perfectly well that I have no time whatsoever for any contraption more complicated than a cocktail shaker. Nor do I understand why the wretched man won’t simply post a letter for me, but with the outrageous price of stamps and the fact that those bastards (excuse my French) have closed every post office in the entirety of Northumberland I suppose I can understand why he doesn’t want to have to drive practically all the way to Newcastle and back and anyway, they’re probably on strike again…
(Jenny could practically hear her great-aunt delivering that rant in her cut-glass accent before drawing in a deep breath then continuing…)
Now, where was I? Oh yes… Christmas. I know perfectly well that Mr Cromwell had the right idea when he cancelled it, but it would be nice to see you and I was wondering if you could spare a few days to visit your mad old aunt? Jeeves, for all his faults, is an excellent cook, and you know I always keep a room made up for you. Bring a friend. Bring several friends. It’ll serve Jeeves right for buying me this infernal device for my birthday and making me use it. So, that’s settled, is it? I do hope so. Come in time for the solstice and we can have a nice party.
Yours etc etc
Amelia
“Talking of Christmas,” Jenny said to Becker, who was busy dunking a shortbread biscuit in his coffee. “I appear to have been summoned.” She slid her tablet across the desk so he could read the message.
“I didn’t realise you had an aunt in Northumberland.”
Jenny smiled. “She’s mad as a box of frogs and lives in a bloody great big house in the middle of nowhere. If it snows, I’ll have damn all chance of getting through in anything less than a four by four.”
“Plenty of those in the garage.”
He was right and she had to admit that the thought of spending Christmas with her great-aunt was incredibly appealing. At least it would prevent her mother putting her broken engagement under the microscope yet again. That had been six moths ago but still formed her mother’s preferred topic of conversation. She appeared to have taken Jenny’s avowed intention of dying alone and unloved and eaten by cats a little too literally.
“I’d like to. I haven’t seen Aunt Amelia since I started work on the project.” Jenny had spoken to her every Friday though, as she always had, unless she was up to her armpits in dinosaurs. “She’s always spoiled me rotten. I used to go there every year in the school holidays. She even bought a pony for me. Blackie’s over 30 now, but he’s still there, still as bad-tempered as ever.” She pulled her phone out of her bag and flicked through to a picture of a shaggy Shetland pony standing in a snowy field, sliding it over the desk to Becker.
He smiled at the picture. Their tough special forces captain was actually extremely soppy when it came to animals – except when they were trying to eat him.
“You need a break,” he told her firmly.
As it turned out, Lester was of the same opinion, pointing out acerbically that he was quite capable of deploying their large stock of inflatable dinosaurs and fobbing off reporters without assistance.
“You’ll phone if you need me for anything?”
“They have telephones in darkest Northumberland?”
“They have broadband as well.”
“Then email your great-aunt and tell her you’ll be with her on Monday.”
“Christmas day isn’t until Friday.”
“I knew agreeing to that advent calendar for the staffroom would be a good investment. It may have escaped your notice, but it certainly hasn’t escaped mine, that you haven’t taken any holiday this year. And I do believe your aunt wanted you there in time for the solstice. And whilst that isn’t on the advent calendar someone persuaded me to misuse public money on, I do know when that falls this year.”
Jenny opened her mouth to protest, but Lester simply arched one eyebrow and dispensed one of his well-honed patrician stares. “Thank you,” she said, knowing when to give ground gracefully.
After fending off yet another call from the excessively persistent Hayley Burrows at the Rustington Gazette, Jenny turned on her iPad and sent a quick message to her great aunt.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Solstice and Christmas
Thank you. It’ll be lovely to see you. Is there anything you’d like me to bring?
Love,
Jenny
xx
Five minutes later, her iPad buzzed again.
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: It worked? Well, I never. They’ll be putting men on the moon next.
A friend.
And your shotgun.
xx
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Aunt Amelia, that sounds ominous....
????
Jenny
xx
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: Aunt Amelia, that sounds ominous…
Not at all. I bought Jeeves a clay pigeon thrower for his birthday. He wants someone new to play with.
Does your friend like turkey? There’s one in the freezer the size of an ostrich. I have no intention of consuming it from Xmas Day until Easter, much as Jeeves is rather partial to turkey curry, so do ensure your friend is hungry.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Aunt Amelia, that sounds ominous…
I didn’t say I was bringing a friend. And I haven’t owned a shotgun for years.
J
xx
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: Humour me, dear, it really is an enormous turkey.
:) Never mind, I’m sure Jeeves will lend you one of his.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: Humour me, dear, it really is an enormous turkey.
Aunt Amelia, did you just use an emoticon?
To: j.lewis@hotmail.com
From: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
Subject: Humour me, dear, it really is an enormous turkey.
Yes, dear, I did. I even know what LOL means. The internet can be most instructive.
To: magpies.roost@ntlworld.com
From: j.lewis@hotmail.com
Subject: I dread to think what you’ve been reading!
I’ll see you on Monday, dearest aunt!
Love
J
xx
****
Becker stared glumly at the pile of paperwork on his desk and wondered how long it would be until he could next take a couple of painkillers. Despite his macho posturing last night and this morning, he really did feel like he’d been trampled by a herd of triceratops. Unsurprising, really, as that was pretty much what had actually happened, although if there had been a herd of them, he doubted he’d have lived to tell the tale. Just because the damn things ate grass and farted like Finn on a Friday morning didn’t mean they were harmless.
A light knock on his office door was followed by Jenny sticking her head into the room, looking uncharacteristically unsure of herself. “Have you got any plans for Christmas?” she asked.
He looked up at her quizzically. “Eating takeaway curry, playing Death Match III, avoiding Christmas adverts on the telly and watching Where Eagles Dare. Christmas isn’t the same without it. I might eat a mince pie if I’m feeling particularly festive.”
A smile curved her lips. “Are you open to other offers?”
A sudden hope flared in his chest, reminding him rather abruptly what it had been like to be a teenager. He just hoped she wasn’t going to suggest he spent the day with Danny Quinn. Much as he’d grudgingly come to like the ex-copper, he didn’t want to spend a sad gits Christmas with him.
“How do you fancy a long drive in shitty weather to the back of beyond to be quizzed on your sex life by my great-aunt Amelia?”
His stomach promptly twisted into a knot of positively Gordian proportions. “That’s not much of a sales pitch. I thought you had a background in PR?”
“I have. That’s why I didn’t mention the fact that the house is bloody draughty and that my aunt could out-do your mother for nosiness any day of the week.”
“I’ve had training in withstanding that sort of thing. She doesn’t moonlight as an instructor in Credenhill, does she?”
“Give her half a chance and she would. Don’t feel obliged, honestly, it was just that…”
“I’d love to come,” he said hastily before she had time to regret or retract the offer, wondering exactly when in the last 24 hours, his luck had changed quite so dramatically.
“That’s wonderful!” Jenny smiled brightly at him. “Pack wellies, walking boots, sweaters and a shotgun.”
His eyebrows shot up. This was sounding better by the minute.
She laughed. “I didn’t mean the Mossberg. I presume you’ve got something a bit more suitable for clays?”
“I can hit clays perfectly well with the Mossberg!”
Two days later, Becker was staring at an open wardrobe door, dithering more than he ever remembered doing in his life.
He’d already packed all the essentials, including his two favourite sporting guns: a Blaser F3 over-and-under that had cost him and arm and a leg and his old Purdey side-by-side.
After being treated to a lecture from Ditzy the previous day when shotguns had been mentioned, he’d had to promise to wait at least a few days before trying anything and generally not overdo things. He dutifully promised to be a good little boy.
He might be occasionally reckless, but he wasn’t totally stupid. His chest was already starting to feel slightly better, and didn’t hurt nearly as much when he turned over in bed at night, which was when it had been at its worst in the couple of days after the accident, but he did actually know better than to push his recovery too hard, despite everyone’s low opinion of his common sense. His bruises had bloomed, though, making him a shoo-in for the Bruise of the Year prize, unless someone was really unlucky in the next week or so.
The shotguns and the cold weather gear had been the easy things to pack. He was now dithering like mad about what other clothes to take. Eventually, he settled on a dark blue casual jacket that his mother had bought him for his birthday and a pair of reasonably smart trousers, also a present from his mother. Becker rolled his eyes at himself. He’d better not let Jenny know that his mother was still buying him clothes – and that they were probably the only decent ones in his wardrobe. It wouldn’t do much for his street cred.
They’d agreed to set out early in the morning in the hope of getting most of the driving done in daylight. According to Google maps, they were looking at six and a half hours without stops, and that was in good weather. With both fog and some snow forecast, and allowing for stops, Becker wasn’t hopeful of getting the journey done in anything less than eight hours.
It made a nice change to be giving his own vehicle an outing. His old Land Rover Discovery didn’t get quite so many miles on the clock these days, but it would serve them far better on this trip than Jenny’s car.
He’d woken up at 5am without the need for an alarm. If several years in the military had taught him anything, it was the ability to cat-nap anywhere, anytime, and to wake up on cue, at the exact time he’d set for himself. He’d woken up with something suspiciously akin to butterflies dancing around in his stomach, and even the prospect of going out on a cold, dark, damp December morning hadn’t done anything to suppress his good mood. He was surprisingly relaxed about leaving the ARC in Stringer’s hands while he was away, even if he had being putting up with more than the usual amount of ribbing from his fellow captain as a result.
He put some bacon under the grill while he had a shower, then downed a strong mug of coffee and was ready to leave the flat in half an hour.
Becker’s chest gave a few twinges as he lugged his rucksack and gun case down the stairs, but he’d taken the precaution of taking both painkillers and anti-inflammatories as soon as he’d woken up. Even sharing the driving and taking frequent stops, he knew he was still going to be as stiff as a board by the time they reached their journey’s end.
Jenny was watching out for him from the window of her flat. As he got out of the Disco she waved to him, and a few moments later opened the door, dressed warmly in a snug brown corduroy jacket, a thick scarf around her neck and wearing matching hand-warmers. Over the time Becker had known her, her appearance had softened almost out of all recognition, the change accelerating when she’d announced quietly and without fuss that she’d broken off her engagement. Gone were the short skirts, impractical shoes and scary lipstick. She now dressed as practically as anyone else on the team, accompanying them into the field when she could rather than remaining safely behind a desk in the office.
Becker had gone from being slightly intimidated by her to admiring her calm competence and finally to enjoying her company. He’d dithered on several occasions about asking her out for a drink away from the safe buffer of the rest of the team, but someone how it had never quite happened. He was quietly hoping that this trip might change things, but he didn’t want to push his luck too far, too fast.
She swung her bags into the boot and settled down in the passenger seat to let him take the first stint behind the wheel. Traffic was light and in half an hour, they were on the motorway in light rain as a grey dawn crept very un-poetically into the sky.
The M1 was as boring as ever. They stopped at what seemed like a seemingly endless procession of identical motorway services and Little Chef restaurants, changing drivers, as agreed, on a two-hour schedule, or as close to one as their stopping places would allow. They discovered a shared liking for Kentucky fried sparrow for lunch and bonded over a hatred of the Daily Fail that had been left on a table in one of the cafes while they refuelled with more coffee that they’d then need to dispose of at the next stop.
The weather worsened as they skirted Leicester, with rain sheeting down so much that the wipers could barely keep up. Becker dropped his speed considerably and hoped it would pass over. By Nottingham, it was back to drizzle, and as they passed Sheffield, they even saw the sun for a brief but welcome period. A stretch of roadworks on the approach to Doncaster slowed them down again, but overall, they were still on schedule to arrive not long after 4pm.
The first flakes of snow appeared in the air as they drew close to the outskirts of Darlington. Jenny swore softly and reduced her speed. Luckily, it wasn’t showing any signs of settling on the carriageway itself, but it wasn’t long before the fields on either side of the A1(M) were starting to look more white than green.
Despite having every confidence in Jenny’s driving abilities, Becker was now finding it harder to relax and when they changed places, he knew it was the same for her. Their average speed started to drop dramatically, and at 3pm, Jenny phoned her great aunt and revised their arrival time by at least another hour. Fortunately, by the time they passed a sign welcoming them to Northumberland, the snow had slackened off and the road surface felt slightly less treacherous.
“We turn off the main road at Belford,” Jenny told him, as a sign informed him that Belford was 10 miles away.
Becker was relieved to hear that as the wind was once again whipping snowflakes at the windscreen. He remembered a news report from the previous year showing vehicles stranded on the A1 on snow just south of Belford. There were still plenty of heavy lorries on the road and it would only take one of them to jack-knife and they’d be in trouble.
Eventually they turned off onto a B road and started to gain height. He could feel grit beneath the tyres and was glad that someone had had the foresight to salt the road. It was fully dark now and all he could do was rely on Jenny’s commentary to give him some idea of the lie of the land. They were now crossing Belford Moor and would soon be taking the final turn down to their destination.
When they did, the road abruptly narrowed, leaving Becker hoping they didn’t meet anyone coming the other way. This road hadn’t been gritted and he didn’t want to test the Disco’s road-handling abilities by backing uphill in the dark.
“The turning’s coming up on your left in a moment,” Jenny said. “The gates will be open.”
A pair of enormous stone pillars by the side of the road loomed up and Becker could see an equally large pair of wrought iron gates standing open, as predicted. Becker wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the sight of a vast grey stone building standing at the end of a long gravel drive. He caught a glimpse of a pair of carved stone birds on top of the gateposts and a sign that said Magpie Hall.
The Discovery crunched over several inches of virgin snow as Becker drove carefully up the drive to park next to a Land Rover a good ten years older than his own. He turned off the ignition and released his seat belt with a sigh of relief. It had been a knackering drive and he was well overdue for another hit of painkillers, but he hadn’t wanted to risk dulling his reactions on the last part of the journey from hell.
Jenny rested her hand lightly on his leg for a moment. “Thank you for coming with me. I hadn’t expected the journey to be quite so grim or I’d never have suggested it.”
He mustered a tired but genuine smile. “I’m glad you did. I’m looking forward to seeing what it’s like around here in daylight.”
“Bleak but beautiful,” she said, and he could see that her eyes were shining with happiness. “You’ll love it, I promise. By the way, you’re not superstitious, are you?”
He looked at her, puzzled. “No, of course not.” It wasn’t exactly the whole truth, but the lie had come automatically. He didn’t think it would have done his hopefully macho image any good to have admitted that soldiers, him included, were a surprisingly superstitious bunch.
“I should have warned you, we have an awful lot of magpies around here, so the chances are high that you’ll see a single one, but if you do, just keep looking, there are bound to be a few more. There always are.”
“Thanks for the tip.” He’d seen a single magpie the morning he’d got the news that his best friend from basic training had taken a round in the head in Afghanistan. Ever since then he’d diligently saluted the damn things ever time he’d seen one on its own.
The doors of the hall opened, spilling out light, and a man came towards them, with something that looked suspiciously like a wolf pacing blackly at his side.
Jenny opened her door and jumped out, hugging the man and then bending down to do the same to the wolf.
“Becker, this is Ray Butler, he looks after Aunt Amelia, and Gem looks after both of them. She’s nowhere near as fierce as she looks.”
“I swear Amelia only employed me so she could tell people she has a butler,” the man said, holding out his hand. His grip was firm but without challenge. The handshake of a man who didn’t feel he had anything to prove.
Ray Butler was somewhere in his mid-30s, good-looking, with a close-cropped dark beard and equally short dark hair. Something about his appraising stare screamed military and Becker wondered if he was giving off the same vibe.
“Pleased to meet you.” Becker smiled at the man and held his hand down to the dog. “She’s beautiful.” She looked like a German shepherd with a side order of grizzly bear.
Gem sniffed his fingers then sat down in the snow and held up one hairy, snow-covered paw. Becker took it and solemnly shook hands with the dog. The gesture clearly met with her owner’s approval.
With Butler’s help, their luggage and Becker’s gun cases were soon carried into an enormous wood-panelled hall.
A tall, slender woman who bore a startling resemblance to Jenny came slowly across the hall and enveloped her niece in a hug after kissing her soundly on both cheeks. Amelia Lewis’ grey hair was swept up into an intricate knot on the back of her head, showing off fine, high cheekbones in a lined face whose beauty was very definitely undimmed by age.
The look she gave Becker was every bit as appraising as the one he’d been subjected to outside, but her smile was warm as she said, “Welcome to the madhouse. Do you like gin?”
“I could murder one,” Becker said with feeling.
“Excellent choice, dear,” she said, then turned to Jenny. “I never could understand why you put up with that ghastly Michael for so long. Never trust a man who doesn’t like gin. This one seems much more your type.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “You promised me you’d be on your best behaviour!”
“I’ve offered the boy gin and he’s accepted. What’s bad about that behaviour? Gin first, supper afterwards. How does that sound?”
It sounded like heaven on earth, and Becker said so.
His attempts to help Ray Butler with the bags were firmly waved aside with the words, “You’ve been on the road for eight hours in crap conditions. I’ve done nowt more strenuous than cook leek and potato soup and roast a large chunk of pig. Just watch Amelia’s gins, they’re industrial strength.”
“I’ll pour you one, too, Jeeves!” Amelia called, the light of mischief dancing in her grey eyes.
“Thank you, mistress,” Butler intoned, in a passable impression of K9.
The man’s enormous dog led the way into a wood-panelled room lit by a roaring log fire in a vast open fireplace with a stone lintel and logs stashed into large niches on either side. Several bottles of wine were warming in the hearth. Comfortable, mismatched furniture that looked like it had been passed down through more than one generation was set around the fire and on the far side of the room was a dark wooden table that looked like it could probably seat 20 in comfort.
Holly and ivy were liberally scattered around the room, stuck behind dark portraits of good looking, but rather severe men and women, rendered less so by the Santa hats and tinsel that decked their heavy gilt frames.
Deeply-coloured rugs were spread across a polished wood floor, a mix of threadbare and more recent, bringing a splash of rich colour to the room.
Becker looked around, admiringly. “Thank you for having me here, Mrs Lewis. This is a beautiful house.”
She delved into an ice bucket, dropped a fewcubes into a glass, poured a generous measure of Hendrick’s gin, topped it with lime and cucumber and then added what appeared to be Canada Dry ginger ale rather than tonic and handed the cut-glass tumbler. “Try it before judging,” she advised.
Becker took an appreciative sniff, then a small sip, then a much larger mouthful. It was liquid heaven after endless cups of mediocre coffee on the drive north. Butler had been right, she poured a measure that wouldn’t have been out of place in the sergeants’ mess in Hereford, but it was just what he needed to restore his sanity.
Jenny was handed an equally large glass and they were both waved to seats by the fire. Becker settled down at one end of a scuffed leather sofa, with Jenny next to him. The dog, Gem, flopped down in front of the fire, the snow that still clung to her enormous paws rapidly melting in the heat. Ray Butler joined them a few minutes later, and by the time he declared supper was ready, Becker was floating happily on a haze of extremely good alcohol.
While Butler set places at one end of the enormous table, Jenny showed Becker to his bedroom. It overlooked the front of the house, but that was all Becker could see, as thick clouds were still dropping their burden of snow, blocking out any moonlight, and they were far away from any source of light pollution. He pulled the thick curtains back across the window and gave himself a quick cat-lick in a surprisingly modern en-suite, changing into fresh clothes for the evening.
By the time he got back downstairs, Jenny had accomplished an even quicker change into a pair of old jeans topped with a claret red rollneck sweater. She looked lovely.
The soup was brought in steaming in an enormous silver tureen, accompanied by generous hunks of homemade bread. It was followed by thick slices of succulent roast pork, with a mix of roasted potatoes, carrots and parsnips. Despite their food stops on the journey, Becker was ravenous and it no doubt showed.
“I think that was the best roast dinner I’ve ever eaten,” he said truthfully. “But if you tell my mother that, I might have to kill you.”
Butler grinned at him. “Has the standard of cooking at Credenhill gone downhill?”
Becker shot him a curious glance. He very much doubted Jenny had said anything about his background, and wondered what had given him away or whether it was just a lucky guess. “2 Para?” he responded, speculatively.
The amusement in Butler’s eyes told him he’d scored a hit.
Amelia and Jenny rolled their eyes in a perfectly executed duet and demanded pudding. After an exceedingly good fruit trifle, they retired to the fireside, while Butler – firmly refusing any offers of help – tidied away the remains of their meal.
The warmed brandy that Amelia plied them both with was every bit as good as the gin before the meal and the red wine during it. Becker leaned back in the sofa, content simply to listen to Jenny chatting happily with her aunt, enquiring about various local friends, and gossiping happily about the doings of a seemingly endless procession of relatives, very few of which seemed to meet with Amelia’s approval, or Jenny’s, for that matter.
By 10.30, Becker was ready for bed, a fact that didn’t escape Amelia’s sharp eyes. She promptly shooed him upstairs, pointing out that they didn’t stand on ceremony in Magpie Hall. Becker thanked his hostess for a lovely evening and made his way to bed.
He managed to stay awake long enough to clean his teeth and turn off the electric blanket before slipping quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Part 2