One Cretan Evening and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

remote. Far from being hard as iron, the moist earth allowed an early glimpse of daffodil tips.
    Back home, a log fire glowed in the hearth and above it the perfectly aligned Christmas cards flapped, disturbed by the gusts that came down the chimney. Boughs of the tree twitched, loose ends of gift ribbon flickered almost imperceptibly.
    That night Jennifer lay in bed, tossing and turning, going through lists of lists of lists in her head (juliennes of carrots, purée of parsnips, braised red cabbage, Brussels sprouts, chestnut stuffing, cranberry stuffing, sausages wrapped in bacon, brandy and Cointreau butter, malt whisky cream, mince pies, star-shaped shortbread for morning coffee), hoping that nothing had been omitted from her preparations.
    The parents-in-law were scheduled to arrive at eleven in the morning along with Philip’s sister and her husband (both teachers), three girls (only the eldest not in hand-me-downs) and their rescue dog, a mongrel called Bonny. They were never given the chance to return the lavish hospitality that was heaped upon them. Christmas was Jennifer’s ‘thing’ andthere was an unspoken understanding, even if it was mildly resented, that Philip and Jennifer would not budge from their elegant, mock-Georgian home during the festive season. Everyone had to go to The Pines if they wished to be together.
    And each year, the hostess had to exceed expectations. Or at least that’s what she aimed for. This year’s big surprise was the bird. Or rather, birds. For the first time, she would be producing a pigeon within a pheasant within a goose within a turkey. Many times she had pictured the perfect cross-sections of meat, each layer a different but complementary colour. It would be magnificent and she glowed in anticipation of her mother-in-law’s exclamation of surprise.
    It was not only thoughts of the big lunch and worries over whether she had made enough Christmas crackers that kept her awake. A wind had begun to howl around the house. Doors banged, rafters creaked. While the rest of the family slept soundly (the boys were now far too old to be lying in wait for Father Christmas) Jennifer had to wait until five before she finally fell into a fitful doze.
    Only a few hours later, as the light began to peep through the narrow slit between thick brocade curtains, she woke with a start and threw back the duvet. It was nearly eight o’clock and she had intended to be up at seven. The alarm had failed to go off.
    In spite of the intense preparations that had gone on for so many weeks, her first thought was for all the things that remained to be done.
    She stumbled, eyes half-shut, on to the landing and flicked the light switch. ‘Damn,’ she thought, ‘of all the days for a bulb to go.’ Almost tripping over the silk sash of her dressinggown in her haste to get downstairs, she discovered that none of the lights were working in the hallway either.
    By the time she reached the kitchen, she knew that something was not quite as it should be. Without the hum of the fridge, there was a deathly silence, and the absence of the familiar glow of the boiler light confirmed her worse fears. The entire house appeared to have fused.
    ‘Philip!’ she screamed out. ‘Philip! Help! Help!’
    He was woken from a deep sleep by her cries. In his somnolent state he pictured her wrestling with a violent intruder. He had read earlier that week that the early hours of Christmas morning were a popular time for burglaries, given that beneath the average tree nestled several thousand pounds of mint-condition electrical goods. He took the stairs two at a time and found Jennifer safe, alone and brandishing the large torch from under the sink.
    ‘The electrics . . .’ she gasped. ‘Something has gone wrong with the electrics.’
    Philip’s efforts in the fuse cupboard were fruitless and soon they discovered why. It transpired that the violent storm of the previous night had brought down a major power line and there