Christmas Wishes: From the Sunday Times bestselling and award-winning author of romance fiction comes a feel-good cosy Christmas read

by Sue Moorcroft

Nan pulled a face. ‘I’d be up peeing all night if I drank that. A nice glass of chardonnay will do for me. And maybe a salad.’

  They huddled into their coats and, heads ducked into a bitter wind, staggered at Nan’s stuttering, stick-step pace up Main Road to The Three Fishes. Last year, it had undergone a facelift after long-time landlord Harrison Tubb had retired with one-time barmaid Janice and passed the pub to Ferdy and Elvis. Hannah was still getting used to The Three Fishes without ‘Tubb from the pub’ behind the bar.

  They stepped through a door edged with blinking fairy lights, greeted by blinding snakes of tinsel, a sparkly explosion of a Christmas tree and the easy-going hum of conversation from villagers enjoying a midweek drink. The curtains and carpet were a trendy grey that contrasted with colourful tiles in the dining area and the original, polished wood bar where more lights twinkled around the optics.

  Nan chose a table distant from the big TV on the wall, near the wood-burning stove and featuring armchairs rather than stools. ‘Look at Ben Bell and that lot gawping at the TV instead of talking to each other. They might as well stay home.’ She nodded disparagingly at ‘that lot’, a group of men known as the blokey blokes: hair and beards shaved to stubble, big on beer, darts and TV sport. Nan had fostered Ben Bell when he was a ten-year-old needing shelter while his mother got away from his father, a couple of years before Hannah was born.

  ‘Their five pints a night each probably keeps the pub afloat.’ Hannah grinned, waving a greeting to the blokey blokes as she braved the massed fairy lights of the bar to buy drinks.

  When Hannah returned with the Ruddles County she’d promised herself, Nan sniffed. ‘In my day, women didn’t drink pints.’ She sipped her wine, holding the glass daintily by the stem.

  Hannah took several unrepentant swallows of the rich bitterness that was English ale. ‘It still is your day.’

  Nan looked wistful. ‘It doesn’t feel like it. My day was when I was young and healthy. Middledip was smaller and everyone knew each other. People only left to go to war.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Hannah recoiled. ‘That’s a bit real, Nan. Wouldn’t you rather they left to go on holiday?’

  Nan laughed her creaking laugh. ‘Yes, of course. I’m being nostalgic for when I was busy all day long with children. Memories glamorise even the terrible bits, I suppose.’ She paused to wave at a couple who’d come into the pub. ‘Look at that Arnott-Rattenbury boy and his wife. I never thought he’d settle down. My old friend Lucasta used to be great friends with his grandfather, if you get my drift.’

  Everyone knew Ratty from the village garage and his wife Tess so Hannah, smothering a laugh at Nan’s frankness, waved too. Ratty was quite swoony, though about eight years her senior. She remembered him talking to Nico at the wedding.

  ‘Do you miss the foster kids?’ Hannah asked, watching Ratty and Tess join another couple at a table. ‘You must have stopped ages ago. I can barely remember it.’

  ‘I gave up when I was sixty-five, a few years after Granddad died, so you’d have been seven. I miss the liveliness,’ Nan said reflectively. Across the room, the blokey blokes groaned at something on TV and Ben Bell got up to play the gambling machine. He caught sight of Nan and grinned and winked.

  When he’d finished with the machine, which, judging from its triumphant burp and jingle, was victorious in the encounter, he crossed to where they sat in the warmth of the wood burner. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’ he demanded, indicating Nan’s cast. ‘Been in a fight?’ Though he joked, concern clouded his eyes.

  ‘Yes – you should see the other bloke.’ Nan beamed. ‘How are you, Ben?’

  Hannah listened while they chatted. Bell, in his mid-forties now, was courteous with Nan though his usual persona was loud and brash. He’d once been known for the kind of ‘jokes’ that made women uncomfortable but he’d toned that down in the past few years. Presently, he replenished his pint at the bar and wandered back to rejoin the other blokey blokes before the TV.

  Nan watched him go. ‘Seeing Ben reminds me – that boy Nico phoned me on Sunday when you were at the supermarket. His ex’s family want him to look after the little girl again, Maria, and he asked my advice.’

  ‘Really? You didn’t tell me.’ A shiver tingled through Hannah at Nico’s name, even prefaced with ‘that boy’, as Nan termed him.

  Nan shrugged, settling her plastered wrist more comfortably. ‘He’s a good man and has a soft spot for the little tot. I told him to think whether he actually can take her in rather than whether he should. Two-year-olds don’t look after themselves.’

  Hannah digested this along with her next sips of ale, contrasting the hot, intense Nico she’d danced with at the wedding with the remote and chilly Nico that last time at Hörnan. ‘Lots of men would have told their ex to get lost,’ she observed neutrally, wondering how Nico having Maria fit in with him and Loren ‘working on things’.

  Nodding sagely, Nan polished off the rest of her wine. ‘Lots. I’m not so much in the mood for salad now. I fancy chips. And they do a scrumptious chocolate tart.’

  The evening slipped by. People came over to chat: first Ratty and Tess, who’d left their little boy with his grandparents while they enjoyed a date night. Next was the ever-present small, blonde Carola, who left her partner Owen chatting at the bar to come over. ‘I hope you’ll make the seniors village hall Christmas party?’ she said to Nan.

  Nan nodded. ‘Hope so. Me and Hannah will come by The Angel soon, too. I like your shortbread Christmas angels dipped in chocolate.’

  Carola beamed. ‘I hope we have another good year and that the new place won’t affect us.’

  A lovely, gentle man who lived on a smallholding with a menagerie of animals, Gabe, came up in time to hear her words. Nan still referred to him as ‘new’ because he’d only come to the village twenty years ago. He’d retired as a bank manager and now owned The Angel. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said soothingly. ‘If Posh Nosh ever opens it’ll be a three-mile drive from here.’

  ‘Closer on foot,’ Carola argued, pulling out a chair for him.

  Gabe twinkled as he placed his pint on the table, tossed his thinning silver ponytail over his shoulder and sat down. ‘Two and a half miles via the footpath through the Carlysle Estate,’ he conceded.

  Hannah was curious. ‘What new place? Another coffee shop?’

  Carola glowered. ‘Simeon Carlysle took it into his head to convert the old stables on the estate into shops and a tea room called Posh Nosh. Supposed to be up and running for Christmas.’ A line dug in between her eyes.

  All the villagers knew the nearby Carlysle Estate. Some were employed there. Hannah knew Christopher and Cassie Carlysle by sight because they occasionally turned up at village events but their son, Simeon, was just a name to her. ‘Whereabouts is it?’ she asked.

  Gabe explained. ‘You have to drive right out of Middledip and nearly to Port-le-Bain village before you turn left.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Oh, I know. When I managed Creative Lanes at Bettsbrough our coffee shop got business from our shops’ customers. It wasn’t the main draw.’ Carola crossed her fingers, still looking doubtful.

  Hannah was drawn into conversation with Kitty, mum of one of her old village friends Deanna and a fond grandmother to little Shelby, Deanna’s three-year-old daughter. ‘I’ll tell Deanna I’ve seen you. She’ll be stoked that you’re back.’

  ‘I’ll call her so we can meet up,’ Hannah promised. ‘I’ll be here at least as long as Nan has the cast on, I should think.’

  Meanwhile, Nan was enjoying a chinwag with Melanie from the village shop. When Melanie eventually drifted off to another part of the warm and jolly pub, Nan whispered to Hannah, ‘There’s a job there, if you want it. Poor Melanie’s got to have a hysterectomy. You run shops. You could temp.’

  Hannah stared at Nan, whose cap of silvery white curls looked blue because of the Christmas lights. ‘What about you?’

  Nan drew herself up indignantly. ‘I’m retired!’ />
  Snorting with laughter, Hannah gave her grandmother a hug. ‘I didn’t mean what about you for the job,’ she explained. ‘I meant that I’m supposed to be looking after you.’

  Nan glared at her plaster cast. ‘It seems a shame for you to spend so much time cooped up with me.’

  ‘It won’t be forever,’ Hannah consoled. She didn’t say that the village shop was hardly what she wanted out of life. Her upscale luxury goods boutique in Stockholm’s gorgeous, colourful Old Town had been only the start of what she’d planned. But bigger, better premises or even a chain of stylish shops selling beautiful things had definitely receded into the land of might-have-been for now.

  Despite Nan’s indomitable spirit, she couldn’t cook or butter bread; she needed help with buttons, zips, her hair … dozens of things.

  The situation would improve as Nan did but Hannah knew this limbo would continue for several weeks yet. Then Hannah could start again.

  Albin had torched her dreams but she’d rise from the ashes.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Friday, Nan turned quiet and pensive when flowers arrived from Brett, red chrysanthemums with yellow centres. Hannah arranged them in a vase in the kitchen but Nan said she didn’t want to discuss Brett and gazed out of the window at bare branches scratching at the winter sky. For the rest of the day she was abstracted, barely touching her evening meal.

  After washing up, Hannah left her grandmother to watch Coronation Street and went upstairs to call Albin. She felt at home now in the little bedroom that smelled of lavender from the sachets Nan put in the drawers. From the bed she could see a black, starry night through the dormer window and gazed at its brilliance while she formulated a plan of attack.

  It wouldn’t have shocked her if Albin had declined her call but maybe curiosity got the better of him as he answered on the fifth ring with a brisk, ‘Hannah.’

  ‘I haven’t received the value of my stock, returned rent and compensation payment yet,’ she said steadily. ‘I know you won’t want to keep me waiting.’ The stars were bright tonight, like a million diamonds, like the lights glittering on the black water beneath Vasabron.

  ‘I’ll email a list of stock held and what you paid for it,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she agreed, wondering when. ‘I can cross-reference it to the paid invoices in my receipts bank. Then there’s the display equipment I owned and the overpaid rent. I presume you’ve returned the till to the lease company?’ Stars would be hanging over Stockholm, too, but the lights of big cities always dimmed the starry radiance.

  Albin said, smoothly, ‘Julia attended to it.’

  Good for Julia. ‘What about the compensation for lost income?’ Hannah went on.

  Albin assumed a terse, regretful tone. ‘I’ve taken advice and there’s no goodwill in the business because I’m not buying you out, as such. Goodwill is generally established by calculating the assets over the liabilities when taking over a going concern. I’m not buying a going concern. You merely ceased trading.’ He went on talking about ‘intangible assets’ and ‘external sources’.

  Hannah looked away from the stars because they were too beautiful to be associated with this conversation. Maybe it was because he drawled the phrase ‘merely ceased trading’ when it had been the greatest disaster in her life and entirely at his instigation, but rage boiled up like molten lava. She halted his flow of business-speak. ‘So you’re breaking your word?’

  He tutted. ‘I’m trying to explain—’

  ‘You offered, and I accepted, a goodwill gesture – which isn’t the same as goodwill in a business – to compensate me for the mark-up I’d expected to make on that stock over Christmas. Now you’re saying you’re not going to pay that. Correct?’ The scent of lavender became sickly.

  Down the line, Albin sighed. ‘I’ve taken advice, Hannah. I’m sure of my legal footing.’

  Hannah could hardly hear him for her blood thundering in her ears. ‘Don’t think you have all the power. Do your parents want “The Lair” or “The Den” or whatever you “hunters” call the place you conduct your polyamorous activities associated with their name? Do the other traders in Köpmangatan know about the sleazy club you’re going to open in their midst?’

  A pause. Then Albin’s voice sharpened. ‘Threats aren’t worthy of you.’

  ‘Then don’t go back on your offer,’ Hannah returned, pretty sure her words were a tacit admission of threat-making but red-hot fury making it impossible to care. ‘Stand by what we agreed: compensation for you taking my livelihood away.’

  Abruptly, Albin’s control snapped. ‘I’ll pay a small, reasonable sum to get you out of my hair and because of what was once between us.’

  ‘You should pay because it’s what you agreed and what’s fair,’ Hannah hissed.

  ‘You’re so provincial,’ he shot back icily. ‘I’m glad you’re back in your unimportant little village. It’s where you belong.’

  Hannah felt a swell of triumph that she’d made Albin climb down from his lofty perch of smooth control to indulge in wild sniping. ‘You’re right. I belong with genuine, honest people who have integrity.’ She put enough emphasis on the words ‘honest’ and ‘integrity’ to annoy him.

  ‘I’ve learned from this,’ Albin said slowly. ‘I won’t be led by my dick in future.’

  It was an obvious attempt to diminish Hannah by suggesting lust had led him into a relationship not worthy of him, just as he’d hinted before that he found her a bit downmarket. ‘But isn’t your new venture all about that part of your anatomy?’ she drawled.

  The call ended and it wasn’t Hannah who pressed the button.

  Her heart hammered and her palms sweated. She’d threatened Albin and wasn’t sorry. In fact, she thought she’d discovered a hitherto unsuspected Achilles heel. In the past she’d heard his high-flying friends gleefully recounting cut-and-thrust business negotiations but had had no understanding of why they relished them. Now she knew. Putting him at a disadvantage had made her feel powerful.

  Then she remembered that it hadn’t got her any actual money and the feeling of power drained away. This tawdry bickering was all that was left between them. It was a sad end to what had been an exciting affair.

  She trailed downstairs and found Nan opening the door to Carola who’d brought angel-shaped shortbreads dipped in chocolate, beaming from beneath her blonde fringe as she waved away their thanks. ‘They’re to make your wrist heal quicker, Heather.’

  Tears pricked Hannah’s eyes at the unsolicited kindness. It was a symbol of everything that was right about Middledip. Warmth. Kindness. Likeable people.

  The spat with Albin woke Hannah from her post-relationship, post-repatriation daze. She spent Saturday, apart from helping Nan, mired in admin and bureaucracy at the little square dining table.

  She began by emailing Albin with the suggestion of a compensatory twelve per cent mark-up on stock for being so abruptly tipped out of Hannah Anna Butik. It’s modest, to take account of being spared overheads, she told him.

  As a business transaction it was unsatisfactory and informal but going to a solicitor would be expensive and tricky as a non-Swedish national no longer living in Sweden. She turned her attention to change of address notifications and giving notice on her Swedish phone contract.

  The phone in the kitchen rang and soon afterwards Nan poked her head around the door. ‘Gabe’s going into Bettsbrough so I’m going along for the ride.’

  Hannah glanced up. ‘You don’t need me? Have a lovely time.’ She helped Nan with her coat, scarf and mittens and waved her off in Gabe’s small truck.

  Next task on her list: tax authorities. She informed HMRC she was back in the UK but then stalled at knowing whether she should register as employed or self-employed, as she was currently neither. She left it for another day, along with completing a self-assessment to see if she could grab back some of the tax she’d paid in Sweden this year.

  The website of Skatteverket or the Swedish Tax Authority walke
d her through the deregistration for ‘F tax’ and ‘mervärdesskatt’, Sweden’s VAT. Bleurgh, was the politest of her thoughts on the process. One thing about the lease being in Albin’s name was that it made winding up the business relatively easy. A sole trader was simply ceasing to trade, and never mind her aching heart.

  The afternoon wore on and it was dark by the time Hannah heard the sound of the back door opening. ‘Thanks, Gabe,’ she heard Nan say. ‘Just put the bag in there.’ Nan’s rusty voice rose. ‘Hannah, I’ve been Christmas shopping and you’re not to look in the cupboard in the hall.’

  Hannah felt her spirits lift at these homely, loving words. ‘OK, Nan,’ she called, as if she were a child. ‘Can I come out now? I didn’t realise the time. It’s nearly seven and I’ve done nothing about dinner.’ She shut her laptop and went into the old-fashioned kitchen to chat to kindly Gabe and invite him to stay for supper. ‘I could do us a mixed grill because it will be quick,’ she said, turning to take Nan’s coat. ‘New hat, Nan?’

  The old lady beamed, the lenses in her glasses flashing under the kitchen light as she carefully lifted a plum-coloured fleece hat from her silvery white curls, giving a little pat to her new purchase. ‘Closing-down sale. Honestly, half of Bettsbrough High Street’s closing down and the other half’s charity shops and coffee shops.’

  ‘And we went in both,’ Gabe supplied, eyes twinkling, silver eyebrows beetling. ‘Supper would be wonderful, thank you.’

  Hannah grilled sausages, bacon and tomatoes and scrambled eggs. Gabe stationed himself at the toaster and produced golden buttery toast.

  ‘I should break my arm more often if it means a meal with lovely people and someone else to cook,’ Nan said, as Gabe cut up her food. ‘Bettsbrough looked beautifully Christmassy, Hannah. There’s a huge tree at the edge of the square and lights strung over the main roads.’ She munched on a piece of sausage before adding, ‘Are you busy tomorrow, dear? Only it’s the day to decorate the village hall ready for the old folks’ party.’

  Smothering a snort of laughter at ninety-year-old Nan referring to ‘old folk’, Hannah took the hint. ‘I don’t mind being an extra pair of hands. I’m not sure what you can do, though, with your arm.’