One Snowy Week in Springhollow

by Lucy Knott

  ‘I can keep a secret just fine and she’s none the wiser about the magazine. I recovered,’ I say, crossing my toes and hoping that’s true, and that Mrs Rolph will not spread any rumours about the magazine, which would only put more pressure on Hope. ‘And err, nope, no, no not really. Our paths never crossed; he was one of the popular kids at school.’ My eye twitches. I try a casual shrug to loosen my shoulders. Devon was far from popular; he was a nerd just like I had been.

  ‘You know I was thinking,’ I start as I open my gate and walk up my path, really wanting to enjoy the evening with my best friend and not talk about village heroes, ‘that we should use this year’s Christmas fair as a way of raising money for the magazine. Maybe we split the sales of a raffle or think of a fun way of enticing people to subscribe again. We could maybe even get some ideas going in the build-up, have some festive activities going on before it. I haven’t quite sussed it all out in my head yet, but things are brewing and that way if we keep things fun the villagers don’t necessarily need to know about us struggling,’ I say with a smile, genuinely getting excited. Tying the fair and saving the magazine together might alleviate some of the pressure. Christmas is my favourite time of year. I love the Christmas fair because it is the one time of year when my creativity is actually needed, and I can indulge in all the crafts my heart desires away from my cramped and secret spare room.

  For the past three years Hope has let me oversee our stall at the Springhollow fair and once the paint, glitter, sweets, and fondant come out, I’m a different person, like a fire has been lit in my belly. I can make this work.

  ‘That sounds great,’ Hope says matching my excitement as we enter the warmth of my house and shiver out of our boots and jackets. ‘I can’t wait. You always come up with the most crafty, bespoke and festive ideas. Sometimes I feel your talent is wasted being my personal assistant. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer being an artist, craftsperson, or something?’ Hope’s face suddenly goes from cheerful to sombre as she thinks about my career choices. She says this every Christmas and every year it makes me blink nervously.

  ‘Don’t be silly. This year will be the best year yet and the most important,’ I say chirpily and hurriedly changing the subject from where my talents lie. I don’t enjoy conversations about careers. While I appreciate that Hope sees and likes my crafts when it comes to the holidays, the “what do you want to be when you grow up” discussions only bring back hurtful memories, as I heard it enough from my mum when I was younger. Apparently, girls don’t write comic books or spend their time drawing aliens and otherworldly creatures. They needed proper jobs.

  My plans of leaving school at sixteen and becoming an illustrator had been well and truly flattened when I broke my arm, fractured my hand and Devon had left. I was angry. I boxed up every toy, every pencil, every remnant from our childhood and spent the Christmas moping around in my pyjamas, going to hospital appointments and rowing with my mum. I didn’t want to do anything and totally failed my GCSEs as a result. I had no plans to go to college, not without Devon by my side, but my mother had other ideas. If I didn’t go to college and retake my Maths and English, I would be required to work with my mum at the hair salon. I went to college.

  As it turns out, it wasn’t half bad, so long as I stuck with Jess and Hope who I met and instantly clicked with during the induction day. And though I was done with any notion of wanting to write superhero comics, I still loved creative writing and aced English in the end.

  ‘I love my job and I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else,’ I say as Hope walks into the living room. My mouth goes dry as the words leave my lips, but it’s not entirely untrue. Like I said before, I do like my job; I mean I love my boss. Sure, it’s not my dream job but then who actually worked their dream job? A vision of Devon in a white cape flashes across my mind as I hang up my coat.

  ‘Hey, Eddie,’ I hear Hope gush from the living room, which snaps me out of my thoughts. ‘I hear you have an appointment on Wednesday. I didn’t know goldfish got check-ups. I think it might be Scarlett who needs one, Ed.’

  ‘I heard that,’ I say, bringing in the treats and making myself comfortable on the couch.

  Hope shoots me an innocent smile. ‘There’s something going on with you. I don’t know what it is yet, but I don’t believe it’s got anything to do with outings with your goldfish. Are you lonely? Do we need to get you dating again? Or is it the magazine? I promise I’m not about to make anyone redundant. We’ve got a bit of time to pull something together – I’m sure of it,’ Hope says, grabbing a cushion and hugging it.

  ‘I’m not lonely. How can I be lonely when I have Ed here? And I believe in us. We can and we will save the magazine. Now, stop the doom and gloom. I’ll plate up the snacks; you grab the notebooks and turn on the Christmas lights please,’ I say before walking into the kitchen and throwing cold water on my face from the sink, still feeling a little shaken by the poster back at the bakery and with the stress of wanting to do my best for Hope.

  My nerves disappear when I re-enter my living room and it’s basking in twinkling Christmas lights. It is fully festive now. Hope and Jess helped me decorate two weekends ago. We like to decorate at the end of November so that we can wake up on the first of December to Christmas lights and the first day of our chocolate Advent calendars. It’s our tradition. Each year since we moved into our houses, we spend a full festive day at Hope and Jess’s doing their house and decorating their tree and the next day we spend at mine transforming it into a cosy Christmas wonderland. My tree stands to the left of my fireplace by the small rectangular window. It’s beautiful when the snow begins to fall outside, and the gold lights bounce off the glass. My couch is covered in Christmas throws and blankets, all homemade – some I have stitched myself, others made by our town’s seamstress.

  Even in the British summer my couch is littered with blankets and throws of every design and softness. Hope wraps herself up in a deep woollen navy throw with sparkling light blue snowflakes cross-stitched into it; this one I helped make at the Springhollow craft fair a few autumns ago and it remains a favourite of mine. I place the snacks and hot chocolate on the table.

  ‘They look so much better than the protein snacks I’ve been researching this week,’ Hope notes, reaching for a doughnut. I take a seat next to her and pick up a notebook.

  ‘How’s that going? And is this why you’ve been trying to figure out social media? Because the magazine is struggling? You should have told me sooner,’ I say. Like me, Hope isn’t a huge fan of technology; however, recently with work she has been trying to keep up with what is going on in the media in order to keep our magazine interesting and inform the people of Springhollow what is going on in the world around us – or at least that’s what she had told me. She and Jess do get their weekly emails for the daily gossip in the comic book world, though Hope much prefers the subscriptions and newsletters that you can get in the post, so she’s a little more knowledgeable about the internet than I am.

  These little nuggets of social media have only been a small part and new addition to the magazine, but like with anything to do with her job, Hope takes it seriously. This month she has been diving headfirst into the world of media influencers. What that means I have no idea, but she wanted to add a feature for the younger generation, hoping to draw them to the magazine with things that they could relate to. Now I know why she has been taking it so seriously.

  ‘I made these brownies with avocados that I saw an influencer post the other day and it was a giant no-no. I do not believe avocados should ever be cooked, baked, fried or served hot,’ she says with a grimace, sticking out her tongue for good measure, then she takes a huge bite from one of Mrs Rolph’s scrumptious doughnuts. ‘Plus, I can’t bake nearly half as well as Mr and Mrs Rolph, so I think I’m going to leave that one up to them. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want to worry you with everything going on with the fair,’ she adds. I give an “Mmmm” in agreement through my own mout
hful of chocolatey goodness.

  Suddenly, I reach out for a napkin and grab the pen and notebook. Talking about recipes has given me an idea.

  ‘What if we collaborate with the baking competition? The winning recipe each week gets featured in the magazine and to enter you have to pay a pound. It adds an extra something exciting for the winner. We can ask Mr and Mrs Rolph if it’s something they would be interested in offering,’ I waffle to Hope, not having thought it through entirely but immediately thinking of the community spirit everyone shares each week. We might not raise a whole heap of money, but it would still be something. ‘And I’m putting forth my idea for the stall, right now,’ I say waving my hands in the air and crossing my toes. ‘I’m thinking a giant gingerbread-building competition and tons of cookies for everyone to decorate,’ I finish clapping my hands together.

  ‘I love it,’ Hope expresses, sitting up and reaching for her hot chocolate. ‘I really love it. I mean I’ll have to see what the others have come up with but you’re winning right now,’ she says with a cheeky grin.

  We spend the next two hours on a sugar high from the doughnuts, gingerbread and hot chocolate, writing down, scratching out and scribbling good and bad ideas in our notebooks before Hope heads home around nine, leaving me and Eddie to sketch out a plan for the main stall. When I can focus on Christmas and avoid drawing any caped crusaders, drawing relaxes me.

  3

  I can’t quite believe it’s Friday. Tuesday evening saw me popping by my mum and dad’s house to stock up their fridge with the usual essentials of milk, bread and eggs with them due back from their annual Christmas holiday next week. I escaped going to the movies with Hope on Wednesday. She had told me to try and make it after Eddie’s appointment, but I genuinely lost track of time delivering some more food to my parents’ house and then I’d gotten distracted by wandering across to the park. After three laps of the gorgeous paths and winding layout, I had made myself comfy on a bench, people-watching while drawing up my final design for the stall in all its gingerbread goodness.

  Hope had informed me on Wednesday morning that my idea had won for the fourth consecutive year. It gave me a little buzz and something to feel proud of. But after I’d sat in the park for a while, I realised I had completely missed the movie’s start time. Hope hadn’t been too disappointed with my excuse due to its content and the fact that she had been way too distracted by how awesome the movie was anyway to care if I was there or not.

  On Thursday evening I had purchased supplies for the fair and made a start on the stencils for my cookies and had fallen asleep on my notebook thinking of sustainable ways to keep The Village Gazette alive and kicking.

  Now, I pull my beanie a little tighter over my ears as I lock up my front door. Today there is a frosty nip in the air, the wind letting me know that snow could be just around the corner. I love the snow and I love a cosy beanie, especially at this time of year. My snapbacks had made their way out of my wardrobe during my college years. No matter how much Hope stood up for me I quickly got fed up of the negative comments about my fashion sense and my mum’s constant nagging that women don’t wear caps and especially not backwards, but my beanies aren’t going anywhere. Granted I’m wearing a light blue one with sparkly snowflakes on it that my mum bought for me, but at least this time she had acknowledged my love of beanies. Last year she had attempted to get me to wear some sort of French beret, telling me it looked sophisticated and demure. I am neither of those things, which displeases her greatly.

  *

  ‘You look beautiful, Hope,’ my mum says as Hope and I walk into my house after college. I drop my bag on the kitchen table and look to my mum in shock.

  ‘Mum, she’s wearing a Star Wars tee,’ I say, defiantly.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Davis,’ Hope replies with a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.

  ‘Oh, is that what that writing is. Well, it looks cute,’ she adds, rubbing salt further into my wound.

  ‘You won’t let me wear graphic T-shirts,’ I protest, choosing my words carefully. Hope doesn’t know I have a hidden drawer of old superhero tees, for two reasons: one being my mother and two because of ex best friends I don’t wish to tell her about.

  ‘But you never tuck them in or wear them with such delicate trousers. You’re always trying to wear those ugly flares and boy cuts,’ my mum argues. ‘Can you please take your bag off the table,’ she adds.

  I roll my eyes and do as I’m told. I can’t believe Hope has made her vintage Star Wars tee cool, not just to the girls at school, but to my mum as well. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pick up some more bits and pieces next time I’m out. You girls will be starting work soon – you will need to dress accordingly, Scarlett.’

  I throw my bag over my shoulder and make for the stairs, feeling disgruntled. When Hope dresses in her vintage hippie way, she’s stylish; when I do I receive funny looks and have to endure rants from my mother about growing up.

  *

  I’m not sure why I allow my mother to dress me. Our relationship has always been a little strained. Maybe I feel like it will make her like me more, either that or the guilt I have for ruining way too many frocks when I was a child has something to do with it. But really who in their right mind puts a six-year-old in white? And a six-year-old who loves skateboarding and eating mud pies for dinner at that?

  And that is why I’m walking funny, sporting a stiff black A-line dress underneath my parka. The beautiful decorations that leap out from the village square distract me from the private disgruntled complaints about my mum that are going on in my head as I wobble along. A giant fir tree has replaced the autumn pumpkin patch in the middle of the green and the hay bales have been replaced by giant presents and a Santa sleigh. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.

  I walk past the library as Mrs Bride is opening up for the day and send her a wave. ‘Morning, Mrs Bride,’ I say loudly so she can hear me. She turns eighty-two next month and her hearing isn’t what it used to be, but she turns around and smiles warmly.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she says with a wave in return. ‘Have you seen…’ She starts to speak but is interrupted by Rex, Mr Thompson’s dog, who barks his greeting at me and wags his tail at my feet. Mr Thompson is holding his lead from about four metres away, engaged in conversation with Elliot who’s on his newspaper round. It takes a moment for him to notice where his dog has wandered and when he spots me, he chuckles and waves Elliot off on his bike so he can catch up with his dog.

  ‘Morning, Scarlett, sorry about that. This fella is too fast for me these days.’ He grins.

  ‘Morning, Mr Thompson, and that’s no trouble. I rather enjoy my morning cuddles,’ I say, bending down with some difficulty, thanks to the cardboard-like dress, to scratch the adorable Jack Russell behind the ears.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bride,’ Mr Thompson calls across the path as the old lady waves and ducks into the library.

  ‘Well, I best get to work. Have a lovely day, you two, and thank you for the cuddles, Rex,’ I say, feeling the festivity in the air as the weeks wind down towards Christmas. After the bumpy start to the week, today I feel like a new me. I have the Christmas fair to think about, my house smells consistently of gingerbread thanks to my baking, and I get to see my dad next week. I leave Mr Thompson and Rex to their walk and cross the green, taking in the sparkle of the larger-than-life presents and the twinkle of Santa’s gold sleigh. I push open the door of Rolphs’ Bakery and pass the aisle of freshly baked cakes when I notice a tall figure at the counter. My body freezes and goosebumps prickle my arms.

  *

  ‘Hold him still, D,’ I demand as Mrs Rolph’s cat is trying to scratch and claw at Devon’s eyes.

  ‘I’m trying, Scar, she doesn’t like it,’ D says his bottom lip pouting as he holds on to the cat for dear life so our plan doesn’t fail.

  ‘She’ll love it when it’s on properly. Hold still, Bonny, nearly done,’ I say in a softer tone this time, trying to soothe the cat. I really want this to
work but I also want D to keep his eyes too. ‘OK, it’s on.’

  ‘Do I just let go?’ D asks nervously.

  ‘I think so,’ I reply, peering over the scaffolding. We’re not that high up – my dad won’t let us climb higher than two planks.

  ‘Do I just drop her?’ D asks me like I have all the answers. I guess this was my idea; I suppose I should know what to do. But I thought Bonny would like it more. Her hissing is starting to freak me out.

  ‘Maybe, or maybe we should put her on the ground first and let her jump,’ I say undecided. Before D can give his thoughts on my lack of direction, Bonny shrieks and leaps out of his hands. She soars into the air, her cape floating up behind her, then lands on all fours on the dusty concrete. I stand with my mouth open in awe.

  ‘Whoa, did you see that?’ Devon exclaims, his eyes just as wide as mine.

  ‘That was so cool,’ I reply. ‘Now it’s our turn,’ I add, grabbing D’s hand.

  ‘What?’ Devon says aghast. His hand is clammy in mine.

  ‘Oh, come on, D, it’s not that high. If Bonny can do it, so can we.’ My seven-year-old brain is determined. ‘Together, after three: one, two, three…’

  *

  The till chimes and instantly knocks some sense into my head. I leap behind the largest cake stack and peer over the cherries on top of the Bakewells, carefully checking to see if the figure is still there.

  Thankfully, he is still facing away from the shelves and is deep in conversation with Mr and Mrs Rolph. Really, I can’t be certain that it is who I think it is by only looking at the back of his head. It’s been ten years since he was in this village and we all know movie posters are Photoshopped. But so much for my morning coffee. There’s no way I can move, just in case it is him. Do I race to the door now and pray he doesn’t see me, or do I wait it out until he leaves? I wish my brain was more decisive sometimes.