A Christmas Cracker

by Trisha Ashley

  ‘Very true, dear, I hadn’t thought of that. But perhaps it will make those young people who haven’t yet set off more cautious?’ she suggested.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said, because my optimism thermostat had been stuck on a low setting ever since I was imprisoned and was clearly going to take a long time to warm up.

  ‘Poor Randal says he’ll have to sleep in terrible hostels and backpackers’ dives, too,’ she added, though I wasn’t entirely sure she knew what he meant by ‘backpackers’ dives’.

  ‘What a shame,’ I said insincerely.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? But then afterwards they’re sending him back to Mexico, to investigate complaints about a supposedly luxury hotel for his usual series, before he comes home.’

  ‘Well, whatever the faults with that one, I expect it’ll seem like Paradise after cheap hostels.’

  ‘I hope the food will be good and wholesome, at least … though, actually, I’m not sure what they eat in Mexico,’ she confessed.

  ‘Nor me, though I think it involves refried beans and tortillas.’

  ‘Really? I can’t imagine wanting to fry beans once, let alone twice,’ she said, puzzled, so we went back into the library and explored the wonderful (and varied) world of Mexican cuisine.

  When Freda popped in later to drop off a bit of shopping, she told us the supermarkets stocked taco-making kits, if we wanted to go all Mexican she’d get one sent in the next order.

  The introduction of tacos into Silas’s diet was unlikely to do his digestion or temper any good, because he did like his plain, traditional food, but Mercy always seemed up for any culinary challenge.

  Saturday morning was dry and bright, so I took my sketchbook out and went to look for inspiration. I drew the house from the other side of the moat and the bridge over the stream, before walking up the Little Mumming track through the woodland behind the mill, stopping to sketch mossy, fallen trees, a fairy ring of toadstools and anything else that took my eye.

  I was sitting on a log drawing a pale, semi-circular fungi that reminded me of a coral reef, when Becca rode past me on her brown cob, Nutkin. The sound of his hoofs was deadened by the thick carpet of pine needles, so that she was there before I knew it. Pye, who was seated next to me, looking over my shoulder like an art critic, alerted me with a growl.

  She reined in and called cheerily, ‘Morning! You look just like a young witch, sitting there in that black jacket with your cat.’

  ‘It certainly feels like a magical spot just here,’ I said, then thanked her for the horse liniment. ‘It totally healed my ankle almost instantly.’

  ‘I knew it would do the trick,’ she said, looking pleased. Then she said she had something in her saddlebag for Mercy, and rode on downwards.

  Pye got up, stretched and then prepared to follow her.

  ‘She didn’t say it was fish, Pye,’ I pointed out. ‘In fact, I’m fairly certain she’s not riding about with fish in her saddlebag.’

  But he just gave me a look, then sauntered off and was quickly lost in the black shadows.

  Mercy was in the kitchen when I returned, lunching on Welsh rarebit, with a disgruntled-looking Pye sitting on a wheel-back chair and keeping her company.

  ‘I take it Becca wasn’t carrying fish?’ I said to him. ‘Told you so.’

  ‘Fish? No,’ said Mercy looking up. ‘She does sometimes bring me gifts of fish and game, but today she only wanted to unload some of Tilda’s cheese straws. She makes huge quantities and gives them away very generously, but they never taste of anything much.’

  ‘I like them when they’re really cheesy,’ I said.

  ‘So do I, but luckily Silas seems to quite like Tilda’s and, I find if I put anything edible in the biscuit tin at the mill Phil and Bradley will gobble it up.’

  She looked at my sketches admiringly, while I made a ham and tomato sandwich, then she asked me if I intended spending the afternoon on my artwork, too.

  ‘Only someone in Merchester has an old but reliable electric sewing machine they would like to donate and didn’t you tell me your best friend lived there? I thought you might like to call on her and then I could pick you up on my way home.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said, and gave Emma a quick ring to make sure she’d be in.

  Mercy dropped me outside Emma’s lovely little old terraced stone cottage near the botanical gardens and it was wonderful to see her again, even though we only had a little time before she had to go and collect Marco from a birthday party.

  ‘Mercy says you and Marco must come over and see Mote Farm,’ I told her. ‘She’s very hospitable and she loves children. In fact, she seems to love everyone, including her horrible nephew, Randal!’

  ‘Is he really horrible?’ she asked, so I told her all about Randal’s visit and the ghastly coincidence of his being best buddies with Charlie Clancy, the man who had duped me into letting him into Champers&Chocs.

  ‘Pity,’ she said, pushing the pink-spotted teapot and the plate of gingernut biscuits in my direction across the kitchen table. ‘If this was a novel, he’d turn out to be a romantic hero, who would clear your name, then sweep you into his arms and tell you he’d adore you for ever.’

  ‘Well, that’s not going to happen because I think he’s more likely to push me in the moat,’ I said. ‘He told his auntie he’d just got engaged, too, and his eyes went all glazed when he mentioned his fiancée, so I’m assuming she’s a stunner.’

  My phone bleeped and when I took it out of my bag, yet another spate of messages popped into the inbox: they sometimes seemed to arrive hours after they’ve been sent.

  ‘Guy Martland again,’ I sighed.

  ‘Oh, that man who rescued you when you hurt your ankle? Is he texting you?’ she asked interestedly, though you’d think after her disastrous experiences with Desmond she’d give up trying to marry me off.

  ‘Whenever I go far enough away from the house to get a signal on my phone, there are loads of them.’

  ‘But you must have given him your number?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t really expect him to contact me.’

  ‘Does he fancy you? Is he asking you out?’

  ‘He says he wants to see more of me when he next comes up to stay in Little Mumming, but I haven’t answered him yet,’ I said. ‘I only noticed the messages late Friday and I don’t really know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘He’s very attractive and probably lots of fun, if you’re looking for a good time, but he’s got “unreliable” stamped all over him. And anyway, I’m not looking for another relationship. I’ve decided to work towards being a mad old spinster with a cat. I’m halfway there already.’

  ‘If Des doesn’t buck his ideas up, I might just join you,’ she said darkly.

  ‘You’d have to be a mad old single mother,’ I pointed out, ‘but you could share my cat.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘Now, what are you going to reply to this Guy? You’d better say something.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks?’ I suggested.

  ‘Be serious,’ she said and eventually we fixed on the innocuous, ‘Thank you so much for coming to my rescue and I do hope we bump into each other again sometime’, and I added a smiley emoticon.

  The next morning I went to the Sunday Quaker meeting for the first time with Silas and Mercy. Job, Freda and Joy were there too, having driven over in the big estate car.

  I’d read all about the Friends after meeting Ceddie at the open prison and I was very drawn to their beliefs. Historically, they had a long tradition of equality between the sexes, as well as being at the forefront of anti-slavery and many other issues – in fact, wherever compassion and humanity was needed, Quakers seemed to have been involved. It was fascinating.

  The Victorian factory-owning Quakers like the Marwoods showed benevolence towards their workers, too, housing them comfortably and treating them well, which I expect is where Mercy got her interest in employing former criminals from.

>   The meeting house in Great Mumming was a small, ancient, black and white timber building, set back behind a walled garden, just off the main street. A new brick annexe had been added behind, but the meeting itself took place in a sunny, peaceful room in the old part.

  I knew what to expect from my reading, so I wasn’t surprised when about twelve of us sat in a square, facing each other, in total silence, apart from a bit of breathing.

  I tried to clear my mind of all thoughts, as if I was meditating, which I suppose I was in a way, and it was all strangely soothing and tranquil.

  After about twenty minutes of this, a tall, elderly woman stood up and remarked in a conversational voice that she was shocked to hear about the prevalence of female genital mutilation in this country and had been giving it a lot of thought. Then she sat down again and there was more silence, until finally a couple of the elders rose, indicating that the meeting was over.

  There was tea, coffee and iced buns in the annexe, where the FGM lady handed out leaflets for a focus group she was thinking of setting up, after which I hitched a lift home with Job and the others, because Mercy and Silas were going to lunch with friends.

  Going by his surprised and slightly grumpy expression, I don’t think Silas had been consulted about this plan, but now Mercy was home he’d just have to get used to having a social life imposed on him, because she seemed very gregarious.

  Job, Freda and Joy were calling at the Auld Christmas for lunch on the way back and invited me to join them, but I felt like going home and doing some more work on the latest picture, so I said I’d like the walk down, and set off. The track descended the hill from just behind the pub in a series of zigzags, imprinted with lots of large hoof-prints, probably from Becca’s Nutkin.

  Pye awaited me on the bridge, though I have no idea how he knew when I was coming. He jumped onto my shoulder as soon as I was within leaping distance and clung there like a large prickly burr. Perhaps he’d just wanted a lift home.

  Chapter 23: Fine-Tuned

  Knock, knock.

  Who’s there?

  Holly.

  Holly who?

  Holly-days are here again!

  I put Randal and any doubts about what would happen in the future, when he would be around all the time, to the back of my mind and settled back to work again. Soon I’d practically cleared the first stockroom.

  It was quite amazing how little space everything took up, once it was cleaned, sorted and packed into a fresh box, though I was discarding a lot of rubbish, too.

  I red-stickered anything that might be interesting to display in the museum. Silas and I had already been discussing the layout and what might go on the information boards.

  One evening after dinner, he got out a lot of ancient photograph albums and we pored over them. There were several posed pictures of the family and the workers seated in rows in front of the mill, one of everyone setting off in an ancient charabanc for a picnic and some soupy interior shots of the cracker making, which was all quite fascinating. We made a list of the ones that would best illustrate the story of the Marwoods and the mill, and Silas was to write the narrative to go with them.

  ‘There used to be a work’s annual picnic to a beauty spot in a valley to the west, above a village called Halfhidden,’ he said, pointing to the charabanc surrounded by a lot of happy workers in what looked like their Sunday best. I expect you got dressed up for picnics in those days.

  ‘But one year, some of the young girls went for a walk up to the falls and one of them vanished,’ Mercy put in.

  ‘Oh?’ I said, interested. ‘Like Picnic at Hanging Rock?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ she said puzzled.

  ‘It was a film about some girls in Australia, who vanished after a picnic and were never seen again.’

  ‘Oh, then it’s not quite the same, because they did see Florence again. After hours of searching, her young man finally thought to tell them that they’d had an argument just before she disappeared and they picked her up on the way back, trudging along the road. I expect they were very cross with her, because it must have quite spoiled the day for everyone.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘Is there still an annual picnic?’

  ‘No, they gave it up after that. And now, of course, they have their annual Christmas and New Year holiday in Blackpool.’

  ‘They really do seem to look forward to that,’ I said. Then I told them that a greetings card company who used to buy my work had just accepted two of my designs.

  ‘I finished them just before I was arrested, but of course then they never got sent. So I posted them as soon as I found them.’

  ‘That’s excellent news,’ Mercy said, beaming.

  ‘Yes, and they said they’d like to see more, so I’m back in with them again. There’s another card firm who used to buy my work too, so I’ll try some new ones with them when they’re ready. I’d still love to work on bigger and less commercial pieces one day, though,’ I added wistfully.

  ‘And so you shall,’ Mercy said, like a kindly fairy godmother. ‘Once the first phase of the mill has opened, you can spread your wings in one of the workshops and your time will be your own.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll always still be there if you need my help with anything,’ I said gratefully, though I was becoming slightly distracted by Pye’s fixed stare as he appeared to track some invisible creature across the room.

  ‘Just think, dear Liz will be here tomorrow, too – what fun,’ Mercy said, for her Malawian ward was coming home for Easter. Her room was made up ready and Mercy had bought and hidden away a large Easter egg. ‘We will be four for dinner.’

  I didn’t point out that we quite often seemed to be four or five for dinner, due to her habit of inviting friends, or even, it appeared, random strangers, to share the meal with us.

  ‘She calls me Grandmother,’ Mercy said. ‘It’s a mark of respect, because I’m so very old.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her,’ I said, and Mercy looked pleased. I’m sure she thinks of us both as young things, but sixteen-year-old Liz is likely to think I’m almost as ancient as her godmother!

  Arlene, who was now officially working the same hours as the other cracker workers, called me in on Friday morning, as I passed the glass-fronted office in the lobby, to show me some more foil and paper samples that had just arrived. Things seemed to be arriving by every post, some all the way from China, and we were quite excited.

  That day’s cracker papers were a more refined version of the crinkled crepe Mum and I used to make our own out of, in white, holly-berry red or ivy green. There were pre-cut tartan paper-foil lace edgings, too, samples of tartan or plain red ribbon and Scottie-dog die-stamped stickers.

  We tried the effect of the tartan foil trim against the various coloured papers and decided the tartan ribbon was a step too far.

  ‘I’m expecting more samples of alternative cracker fillers soon,’ Arlene told me, ‘but the miniature musical instruments were delivered earlier. There were kazoos, ocarinas, penny whistles and a mouth organ, though Phil has got that one and won’t give it back.’

  When I walked through the workshop on my way to the stockroom, he was sitting at his workstation, sucking and blowing at it in a monotonous manner, though I expect that was due to his not being able to use his hands, which were engaged in cracker making.

  I stopped at my bench briefly and constructed another cracker. I was getting better – at least this one didn’t look like a badly stuffed sausage.

  Liz was dropped off at the house by her friend’s mother later the same day and Mercy was quite right about her being a serious girl: she was sixteen going on forty.

  She was tall, slim and dark-skinned, with short, glossy black curls and large, intelligent chocolate-brown eyes behind heavy-rimmed glasses.

  She shook my hand and said how pleased she was to meet me, then went upstairs to unpack. When she’d gone, Mercy said she’d like her to lighten up a bit and have more fun ap
propriate to her age, but her mind was entirely set on her aim of becoming a doctor.

  ‘Which is, of course, very estimable. But since she tells me she’s grown out of her casual clothes, perhaps being younger and more in touch with fashion, you wouldn’t mind taking her shopping to buy new ones?’ she appealed to me.

  ‘I’m not really in touch with fashion, either,’ I confessed. ‘That’s why I generally stick to black jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts. And I like to be comfortable, rather than teeter round in high heels and a skirt so short you have to think before sitting down, so I’m not a girly girl at all.’

  ‘I think you can be feminine without losing your dignity,’ Mercy said, and when Liz came down she explained her plan.

  ‘Liz, Tabby will take you to find some new clothes – and I’ll give you your first month’s salary, Tabby, so you can get something new and nice, too.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve just been paid for those greetings card designs I’ve sold – the money went straight into my bank account, because I’ve done several for them before. So now I’ll be able to pay you back out of my salary for Jeremy’s storage charge and we’ll be all straight.’

  ‘I’ll deduct it from your wages – it wasn’t much,’ she assured me, though so far I haven’t managed to get the exact figure out of her.

  ‘Where would you like to go shopping, Liz?’ I asked.

  ‘I like a bargain,’ Liz said, thinking it over. ‘So I’d rather go to the open market in Ormskirk than any of the big shopping centres, and the market will be on tomorrow.’

  ‘Really? Mum used to love going there before she got so ill,’ I said.

  ‘Liz needs to get away from navy and grey,’ Mercy said. ‘She looks so pretty in bright colours, when she’s wearing her Malawian dress.’

  ‘Somehow those bright colours only seem right in Malawi,’ Liz said.

  ‘What’s Malawian national dress like?’ I asked, interested.