Asking for Trouble: 1 (London Confidential)

by Sandra Byrd

  I sighed but didn’t let her see my face. Might as well not kill off her dream. I was betting Mom and Dad hadn’t given it another thought.

  Aunt Maude bought a few things too. “We’ll take them to the village post this afternoon when we get home,” she said. “I want to send them off straightaway. Only two weeks till Christmas. But first, time for a nice jam butty.”

  Chapter 40

  It turns out a jam butty is a jelly sandwich, but I didn’t think I’d be sending a big package of them to my family in Seattle.

  “Come along to the post,” Aunt Maude said after we’d returned to Wexburg. “Everyone who lives in a village should know the postman.”

  I’d forgotten that she’d lived in Wexburg—in our very house, actually—for a long time before she’d moved to the country.

  We walked to the center of the village and into the post office. It was kind of like a drugstore. To my surprise, it even had some candy and gum. I picked through the candy bars looking for something to replace my beloved Hershey Kisses now that I was a proper Londoner. I was deciding between a Cadbury Chomp and a Cadbury Flake, but the Flake won out.

  Then we went to the back, and a teenager was working the post window.

  “I want to see Tom,” Aunt Maude insisted.

  “Mr. Tom, he don’t come to the window no more,” the kid said. “I do all the package and posting while he’s managing.”

  “Tell him Maude’s here,” she insisted.

  A tall man with a jiggly stomach came around the corner. His hair was neatly cropped to his head, almost military short. “Maude!” he said and gave her a hug.

  “New glasses?” she asked.

  He nodded. “That time of life, you know.” His glasses slid down his nose a bit, and he pushed them back up. “Need to get me one of those screws to fix them. A little to the right, back a bit off to the left, and Bob’s your uncle!”

  I’d been looking at a selection of Christmas cards, but when I heard that, my neck snapped around. Something about him was gnawing at me. I couldn’t figure out what it was. He looked and sounded familiar.

  Aunt Maude chatted with him, and he kept looking at me nervously. Which made me look away at first . . . and then I looked back.

  Yes, there it was. Right next to his eye. The tiniest little bruise, almost gone. He’d had a black eye! And the “Bob’s your uncle” phrase. The only other person I’d heard say that was . . .

  The postmaster was the same person as Father Christmas!

  I caught his eye and he caught mine and, he knew that I knew. I almost fainted.

  I wandered back to the candy aisle and pretended to browse. What a scoop! If I wrote this up in the paper, everyone would know who Father Christmas was. Then it wouldn’t matter if my columns did well or not, because even if they tanked, I’d have proven myself as a real reporter.

  Except that I’d be scooping Melissa, my only real friend. And it was her story.

  And Father Christmas had obviously worked very hard to keep his secret, which was, after all, really his to divulge or not.

  Aunt Maude, Louanne, and I walked back to our house. “What does ‘Bob’s your uncle’ mean?” I asked Aunt Maude.

  “Oh, it means, well, ‘just so,’ or ‘just like that,’ or ‘then all is right.’ Something like that.”

  “Do many people say it?”

  Maude smiled. “Not many young people, that’s for sure. Perhaps a few in my generation, though I don’t hear it much anymore. Why?”

  “The postman said it,” I replied.

  “Oh, him. I hadn’t noticed. But I suppose you would, being American and all.”

  I’d never heard it before I talked with Father Christmas.

  “So, do you know much about Father Christmas?” I continued fishing with Aunt Maude. After all, I was a journalist! I watched her face closely, to see if her response revealed that she knew Tom the postman’s secret.

  “What do you mean?” she responded. “He’ll be at the town center, as always, the week before Christmas.”

  “Ooh! Father Christmas. He’s like Santa Claus,” Louanne said.

  “He’s vastly superior, dear,” Aunt Maude informed her. “He’s British, after all. Not a Johnny-come-lately in a ridiculous red velvet suit.”

  I hid my grin. No, he was in ridiculous green and blue velour robes instead.

  “Do I have to sit on his lap if I want to give him my present list?” Louanne asked.

  “Of course you do, dear. No one else is going to sit on his lap for you.” Aunt Maude pulled out a hanky and delicately wiped her nose.

  “Can I send him a letter?”

  “I don’t know where you’d send it,” she said. “No, you’ll just have to go to the town center if you want to talk with him.”

  But I knew where I could send the letter. And if I chose to write about it, all of Wexburg could too. It would make my career.

  Chapter 41

  We kept walking. My mind was a jumble. What was I to do with this new information? Good reporters don’t hold back facts. But was this fact relevant to the story?

  When we got to the house, Aunt Maude let me plug the telly back in. I sat there and watched What Not to Wear while she bumbled around in the kitchen. Finally, unable to take the racket any longer, I went in to see what she was doing.

  My mother’s kitchen was completely rearranged! The shock must have registered on my face, because she said, “Just a bit of reorganizing to help your mum out.” Then she withdrew one of the cookie exchange invitations from her apron pocket. “What’s this?” she asked. “I found it in with the flour.”

  “It’s a party invitation,” I said. “My mom was trying to get to know some women around here, so she thought she’d throw a little cookie exchange party.”

  “A . . . what?”

  “A cookie exchange.” Then I remembered that British people called cookies biscuits. “You know, each person bakes about two to three dozen Christmas biscuits and then brings them to the house. They all share what they’ve got, and each person takes home a nice assortment. And you get to make friends that way too.”

  Aunt Maude nodded slowly. “And this to-do is next Friday?”

  I shook my head. “No one ever RSVP’d. I don’t think there will be a party.”

  Aunt Maude took off her apron and patted my shoulder. “Time for your nap, I’m sure. Why don’t you just toddle off upstairs and take a little lie-down and we’ll eat tea in a few hours.”

  A nap? Toddle off? How old did she think I was? I didn’t argue though. I just headed upstairs and closed my bedroom door.

  I got out my history book and had started reading when I heard Aunt Maude’s voice outside. I crept to the window and peeked out the corner—just enough so I could see and hear but not be seen and heard.

  I could hear Aunt Maude talking with Vivienne, but I couldn’t make out what either of them was saying. I lifted the window up just the tiniest amount, hoping it wouldn’t creak. It didn’t. I caught the end of the conversation.

  “Well, it’d be a nice thing,” Aunt Maude said. “She’s a lovely woman, and she’s trying hard, I know.”

  “I’ve grown a bit fond of her in spite of myself,” I heard Vivienne admit. “I had no idea whatsoever what a cookie exchange was, and I didn’t want to seem dull by asking.”

  Well, what do you know? Aunt Maude was down there trying to hustle up some people for Mom’s cookie exchange. Maybe I’d misjudged the old girl after all. A certain unexpected fondness for toad in the hole and jam butties overcame me.

  I watched as Aunt Maude handed the invitation from the flour jar to Vivienne. “See what you can do, will you?” she said.

  “I’ll have a go at it,” Vivienne agreed. “But I don’t know how much I can do, especially at this late date.”

  Chapter 42

  Sunday afternoon, before my parents got home, my phone rang. Only I couldn’t find it right away.

  “Where is that phone?” I listened. My ring tone was
a Taylor Swift song. I reached under my bed and grabbed it just in time.

  I looked at the caller ID before answering. It was Jack.

  “Hello?”

  “Savvy? Jack here.”

  “Hi, Jack. How’s it going?”

  “I’m fine, thanks very much. Listen, I have a new question for the Asking for Trouble column.”

  “Then it’s a success?” I held my breath.

  “Um, well, it’s a start,” he answered. “More papers read last week, certainly. But nothing’s definite for now. Don’t worry . . . yet. And anyway, there’s always the paper delivery, right?”

  “Right,” I said, trying to keep the gray out of my voice.

  “So then, here’s the question. Got a pen?” I grabbed one from my desk. And a paper napkin that I’d used to wipe my fingers after eating a particularly tasty bag of prawn cocktail—that is, shrimp-flavored—crisps. “Ready.”

  Dear Asking for Trouble,

  I was walking in the village today, and I saw my older sister’s boyfriend come out of the jewelry store with a ring box. They’ve been dating a long time. Maybe at Christmas he’s going to ask her to marry him! Should I tell her what I saw so she can be prepared, just in case? Or keep the secret?

  Sincerely,

  Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

  “Got it, Savvy?” Jack asked.

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Just e-mail your answer to me before deadline, okay?”

  Lovely, as the Brits would say. A column about whether or not to keep secrets. It just didn’t get any better than this.

  Chapter 43

  The week was really busy, and actually I didn’t work on my column at all. I knew I had ten days before it was due and that the column would come out the week before the Christmas holidays. We had a lot of exams, though. People here took school very seriously, and everyone, not only Hazelle, was pretty competitive at the end of the term.

  By the time Friday rolled around, I was ready for a break over the weekend—and then I’d write the column. But first, my dad and Louanne and I had plans to go out on Friday night.

  Friday was Mom’s cookie party.

  “I have no idea how many will come,” Mom said, flapping about the kitchen like a disoriented hen since Aunt Maude had “rearranged” things. “Vivienne said she’d talked with a few people, but some of them don’t bake and had never heard of a cookie exchange. I don’t know why I didn’t write more about that on the invitation.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom. Lots of people will come,” I reassured her. Please, God, let lots of people come, I silently prayed.

  Dad came waltzing into the room in his jeans, T-shirt, and socks. He slid across the floor. “Are you in the Christmas spirit, girls?” he asked.

  Louanne and I looked at each other. Even Growl backed away.

  “Yes . . . but I think someone’s had a little too much figgy pudding,” I said.

  “Seven more days till Christmas Eve. I thought we’d drive out tonight and check out the location of a church I’d heard about.”

  “Are there only old people?” I asked.

  “Do they wave banners in the aisles?” Mom asked.

  “Ha! I don’t know. But the girls and I will check it out while your party is on.”

  “Wait . . . I thought we were going to Criminal Barbecue for dinner,” I protested. “Can we do both?”

  “No can do,” Dad said. “That’s one restaurant that doesn’t allow dogs.”

  “Dogs? Growl is coming?”

  “His name is Giggle,” Louanne said firmly.

  “Can’t leave him home while Mom has her party, can we? We’ll get some takeout sandwiches and eat in the car.”

  Of course. Growl had ruined my nice carnivorous dinner.

  Great, so we’ll drive around for two hours, I thought. But I didn’t say it out loud because I didn’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings. She probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway. She was still nervously fluttering about, making coffee, getting the teakettle simmering, and preparing the decorated boxes for the cookies—biscuits—of the people she hoped would be there soon.

  When we drove away a few minutes later, there were no cars pulling in to the street. It was five minutes till party time.

  We drove to a Subway—yes, there was a Subway sandwich shop in Wexburg—–and then got back into the car. Louanne and Growl were in the back, and Dad and I were in the front. I saw Louanne pinch off pieces of her sandwich and give them to the dog.

  “If that dog barfs in the car, I’m going to disinherit you as my sister,” I warned.

  “You can’t do that,” she said sweetly. “I’m your sister for life.” With that, she pinched off another piece of her roll and gave it to Growl, who made a point of maintaining snooty eye contact with me while he finished it off.

  “There it is,” Dad said about twenty minutes later. “I know it’s a little bit farther from home . . . but it seems like a lot of people travel here to go to church.”

  It looked . . . nice! Big and pretty and new. Even on a Friday night there were a lot of cars in the parking lot. That was hopeful. It meant there were activities going on. I watched a group of normal-looking teenagers walk in through the side double doors, and there was another crowd playing casual soccer—I mean ‘football’—nearby.

  “It looks hopeful,” I said quietly. Tears filled my eyes, and I rushed to wipe them away before Dad noticed.

  He noticed. He reached over and took my hand. “It’s been hard starting everything over, hasn’t it?”

  I nodded but didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “We’ll try it on Christmas Eve,” Dad said quietly as we drove away.

  Chapter 44

  Right after that we drove home. When we pulled in to our street, it was obvious we’d have to leave again ASAP and find something else to do. But we didn’t mind.

  The street was full of cars!

  We drove in front of the house, and I could see the silhouette of my mom through the window, laughing with another lady. There must have been ten people in the house.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to get ice cream,” Dad said. He smiled broadly. I was sure if he hadn’t been driving the car he would have done his figgy pudding dance again.

  “Oh, too bad,” Louanne said, faking sorrow.

  We drove by the town center. “There’s Father Christmas,” I said, pointing him out to Louanne. “This is the last weekend to get your requests to him before Christmas.”

  She shook her head. “I’m too old to visit him or sit on his lap. I’m going to look on the computer tonight and see if I can find his address.”

  Dad looked at me out of the corner of his eye. We both knew a letter to Father Christmas mailed to points unknown didn’t have any more chance of arriving than letters addressed to Santa Claus, care of the North Pole. “Actually, I was planning to go see him tomorrow,” I said. Dad and Louanne both looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I have a few follow-up questions from my interview,” I said. Like any good reporter, I wanted to talk directly with the source before deciding what to tell and what to hold back.

  “Oh, will you take my letter then?” Louanne asked.

  “I will,” I said.

  “Thank you, Savvy,” she said quietly. “It’s really important that he gets this.” This time it was her eyes that brimmed with tears.

  Chapter 45

  The next morning when we woke up the house was a mess. But we didn’t mind helping Mom clean up. She swept around the kitchen more like Mary Poppins than a chicken this time.

  “So apparently there aren’t a lot of women on our street,” she said as she loaded the tiny dishwasher with coffee mugs.

  “There sure were a lot of cars,” I said.

  “Vivienne decided to invite her book club, which I thought was very nice,” Mom said.

  I thought so too.

  “She’d asked me last week if she could invite a few others, and of course I said yes. But I didn’t k
now who she meant. I don’t know why she waited so long to reply, but I didn’t want to seem rude and ask.”

  I knew why. But if Aunt Maude was keeping her secret—and not claiming credit for the good deed—then I wouldn’t tell either. It made Mom happier this way, I think.

  A couple of hours later I pulled on my puffy coat and sadly worn UGG boots before heading out to see Father Christmas. “These have a rip in them,” I complained. “And they’re stained.”

  Louanne stood by, smiling widely.

  “What’s so great?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” She held out an envelope to me. “Thanks for taking this.”

  “You’re welcome,” I grumbled. And then I headed off toward the town center.

  There was no snow today, but the frost had made pretty patterns on the windows I passed, and the tree limbs were frozen in limbo till spring. I could feel the cobblestones beneath the worn tread of my old boots, and I was careful to step firmly and not slip. I knew I was getting close to the town center, because I could hear the music in the distance. As I got closer, I could see small groups of Dickens carolers standing here and there with their black leather music books open, singing aloud. The girls all had felt bonnets on, lined with pretty white satin ruffles, and long red velvet dresses with button-up boots. The guys wore tall top hats and black woolen jackets with ties that matched the girls’ dresses. It looked—and sounded—very English. Very Christmassy.

  And, of course, in the middle of the town center was Father Christmas. I got in line.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to say. Would I ask him questions? Would I keep his secret? Would I inform him that I was going to tell? Or simply give him Louanne’s letter? I didn’t know, but I hoped I would by the time I got to the front of the line.