by Daisy James
All three faces swung towards Callie and she performed a wriggle of embarrassment under the scrutiny of the gathered ladies. She felt her face become suffused with heat and swore she would never again be caught scrutinising a fellow human being’s appearance.
‘Well, as you haven’t hung out the flags, I assume your own design didn’t get selected, dear?’ Iris asked.
Callie nodded. She suspected that the time spent confined to her wheelchair had allowed Iris to become sharply attuned to other people’s disguised emotions. She saw her sweep a slow, analytical glance around the shop as though, despite having visited it daily for the last ten years, she was seeing it for the first time.
‘It’s not the same without your aunt, Callie. The shop has lost some of its warmth, a piece of its soul. What will you do with the business?’
Callie squirmed. Iris had clearly been endowed with the same down-to-earth character traits as Delia and many other Yorkshire women. She tensed her jaw muscles at the direct question, but she knew it was not only her own and Delia’s futures that depended on her plans, but many of her mother’s old friends’ futures too. She just wished she had an answer to hand.
‘Well,’ said Callie, ruffled by the inquisition about a personal decision. ‘First of all, Delia and I thought we’d spruce this room up a bit – maybe a splash of rose-tinted paint on the walls, peppermint green for the shelves, dip those wicker baskets in white paint. We could invest in a couple of leather sofas, a few mohair throws…’ She paused.
This was as good an opportunity as any to get the message around the village that her tenure at Gingerberry Yarns over the next few months would be a temporary reprieve only. One thing at least was still thriving in Allthorpe – the village grapevine.
‘But I think I will have to start marketing the shop when probate is sorted, hopefully as a going concern.’
‘Not likely, though, is it?’
Callie stared at Iris. Her mobility may have ebbed away, but not her enquiring mind; that was still as sharp as a needle.
‘I mean, look what’s happened to Mr Greenwood’s grocery shop; look at old Mr Wainwright’s butcher’s shop – well on its way to becoming a weekend retreat fulfilling another rich banker’s Yorkshire Dales fantasy. These people have no interest in what’s going on outside their freshly painted front doors beyond its providing a charming backdrop for their nostalgic village scene – it’s like a film set for them. What they don’t realise is, they are the ones who are destroying our community, one by one. The lifestyle they find so charming? They are contributing to its decimation. Mark my words, Callie, if you sell Gingerberry Yarns – it will go the same way.’
Callie was surprised to find that, instead of irritation at being the subject of an economics lecture, she not only agreed with Iris’s astute assessment, but experienced a strong urge to protect the little wool shop from the encroachment of disinterested weekenders, and her aunt’s legacy from such exploitation. After all, hadn’t her aunt felt strongly enough about the subject to petition the local council’s planning department when permission was requested for change of use of the butcher’s shop?
They sipped the dregs of their tea, licked the sweet crumbs from their fingers and turned the conversation to the more palatable subject of the next WI meeting on Wednesday night. It was to be addressed by Dorri Mathews, a yoga enthusiast, who would speak on the benefits of veganism and a raw foods diet in the fight against every disease known to man. Much giggling ensued when Delia and Marcia described how unhealthy, drawn and washed-out Dorri had looked when they last saw her, concluding that a good dose of home cooking, a balanced diet and chocolate was the source of not only physical, but emotional health – just look at Nigella Lawson, the epitome of a goddess of the kitchen. This observation in turn led the conversation to the subject of the baking craze sweeping the nation on a tsunami of powdered sugar, inspired by the BBC show The Great British Bake Off.
‘Marcia loves to bake, don’t you, darling?’ Iris looked proudly at her beloved daughter who sat hunched forward, shoulders rounded to her chest, the ends of her hair sweeping the table. She had replaced her ‘reading glasses’ on the end of her nose.
‘Yes I do, but no way am I up to the standard of these.’ Marcia wiped away a stray speck of buttercream from her upper lip with her fingertip and licked the end, her eyes crinkling into a smile which transformed her whole face.
‘Maybe not, Marcia, but then Tom can’t compete with you in the literary stakes, can he? She won’t blow her own trumpet, Delia, but Marcia’s just had another two of her shorts accepted by LuxeLife magazine for their summer holiday issue. That’s four stories sold this month. Must be doing something right – but then everyone loves a good romance, don’t they?’
Callie watched as Marcia’s cheeks reddened, embarrassed at her mother’s pride.
‘Nevertheless, she won’t meet the man of her dreams whilst she’s stuck looking after me in Allthorpe, will she?’
‘Mum!’ Marcia moaned and, as the bell jingled, announcing what Callie hoped would be a paying customer, she took the opportunity to replace her bobble hat and prepare her mother’s chair to leave.
‘Just saying.’ Iris smirked as Marcia fussed with her knee blanket. There was no defeat in those soft blue eyes, only a burning desire to squeeze every last ounce of delight from what remained of her life.
‘Don’t forget that package we brought for Delia, Marcia, my love,’ Iris said, pointing to the Oxfam hessian bag hooked over the handles of her wheelchair, ‘and your next two stories for her to proofread before you get them sent off to the editor.’
‘Oh, yes.’
Marcia withdrew a large white envelope and placed it on the shop counter before extracting a smaller square package encased in a brown paper bag, passing it surreptitiously to Delia as Callie strode off to serve the new arrival. But not before Callie had caught a glimpse of the meaningful, coy looks being exchanged as Delia stowed the clandestine parcel beneath the counter, her cheeks glowing a deep shade of scarlet.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Hi, Scarlet. How are things at the couture coalface?’
‘Everything’s fine. No crises to get worked up about. Lizzie is working her socks off on next year’s Spring/Summer Collection. Oh, and did I tell you, Jules Gallieri has popped round a couple of times? He said it was to offer us a selection of this season’s fascinators, hats and wedding tiaras to display in our window but I know it was just for a gossip. He’s a creative genius with bridal headpieces! Would you believe he’s talking about being crowned the new Philip Treacy, bless him? I’d die to wear one of his hats at the wedding of the year! And don’t you think he’s handsome? All that Italian heritage oozing from his pores?’
‘Calm down, Scarlet,’ giggled Callie. ‘How’s Flora?’
‘Flora is Flora. When she realised we hadn’t won the competition she spent the whole day arranging and then rearranging the threads into rainbow order, liberally interspersed with bouts of weeping. She went on and on about her psychic telling her that the Callie-Louise design was going to win and that Madam Clio has never been wrong before. She still forgets you’re not here and buys you a vanilla spice latte most mornings – it’s costing us a fortune. But we all miss you, of course.’
‘Any insider gossip on who won the competition?’
‘Well, I heard from Carla Luciano that it might be Brigitte Gasnier, but I don’t think that’s true. Don’t get me wrong; Brigitte’s designs are amazing, but they are a little OTT even for my taste. And she’s been known to occasionally use animal fur in her trims. Lilac Verbois is not going to want to be associated with any controversy on her wedding day, is she?’
‘What about Jacques?’
‘He’s away in Antibes at the moment, but yes, there’s speculation he’s gone over there to avoid the possibility of the media digging up any clues. You know he can’t keep a secret. But if he has won, he needs to keep his lips firmly sealed. His career depends on it. My money is o
n him.’
‘Yes, I can see Lilac wearing one of his creations on the red carpet. They are very elegant, but I somehow didn’t see Lilac walking down the aisle in York Minster in a clingy, sexy sheath dress.’
‘No one really knew what she was going to choose.’
‘Oh, Scarlet, I’m so sorry it wasn’t us. You all worked so hard and it’s come to nothing. Perhaps I’m not cut out to be a celebrity fashion designer, after all. I wish I had a thimbleful of Jules’s confidence right now.’
‘You are an exceptionally talented designer, Callie.’
Scarlet quickly changed the subject before Callie had chance to sail any further down the river of despondency. ‘What’s happening with Gingerberry?’
‘Oh, Scarlet, you’d love it! We’re thinking of organising a sort of ‘stitch and bitch’ evening, which should be fun. I’ve ordered in lots of new stock, too – cashmere, mohair, Aran, angora – all natural fibres. I’ve also sourced a bolt of that gorgeous cream silk we stumbled on when we were shopping for the wedding dress fabric. Do you think you can email me those designs I did at college for the bridal lingerie range? You know, the baby dolls, the bustiers and thongs, the teddies?’
‘No problem, but why?’
‘It’s an idea Nessa had actually. She suggested we branch out into luxury bridal accessories, lingerie mainly, and I thought we’d make up a few samples at our stitch and bitch sessions. Not everyone likes knitting; some might prefer sewing and embroidery.’
‘It sounds like a fabulous idea, Callie. We could display the pieces in the shop and any money we make can be sent back up to the ladies. You know, I was actually thinking of talking to you about doing something along those lines after this whole wedding debacle was out of the way. I love that little bolero jacket you designed at Christmas – the one with the high collar and full-length sleeves ending in a point over the hand – a bit like a virginal Morticia – and maybe we could make up some with gathered, padded shoulders and tiny pearl buttons from cuff to elbow? I was thinking shot silk, but now you’ve got me wondering. What about ice-white knitted angora interspersed with tiny crystals? Oh, I’m so excited. I’ll get Lizzie and Flora together in the Tumble Room and we can work on a new set of designs. What do you think?’
‘Sounds great. And Scarlet, that jumper you’re always wearing with your jeans? The red and white Scandinavian one? Where did you get it and can you remember exactly how much you paid for it?’
‘It was a bit of a splurge, I have to admit. I bought it in Harvey Nicks. It was four hundred and fifty. I know it’s purse-busting, but I do wear it every day in the winter instead of a coat and everyone who sees it comments on it and asks where I got it from. I wish I could knit. I’d have one in every colour. I think one in emerald green and cream would go with my colouring, don’t you think?’
Callie laughed. It was good to talk to Scarlet. ‘Well, if you can master the craft of teleportation sufficiently to travel from London to Yorkshire and back again in one night, there’s a place reserved at the stitch and bitch sessions for you.’
‘Count me in, Scotty!’
***
‘Oh, don’t I look fabulous?’ Tish performed a twist and turn in front of Lilac’s huge, gilt-framed mirror in the dressing room of her Georgian home in Kensington, smoothing the Stella McCartney fluted crepe mini dress over her hips and experimenting with her best pout.
‘Come on, Tish. We can’t waste any time. Lilac is due back next week and everything has to be ready for her first fitting. Whoever the designer is, she’ll curse us for the delay. Every hour is precious when you have such an important commission to deliver. This gown is going to jettison their career into the stratosphere. It’s the pinnacle of anyone’s dreams to dress an Oscar-nominated actress on her wedding day.’
Tish pulled a face behind Nikki’s back but Nikki saw her in the mirror.
‘Okay, we have thirty minutes to get over to Brigitte Gasnier’s studio, then, if it’s not hers, we’ll take a cab round to Callie-Louise Bridal. I’ve spoken to Callie Henshaw’s assistant, Scarlet Webb. Callie has had a family bereavement and is currently away in Yorkshire, but Scarlet assured us that she would be able to show us samples of their previous creations or work with us on a new design. And please, Tish, make sure you leave the talking to me.’
They clambered into a black cab and shot off to Chelsea. Tish spent the whole journey checking her appearance in her compact, patting her halo of blonde curls and reapplying her lipstick. She was made for a role in reality TV, thought Nikki with a smirk.
‘Hi, I’m Millie Channing.’ Nikki introduced herself and shook hands with Brigitte Gasnier, almost suffocating in the cloud of Chanel No. 5 perfume that swirled around the petite fashion designer. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see us at such short notice. As I told you on the phone, Miss Gertrude here is keen to decide on her wedding gown as quickly as possible.’
Nikki gave a polite little cough, clearly indicating that ‘Miss Gertrude’ found herself in a predicament. She struggled to conceal her smile when Tish turned to her, her eyes widened in horror, her cheeks a hot shade of crimson. Was that because she’d called her Miss Gertrude or because she’d spilled the beans about her pregnancy? Nikki didn’t care – she deserved a little fun.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mizz Gertrude. Won’t you come this way where my assistant ‘as a selection of fabulous gownz for you to consider? If nothing suits, I also ‘ave a portfolio of designs in my office for you to peruse or we can look at designing something to your precise specifications. Of course, it all depends on your budget,’ Brigitte said, her French accent so pronounced that Tish screwed up her nose in confusion.
‘My budgie? I don’t have a budgie? I have a cat, though – Fluffy?’
Oh, God, thought Nikki. She had to tie up their business here as quickly as possible before their entente cordiale with all things French broke down. ‘Do you have anything that’s suitable for a celebrity wedding, but that’s ready to go? It’s just, as I said, we are in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Mmm, perhaps I ‘ave something. Just wait one moment.’ Brigitte disappeared into the back room.
‘Why did you have to tell her I was pregnant? Did you see the way her eyes narrowed?’ hissed Tish, removing her compact and reapplying a slick of pearly pink lipstick for the tenth time. ‘I bet hers is the ball gown one with the lace panelling and the pointed shoulder pads, like Cinderella’s but in ivory? Which one do you think it is?’
‘Quit talking about Cinderella, Tish. Just concentrate on why we’re here.’
Brigitte Gasnier appeared with the most stunning dress balanced over her forearms and an assistant scuttling in her wake supporting its train. It was almost identical to one of the dresses on Nikki’s hit list, but not the one they were searching for. Nevertheless, she allowed herself a congratulatory pat on the back and performed an imaginary tick. Now all she needed to do was extricate Tish from her nuptial fantasy with the minimum of fuss and move on to the Callie-Louise Bridal boutique.
She turned to look at Tish. The expression in the wedding planner’s eyes reminded Nikki of the hypnotist snake in The Jungle Book. God, the girl has this wedding fever bad! She decided to turn Tish’s silent awe to her advantage.
‘That is a stunning dress, Ms Gasnier. It’s certainly a possibility.’ Then, with a look of abject horror, Nikki placed her arm around Tish’s shoulders and began to guide her to the door. ‘Gosh, you don’t look very well at all, Miss Gertrude. You’ve turned the same colour as a frog with a hangover. Let’s get you some fresh air. Thank you so much, Miss Gasnier. We’ll be in touch.’
The expression on Brigitte Gasnier’s face could have been framed and hung in a gallery labelled ‘Astonishment’, but Nikki didn’t have the time or the inclination to think about it. She hailed a taxi and bundled a bemused Tish into the back seat.
‘Why did we have to leave so quickly? You’re such a spoilsport, Nikki. It was a beautiful boutique. You could have at least let me try the dress
on – it wasn’t as though Lilac was going to wear it or anything. You know how much I love…’
Chapter Fifteen
The morning’s downpour had awakened the foliage of the trees that lined the high street like a wedding arch of sabres. The fresh green fragrance rose into the warming air, lifting Callie’s jagged spirits.
It was Wednesday afternoon and most of the shops in Allthorpe closed for a half-day, another antiquated throwback that didn’t fit the consumerism of the twenty-first century, grumbled Callie. She stood just outside the doorway of Gingerberry Yarns, her eyes focused on its stone façade, which had been blackened by the passing years and the Yorkshire weather, but was as familiar to her as a beloved relative, as she tried to imagine how a new customer would encounter the store.
Sunshine now bleached down on the lettering emblazoned across the huge plate-glass window spelling out the shop’s title, sending golden shards of light glancing around the shadowy interior. The door, formerly a cheery yellow, had blistered and cracked to a hue of ochre. But it was when she pressed open the entrance door, the tinkle of the bell welcoming her into the cathedral of yarns, and she was presented with its shabby interior, that she sighed. The room was devoid of its lifeblood – its ever-present laughter. In the eerie silence and gloom, Callie battled her rising recollections, battening them down like a game at the fair.
Against the patina of age, the colourful balls of wool crammed the labyrinthine shelving in neat pyramids; from combed mohair to woven bamboo, from baby cotton to brash, chunky Aran – a veritable library of yarn. And yet it was a throwback to past times.
As she took a step into the shop, a gust of outdoor air favoured her nostrils with a waft of lavender and nostalgia. A rose-tinted dreariness suffused the atmosphere – that first glimpse of the glass counter behind which her aunt had always stood – and dealt a thwack of pain to her heart. Gingerberry Yarns without Hannah Garside was like London without Big Ben.