‘Look, I shouldn’t have come here today,’ the man says, shoving his hands inside his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the swirling snowy air. I pull my scarf up over my chin, grateful for having the foresight to have kept it on. Marigold huddles into me and I pass her a length of the scarf to wrap around her hands.
‘Indeed,’ shivers Marigold. ‘Now, I think you should go and leave your aunt in peace to enjoy her twilight years.’ The man looks confused, but before I can work out why, a shiny black Range Rover screeches to a halt at the kerb and a stubby, red-faced man jumps out and storms towards us. He’s fuming – his eyes are flashing and an ugly vein is protruding down the left side of his forehead. And I’m sure I recognise him. Where have I seen him before? The car, the shiny black Range Rover! I’ve definitely seen it before.
‘Yeah, you heard the lady. Now do one. Turning up here and throwing your weight around, who the fuck do you think you are?’ the stubby man bellows, and then I remember. He’s the man who barged into me when I first came to Hettie’s House of Haberdashery and Hettie had to apologise on his behalf. The stubby man is her nephew – the nasty creep who is trying to steal her oast, her shop and pack her off to a home for old people to sip stewed tea from a child’s beaker!
So who, then, is this other man?
Oh God. Please not another bailiff. But surely a bailiff wouldn’t have let Marigold push him around or, indeed, have hung around inside a bus stop to take a tongue-lashing from us either?
But what’s happening now?
Mrs Pocket appears. But she wasn’t invited to the party, I’m sure of it. And now Hettie is standing close behind her. The nasty nephew wastes no time in laying into Hettie.
‘Come on, Aunty, let’s go. It’s not safe for you to stay here any longer with all these strangers hanging around. Let’s pack your things and get you settled in to the home; don’t worry about all these people, I’ll send them on their way.’ And he actually grabs the top of Hettie’s arm. Marigold steps forward, but the man in the overcoat beats her to it, and pulls Hettie’s nephew back.
With his face looking as if it’s about to explode, Hettie’s nephew lifts his left hand, which is now clumped into a fist, and goes to punch the man in the overcoat. And I’ve seen enough. Hettie is wringing her hands and shaking her head, clearly distressed. The man in the overcoat ducks just in time, and the nephew ends up punching the wooden frame of the bus shelter. I jump in front of him.
‘How dare you,’ I yell, flinging my hands on to my hips and facing him square on.
‘Get out of my way,’ the nephew spits, nursing his fist. ‘I’m warning you.’
‘Oh yes? And what exactly does that mean?’ I say, holding my nerve and staring right into his eyes.
‘Sybil, leave it, dear. Please, he has a ferocious temper,’ Hettie says, almost in tears now, and Marigold cottons on; she realises that he’s Hettie’s nephew and walks over to stand next to me. She glares at him too, and out of the corner of my eye I see Mrs Pocket put her arm around Hettie’s shoulders. The man in the overcoat is standing behind Mrs Pocket with his head bowed and his shoulders hunched as he goes to walk away.
‘I know all about you. Trying to take over my aunt’s shop.’ Hettie’s nephew moves up close to me until he’s practically touching my face with his nose. ‘Well, you’ve got another thing coming if you reckon you’re going to steal it away from her—’
‘No, that’s more your style, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Trying to push an old lady out of her home, con her out of money to finance your own business, take everything that she holds dear. You’re disgusting.’ And I give him the dirtiest look I can muster, which is a massive mistake as, in one swift movement, he barges into me, forcing me to stagger backwards into the corner of the bus shelter. I can hear my blood pumping in my ears and my heart banging inside my chest. I can see Marigold behind his back, trying to pull him away, and Hettie is crying now, tears pouring down her cheeks, and it breaks my heart. An old lady, an octogenarian, crying, is a harrowing sight, so I lift my leg and kick Hettie’s nephew as hard as I can. He lets out a yelp and instinctively backs off. Within seconds, the man in the overcoat is back in the bus shelter and has Hettie’s nephew pinned to the wall, with his arm pressed firmly across his neck.
‘See how you like it, you thug. Make you feel like a big man does it, pushing women around?’ he says, sounding very old school gentlemanly.
‘Keep out of this pal,’ Hettie’s nephew splutters, seemingly on the back foot now.
‘I’m not your pal.’
‘Then who the fuck are you?’
Silence follows.
‘I’m Hettie’s son!’
And the minute the words come out of his mouth, Hettie gasps, clasps her hands up under her chin, stumbles forward and collapses into Marigold’s open arms.
‘Oh no he isn’t!’ the pantomime prince hollers.
‘Oh yes he is!’ the Tindledale villagers roar back in unison. It’s Christmas Eve and the whole of Tindledale has turned out for the final pantomime performance, a matinée, including the Japanese tourists who’ve been given front row VIP seats. I smile in admiration, thinking how fantastic they all look in their festive jumpers, and they’re not afraid to have a good time, on no, not at all, they’re getting stuck in, laughing and cheering along to shockingly lame slapstick gags with the rest of us.
Basil is nestling on my knees, snoring away as always, and Lawrence is on stage in full regalia – extra-long, super-fluttery diamanté lashes, plum-coloured nail varnish and the biggest hoop-skirted frilly fairy godmother dress I think I’ve ever seen. And the irony isn’t lost on me; Lawrence really is a wonderful fairy godmother, and friend too – he certainly sprinkled some magic my way, helping to heal my broken heart. Coming here has been incredible and I’ll always cherish my time in Tindledale. I inhale sharply and push thoughts of reporting to Mr Banerjee on 5 January out of my mind. Cher, sitting beside me, senses my anxiety and gives my hand a quick squeeze. I turn to her and smile, and she leans into me. Lifting my hair, she whispers in my ear.
‘Have you seen who’s sitting over there? It’s only the sexy doctor!’ I look and see Ben at the end of the row in front of us. He’s leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as if he’s fully enthralled in the show. Lawrence cracks another cheesy joke on stage, and Ben leans back and roars with laughter, clapping and cheering along with the rest of the audience. Then, as if sensing my stare, he turns round and catches me looking. For some ridiculous reason, I quickly flick my eyes away and pretend to be enthralled in the show too. I even do a big wolf whistle, putting my fingers into my mouth and really getting involved when Ruby struts on to the stage in a puff of pink marabou feathers. She’s halfway through a cheeky, but family friendly, version of a burlesque sequence involving Pete, who is dressed up as the hapless scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, when Ben ducks out of his seat and, keeping his body bent low so as not to obscure the view of the others behind, he bounds around to the end of my row and scoots into the empty seat beside me.
‘Hello,’ he grins, his voice a whisper and gives Basil a stroke when he stirs, turns around, and then settles back down again. There’s another roar from the audience and Ben moves in closer until his shoulder is pressed next to mine. He yells, ‘Are you having a good time?’ He seems far more confident than before; maybe it’s the dimmed lights and the festive party atmosphere or because he’s not in his surgery so not technically on duty, who knows, but whatever it is, it suits him, and I like it. A lot. And that feeling I had on first seeing the message on the newspaper floats right back, not to mention the furnace-like sensation radiating down my arm where his body is touching mine.
‘I certainly am,’ I say, grinning right back and desperately trying to not let it become rictus as I attempt to ignore Cher’s sharp elbow digging me in the ribs on the other side of my body. And I swear I can feel her bobbing up and down in excitement.
‘Are you coming to the Christmas Fair after this?�
�� he says, folding his arms. Ooh, his bicep is surprisingly hard, and for a second, I hold my breath, not even daring to move.
‘Yes. I’m helping Cher with the drinks,’ I say, a little too loudly it seems, as a woman in the row in front of us, turns sharply to give me a filthy look, before treating Dr Ben to a very flirty pout. Cher sniggers and when the lights go down she gives my knee a firm squeeze, and I swear she’s giggling now, just like that time in Guides – joint summer disco with the local Scout group and Matthew Start came over and asked me for a snog. Ha! And I had been so shy, covering it up by coming across all prim and proper and flouncing off in a huff. But not any more! There’s just something so appealing about Ben. I could quite easily move my face forward a few millimetres and press my lips to his.
‘Great,’ breathes Ben, and he’s so close now that I’m treated to a sudden and very welcome burst of his deliciously spicy scent. ‘Maybe we can catch up later. You never know, we might even get to grab a few minutes alone.’ And he actually winks.
Oh yes please.
I’m still fantasising when the curtains swing together, signifying the end of the show and after three encores and a very cute rendition of ‘Ten Little Elves’ by the children from Tindledale primary school, we all file out of the hall and make our way over to the village green.
*
‘I can’t believe you didn’t just grab the doc’s hand and bring him with you,’ says Cher, shaking her head and lifting the lid on an enormous vat of hot mulled wine with cherry brandy to give it a big stir. We’re standing behind a trestle table on the edge of the village green with just a striped canvas awning for cover, which is OK as the wintery evening is surprisingly mild now the snow has stopped falling and the air is infused with the warmth and aroma from the various food stalls dotted around. Basil is spinning round in circles beside me and Cher is now lighting the grill so we can roast chestnuts too, so that will warm us all up nicely.
‘And risk the wrath of the woman in the seat in front?’ I laugh.
‘Jealousy is a terrible thing, babe. And from what I’ve heard, our Dr Ben isn’t short of admirers; since he first turned up Tindledale, he’s been causing quite a stir amongst the school mums in the playground.’ Cher does big eyes.
‘He is rather lovely, in a very unassuming way,’ I say.
‘Lovely? Bloody gorgeous, more like, and like I said before, he’d be perfect for you. Get stuck in, Sybs, before one of those mums grabs hold of him,’ she says, looking outraged now as we see him in the distance, walking across the snow-covered grass over by the trees, and surrounded by at least five women. Then Tommy Prendergast, the guy from the pub with the suspected hernia problem, lumbers across and embroils Ben in a lengthy and very animated tale of another ailment, by the looks of all the bending and the pointing to his knee that’s going on.
‘Mmm – chance would be a fine thing!’ And we both laugh. At this rate, I’ll never get a look-in where the lovely Ben is concerned.
The atmosphere on the village green is so buzzy and Christmassy and cosy and everyone is happy and full of festive cheer. The carol singers are getting in to position over by the duck pond, each of them holding a flickering tea light lantern on a tall metal stake, which they push into the grass to create a magical, mesmerising mirage across the water. Twinkling fairy lights sweep in and out of the many trees, and the cottages surrounding the green all have candles glowing in their windows. Beautiful. It really is like a magical winter wonderland. And it takes my breath away.
Clive is busy carving a giant turkey on the stall next to us for the villagers to help themselves to with a ball of stuffing to cram into a crusty roll with a generous dollop of cranberry sauce. Cooper is with Clive, but he’s tending the hog roast, turning and basting it to perfection. Mr Tanaka and his group are hovering eagerly nearby, finishing up their cups of mulled wine in anticipation of a hog roast feast. And Basil is sitting at Clive’s feet now, sweeping the snowy-covered grass with his tail as two lines of drool slather from his jaw in anticipation of bagging himself a tasty turkey dinner.
‘Will you look at the state of him,’ laughs Cher, pointing at Basil. ‘Honestly, woman, do you never feed him?’
‘Apparently not,’ I grin, rolling my eyes at him and shaking my head.
‘There you are.’ Molly arrives, with her ferret on the lead, looking flushed and harassed with her four boisterous boys in tow, who immediately dash over to snaffle some crackling from the hog roast. ‘Heyyyyy!’ she bellows and each boy freezes on the spot. ‘Where are your manners?’ She plants her woolly-gloved (handknitted of course) hands on her hips. ‘You know the rule – Mummy goes first,’ she beams and they all crack up as Cooper steps forward with a prime sliver of pork on a fork.
‘Just for you, my big, beautiful, festive flower.’ And the boys all make barfing noises as Cooper gives Molly a generous kiss on the mouth.
‘And enough of the “big”, thank you!’ Molly laughs before pulling the pork from the fork and popping it in between her plump lips.
Smiling, I help myself to a cup of mulled wine and just as I take a sip of the delicious fruity concoction, Hettie arrives, wrapped up warm in her good winter coat and matching felt hat with fur trim, the one she keeps for best. I place the cup on the trellis table and dash around to the other side to give her a huge hug. I’ve not seen her properly since that moment in the bus shelter. Not alone, so we could talk properly – if she’d even open up to me; maybe she wants to keep the matter of her son turning up out of the blue to herself.
‘I wanted to give you this,’ she says as we pull apart, and hands me a parcel wrapped up in red flock wallpaper with a length of navy yarn wound around and finished with a bow. ‘To say thank you,’ she adds, a little sheepishly.
‘What for?’ I smile and take the present, giving her hand a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement of her kindness.
‘For holding the fort in the shop while I, um, tended to other matters,’ she says quietly, her eyes flicking about as Molly and her boys bound past on their way over to the pond to listen to the carol concert.
‘Oh, don’t be daft!’ I grin to lighten the conversation, sensing her obvious discomfort at discussing such a personal matter in public. ‘I loved every minute of it.’ And it’s true, I really did.
After the showdown in the bus stop, Hettie’s nephew had leapt into his Range Rover and driven off, and as far as I know he hasn’t been back since. Marigold then bustled Mrs Pocket away, before taking Hettie and her long-lost son next door to the oast where they could be guaranteed some privacy. I went back into the shop and acted like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as I knew Hettie wouldn’t want a fuss or for the party to be cut short. Later that evening, Marigold called me at the Duck & Puddle pub to ask if I’d mind looking after the shop for a few days, just until Christmas Day, when Hettie would be closing up anyway until the new year.
I open the gift. And gasp.
‘Oh Hettie, I can’t take this,’ I tell her, going to hand it back. Her picture, signed by Gene Kelly, is nestling inside the tissue paper.
‘Please dear …’ She pushes it back towards me with an earnest look in her blue eyes. ‘You helped me so much, more than you’ll ever know. It was like a miracle that day you walked into my shop.’
Hettie looks down at her hands and I smile, thinking that yes, it was a miracle for me too. Everything changed from that moment on.
‘But this is precious, Hettie. It’s a part of your history, your past, and your passion for dancing,’ I say, desperate for her to keep hold of it.
‘But that’s just it. The past is gone dear, and you know that as well as I do.’ A brief silence follows while we both ponder on our respective histories. ‘I nursed a broken heart for so many years and this picture was a constant reminder of something that couldn’t ever be fixed – or so I had thought.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say gently, tucking the picture frame into my pocket and looping my arm through hers. Her tiny frame is
shivering. ‘Come on; let’s make ourselves a bit warmer so we can have a natter. It’s probably a bit too cold for us to knit as well,’ I say, just to lighten things a bit. I know this can’t be easy for her – and it seems to work because Hettie is smiling as I steer her behind Cher’s stall so we can toast ourselves next to the roasted chestnuts grill. And it’s quiet over here now; everybody else is gathered by the pond listening to a sterling rendition of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ – even Cher and Clive have disappeared along with Cooper and the tourists. ‘Would you like a hot drink?’ I ask, but before Hettie can answer, I ladle a generous serving of mulled wine into a mug and hand it to her, figuring she might appreciate a measure of fortitude. I know she’s not very comfortable talking about herself. She takes a tentative sip.
‘Mmm, I’m not really one for alcohol,’ she states almost as if to allay any suspicions I could possibly have of her being otherwise – it makes me smile, ‘but this is rather nice,’ she chuckles.
I pull two camping chairs across from Cooper’s stall, I’m sure he won’t mind us borrowing them for a bit, and as we sit down, Basil places a paw on Hettie’s knee before tilting his head to one side and looking up at her as if he senses she may be in need of some comfort. She pats his head and he takes it as his cue to jump on to her lap. He snuggles into her coat to keep her warm and she strokes his little velvety ear.
The Great Christmas Knit Off Page 24