Mince Pies and Mistletoe at the Christmas Market

by Heidi Swain

  ‘But the stall was her idea,’ I said gently, ‘hers and Lizzie’s.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ he said, digging his fingers into his head again, ‘and it isn’t that, not really.’

  ‘So what is it then?’ I said, beginning to feel impatient.

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said dully.

  ‘Christmas?’

  ‘Christmas,’ he repeated. ‘And the tree and the lights and the market, all of it really.’

  He pulled out a thick manila file from the bottom of the teetering pile and began flicking through it biting his lip.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, afraid to disturb him, but curious nonetheless, ‘but I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got them all fired up, haven’t you? You joined forces with the traders last night, told Gwen that you had a few ideas about how to save Christmas and now your dad’s gone into meltdown mode and handed everything over to me.’

  ‘But handed what over to you?’ I asked exasperatedly. ‘I was under the impression that it was going to be the same boring old stuff the town has every year, minus the tree, of course. A few phone calls, a few tradesmen to set things up and Bob’s your uncle. Same as always.’

  Tom shrugged and carried on flicking through the file.

  ‘Tom, I can’t honestly see what’s so taxing, or have I missed something?’

  To be honest I was surprised that Dad had let someone else even look at the Christmas file, let alone given the order to take it over, and rather wished Tom would hurry up and get to the point.

  ‘No,’ he shrugged, ‘no, you haven’t missed anything at all, Ruby. Like you just said; Christmas is going to be happening, just the same as always.’

  ‘So what’s the problem then?’

  ‘The problem is,’ he sighed, ‘that I’m now the one making those phone calls, emailing those tradesmen and of course fielding all the extra visits and calls from irate traders who your dad has told that I am their point of contact if they need to get in touch with the council. Give it a day or two and I’m going to be bombarded with all manner of suggestions that I have neither the time to think about or the funds to approve!’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, the full implication of the situation finally beginning to dawn, ‘so it isn’t just the usual stuff to sort out, is it? And because there’s the potential that the situation will get out of hand,’ which I had seen for myself all day down at the market, ‘Dad’s opted to pass the buck.’

  ‘Well and truly and,’ he added bitterly, ‘if the traders stay as unhappy as they were last night, then I’m the one who’s going to get all the flak, but apparently none of the support to try and make it better.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again, ‘I see. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ve got more than enough on my plate right now,’ he sighed, indicating the stacks of files and papers, ‘and now I’ve got all this to contend with as well as a very unhappy wife.’

  Now I was feeling suitably guilty but, bubbling away just under the surface, I was feeling excited too.

  ‘Can I make a suggestion?’ I said, leaning across the desk.

  ‘Here we go!’

  ‘No,’ I insisted, ‘it’s nothing bad.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Will you let me help you?’

  ‘How can you possibly help?’

  ‘Well, as I’m being tarred and labelled as the one who has stirred things up, although I still don’t really understand how, given that I hardly opened my mouth . . .’

  ‘Because the traders hate your dad,’ Tom explained candidly, ‘and, whatever you really feel about him, you’ve made it look as if you have an issue with him too.’

  I chose to ignore this alarming thought for the time being. I had known sitting with them and speaking up in the pub was going to have consequences but this was already way beyond anything I had expected.

  ‘In that case, why not make me the point of contact for the traders, then. If they have an issue or plan worth passing on I’ll let you know, and in the meantime I can think about some cheap and cheerful ideas to placate them and in the process make you look good. I could act as a sort of go-between and only trouble you with the worthwhile suggestions.’

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head and looking mildly terrified at the thought, ‘I don’t think your dad . . .’

  ‘We won’t tell Dad,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘We won’t tell anyone other than the stallholders that we’re working together. If they despise Dad as much as you say they do then they’ll more than happily go along with the idea, won’t they?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts,’ I insisted, ‘if Dad really has passed the buck and washed his hands of all this then so be it. You deal with getting the lights up and leave the rest to me.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘The lights go on in just over one week,’ I reminded him. ‘Give me a few days, and if I can’t come up with someone more exciting than the mayor to turn them on again, then I’ll hand the whole project back to you for the rest of the season. At least let me come up with some suggestions and please,’ I begged, ‘call your beautiful wife and tell her date night is back on. You’ll work so much better tomorrow with a spring in your step!’

  I didn’t wait for him to answer, but rushed back down to my car to begin jotting down the ideas I’d had swimming around in my head all day. It wasn’t going to be easy with just one week left before the lights went on, but it wasn’t impossible either. Top of the list, the number one priority, simply had to be sourcing a tree for the market square.

  I pushed all thoughts of how angry Dad would be if he knew I’d interfered to the back of my mind, consoling myself with the justification that I had tried to talk to him and instead imagined myself leaving town for a warmer clime in the New Year amid a flurry of congratulations and thanks.

  I was so engrossed in my list and daydreaming that I didn’t hear the passenger door open.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Steve quizzed, jumping into the empty seat and scaring me witless in the process. ‘You look positively furtive.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I shouted, dropping my notepad and grasping my chest. ‘What the hell? You can’t just go around jumping into people’s cars!’

  ‘But you’re not people,’ he laughed. ‘You’re Ruby Sue.’

  ‘I thought Mia said you shouldn’t call me that,’ I reminded him, quickly grabbing the notebook and stuffing it out of sight in my bag.

  ‘Come to make up with your dad, have you?’

  ‘No,’ I snapped, still angry that he had made me jump and struggling to find any ‘friendly feelings’ as a result. ‘Not that it’s any of your business. What are you doing here?’

  ‘None of your business,’ he mimicked, giving me a playful nudge.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ I said, turning the engine over and staring straight ahead, ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Is he here, then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your dad.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘he isn’t actually. He’s at Fenditch head office, has been all day. What do you want him for anyway?’

  Steve turned to look at me properly and I focused my attention on the indicator column.

  ‘To tell him Mum and Dad are going to donate a tree for the market. Two trees actually, one for either end of the square and new lights so they both look the same.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, smiling in spite of myself and feeling delighted that I could already tick the first major conundrum off the Christmas list. ‘That’s very generous of them.’

  ‘Well, it’s your fault really,’ he chuckled, ‘speaking up in the pub like that last night. You’ve got everyone so fired up.’

  For a second or two I wondered if my fleeting suggestion about moving the tree was going to be worth the potential long-term fall-out with my father, but then I imagined the market square aglow with two trees and how happy the local youngsters would be and considered it was worth the risk.
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  ‘Well, whatever the reason behind the gesture, it really is very kind,’ I told him, ‘and you don’t need to tell Dad.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it’s Tom you’re going to want. He’s the one in charge of Christmas planning this year.’

  ‘Since when?’ Steve asked, sounding amazed.

  ‘Since Dad decided the heat was going to be too much and that he was going to end up with egg on his face.’

  The words were out before I could check them and I was grateful that Steve didn’t seem to take on board how scathing they were.

  ‘Oh, that’s a stroke of luck,’ he said, pointing across the car park as Tom rushed over to his car. ‘There’s Tom now. I’ll just grab a quick word with him.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ I said, reaching across to stop him. ‘It’ll keep. Tell him tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, he does look as if he’s in a hurry,’ Steve laughed as Tom reversed out of his parking spot at full speed.

  ‘He is,’ I told him, ‘he has a hot date.’

  ‘Lucky Tom,’ said Steve, smiling down at my hand which was still resting on his arm.

  Chapter 9

  My first Saturday of trading finally dawned, and although Dad hadn’t directly mentioned my contribution to the meeting I could tell by the lengthy silences and lip chewing that he was tolerating my presence in the house rather than enjoying having me home for the holidays. It was perhaps a sad reflection on just how far our relationship had recently drifted that after my conversation with Tom I hadn’t felt any further inclination to explain my decision to join forces with the traders or patch things up.

  I wasn’t sure why it had happened or even how, but in the time I’d been home it felt as if we had gone through some strange role reversal. Suddenly I was the one working to save Wynbridge and Dad was the one who looked as if he didn’t care about it at all. The switch was unnerving but real nonetheless.

  I pushed our argument to the back of my mind and focused on looking forward to what I hoped would be my first really brisk day of sales, and getting together with everyone else that evening to discuss what they had discovered customers really wanted to see in the town in the run up to Christmas.

  A simple gathering of information had been the first idea I had suggested to the others after my conversation with Tom and as a result everyone had been making an extra effort to chat to, as opposed to simply sell to, the townsfolk ever since.

  The stallholders had been delighted that Tom was now in charge of Christmas and more than happy for me to act as go-between. Personally, given the rude remarks and caustic comments, I couldn’t help wondering if they were actually more interested in getting one over on Dad and his council cronies than turning around the fortunes of the market, but so long as I could help play a part in providing the townsfolk of Wynbridge with a very merry Christmas, then I was just happy to go with the flow.

  ‘How can we provide a pleasurable Christmas shopping experience and enjoyable festive events,’ I said to Gwen, ‘when no one has actually taken the time to ask the people who shop in the town what they would like to see and do?’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ she said while surreptitiously feeding Minnie titbits of cooked chicken to stop her showing me her sharp little teeth.

  ‘We could throw all the money in the world at December,’ I rushed enthusiastically on, ‘but if it isn’t being put into giving people what they actually want to see or are interested in taking part in, then what’s the point? If people don’t turn out then the market won’t see any upturn in its fortunes, will it?’

  ‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘Not that we have all the money in the world, of course, or time, for that matter.’

  Both facts had been the cause of restless nights since the meeting in the pub, but I was still convinced in my heart that if everyone pulled together then we could make some sort of a difference in the short amount of time we had available. All we needed was a little bit of luck.

  ‘Well, at least we have a tree for the market now,’ I reminded Gwen, keen to dismiss all thoughts of the money and time we were lacking.

  ‘Two trees,’ she corrected, ‘thanks to the generosity of the Dempster family, and that’s a first for this town. Young Steve was telling me that Tom has already arranged for them to go up next Friday and the lights will be in place early Saturday morning ready for the big switch-on that night.’

  ‘That’s cutting it fine,’ I frowned. ‘What if the lights don’t work or the trees won’t stand straight?’

  ‘Oh, you needn’t worry about things like that,’ she said confidently, ‘the guys responsible know what they’re doing. It’ll all happen, you mark my words, and have you heard about the rest of the town lights?’

  ‘No,’ I said. I had been trying not to pester Tom too much, but Steve had obviously been maintaining contact and passing information on and given that his family had made such a generous contribution I couldn’t sulk about it. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Apparently there’s going to be more emphasis on packing them together to light the square and the bridge rather than having the few spindly strands petering out on the outskirts of town.’

  ‘Now that is a good idea,’ I agreed. I’d always thought the lights were spread too thinly around the town to make a really impressive show. ‘So who decided that?’ I asked, already guessing the answer.

  ‘Tom, of course,’ Gwen chuckled. ‘From what Steve’s told me, it sounds like he’s really taken the bull by the horns and put his foot down about it.’

  ‘Well good for him,’ I said, ‘I don’t blame him for making the most out of the situation. If he plays his cards right he’ll come up smelling of roses by Christmas Eve! I bet he hasn’t breathed a word about any of the changes he’s putting in place to Dad.’

  ‘Of course he hasn’t,’ Gwen tittered on. ‘Can you imagine the look on your old man’s face when the mayor flicks the switch and sees the illuminations all jostling together in one spot?’

  ‘No,’ I laughed, ‘I can’t.’

  It really was going to be a picture, but I still couldn’t help wishing we had someone other than the mayor lined up for the big day.

  Much to my relief, trading that Saturday was brisk and I took more money in that one day than I’d taken in three earlier that week. Lizzie’s pretty advent calendars had completely sold out and stocks of her festive bunting were running dangerously low. Thanks to the presence of so many children out shopping with their parents and grandparents there had been a run on Jemma’s delicious gingerbread families and Steve had soon mopped up any mince pies that were lingering towards the end of the day. Consequently I had no worries about having to gorge myself on leftover stock that couldn’t be carried over until Monday.

  ‘So will you be coming back for the big switch-on next Friday?’

  It had been my stock question to customers all day and responses had been mixed, but not particularly favourable.

  ‘We might be,’ said the mum of the young family who was tucking into the last bag of biscuits, ‘but only if it’s going to be a bit more exciting than last year.’

  ‘The lights are always all right,’ agreed her husband, ‘but after the countdown there’s never much to do and you notice it all the more when you’ve got children with you. All the shops were already shut last year, apart from the café, and even the stalls were packed up.’

  ‘It was hardly great Saturday night entertainment,’ grumbled the woman. ‘Personally I would have rather stayed at home and watched Strictly!’

  Unfortunately their responses echoed many I had heard that day.

  ‘Well,’ I said, keen to send them away feeling slightly more willing to give the switch-on another chance, ‘I can’t make any promises, but I know for a fact that things are going to look a little different this year, and keep an eye on the local press because I’m fairly certain there will be more going on, things just need to be finalised.’

  ‘Well, we’ll keep it in mind,’ said the man as he to
ok the pushchair handles from his wife, ‘but if last year’s efforts are anything to go by, we won’t hold our breath.’

  I watched them walk away, my mind already trying to come up with possible entertainment options that would extend the celebration beyond the ten-second countdown that usually heralded the beginning of the festive season in Wynbridge.

  The Mermaid was now officially the market traders’ designated meeting spot, and by the time I arrived that evening, ‘Operation Christmas’ was in full swing. Everyone had a similarly depressing tale to tell as we discussed customer responses to last year’s event. Tom’s arrival with some exciting news couldn’t have been better timed, as I noticed a couple of heads had started to drop at the thought of another lacklustre start to December.

  ‘So,’ he said, standing amongst us with the spring, I couldn’t help noticing, very firmly back in his step, ‘as you all know by now, I’ve been put in charge of festive planning for Wynbridge town centre this year, and I’ve already managed to make some changes to how the lights are going to be displayed.’

  ‘And that was fast work, my boy,’ shouted Chris, raising his pint glass in appreciation of Tom’s efforts. ‘Hats off to you!’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Tom continued, looking proud, ‘time really is of the essence. This time next week the lights will hopefully be on and the celebration in full swing and with that thought in mind, I have a little extra news to share.’

  ‘I’ve already told them about the trees and new lights!’ yelled Chris.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tom, clearly embarrassed for not mentioning them first. ‘Thank you Chris and Marie. Your contribution is hugely appreciated, but this is something else I’ve been working on.’

  ‘Even better!’ Chris called out again, not feeling at all put out. ‘Go on then, lad, put us out of our misery!’

  Tom took a deep breath.

  ‘Mr Bradshaw,’ he began enthusiastically then stopped to explain who the man was, ‘for those of you who don’t know him, he’s the chap who organises the fireworks display at the council offices every Guy Fawkes Night.’