by Daisy James
‘Looking to diversify. I have some money to invest and I thought this offered the perfect opportunity. I don’t intend to abandon my City pursuits to become the jovial publican just yet, though.’ Miles laughed, watching her intently as she ran her tongue over the spoon holding the creamy almond ice cream, his gaze sending heat rushing to her cheeks. He pushed back in his chair and slotted his hands into his trouser pockets, his gold cufflinks, fashioned into dollar signs, glinting in the light from the overhead chandeliers.
‘Obviously,’ mumbled Kirstie, surprised to discover that she felt as though Miles had just insulted her. Miles misread her grimace.
‘There’s no need to worry. Everything is in place for the contracts to be signed at the end of December. Just over two weeks to go and then you can relax.’
Again that uncomfortable feeling curled around her chest. She should be overjoyed that this attractive businessman was riding to their rescue in his sleek silver stead, saving them from financial ruin.
‘And what are your plans for the property exactly?’
‘Well, I’m sure it’s no secret that I’ve applied for, and in fact have just been granted, planning permission to convert the Old Barn into two stone cottages. I can assure you that the buildings will be in keeping with the rest of the village. I haven’t decided yet whether to sell them or rent them out to the weekend brigade.’
Kirstie thought immediately of the conversation she’d had with Angus. But then she wanted to know about the pub and what would happen to Josh, Emma, and Leon.
‘What about your plans for the Dancing Duck?’
‘Oh, the ideas I’m currently toying with are still in their infancy, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear about them. Suffice to say, there will be changes.’ Miles smiled, astute enough to realize the effect his plans for what was in effect Kirstie’s home would have on her and choosing to avoid the subject. After all, he hadn’t become a successful litigator without being able to read his opponent’s body language.
Kirstie was about to press the point but decided that actually she didn’t want to know how he intended to rip out the heart and soul of the place that held all her childhood memories and toss them into a skip. If she didn’t know the details she couldn’t be forced to disclose them to Emma and Leon, who she knew would be waiting to interrogate her when she got back.
However, Miles’s answer did make her aware that if she wanted to keep any of her parents’ beloved treasure, she would have to make a start on the packing and scouting out somewhere to store it all, especially as she would be returning to London the day after Boxing Day, which was now less than two weeks away.
Chapter 10
‘So, did you kiss him?’ Rachel sing-songed like she used to when they were teenagers, as they sat around the scarred pine table in the kitchen the next morning.
‘Rachel!’ chastised Emma, before turning to face Kirstie herself, slotting her chin in her palm and drumming her cerise-varnished fingernails on her lips. ‘Well, did you? What was it like?’
‘Oh, oh, oh …’ continued Rachel. ‘I bet he suggested they took a romantic moonlit walk around the grounds, arm in arm like a couple of characters from a Jane Austen novel, as he pointed out the constellations of Eros and Cupid. “The girl shivers in the frosty night air so the man pulls her into his muscular chest to share his bodily warmth before looking deep into her eyes, his warm breath on her cheek as he whispers sweet words of love in her ear. Their mouths inches apart, the couple struggle against their rising desire for each other, but their emotions are too strong to deny, their lips touch and …”’
‘Rachel, shut up!’ Kirstie laughed, throwing a tea towel across the table at her friend’s mischievous face, knocking off the glasses perched on the end of her nose.
‘Oh, look, Emma, she’s blushing. That’s an admission in my book.’
‘For your information, I did not kiss Miles Morgan.’
Rachel giggled. ‘But you wanted to.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So why are your cheeks glowing like a pair of ripe tomatoes?’
‘It’s hot in here.’
Kirstie knew she was grasping at straws. Rachel was right – she had wanted to kiss Miles. After finishing every morsel of her delicious tarte Tatin, Miles had insisted on brandies. He had then paid the bill and driven them back to the Dancing Duck. Kirstie hadn’t realized it was after midnight; it was true what they said – time did fly when you were having fun and she’d had more fun than she’d had for months. So, when the car crunched to a halt in the pub car park the whole building had been swathed in darkness.
She had swivelled round in her seat to thank him for a lovely evening. Miles had reached over and squeezed her hand, telling her it was his pleasure before leaping from his seat to escort her to the doorstep of the upstairs flat. He wished her goodnight and left. Even if she had wanted to kiss him, he clearly had not wanted to kiss her, and she had spent several wakeful hours churning through the possible reasons for his rebuff.
As the long peachy fingers of dawn crept over the fields outside her bedroom window, she had come to the conclusion that Miles had actually done her a favour. It was inadvisable to become romantically involved with the person who would soon be the new owner of the Dancing Duck. She also remembered that he had pulled back from discussing what changes he had planned, which she read to mean that they were extensive and she didn’t want to watch from the sidelines as her childhood memories crumbled before her eyes, literally.
Rachel passed round a plate stacked high with the buttery croissants and Danish pastries her father had pressed on her that morning and clearly decided it was time to let Kirstie off the hook and change the subject.
‘So, I take it we’re all organized for Saturday?’
‘Of course,’ Kirstie confirmed. ‘Thanks to Livie, the champion organizer of Cranbury. She and Harry even decorated the Old Barn with the Christmas-themed bunting Mum made and bunches of holly and mistletoe donated by Angus before they left. All we need to do is set out the tables and chairs ready for the competitions. I spoke to Kate Grigson earlier and she’s still up for being the judge. A thankless task if you ask me. Remember the judging of the craft competition at the summer fayre? I thought Fred Dobson was going to murder Arthur Frost when he took first place for his chainsaw sculpture.’
‘True. And I’m sure Maggie Easton cheated in the Victoria sponge competition.’ Rachel laughed. ‘That cake looked suspiciously like it came out of a Waitrose packet. No wonder Dad’s terrified of judging the Big Christmas Baking Bash next weekend. You know, he said that judging the children’s competitions was the worst ever last year. Apparently, some of the parents were so competitive they demanded that he give written reasons why he hadn’t chosen their child’s submission.’
‘So, which crafts are on offer?’ asked Kirstie, a coil of nervousness beginning to make its way through her chest as she thought of everything that could go wrong. She so wanted the last of the Dancing Duck’s Christmas celebrations to go without a hitch, not only to honour her parents’ memory, but also because Olivia and Harry had put so much effort into the planning she didn’t want to let them down.
‘There are five categories with two tables for each: one for the adults, one for the children. The kids will be supervised by Mrs Evans and Mr Proctor from the primary school in Maltby,’ Emma said. ‘I helped Livie decide which crafts would be the most appropriate in the run-up to Christmas. We ordered everything from the internet months ago, and, as you’ve seen, Angus has come up trumps with a mountain of foliage for the wreaths.’
‘I’m definitely entering the wreath-making competition,’ said Rachel, pushing her glasses up to the bridge of her nose.
‘Hey, maybe the Christmas Craft Contest will be so successful, we’ll make a stash of cash and you won’t have to sell the pub after all.’
The hope in Emma’s face made Kirstie’s heart squeeze so she rushed on: ‘Remind me what the other categories are?’
> ‘There’s a competition for the best wrapping paper design. We ordered reams and reams of plain brown paper and Josh persuaded Angus to donate a sackful of potatoes, which we’ve scrubbed and stored in the barn. They can be cut in half, whittled into your chosen shape then dipped into various coloured paints in old margarine tubs. It’s a great activity for everyone to try, whatever your artistic ability. The kids’ll love it!’ Emma bubbled with enthusiasm for her pet project.
‘Then there’s the paper decorations table. Snowflakes, paper chains, triangles of bunting to decorate with Christmas scenes and hung from red and green ribbons, and there’s origami animals for the older children and adults to have a go at. Josh’s cousin, Tim, is an expert at all things paper folding. He’s agreed to come along and give a demonstration.
‘Then there’s the table with the home-made Christmas crackers, but my favourite has to be the glass-painting. Everyone in the village has been donating their old jam jars for months. We’ve washed them and bought some special glass paint and a huge bag of tea lights.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely having a go at that, too,’ said Rachel, her voice filled with excitement.
‘So basically, you’re entering everything?’ Kirstie laughed.
‘Of course. I might as well make the most of it as I’m barred from entering any of the competitions next Saturday.’ Rachel curled her pale pink lips downwards in a mock sulk. ‘So are Leon and Michel.’
‘Well, as you are all professionals in the field of culinary delights, it seems only fair.’
‘Hey, caught you gossiping again,’ said Josh, dropping a large white box onto the kitchen table in front of them.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ asked Kirstie anxious to keep Josh onside especially as it was no secret she had been wined and dined by Miles the previous night, which he would no doubt interpret as disloyalty to the cause.
‘Just had one, thanks. Some of us have been up since five-thirty this morning collecting the last of the swag for the Christmas Craft Contest.’
‘So what’s in the box?’
‘A donation from Tim. All the coloured paper an origami enthusiast could ever want, cut into perfect squares. He’s on his way over to inspect the venue and set up his table.’
The loud blast of a horn from the car park informed them Tim had arrived. ‘There he is. Coming?’
The three girls dropped their coffee mugs in the sink and trotted after Josh into the Old Barn where he had clearly already started work. Five long trestle tables were lined up along the left-hand side of the cavernous space over which a hand-painted banner declared it to be the Children’s Craft Area. Smaller flags were scrawled with the legends ‘Glass-painting’, ‘Paper Tree Decorations’, ‘Christmas Crackers’, ‘Wrapping Paper Designing’ and ‘Wreath-making’.
Five matching wooden tables were lined up on the right-hand side of the room under a banner marked Adults’ Craft Area. The whole place oozed festive charm, especially as Josh had stationed a twenty-foot Christmas tree in the centre awaiting adornment with whatever was produced.
At the door, a little wooden table held a metal cash tin for the small entry fee and at the back was a catering station where the competitors and visitors could get a cup of coffee and a slice of home-made Bûche de Noël to keep their spirits up. Leon and Michel had spent the morning elbow high in flour to produce not only the classic chocolate roulade, but also a kaleidoscope of colourful macarons and a spectacular croquembouche dripping with caramel and decorated with sugared almonds. There was also going to be a huge vat of mulled wine and the inevitable pyramid of mince pies and mini Christmas-themed cupcakes.
‘There are five of us and five categories. Let’s play to our strengths and take one each,’ Josh suggested, handing the cardboard box over to his cousin who had grabbed a seat at the paper decorations table, his eyes shining with excitement as he set about organizing his piles of coloured paper for the origami demonstration.
Before they knew it, lunchtime was upon them and Leon appeared with a pile of gourmet sandwiches and a jug of rich hot chocolate before sitting down next to Tim and, following his instructions to the letter, producing a passable flying bird. ‘Should really be a duck,’ he muttered as he held it up for inspection.
‘Which table should I put the jam jars on?’ Kirstie asked.
‘The one at the back,’ said Josh, scratching his jaw as he considered the only empty table. ‘I’ll get the glass paints sorted. Looks like we can count Emma out for a while.’
Kirstie looked back at the origami table. Emma and Leon were bent over their tiny paper creations, their heads almost touching, honey on molasses, as they concentrated on the intricate folds Tim was showing them.
‘I think I like this table the best,’ said Kirstie lingering behind the table covered in sprigs of holly, pine cones and branches left over from the pruning of the Christmas tree. There were also slices of baked oranges and lemons, sticks of fragrant cinnamon, as well as reels of scarlet ribbon and tiny red and gold baubles. A myriad of Tupperware boxes filled with pompoms, bows, strings of beads, and miniature strands of tinsel had been set out for those who planned an alternative take on the traditional holly wreath. Kirstie couldn’t wait to give it a go.
Josh slumped down in a chair next to the door. Dark smudges had settled beneath his eyes as testament to his early start. He surveyed the scene, his eyebrows raised, a smile of satisfaction playing on his lips.
‘It looks great, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do,’ whispered Kirstie, a lump appearing in her throat as she looked at Josh and memories of standing on the precise spot at earlier Christmas Craft Contests with Josh’s arm slung around her neck invaded her thoughts. Happier times. Then she remembered something else. ‘Did you say the Cranbury Brass Band are coming again this year? After what happened last Christmas?’
Josh chuckled. ‘Yes, I heard about their French horn player falling from the podium in the middle of a rendition of “Jingle Bells”. Livie told me he’s been banned from consuming any alcohol until everyone has left the building. She’s also booked the local primary school choir to perform a couple of carols whilst the judging is taking place. I bet the children are better behaved that we were, Kirst. Remember what you did to Alice Fairweather when we gave that concert at the Women’s Institute Christmas party?’
Kirstie giggled. ‘She deserved it. Emma had to have six inches of her hair cut off three days before the school Christmas play. She looked more like a monk than an Angel Gabriel. I think she is still traumatized because even now she gets nervous before going to the hairdresser’s. Ah, her ears must have been burning.’
‘It all looks absolutely amazing! I just know the whole competition is going to be a complete success!’ declared Emma, clapping her hands like an excited schoolgirl, before linking her arm through Leon’s. ‘What do you think, Leon? Don’t you think it’s soooo Christmassy?’
Leon rolled his eyes in typical French fashion before saying, ‘I don’t know what the point of all this hard work is. The pub will close its doors at the end of December. It’s a complete waste of time and effort.’
Leon turned his back and stalked off to his kitchen, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his chequered trousers, his shoulders slumped against the weight of the world.
Chapter 11
Saturday morning delivered a cloudless sky, which meant sunshine but also a generous sprinkling of frost over the whole of the village. The village green outside the church glistened like a carpet of diamonds and the naked branches of the trees in the churchyard took on a prettier appearance than the stark skeletal scene.
Kirstie sprang out of bed at six-thirty, eager to get the day started. It had suddenly become really important to her that everything Olivia and Harry had prepared with such love and dedication should go without a hitch. She intended to do everything in her power to make that happen. She wasn’t the only one. When she had showered and grabbed an apple as breakfast, she found Emma and Josh were already in
the barn putting the final touches to the stage.
The aroma of bacon spilled from the kitchen informing her that Leon had also arrived early to lend a hand. Her stomach rumbled. She couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged in a bacon sandwich for breakfast.
‘Hi. Everything ready?’
‘It is. All we need now is a busload of people. Hey, what if no one turns up?’ said Emma, her cornflower blue eyes wide with anxiety.
‘Don’t worry, Em, they will. It’s all everyone’s talked about in Cranbury for the last week. I bumped into Reverend and Sandra Clarke yesterday and they said they’d been drumming up business across the parish. Rachel’s dad has told all his customers that he hopes to see them there and Angus mentioned it after last week’s auction. There are flyers all over the village and Mrs Evans mentioned it in assembly and at the end of the school play. Apparently, the children are excited to give everything a go. And here they are now!’
‘Hello, Kirstie, Emma. How are you both?’
Jill Evans peered at Kirstie over the top of her tortoiseshell glasses. It was an expression that had been etched clearly on Kirstie’s soul from the numerous occasions the teacher had remonstrated with her and Emma, especially the time when Josh had challenged them to see who could throw their shoes onto the school roof the highest.
‘Fine, thank you, Mrs Evans,’ they chorused like a pair of naughty schoolgirls and then giggled.
‘Oh, I think you can call me Jill today.’ She strode off to join the other three teachers who had given up their Saturday to shepherd the choir and take command of the children’s craft tables, reorganizing the tables to their liking.
The first competitors arrived at noon on the dot and rushed straight over to their preferred tables, exclaiming at the pyramid of glass jars awaiting decoration, the potatoes waiting to be sliced and carved, and the paper waiting to be folded. Within the next thirty minutes the Old Barn thrummed with noise and frenetic activity, with the occasional shriek of delight – not only from the children but from the adults too – as masterpieces were created and either hung on the rope to dry or proudly exhibited on the Christmas tree.