Bessie shook her head. Mark rushed away, leaving Bessie on her own in the centre of the banquet room. She hesitated for a moment before she walked over to join the other two.
“Oh, Bessie, how lovely,” Carolyn said, giving Bessie air kisses on each cheek. “Have you been through the castle? Isn’t it horrid, what they’ve done?”
“I think it’s rather wonderful,” Bessie replied.
“But there’s no coherence,” Carolyn said. “Luckily Christo can fix anything.”
“I’m not sure anything needs fixing,” Bessie said, wishing desperately that someone else would arrive before the discussion grew too heated.
“The scale of the problem is almost overwhelming,” Christopher Hart said. “I suppose you can’t see it because you’re not looking at the big picture.”
Bessie bit back the first reply that came to her lips and was saved from finding a more polite one by the arrival of her friend, Mary Quayle.
“It’s just about perfect,” Mary said excitedly as she joined the group.
Bessie smiled. If anyone could win a fight with Carolyn Hart, it was Mary. Mary was about ten years older than Carolyn, but equally wealthy, although far less ostentatious with it. Also beautifully and expensively dressed, Mary rarely wore more jewellery than her plain gold wedding band. The biggest difference between the two women was that Mary was a hard worker who volunteered quietly with many different organisations. She loathed the spotlight that her husband, George, embraced.
“I think it needs a few little changes,” a voice said.
Bessie was surprised to see a stranger walk in behind Mary.
“Natasha Harper, I should have known you’d be here somewhere, trying to steal another commission,” Christopher Hart snarled at the new arrival.
The woman laughed. “I think you’ll find that’s your tactic, not mine,” she said. “Anyway, I’m very busy at the moment working for Mrs. Quayle. I’m not looking for any other commissions.”
Christopher shrugged and rolled his eyes.
“I hope it’s okay that I brought Natasha,” Mary said anxiously. “She’s working with me on plans for Thie yn Traie and I thought we could use her expertise.” Mary and George were in the process of purchasing Thie yn Traie, a large mansion a short distance away from Bessie’s beachfront cottage.
“As long as everyone understands that this is Christo’s job, not hers,” Carolyn said tartly.
“Oh, my goodness,” Natasha said, laughing again. “This is the last sort of job I’d be interested in. I do home redecorating; I don’t tart up old castles.”
“I’m Elizabeth Cubbon,” Bessie said to break up the awkward silence that followed Natasha’s words. “Everyone calls me Bessie, though.”
“Nice to meet you, Bessie,” Natasha said, offering a hand. “I’m Natasha Harper.”
Bessie studied the woman as she shook her hand. She looked no more than thirty, with obviously dyed blonde hair piled in a messy bun on the top of her head. She was almost shockingly thin and pale, but her expensive black dress fit her perfectly. In her black stilettos she was nearly a foot taller than Bessie.
“I’m sorry, I should have introduced everyone,” Mary said, blushing.
“I’m late,” Marjorie Stevens said from the doorway.
Bessie turned to greet the pretty, thirty-something blonde. “Fastyr mie,” she said.
“Fastyr mie,” Marjorie replied. “Kys t’ou?”
“Ta mee braew,” Bessie answered. She glanced around and laughed as she realised everyone else was staring at them blankly.
“I teach a beginning Manx language class,” Marjorie told the others. “Bessie is one of my favourite students.”
“Even though I’ve taken the beginning class three times and still can’t say much more than what we’ve just said?” Bessie asked.
“I just love that you keep trying,” Marjorie told her. “We’ll be starting again in Laxey in the new year.”
“Maybe the fourth time around it will start to make sense,” Bessie said with a sigh.
“I think I might give it a try,” Mary said. “I’d like to learn a little bit of Manx now that I’m sure we’re settled here.”
“You’ll be more than welcome,” Marjorie told her.
“Charming,” Christopher Hart said flatly.
“I hope everyone is hungry,” Mark said from the opposite side of the room.
“Starving,” Mary said.
Bessie murmured her agreement and the small group made their way to the table in one corner of the room.
“It’s a special treat, having lunch in here,” Bessie remarked as they all found seats. “Manx National Heritage doesn’t encourage people to eat in the castle.”
Mark laughed. “As we’re all here working hard, it just seemed easier to have something sent in, rather than going out somewhere. Besides, the same people who are catering for the grand opening on Friday are providing today’s lunch. This gives them a chance to try out the kitchen facilities we’re able to provide.”
“They aren’t using the medieval kitchens, are they?” Bessie asked.
“Actually, they are going to be making a few things in there on Friday evening,” Mark told her. “More for effect than anything else, though. They’re using the kitchens that were added when the castle was a prison to prepare most of the food on Friday. That’s where they prepared today’s lunch.”
A moment later a pair of waiters appeared, bearing trays. While they delivered bowls of steaming soup, the group was silent. Mark opened a bottle of wine and served that himself.
“I shouldn’t,” Marjorie told him. “I’m driving. I’m quite happy with the water that was already here.”
Bessie noted that Christopher was served a bowl of plain broth, presumably the only thing the kitchen could provide that met his demands.
“This is delicious,” she said as she savoured her leek and potato soup.
Warm and crusty bread rolls were passed around, and Bessie found herself spreading on the butter a bit more thickly than she normally might as she watched Christopher scowling at his broth.
The main course was lightly grilled chicken with rice and grilled vegetables, and Bessie thoroughly enjoyed it. Christopher was served his rice and vegetables with a piece of fish, but he simply nibbled on a few pieces of carrot and sent the rest back untouched. Pudding was a gorgeous Victoria sponge and Bessie was too busy enjoying it to care what Christopher thought of his bowl of red jelly. Once the plates had all been cleared away, Mark sat back and smiled at the group.
“I suppose we must get down to business,” he said. “ The first ever ‘Christmas at the Castle’ opens on Friday, and really we’re just putting the final touches on things now.”
“No, you aren’t,” Christopher objected. “Most of the rooms are simply ghastly. They’re all obviously very amateur and there will need to be a lot of changes made in a hurry if you’re going to open on time.”
“I think the rooms are fine just the way they are,” Bessie disagreed. “The charitable groups were told they could do whatever they liked with their spaces and I think they’ve all been very clever indeed.”
Christopher sighed. “I thought you were going to be auctioning off the contents of each room,” he said. “No one will want to buy them if they see them displayed as they are. The rooms are all just thrown together. With my vision, we’ll be able to transform each room into a perfect little Christmas wonderland.”
“Isn’t he just the cleverest thing?” Carolyn said, squeezing the man’s hand.
“I’m sure he’s very good at what he does,” Mary said. “But this isn’t about perfection. This is about raising money for good causes. I think the general public will be more giving if the efforts look genuine, rather than professional.”
“Good design is never the wrong choice,” Christopher said sternly.
“What exactly did you want to change?” Bessie asked.
“Oh, darling, what didn’t I want to change?” Chri
stopher said, sighing deeply. “We should walk through the rooms and I’ll tell you what’s wrong in each of them.”
“The various men and women who decorated the rooms are all going to be here soon,” Mark said. “We can walk through the rooms with the representative from each charity and talk with them about any changes that might be useful.”
“Excellent,” Christopher said. “I’ll just have some more wine while we wait.”
Mark opened a second bottle of wine and topped up everyone’s glasses. Bessie wasn’t going to have any more, but it looked like it might be a long and difficult afternoon. Perhaps a bit more wine would help.
Half an hour later the small banquet room was full with the various volunteers and workers from the different charities.
“Let’s get started, then,” Mark said, his tone unenthusiastic.
“We should go down and start in the courtyard,” Christopher announced. “I directed the decoration of that space myself.”
Mark led the group through the castle and back down into the courtyard. It was just beginning to rain and Bessie and the others didn’t waste much time admiring the space before heading back indoors.
“There, now, you see?” Christopher demanded as they all gathered in the first room. “The courtyard is done entirely in mauve, with large baubles and stars. I gave the committee very clear instructions on what I wanted to see and they’ve very nearly matched my vision. I realise I’ve set the bar rather high for the rest of you, but it’s my job now to help you aspire to my level within your own tiny spaces.”
A few people muttered replies, but nothing was clearly audible to Bessie. She was pretty sure she had a good idea of what was being said, however.
“For the record,” Bessie said loudly now, “I think the rooms are all wonderful, and I’m looking forward to Mr. Hart’s small improvements.”
Christopher frowned at her. “Some of them won’t be small,” he muttered. He looked around the room where they were standing and then shrugged. “Who decorated this space?” he demanded.
Margaret Christian stepped forward. “I did, or rather myself and the other ladies from Cancer Care, IOM, did.”
“And is there a theme?” Christopher asked sneeringly.
“The theme is ‘I’ll be home for Christmas,’” Margaret replied. “We made the ornaments on the trees ourselves, using photographs of Manx men and women who are currently serving in the armed forces as well as pictures of men, women, and children who are fighting cancer. Our hope was that the room would remind visitors that not everyone can be home for the holidays, either because they are serving in the military or because they are too ill to leave hospital.”
“Depressing,” Christopher said. “This is the first room guests will enter. They’ll be miserable for the rest of the tour, nay, for the rest of the month. We need to brighten things up in here. We’ll add garlands in red and green on every tree and hang giant snowflakes in silver and gold on the walls. Perhaps we can distract everyone from the rather distressing photographs.”
“Or maybe we could put up a table with blank Christmas cards on it and visitors could write cards for our service men and women and the people in hospital,” Marjorie suggested. “I’m sure Manx National Heritage could find room in the budget for some blank cards and some postage, and it would help lift everyone’s spirits to feel like they were helping in some small way. We could even let children write letters to Father Christmas while they’re here.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mary said. “If MNH can’t find the money in the budget, I’ll pay for the cards and postage,” she added.
“I like that idea a lot better than covering the trees in garland,” Margaret Christian said. “We quite like the trees exactly as they are.”
“There’s no accounting for taste,” Christopher sniffed. “Or lack of it.”
Margaret bristled, but Bessie put her hand on the woman’s arm before she could speak.
“I think we’re all in agreement, then,” Bessie said loudly. “We’ll add a card-writing table to the room, but otherwise leave it exactly as it is.”
There were a few murmurs from around the room, but no one objected.
“On we go, then,” Mark said.
The next room looked like the inside of a child’s toy box. Giant blocks spelled out “Happy Christmas” in red and green letters, while an overstuffed, ten-foot-tall teddy bear lounged in a corner. A handful of enormous Christmas baubles were scattered around the room and oversized toys were everywhere. Bessie smiled with delight at the giant skipping rope that appeared to be tangled up with a few stray chess pieces that were larger than life-sized.
“Dare I ask who is responsible for this disaster?” Christopher asked with a dramatic sigh.
“A group of us from Manx Cloan decorated this room,” Liz Martin said. She crossed her arms and stared at the man, but Bessie could see tears forming in the young woman’s eyes.
Liz had been a classmate in the last Manx language class Bessie had taken, and Bessie had become friendly with the much younger woman. Liz hadn’t been on the island for long. She was a stay-at-home mum to two small and energetic children, and Bessie had been impressed with the amount of time and energy Liz devoted to the small charity that worked to improve the lives of all children on the island.
“It’s not very Christmassy,” Christopher said sharply.
“We didn’t think it would be quite right, putting a tree inside a children’s toy box,” Liz defended herself.
“But it’s such a mess,” he retorted. “It looks as if everything has just been thrown in here.”
“Then we’ve done it all right,” Liz replied. “Children don’t keep their toy boxes tidy, after all.”
“I did,” Carolyn snapped. “Christo is quite right. This just looks like a jumbled mess. How can we fix it, Christo?”
The man sighed again and then shook his head. “If we had time, I’d suggest just starting over,” he said with a sigh. “I’m going to have to think about this one. It’s just, I don’t know, not right.”
He shook his head again and then moved on to the next room, leaving a visibly shaken Liz behind.
“I think it’s perfect,” Bessie whispered to her young friend. “And I’ll fight him on any changes he wants to make.”
“Thanks,” Liz said wanly.
Bessie hated leaving the woman when she was clearly so upset, but she didn’t want to miss what Christopher might be saying in the next room.
“We’ll talk later,” she promised Liz before hurrying after the group.
Harriet Hooper was the next to face Christopher’s criticism. Unlike Liz and Margaret, she wasn’t a volunteer. The Manx Animal Care Team had a paid staff of three. Margaret was their fundraiser, at least on a part-time basis, and she supported a full-time paid director for the charity. They also shared a part-time secretary. Bessie knew that more and more charitable organisations were becoming increasingly professional and were struggling to find room in their budgets to add paid staff. Harriet was a charming woman in her forties, and she’d already done a great deal of good for the small charity that employed her.
“Too many cuddly toys,” Christopher grumbled. “What do they have to do with Christmas?”
“We’re a charity involved entirely with animals,” Harriet said in a patient voice. “We couldn’t exactly fill the room with live animals, so we thought this was the next best thing.”
“Live animals would be better,” Christopher replied. “But really, this doesn’t tie in with the overall theme of the event at all. You need a Christmas tree in every corner, not just the one, and you need proper decorations, not bones and cat toys, hanging from the branches. I’d like fairy lights on the walls and the words ‘Happy Christmas’ spelled out in garland across the ceiling.”
“Would you?” Harriet asked. “I’ll certainly take your suggestions back to the committee.”
Bessie bit her lip so that she wouldn’t laugh out loud. Harriet clearly knew how
to deal with the difficult man, at least.
Agnes Clucas from Mannanan’s Kids didn’t seem the least bit bothered by Christopher’s assessment of her rainbow room, either.
“You should scatter the different colours around the room,” he told her.
Agnes shrugged. “I’ll have to see what we can do,” she mused. “I’m too old to be doing that sort of thing myself, you see. I don’t know if we have anyone else who can help on such short notice.”
Bessie knew the charity had a huge pool of active and enthusiastic volunteers, but luckily Christopher didn’t. The Alzheimer’s Research Fund had decorated the last of the rooms that had been done by an outside group. Its director and only paid employee, Michael Beach, listened with ill-concealed impatience as Christopher listed what he saw as the faults with the room. When he was done, Michael shrugged.
“Change whatever you like,” he said carelessly. “I’m far too busy with my year-end fundraising campaign to get involved.”
“I’m not manual labour,” Christopher sniffed.
“Neither am I,” Michael said haughtily.
“It really doesn’t seem as if any of you appreciate what Christo is trying to do here,” Carolyn said as everyone gathered in the banquet room again. “He’s given up a lot of his time and energy in order to help make this event the most exciting Christmas extravaganza the island has ever seen.”
“And we appreciate that very much,” Mark said. “And we are enormously grateful that you’re paying for his time and talents, as MNH simply hasn’t the budget for such things.”
“I’m sure we’re all grateful for Mr. Hart’s insights,” Bessie said. “But as the different groups are all responsible for their own rooms, I think they’ll all have to make their own choices as to how they put his advice into practice.”
“Now let’s talk about the room I’m going to decorate,” Christopher said. “I’ve seen the preliminary plans, and I absolutely hate them.”
Bessie swallowed hard. She’s spent many hours drawing up the plans for the room being decorated by Manx National Heritage. That was before Christopher Hart had been dumped in their laps, of course.
Aunt Bessie Joins Page 2
