by Lilac Mills
Ah, now, he could have a stab at answering that, having anticipated the question and prepared an answer. He spoke eloquently (he thought) on needing to conserve the earth’s resources and not simply send things to landfill. He’d done his research and could even quote facts and figure, ending up with, ‘I want to become part of the solution, not the problem.’
Ms Dean and Mr Warner were nodding in agreement.
‘You certainly have the commitment,’ Mr Warner said. ‘Is there anything you want to add in support of your application?’
‘Actually, there is, but I’m not sure whether it will support my application or whether you’ll think I’m being presumptuous.’
‘Go on.’
Henry took a deep breath and said, ‘My wife is extremely active in reducing, reusing and recycling in terms of upcycling and repurposing items of furniture, and since seeing the incredible work she does, I think the council needs to have one of those tip shops, where discarded yet perfectly functional items can be bought by people who can find a use for them. The society we live in is a throwaway one, and it’s criminal that so many things are being discarded when they still have a great deal of life left in them. When you consider all the resources that go into manufacturing the things in the first place…’ He trailed off, self-conscious, realising he’d overstepped the mark and was doing himself no favours in trying to convince these people that he was right for the job. If anything, he was talking himself out of one by saying that fewer people should visit their local waste centres.
‘Thank you, Mr Hargreaves,’ the HR manager said, getting to her feet. ‘That was… enlightening. We’ll be in touch soon to let you know whether you’ve been successful, as we have other candidates to see.’
Of course they did – he wasn’t naive enough to think he was the only one.
Not feeling at all hopeful, he stood up and shook hands.
Downhearted, he made his way to the reception area and was in the process of signing out and handing his visitor’s badge back, when he heard his name being called.
‘Mr Hargreaves?’
Thinking he’d forgotten something, he patted his pockets to check for his keys, his phone and his wallet and was relieved to discover all three were still about his person.
‘Mr Hargreaves? Can you pop back into the meeting room again? We’d like to have a quick word.’ Ms Dean was smiling.
Oh, my God, they were going to offer him the job!
Henry could barely contain his excitement as he followed the HR officer back to the room where his interview had been conducted, and took the seat he’d sat in a few moments ago.
‘Let me be frank,’ Mr Warner said. ‘You’re not the right fit for the job.’
Henry’s heart sank to his feet so fast he thought he might pass out. How cruel to call him back before they’d even finished interviewing their full quota of candidates. He must have unimpressed them so spectacularly that they didn’t need to deliberate about his application. Oh, well, at least he knew and wouldn’t be on tenterhooks all over Christmas waiting for a phone call or a letter.
‘However, we think you’re perfect for something else. This role is brand new and hasn’t even been advertised yet, but it’s a project we’ve been considering for a while,’ the man said.
‘Oh?’
‘How do you feel about managing your very own tip shop? There is a council-owned building directly behind the reclamation site that has recently been vacated by the Parks and Highways Department which would be perfect. It would be your responsibility to source goods from the skips, and prepare them for sale. What do you say?’
What could Henry say? ‘Yes, please!’
‘As you so rightly pointed out, far too much is going to landfill, and anything that isn’t has to be reprocessed. All monies earned from the project will go towards other council-run initiatives, so it’s a win-win situation. Of course, there still will be plenty of things that have to be recycled, such as cardboard, scrap metal, wood…’
‘Including broken furniture?’
‘Well, yes, obviously. We can’t be trying to sell tables with missing legs.’ Mr Warner chuckled and shot Ms Dean a look.
‘Ah,’ Henry said. ‘I’ve got an idea about that…’
* * *
Henry picked up the bottle of reasonably expensive wine he’d bought on the way home, and poured himself and Lottie a glass. ‘Here’s to us and our future.’ They were celebrating him having got the job by enjoying a child-free night at home. Bliss!
They clinked glasses and Lottie took a sip. ‘Mmm, this is nice. Crisp but not too snappy.’
‘You just made up the snappy part’ he said. ‘I’m sure wine aficionados wouldn’t call anything “snappy”.’
‘You’d be surprised – they use all kinds of words to describe fermented grape juice.’
‘Not those ones, obviously. Stop behaving like a heathen and eat your meal.’ Henry grinned at her, opening his mouth when she speared a prawn with her fork and held it out to him. ‘That’s delicious,’ he said, after chewing slowly and swallowing the morsel.
He gazed into her eyes, and she gazed back. Heat began to build inside him and he cupped her face, leant across the table and kissed her, gently at first but then with rapidly growing desire.
Food forgotten, Henry took Lottie by the hand and led her upstairs. And afterwards, when he held her in his arms, her breath soft and warm on his chest, his heart was filled with joy, and he whispered, ‘I love you, Mrs Hargreaves.’
‘I love you too, rubbish man. Now, are you going to keep talking or are you going to show me just how much you love me?’
‘Again?’
‘Oh, yes!’
Chapter 36
Lottie
Lottie crept downstairs, careful to avoid the creak on the third step and the seventh, hooked a coat off the rack near the front door and stuffed her bare feet into a pair of wellies. She hadn’t expected to give the children this particular gift on Christmas Day, but when she’d been drawn to her bedroom window by the oddly coloured light outside, and she’d realised what was responsible for it, she’d been unable to go back to bed.
Despite not having gone to sleep until well after midnight – her late night had been more to do with her husband making love to her than the pair of them tiptoeing around placing stockings under the tree – and anticipating Morgan’s leap from the land of Nod before the cockerel crowed, she was surprisingly wide awake and ready for the day.
As she eased open the door to the garden and stepped outside, her foot sank into a good six inches of snow and she turned her face up to the heavens. Huge fat flakes were falling softly, and it was so quiet she imagined she could hear each one land. The world lay under a white fleecy layer of excitement, and she smiled as she thought of her children’s faces when they saw that not only had Santa been, but that it had snowed in the night.
What a wonderful thing it was to be a child, she mused, as she fetched the sledges from the shed ready to prop them in the hall for the children to see as soon as they raced headlong down the stairs. Their joy and amazement would be a delight to watch.
But first they would have to get through the present opening, her insistence they eat anything other than chocolate for breakfast, and then the fight to get them dressed in warm clothing, before they dashed outside to play in the snow.
The day beckoned, but Lottie took a few precious moments to revel in the stillness of the early morning. Magical – that was the best way to describe it, and she offered up a silent prayer of thanks. She had so much to be thankful for: Henry, for his support and misguided thoughtfulness; their gloriously wonderful children who made her smile every single day; Henry’s new job and the opportunities it gave both of them… But most of all she was thankful for the love they shared. And she had no doubt that Henry loved her as much as she loved him.
Quietly, she brought the sledges in one by one, but it wasn’t until she’d leant the last one against the wall near the front door
that she realised Henry was watching her from the living room.
He had a glass of orange juice in one hand and a small, gift-wrapped box in the other. ‘Buck’s fizz,’ he said, after handing her the glass and laughing at her shocked expression when she tasted the alcohol in it.
‘What are you doing up?’ she asked, her eyes on the present. Was it for her? She hoped so.
‘I thought we could have a minute to ourselves before the mayhem starts,’ he said. ‘This is for you. Open it,’ he urged.
Lottie took it and carefully eased the string from around the wrapping paper, revealing a pretty box that looked as though it might contain jewellery.
Feeling apprehensive – didn’t Henry know her enough by now to realise she didn’t do jewellery? – she eased the top of the box off and lifted the tissue paper to reveal the most gorgeous hairpin she’d ever seen.
‘It’s for your hair, instead of a pencil,’ Henry said. ‘And it’s made from stuff found on the beach. That’s what they call sea glass.’ He pointed to the tiny beads surrounding a smooth flat stone.
Henry did know her well enough, after all.
‘It’s perfect,’ she whispered, and she took it out of the box, twisted her hair into a bun on the crown of her head and slid the hairpin into it.
Lottie kissed him, and they stood for a while, arms wrapped around each other, until a noise from upstairs indicated the children were stirring.
‘Quick, open yours,’ she said, going over to the tree and rooting around underneath. She handed him an oddly shaped package.
Henry said, on seeing the wooden mug, ‘Did you make this yourself?’
‘Of course.’
He traced the engraving of the five figures she’d carved into it – two adults and three children. ‘I love it. I love you,’ he said, and he was about to kiss her again when shrieks shattered the peace and the thunder of three pairs of feet overhead made him smile.
Lottie’s heart filled with love, and tears welled in her eyes as she watched him with their children. It was all she’d ever wanted, for them to be a happy family. It looked like wishes sometimes did come true.
Epilogue
Lottie
The huge workshop had a tendency to echo when there was only Lottie in it, but today the space rang with the sounds of chatter and laughter, and the rasp and bang of tools. The air was redolent with the tang of paint and sawdust, and there was a vibrancy that was missing when she was in there on her own. Although she prized the quiet times when she could mend broken things and bring other items back to new life, it was the sessions where she helped others upcycle their own unwanted objects that she loved the best.
‘How are you getting on, Jo?’ she asked, gazing assessingly at what appeared to be a jumbled mess of assorted pieces of pallets, but which she knew would eventually be transformed into a substantial garden chair that would withstand the weather and look even lovelier when adorned with fat, padded cushions.
‘Fine, I think. I’ve sketched out what I think should go where, but I’m not sure how I’m going to angle the back. I want a slight recline on it, otherwise I’ll be sitting bolt upright.’
Lottie and Jo discussed how she could achieve that, and Lottie rubbed the woman on the arm as she made to move off. ‘You’re doing a fantastic job,’ she enthused.
‘I’m so glad you told me about these workshops. Although I simply adore the coat rack and that lovely seat I bought off you, there’s nothing like making things with your own fair hands, is there?’
‘I agree – and the more people who have the skills, the knowledge and the enthusiasm to make do with what they’ve got, the better.’ She looked up as the door opened, expecting to see Henry, who was located in the tip shop next door.
At Henry’s suggestion, the tip shop had been named Your Turn – as in ‘your turn to own an item previously owned by someone else’ – but the person hovering hesitantly was someone who Lottie would never, in a month of Sundays, have expected to see.
Cautiously, she walked over to Natalie Sharp, forcing a smile on her face. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, wondering if it was just pure nosiness that had brought the woman here.
‘You might be able to.’ Natalie’s eyes cut away to the various people beavering away on their projects. There were seven of them taking part in the session today. ‘I’d like you to repair my son’s bed.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘I don’t know what he’s been doing to it, but it’s suddenly gone rather rickety.’
‘Are you referring to the fire engine bed? The one you bought from Nighty Night?’
Natalie nodded. ‘Can you repair it, or not?’
‘No, sorry, I can’t. But you can.’
‘What do you mean you can’t? I thought that’s what you did.’
‘I teach others to repair and renovate their own things,’ Lottie said calmly. ‘I can teach you, too, if you want.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll have to buy Callum another one.’ Natalie lifted her nose and looked down it, but she made no move to leave.
‘You could have asked me this yesterday when you saw me at school,’ Lottie said. ‘So why are you really here?’
Natalie looked away.
‘Were you just being nosy?’ Lottie persisted, a small, teasing grin on her face.
‘Might have been. Everyone’s talking about it.’ She waved a dismissive arm around the workshop.
By ‘everyone’ Lottie assumed Natalie meant the other mums at the school gates, and maybe one or two other residents of Applewell.
‘Is Callum’s bed really in need of repair?’ Lottie asked, still unsure whether to be amused or cross.
A nod.
‘I tell you what, why don’t I pop round later and take a look? I’m not going to mend it for you, but I’ll show you how you can fix it yourself.’
‘I’m no good with a screwdriver and whatnot,’ Natalie objected.
‘It’s lucky you probably won’t have to use a whatnot then, isn’t it? And I’ll give you a quick lesson in how to use a screwdriver.’
Natalie narrowed her eyes at her. ‘How much will you charge?’
‘Not as much as having to fork out for a new bed.’ Lottie sighed. ‘You can have this on the house. I’d prefer to see you fix the darned thing than scrap it. Too much of that goes on already, without me adding to the problem.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Natalie said. ‘Actually, now I come to think about it – would it be possible to do something with it to make it look more like a boat?’
Lottie bit her lip to avoid laughing out loud. Dear God, she had a pretty good idea why Callum’s bed had suddenly become rickety. ‘It might be possible, but you’ll have to learn how to do it yourself. Now, why don’t you take a gander at what these lovely people are doing? You never know, you might be bitten by the renovating bug yourself.’
Henry
‘What did Natalie decide to do, in the end?’ Henry asked, as he and Lottie lay in bed later that evening, enjoying a post-lovemaking snuggle and chatting about their day.
‘She said she’d think about it. I can’t see her rolling her sleeves up and wielding a hacksaw, no matter how much money it saves her in the long run. Callum, on the other hand, is a budding carpenter – when I popped around earlier, there was nothing wrong with his bed except for a mysterious loosening of quite a few of the nuts and bolts. Then Robin told me that Callum had confided in him that he was going to have a boat for a bed, too. You’ve got to admire the kid’s ingenuity.’
They lay there in silence for a while, Henry’s arm around her, feeling the weight of Lottie’s leg across his, and marvelling at his luck that this wonderful, talented, multi-layered woman was his wife.
He’d never felt so happy and contented. He’d found a job he loved (he never would have guessed he’d be so passionate about other people’s unwanted possessions); he was able to spend more time with his family; and Lottie was flourishing in her new role as a tutor. She h
ad also been approached by the local secondary school to give a talk on reusing and upcycling. Who’d have known that Lottie’s make do and mend philosophy would become so popular?
‘Have I told you recently how proud I am of you?’ he asked, nuzzling her hair. ‘Or how much I love you?’
‘Nope. Not since last night.’
‘Then I need to tell you again,’ he murmured.
‘Why don’t you show me instead?’ his gorgeous wife suggested, and he was more than happy to oblige.
Henry Hargreaves, he said silently to himself, you are the luckiest man in the world!
Acknowledgements
Authors often thank a whole bunch of people first and foremost who have helped them get a book off the ground, before thanking those who are truly important – the readers. I want to do it the other way around, so my heartfelt thanks go to my wonderful readers, because without you I wouldn’t write. Stories are meant to be read (or listened to) and that’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my writing career – to take someone away from the real world for a few hours and transport them to somewhere magical. So, thank you for reading my stories and allowing me to carry on writing.
Thanks go to others, too: Emily Bedford, for her editorial skills in bringing out the best in the story; Belinda Jones for polishing my rough words and making them gleam; the pixies and elves at Canelo for everything they do behind the scenes and for the lovely cover.
I mustn’t forget my family, either: my husband’s unstinting support and providing me with endless and very welcome cups of tea; my mother for reading everything I write; my daughter just for being there. And my dog, who is my constant companion as I slave over a hot computer, and insists I take a break now and again to take her for a walk.
About the Author
Lilac Mills lives on a Welsh mountain with her very patient husband and incredibly sweet dog, where she grows veggies (if the slugs don’t get them), bakes (badly) and loves making things out of glitter and glue (a mess, usually). She’s been an avid reader ever since she got her hands on a copy of Noddy Goes to Toytown when she was five, and she once tried to read everything in her local library starting with A and working her way through the alphabet. She loves long, hot summer days and cold winter ones snuggled in front of the fire, but whatever the weather she’s usually writing or thinking about writing, with heartwarming romance and happy-ever-afters always on her mind.
