Comfort and Joy

by Cathy Bramley

  About the Book

  Curl up with this feel-good short story, full of romance, surprises and a sprinkling of Christmas magic …!

  It’s been a busy year for Verity Bloom at the Plumberry School of Comfort Food, but Christmas Eve is finally here. With delicious treats all wrapped up and the ingredients packed away, Verity is looking forward to a relaxing few days with her new boyfriend.

  Good food, family and friends – it’s a simple recipe for true comfort and joy, and all Verity’s friends in the village are full of excitement about the holidays too.

  But the weather has other plans in store… Relentless rain leads to a power cut that spells disaster for many of Plumberry’s residents. It’s starting to look like this year’s celebrations could be a total washout.

  With dreams of a perfect Christmas dashed, will the last of the festive cheer be swept away in the downpour? Or can the cookery school create a Christmas miracle for everyone Verity holds dear?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Christmas Eve at the cookery school

  The wine merchant’s

  The butcher’s

  Christmas Eve at Hawthorn Cottage

  Christmas morning at home

  The power cut

  The Plumberry floods

  Christmas morning at the cookery school

  The cookery school saves Christmas

  Gifts and surprises

  Comfort and joy

  Recipes

  About the Author

  Have you read?

  Copyright

  Comfort and Joy:

  A Christmas Short Story

  Cathy Bramley

  To Donna Trinder, my very favourite reader.

  Christmas Eve at the cookery school

  It was the end of a joyful and hectic day at the Plumberry School of Comfort Food. The teaching kitchen upstairs in our beautiful old stone mill was still warm from the sterling efforts of fourteen festive students, and the scent of Christmas hung in the air – an evocative blend of cloves, cinnamon, caramelized sugar and rum. Quite a lot of rum, actually, because my assistant, Pixie, had spilt the bottle all over her workstation and her Doc Martens and it had seeped into the cracks between the old floorboards. The fumes would probably linger well into next year.

  Today’s course had been ‘Edible Christmas Gifts’. We’d had a guest chef from Plumberry Conserves here this morning, leading a seasonal jam- and chutney-making session; Pixie had taught a hand-made truffles class (she’d just been taught it herself at college), and I’d finished off the afternoon by teaching the group how to make Christmas-pudding fudge. Now the students had gone home tired, happy and laden with beautifully gift-wrapped edible parcels to proudly present to their loved ones on Christmas Day. All that remained was the final bit of tidying up and we’d be finished for two whole weeks.

  ‘Hurray, we’ve done it!’ I said when the last jar of vanilla sugar had been put away and the baking trays were stacked neatly in their racks. ‘Merry Christmas, one and all!’

  ‘You too, Verity.’ Mags, our gregarious front-of-house manager, put her broom back in the cupboard and pulled first me and then Pixie into her bosom for a hug and a kiss. ‘And congratulations, chuck; the Christmas-themed courses you put on have been brilliant. I don’t think there’s a person left in Plumberry who won’t be making their own mince pies this year.’

  ‘Yeah, Merry Christmas,’ Pixie added. She extracted herself from the depths of Mags’s chest, simultaneously wiping the cherry-red lipstick mark off her cheek and tugging her T-shirt down over her bottom self-consciously. ‘Although next year, please can someone else teach the “Christmas Titbits and Tipples” course? I’m still having flashbacks to the drinking game that sales director made his staff play with the sloe gin.’

  Mags and I laughed; poor Pixie had ended up with twelve drunken sales executives on a team-building day supposedly making little Santas from fresh strawberries and cans of whipped cream. We’d still been finding globules of cream on the ceiling two days later.

  ‘Who’s for coffee with a dash of whisky before we all go home?’ I said, striding to the office in the corner and flicking on the percolator.

  ‘Me!’ Pixie piped up. ‘Anything to put off the cycle ride home in this rain.’

  ‘It’ll have to be a quick one, chuck, I need to get off in a minute,’ said Mags, looking at the delicate gold watch on her plump wrist as she followed me into the office. ‘Dave will be arriving with my mother-in-law soon and I want to get the fire on for her. A bag of bones, she is.’

  My heart tweaked at her anxious expression. Mags had only been with her partner Dave for six months. They weren’t married so technically she didn’t have a mother-in-law, but Mags had embraced having a mother figure in her life again. Well into her fifties, she had been quite lonely before they got together and I was so glad that she’d have someone to share her cosy home with over Christmas.

  In my book, Christmas was about sharing: our homes, our food and, of course, precious moments that would become treasured memories in future years. Dave, our accountant, was a darling and lived in the next village with his mum Nora who was a feisty old thing but following a stroke a couple of years ago, relied on her son to do the heavy stuff around the house. They came as a package and I sometimes wondered if that ever impinged on Mags and Dave’s relationship. Not that Mags would ever complain.

  ‘Turkey and the full works at yours tomorrow, is it?’ I asked, spooning coffee into the machine.

  ‘It would be if I had my way,’ Mags said with a chuckle, leafing through the stack of Christmas cards from customers on my desk which I hadn’t got round to putting up yet. ‘But Nora has insisted she wants to treat us to Christmas lunch out tomorrow; she’s booked a posh restaurant. Still, I’ve done us a nice festive pan of Scouse for dinner tonight.’

  ‘How can Scouse be festive?’ said Pixie with a derisory snort as she came to join us. She dropped onto a chair and began polishing her glasses on the corner of her apron. ‘It’s the meat stew you make every week.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve added chestnuts and Brussels sprouts to the pan,’ said Mags with a hint of smug triumph.

  Pixie shuddered. ‘Oh God. The last time my granddad ate a combination like that, he got flatulent fever. Even the neighbours had to wear earplugs.’

  Mags and I exchanged glances; Pixie had an infinite supply of anecdotes about her granddad’s bowels.

  ‘Is that even a thing?’ I asked, not sure I actually wanted an answer.

  ‘I think so.’ Pixie wrinkled her nose. ‘Anyway, it was awful. He got stuff from the doctor, but I—’

  A loud hammering at the front door interrupted her flow.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Mags almost shouted with relief and darted out of the office and down the stairs with remarkable speed.

  ‘Let’s take our coffee to the windows to enjoy the view,’ I said, handing Pixie her mug and marching off before she could resume her tale.

  ‘Are we leaving all the Christmas decorations up while we’re closed?’ she asked as we wandered back through the teaching kitchen.

  I cast an eye over the big bushy tree that my boyfriend Tom and I had carried up from the village greengrocer at the beginning of December. We’d had a romantic evening here, swapping Christmas stories while we trimmed the tree with hundreds of white lights and dozens and dozens of pretty red, white and silver decorations. And not just the tree; there were fairy lights wound round almost every wooden beam in the ceiling as well as the Aga kitchen downstairs and even out on the wooden deck that overlooked the river.

  And after we’d finished decorating a miniature tree that we’d set out in the
most protected corner of the deck, Tom had pulled me into his arms and told me that being in Plumberry with me had made his life complete and that he was so looking forward to our first Christmas together. And I, of course, felt exactly the same.

  A warm glow welled up inside me at the thought of waking up next to him on Christmas morning in our new house, just the two of us … A little sigh escaped and took me by surprise, jolting me back to the present.

  Pixie was grinning at me. ‘Earth calling Verity Bloom?’

  ‘Let’s leave them up; the lights are all set on automatic timers so it will give the cookery school a nice festive shine over Christmas,’ I decided. ‘I can’t face that job now anyway. Taking them down can be our first task of the New Year. Besides, we haven’t had chance to decorate at home, so this might be the only tree I get to admire.’

  Tom and I had only got the keys to our cottage last week and we’d both been so busy with work – he was the owner and chef at his new restaurant, Dinner at Tom’s, and I had been rushed off my feet at the cookery school – that we’d barely even unpacked, let alone decorated for Christmas.

  Pixie turned on the radio and joined in with the cheery song. ‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!’

  ‘I wish,’ I laughed, leaning on the window sill to look out at the village. ‘A white Christmas would be so much nicer than this incessant rain.’

  Through the pattern of raindrops on the windows, Christmas lights brightened up the view in every direction. All of the little artisan businesses around our mill had already finished for the holiday, but the Christmas lights over each shop front still shone. In the houses opposite the car park, there were Christmas trees in every front window and in the distance, the Christmas decorations along the high street wove a magical trail through the village.

  ‘Here.’ Pixie shoved a box of her hand-made truffles from earlier under my nose. ‘Have one of these.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I lifted a white chocolate rum one halfway to my mouth. It was a work of art; the white outer layer sparkled with edible glitter and it looked like a tiny snowball in the cookery school spotlights. The aroma of the dark cocoa centre filled my nostrils with just a hint of rum … I lowered my hand.

  ‘Can’t tempt you, then?’ Pixie laughed, waving a hand over the pile of boxes stacked at the end of the teaching station. ‘We’ve got loads left over.’

  ‘I’ll save it for later.’ I set the truffle on the window sill. ‘It clearly is true what they say: you can have too much of a good thing.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ She sipped her coffee and her eyes widened as the alcohol hit the back of her throat. ‘If I never taste cranberry jelly again, I’ll be a happy woman.’

  ‘You sound like Tom,’ I said, remembering his face this morning at the prospect of having to cook another thirty portions of turkey escalope with sage and cranberry stuffing for lunch at the restaurant today. ‘He’s even refused to have turkey tomorrow because he’s so fed up of it.’

  Secretly, I was a bit disappointed about that, but at least he wasn’t opening the restaurant so he wouldn’t have to work, and there’d be more years to come. Next year I wanted to get the whole of my family together and have the biggest turkey that I could fit in the oven …

  ‘No turkey?’ Pixie feigned a look of horror. ‘My lot would riot!’

  I suppressed a smile. She moaned about her big family and about still sharing a bedroom with her sister at twenty-six and dreamed of a day when she could afford to move out. But I reckoned she’d miss it when she left; I certainly missed my family who lived in Canada. Even my business partner, Gabe and his son (who was my godson) Noah wouldn’t be around as they were spending Christmas with Gabe’s mum in Nottingham. My insides twisted suddenly at the thought of them all scattered so far away.

  ‘Tom and I have seen so little of each other over the past few weeks because of work,’ I said ruefully, ‘that eating anything together tomorrow will be a bonus.’

  ‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la,’ sang Mags exuberantly as she stomped up the stairs from reception.

  ‘More Christmas cards just arrived in the post, Verity,’ she said, handing me a pile of damp envelopes. ‘Which reminds me: what do you want to do about the leftover Christmas cards we had done for customers? They’ve got the year printed on them, so we can’t use them again.’

  ‘Oh, lesson learned there,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘Stick them in a drawer for now, I’ll think of something.’

  The post was so wet that the envelopes tore away easily. The cards were mostly from suppliers, but every so often we got one from a person who’d attended a course and wanted to share pictures of their Christmas cake or some other culinary triumph. Those cards made my heart sing.

  Pixie peered at them over my shoulder. ‘Poor postie, has he only just been? It’s after four o’clock.’

  ‘He says he’s had a terrible time making his deliveries today. The main street through Thickleton is close to being flooded, poor souls. Apparently, some houses might have to be evacuated, such bad timing. Still,’ Mags patted her hair and winked, ‘I cheered him up with a box of Verity’s fudge and a Christmas kiss.’

  ‘And on that note,’ I said sternly, ‘you’d better get off home and bestow Christmas kisses on your own man before the water levels beside the cookery school get any higher.’

  Pixie and I hugged Mags again and waved her off into the rainy evening. I went round each room doing one last check on all the doors and windows, turning off switches and lights, and within a few minutes I was ready to go. I stood at the bottom of the stairs in reception, tugging on my coat and shouted up to Pixie.

  ‘Let’s go, you can keep me company as far as the village.’

  ‘Er … I’m still busy. Do you want any of this fudge to take with you?’ Pixie yelled.

  I thought about it. I didn’t need any more gifts for people – Tom and I were spending the day alone tomorrow. But you never know; it’s always handy to have a few emergency presents in case people stopped by unexpectedly. I bounded back up the stairs to collect a couple of the gift boxes and some jars of home-made conserve and found Pixie on her hands and knees, cloth in hand, surrounded by the contents of the fridge.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said with a frown.

  ‘Cleaning out the fridge.’ She looked at me shiftily.

  ‘I can see that, but it’s home time,’ I said distractedly, popping a cellophane-wrapped bag of fudge, a box of truffles and some jam in my bag. ‘If word gets out that you were cleaning the fridge at four thirty on Christmas Eve, I’ll look like the world’s worst boss.’

  She let out a sigh. ‘You’re right; I’d better go home, I suppose. I’ll just put this lot back, but don’t let me hold you up – I’ll lock up, you get off home. To Tom.’

  I pulled her up off the floor and looked at her, noting her furrowed forehead. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  Pixie’s eyebrows shot up in alarm and she laughed a little too heartily. ‘Me? No! I spilt some milk, that’s all, and I don’t want to leave it to fester over Christmas.’

  I cocked an eyebrow dubiously. ‘OK, and please can you stack all these spare boxes of truffles in the fridge? I’m sure we’ll find a home for them somewhere and if not I’ll take them away with me at New Year. Merry Christmas, Pixie.’

  I kissed her cheek, ran lightly down the stairs, pulled up my hood and left the warmth and dry of the cookery school for the dark wet cobbles of Plumberry.

  The roar of the river rushing past the old waterwheel made me shiver for a second and I thanked my lucky stars that Tom and I lived at the top of a hill; it would have to be monsoon conditions before the river rose high enough to reach us. Floods were devastating at any time, but I couldn’t imagine how heart-breaking they must be at Christmas.

  The wine merchant’s

  Despite the rain, I couldn’t help but be cheered by the sight of the village high street. In my eyes, Plumberry w
as perfect all year round, but it really came into its own at Christmastime: it was festooned with giant fairy lights that zigzagged from lamp post to lamp post, creating a fairground effect over the whole area; there was a tall majestic tree at the war memorial, adorned with multicoloured lights and topped with a giant gold star; and each little shop had gone to town with decorations in store, festive window displays and, of course, more lights.

  The wine merchant’s window was gorgeous and stopped me in my tracks. It was owned by my friend Annabel, who was not only a brilliant businesswoman, selling her wines online all over the world, but also a total sweetheart; she had helped me out on many an occasion at the cookery school this year and managed to combine being really posh with being incredibly down to earth. She’d created a Narnia-themed window with branches of real spruce, fake snow, a Victorian lamp post like in the film and even a small wardrobe overflowing with bottles of every size, shape and colour. I was gazing at it admiringly when her face appeared at the window.

  ‘Verity, darling!’ came her muffled voice from inside. ‘Just the person!’

  Two seconds later the door flew open and she beckoned me in. The shop, as you might expect, was wall to wall bottles of wine, set into artfully lit wooden shelves. There was a rich aroma of dark fruit, oak and nutmeg.

  ‘And I thought I was late finishing work,’ I said, pushing back my hood and giving her a kiss.

  Annabel wiped the rain I’d transferred from my cheek to hers and pulled a face. She was shorter than me with rosy cheeks, intelligent brown eyes and strawberry-blonde wavy hair. She had it piled into a bun today and looked very festive in an oversized emerald-green jumper and black fur-lined boots.

  ‘Nearly all the shops will be open until five – none of us wants to lose that last lucrative sale. But I’m locking up now.’

  ‘It smells heavenly in here, by the way. And very alcoholic; I’m almost scared to breathe in.’

  ‘Scented candles,’ she said, extinguishing the flames on said candles with a couple of neat breaths. ‘Adds to the seductive ambiance – i.e. encourages a higher spend. Plus, I’ve had a New Zealand wine-tasting this afternoon, hence the deliciously boozy aroma.’