by Daisy James
Puffs of dust and sadness hovered amongst the packed wicker baskets. Garlands of twisted yarn nestled in cubbyholes or behind glass doors with tiny brass knobs more befitting a gentleman’s outfitters from the fifties. The shop was well stocked but everything on the shelves depicted a bygone era when communities were tight and pockets tighter. It was a place you would find your granny holding court, not a young mothers’ chinwag or a teenagers’ coterie of gossip. But then, ‘Gran’s Woollen Emporium’ was exactly what Gingerberry Yarns was – an old people’s social club or a place for the knitting circle from the local WI to persuade their deft fingers to twirl yarn into garments for the needy.
Polished teak shelves ran round the remaining two sides of the room, stuffed with lurid, multicoloured acrylics Callie had last seen on Barbie. Where were the natural lamb’s wools, the organic silks, the fair-trade cottons? Even the Aran was synthetic.
Knitting needles had been jammed into spaghetti jars like forests of pasta. Cards of pearl buttons and other assorted fastenings dangled from racks of chipped steel. The sample garments displayed on coat hangers on old mahogany hat stands, clearly knitted by her aunt or Delia, to Callie’s trained eye resembled bed jackets for the terminally ill. There were so many trendy designs coming out of Scandinavia at the moment, inspired by the wave of crime fiction that had been serialised for television, and the art of knitting was now a celebrity-endorsed pastime. She thought of the chunky Danish sweaters Scarlet adored; hers was red and cream, a prized possession that had cost her well over four hundred pounds.
Her fertile designer’s mind drifted to the Kaffe Fassett designs, works of art every one of them, all sculpted in natural wools, if not organic or locally sourced. She remembered the ‘stitch and bitch’ sessions she had attended when a penniless student in Newcastle, where, for the price of a cup of coffee in the local Costa, she’d spent warm, aroma-filled evenings with a diverse gathering of friends, from eager teenagers to harassed new mums grabbing a couple of hours of sanity away from the baby, and even professional women escaping the testosterone-infused office for a more girly activity that would not be judged against the bottom line.
The shop sported the most magnificent glass-plate frontage with its title embossed in arched gold lettering. But the window was almost opaque with rain-streaked grime and its display of misshapen sweaters did not invite curious perusal by passing window-shoppers.
In the farthest corner of the room, behind the counter where Callie slumped, her elbow supporting her chin, Hannah and Delia had squeezed in an enormous antique mahogany table, complete with green leather inlay as wrinkled as an octogenarian’s knees; its tooled edges inlaid with gold leaf and the deep scratches testament to the passage of time. Around this monstrosity huddled a disconsolate selection of equally ancient hard-backed chairs. A couple sported chintzy cushions as a nod to the comfort of their users’ buttocks.
Clearly this was where the serious business of the day was conducted – just not the money-making kind. It seemed as though ghosts still lingered there, at the table, completing unfinished projects before they could rest in peace.
The whole store screamed warmth and comfort; a genteel, English lady’s boudoir of the 1950s. Its painted walls blistered and flaky to the touch, its flooring worn and patched. Places like Gingerberry Yarns would not have survived in the metropolises of Leeds and Manchester. They had been replaced by trendy wine bars and the ubiquitous coffee shops, estate agents and nail bars, although even these businesses were struggling now.
Callie glanced out of the front window to the row of shops across the road that mirrored theirs. Marietta’s Hairdressing Salon, its windows reflecting the golden glow of the mid-morning sun, displayed three giant black-and-white portraits of cutting-edge hair design. With the bakery producing fresh croissants, Callie wondered whether Gingerberry Yarns was the only shop on Allthorpe High Street that had not moved with the times.
As she straightened up, the realisation came to her with a jolt that slammed straight to her heart. Her aunt and Delia had run this compendium of yarns and ribbons over the years, not as a business, but as a social enterprise. A note of dread rang in the back of her mind for what she would discover in the accounts when she marketed the business. It was blatantly obvious from the noticeable voids on the shelves behind the gargantuan meeting table that very little had been spent on the shop’s maintenance. There was no point thinking about that, though, now the building and the business were going to be sold.
Delia appeared at the bottom of the stairs carrying a tray. ‘Here we are, love, one steaming cup of your favourite Earl Grey tea. Warms the cockles of your heart, it does.’
Unlikely, thought Callie. Anxiety and grief had lodged a tight knot in her chest that no amount of alcohol-free beverage could dislodge. Only in the welcoming arms of Jack and Daniel could Callie feel the suffocating weight begin to ease and that was only a temporary reprieve.
‘I’ve made a pot for when Iris and Marcia arrive. They usually pop in after collecting Iris’s pension on a Tuesday morning, after a compulsory visit to old Mr Wallington’s bakery. Oh, I shouldn’t continue calling it that now, I suppose. Did you know he’s moved into Heppleton Residential Care Home? Ah, everything is changing in Allthorpe. The passage of time favours no one, I’m afraid.’
As Delia busied herself dusting the shelves with a long feather duster, accompanied by a running commentary of complaints about how quickly the dust settles when not kept on top of, Callie swung her contemplation and analytical eye onto her aunt’s best friend of over forty years.
Her hair, the colour of Yorkshire mist, had been cut in a surprisingly modern style – spiky fringe, tufted at the back, and finished off with the suspicion of gel! In fact, Delia carried her sixty years well. In spite of her ample hips and bosom, Callie’s expert eye told her that she modelled her wardrobe on the latest trends; hand-knit apricot cashmere sweater, embellished with tiny shimmering beads around the neckline and a pair of flatteringly cut trousers. She had a suspicion – no, a certainty – that Delia had designed and hand-sewn them herself to flatter her figure perfectly. Delia had completed her day’s attire with the largest pearl earrings Callie had seen and a long silver chain from which her bejewelled glasses swung like an optical pendulum as she swished away the offending dust.
But there was a tightness at the corners of Delia’s thinning lips and pronounced creases between her eyes. With a jolt of guilt, Callie realised how anxious the older woman must be about what would become of Gingerberry Yarns and, therefore, her own future. Delia would never have admitted it to Callie, but Callie knew she had relished the role of the shop’s co-chatelaine over the years. It was what she had lived for.
‘Delia, let’s sit down.’
Callie strode over to the gigantic table and folded her six-foot frame into one of the uncomfortable chairs. Its wooden spindles dug sharply into the small of her back. Silence extended through the room. It felt weird because the whole place was usually suffused with chatter and the aroma of her aunt’s favourite coffee brewing in the corner for customers to help themselves.
Best just launch in, she thought. Natives of Yorkshire were renowned for their straight-talking. ‘Delia, Aunt Hannah left me Gingerberry Yarns in her will.’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous, my dear. Your aunt truly loved this place, you know. She spent more time here than she did over at her house in Harrogate. She adored the yarns, the cottons, the silks, the mohairs. Oh, the way she used to run her fingers through those spools of ribbons and laces. But, most of all it was the people she loved, Callie, the regulars. Her “posse”, she would call them, “Hannah’s haberdashery posse”.’
Delia stared out of the window, lost in her memories. Her trendy haircut made her look like she was wearing a pewter helmet, but her face reflected the kindness that oozed from her pores. She twisted her rings around her fingers as she reminisced. Her tear-blotched face was pale and drawn, the red spidery veins bleeding across the whites of her eyes evid
ence of the copious weeping the trauma of the previous eight days had caused.
‘I know mere words can’t erase your sorrow, Callie. William and I were never fortunate enough to be blessed with children of our own, nor as an only child from a single mother do I have any nephews or nieces or other relatives, but you, Seb and Dominic are as good as family to me.’ Delia drew in a deep breath as she prepared to deliver her next sentence. ‘We need to open the shop back up. It’s been closed for more than a week now and people are asking. I’m happy to stay on, but if you don’t want me to… I’ll understand.’ Her crooked fingers, gnarled by years of gripping knitting needles and the onset of arthritis, continued to twist at her wedding ring, fearful of the response.
‘Stay on?’
‘Well, just if you wanted to run it yourself, that’s all? Or, heaven forbid, sell up. It seems to be what’s happening around here in the village.’ Delia closed her eyes against the potential heartbreak of not only losing her best friend, but also her reason for getting out of bed every morning.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at the butcher’s shop across the road, its frontage clad in a cage of scaffolding. A so-called property developer is renovating the building into ‘a desirable country dwelling, boasting wood-burning stoves and a sleek, stainless-steel kitchen; a stylish weekend retreat for a rich city banker’. That’s what the sales particulars say – they’re not even attempting to market the place as a home to local residents who will become part of the community. I shudder to think what the village of Allthorpe will become if yet another shop loses the fight to stay open. And there’s no point in objecting to the planners. We tried that.’
As Callie met Delia’s eyes a barrage of guilt tumbled through her veins. In that instant her aunt’s oldest friend had understood that Callie would indeed be selling up.
‘Sorry, Callie, please don’t pay any heed to me. I’m a sentimental old woman. You have to be free to make your own decision, unburdened by any feelings of loyalty or, heaven forbid, pity. You have your own life and future to think of.’
‘Delia, I’m so sorry. I’m going back to London tonight. I need to get back to work and resume some sort of normality. I want to be at the salon just in case… well… just in case our design wins. Only the winner is going to be informed, to keep things as private as possible for Lilac, so if we don’t hear anything tomorrow it means our design hasn’t been chosen. Do you think we might have a chance, Delia? It’d be such a fabulous opportunity for everyone at Callie-Louise.’
‘I don’t know, Callie dear, but I’m sure your design was the most adorable. Your aunt was so proud of all your achievements, you know, not just these star-studded creations. Every day we’d sit at this very table and chat about you and Seb and Dominic; about your fantastic designs, about Seb and Dominic’s promotions at work, about Theo’s success with his band. It made her happy just to know you were all following your dreams – wherever their paths took you.
‘She was just so excited when we closed the shop last Friday. Lots of our customers and friends had called by during the day to wish you luck, before she… before she…’ Delia withdrew a lace-trimmed, cotton handkerchief embroidered with a large blue ‘D’ and dabbed the falling tears away from her papery cheeks.
‘I miss her so much. Every day of the last fifteen years since your Uncle John died we’ve been running Gingerberry Yarns together. Then, after my William passed away, it was just the two of us. This isn’t simply a shop to us, Callie, a means of making a living. Gingerberry Yarns is an integral part of this community. Oh, I know you youngsters think Allthorpe is a dull, parochial village, and it may be, compared to the pull of the bright lights of the metropolis, but your aunt’s shop provides an escape, offers solace from the lonely daily routine that we older people find our lives becoming when our children and spouses have moved on.’
‘I’m sorry, Delia. I can’t run Gingerberry from London, I just can’t. Even if my design doesn’t win, I have enough commissions to keep me working every hour God sends for the next two years. I don’t have a choice. Gingerberry will have to be sold.’
As she spoke those painful words the doorbell tinkled like a wedding ring on a crystal champagne flute, announcing the arrival of a customer despite the sign having been turned to ‘Closed’.
With the sun behind him it was a few moments before Callie realised who it was, but Delia knew straight away. She collected her handbag and bustled off, pausing to kiss Theo on her way out of the door.
Chapter Seven
‘Hi, Callie.’
Theo reached out and pulled her into his spice-infused chest. His familiar cologne caused her mind to zoom back to the last time they had been together. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and awaited her reaction.
‘Erm, hi,’ she croaked as her heart pummelled her chest and a cauldron of emotions whipped through her body, sending sparkles of electricity to her fingertips.
The immediate environs of the shop receded as all Callie could see were those steel-grey eyes that had frequented so many of her dreams. It was as though the last three years of loneliness had melted into oblivion as Theo stood before her, matching her height and meeting her stare. Unlike her heart, her brain refused to process his presence despite the visual evidence of his choppy, tawny-coloured hair and his strong, determined jawline, sporting a suggestion of stubble, not to mention the familiar curve of his lips.
As always, it was Theo’s eyes that drew her gaze. Now, face-to-face with the only man she had ever truly loved after three long years, Callie scrutinised his face for a sign that he was a different person to the one she had adored. For confirmation that the passage of time had justified her relinquished love; a love they had sustained throughout their teenage years and the three years of university. But the Theo she saw slouched in front of her was exactly the same, no wrinkles or errant grey hairs, and her heart confirmed with every beat that she did still love him.
She crushed down that unwelcome confirmation, as she was becoming so adept at doing, and cast around for a topic of conversation that wouldn’t bring their past screaming back. She plastered on a smile and prayed her voice would not give her away.
‘It’s great to see you, Theo. I hear The Razorclaws are playing to sold-out arenas now. That’s fabulous. Even got a gig at the wedding of the year. Congratulations!’
‘Yeah, we’re stoked.’ Theo stuck his hands in the front pockets of his black Levi’s and flapped his elbows, a clear signal to Callie that he was nervous about what his reception might be. He followed Callie to the table, still strewn with culinary debris, and accepted a lukewarm mug of tea from the big brown teapot. ‘Couldn’t let Finn down. We’ve been friends since uni.’
Callie struggled to drag her eyes from his soft-pewter stare, annoyed that she still experienced the deep emotional pull of their connection. They had been soulmates, but how could that bond have endured? How could this man’s mere proximity still cause her stomach to churn and her nerve endings to tingle after what he had done?
No, she had to pull herself together, act as though he were a treasured friend, as indeed he was. He remained one of Seb’s best friends, along with Archie who played bass guitar in the band. She reminded herself that she had been only twenty-two when their relationship ended; she was now almost twenty-six and a lot had happened to both of them since then. She would deal with this situation with maturity.
She smiled at Theo, intending to continue with enquiries about his band’s success or queries about his family’s well-being, but what she saw reflected in the depths of his eyes flashed an unexpected jolt of desire around her disloyal body. But she was determined that her head would fight this battle and she pressed on with her attempt to prove to Theo that she had moved on.
‘My aunt left me Gingerberry Yarns, you know.’
‘Oh, wow, Cal, I’m so pleased. You loved this shop. I have so many happy memories of hanging out here with Seb and Dominic, you and Nessa. I bet you have loads of plans for
it. Perhaps it could do with a lick of paint.’ Theo ran his eyes over the walls where the paint blistered like sunburnt skin.
‘I’m not keeping it.’
Theo’s smile died on his lips. ‘You’re what?’
‘I’m selling up.’
‘You’re joking, right?’
‘No.’
‘Hannah adored this shop. I can’t believe you would do that.’
‘I do have a life of my own, you know. In Pimlico. I run my own bridal boutique now. It’s successful.’ Callie didn’t know why she’d felt the need to add the last sentence.
‘Oh, yes, I heard. You make clothes for rich brides to wear.’
‘I design clothes. No, not just clothes – haute couture.’ She could hear the defensive hint that had crept into her voice, along with the surprise resurrection of her Yorkshire accent. Theo had always known what buttons to press in more ways than one.
‘How can you even think of selling Gingerberry Yarns? It’s part of the fabric of our lives. And it’s more than that. It’s an essential part of this whole community.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Theo. When was the last time you were here?’ she challenged.
Theo held her eyes for what felt like an eternity. ‘Two weeks ago, actually. Three days before Hannah passed away. Unlike you, I still live here. I haven’t run out on my friends, or forgotten what home means. I loved Hannah as much as you did, Cal.’
‘Well, I’ve moved on. My life and my career are in London. I’m leaving tonight.’
‘Tonight? So you’re not even staying on to sort out the shop? What about Delia? And aren’t you even going to catch up with Nessa? The Callie I knew would never pass up the opportunity for a chinwag with her best friend!’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I saw Nessa for a weekend of Christmas shopping and partying at the beginning of December and we talk all the time on the phone. But guess what, smartass, I’m not the Callie you knew any more! Something happened to change all that, didn’t it? You betrayed me.’
