Snowdrops at the Star and Sixpence

by Holly Hepburn

  By late afternoon, heat was pouring from the newly bled radiators. Sam waited until Joss had clocked off before heading purposefully for the stairs.

  ‘It’s like Santa looked into my heart and knew exactly what I wanted,’ she said. ‘If I’m not out of the tub in an hour, send in a frogman.’

  The pub door was ajar, left that way by the departing plumber. Nessie was clearing up the empty cups he’d left dotted around the bar when Owen poked his head through the gap.

  ‘Hello, Nessie,’ he called. ‘I’ve got your grate out here. Shall I bring it in?’

  Nessie noticed he stayed at the door, waiting to be invited in. ‘Of course, please do. Although I’m not sure we’ll need a fire, given how much heat the radiators give off now they’re working properly.’

  Owen disappeared for a moment, then pushed back the door and swung into the room, a vast iron grate in his arms. Nessie knew it must be heavy but there was no sign of it on his face as he carried it over to the fireplace and lowered it into place. His arms bulged under his shirt, though; a smith’s muscles, Nessie thought, remembering him bent over the anvil, striking sparks from the fiery metal. Her cheeks grew a touch warmer at the memory.

  ‘There you go,’ Owen said, surveying the fireplace with a critical gaze. ‘That should do the trick.’

  Nessie crossed the room for a closer look. The basket where the fire would sit was unremarkable – a grid of dull black iron, practical and sturdy – but the casing around it was a work of art. Along the front, ten tall prongs had been bent into graceful curls and on either side stood an elegantly twisted thicker pole topped by a proud fleur-de-lis. The grate might be a no-nonsense object, destined to be covered by flames and soot, but she could see beauty in the quality of the workmanship. ‘It’s almost too good to spoil with a fire,’ she said, with a wry shake of her head. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Owen replied, looking pleased. ‘I don’t often do things like this nowadays, not when you can get them machine-made so easily but it was lovely to do something other than gates.’

  ‘We should have a ceremonial lighting at the re-opening, although I suppose it’ll need to be lit before everyone arrives,’ Nessie said. ‘You are coming, aren’t you? You and Kathryn?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. Although Kath might have her own plans for Boxing Day, mind you. She’s in a folk band and sometimes they have gigs in the evenings. I’ll ask her.’

  ‘A band?’ Nessie said. ‘What does she play?’

  Owen pulled a face. ‘The violin. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it squawking.’ He chuckled. ‘Ah, but I’m being unfair – she’s pretty good, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Don’t you ever go to see her play?’ Nessie asked curiously.

  ‘I have done, in the past,’ Owen said. ‘But I don’t like to leave Luke too often and – well, I’m not sure she’d want me there all the time. I might get in the way.’

  Nessie frowned. ‘In the way? How?’

  He grinned. ‘She’ll never admit it but I reckon she’s got a huge crush on the lead singer. One of these days she might do something about it and I’d hate her to feel embarrassed in front of me.’

  Nessie felt her stomach twist. ‘But . . . but . . . wouldn’t you mind?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ Owen said, raising his eyebrows quizzically. ‘She’s old enough to – oh . . .’ He trailed off and gazed at Nessie with a solemn expression. ‘You think Kathryn and me are—’

  ‘A couple,’ Nessie finished, dying inside but unable to look away. ‘Aren’t you?’

  He laughed, the rumbling throaty sound smoothing the edges of her embarrassment. ‘No. Kathryn is my sister and Luke’s aunt. His mother . . . well, his mother died a few years back.’

  Nessie closed her eyes briefly. That would be what Joss meant by his tragic past. Now she felt even worse – clumsy and stupid and bloody insensitive. ‘I’m sorry,’ she managed. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘No need to apologise,’ he said, smoothing over her embarrassment with kindly ease. ‘It’s common enough knowledge around the village – I’m surprised no one told you.’

  Joss tried to, Nessie thought, only I was too much of a coward to follow it up. She was grateful Sam was out of earshot – she’d probably expect Nessie to launch a flirt offensive there and then. The idea made Nessie want to shudder – what kind of person followed up the revelation of a dead wife with an invitation to dinner? ‘We’ve been pretty busy,’ she said, seizing the chance to steer the conversation into less mortifying waters. ‘What do you think of the place?’

  ‘It looks great,’ Owen said, glancing around. ‘The same old place but newer. Better.’

  ‘Let’s hope everyone else agrees,’ Nessie replied, taking a ridiculous amount of pleasure from his praise.

  Owen nodded in encouragement. ‘I’m sure they will. The problem will be getting rid of them, I expect. But I’ll do my best to pop in too.’

  ‘Good,’ Nessie said, and she was surprised to discover quite how much she meant it. It had nothing to do with the discovery that he was single, she told herself as he said goodbye and headed for the door. Nothing at all.

  Having forced herself to put the grand re-opening out of her mind, for one day at least, Nessie was looking forward to Christmas dinner. She’d barely left the pub for days and was sure that if she saw another ready-meal she would explode. Sam had managed to squeeze in one last visit to the supermarket so the cupboards in the tiny kitchen upstairs were stocked with tempting treats, and the village butcher had supplied some glorious-looking sausages and a turkey crown for Christmas Day. Kathryn had tried to persuade Nessie to come to Snowdrop Cottage for dinner but she’d refused. ‘Christmas is family time,’ she’d said, when Kathryn found out they would be spending the day on their own in the pub.

  ‘It’s for family and friends,’ Kathryn had replied. ‘We’re friends now, right?’

  Nessie hadn’t known how to answer that because she liked Kathryn immensely, especially her sly observations of Little Monkham life. Nessie liked Owen too, although not in the way Sam insisted she did, and Luke seemed lovably boyish. But she didn’t know any of them very well and she knew Sam wouldn’t be able to resist a spot of matchmaking over the Christmas crackers, not now she knew Owen was single. No, the thought of intruding on the Rhys family for Christmas dinner felt like too much. Besides, there was still plenty to do ahead of the re-opening on Boxing Day, although Sam had made her promise to take the whole of Christmas Day off.

  It wasn’t until Nessie twisted the oven dial to cook the turkey at nine o’clock on Christmas morning that she discovered the flaw with their plan: the oven had died. Sam was still in bed, having polished off the best part of a bottle of Moët the night before, and Nessie had been up since seven peeling potatoes, slicing vegetables and crushing cranberries. Now as she stared into the depths of the cold black oven, she wanted to cry. Why hadn’t she thought to check it worked before now? she asked herself. The hob was fine, so she could cook the vegetables and probably the sausages too but there was no way she could cook the turkey or roast the potatoes. It was a disaster.

  With a heavy sigh, she got up and wandered into the living room. A tiny artificial Christmas tree listed to one side in the corner, with a modest cluster of presents beneath it. Neither she nor Patrick had made much of an effort at Christmas, swapping token gifts and making sure they were surrounded by family and friends so that the silences didn’t become too glaring. Even so, the contrast between Christmases gone by and now was so stark that Nessie couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her.

  Sam appeared at her elbow. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said, thrusting a tall glass of tomato juice at her. ‘It’s a Bloody Mary. Hair of the dog.’

  ‘You’re the only one who got bitten.’ Nessie took a sip, grimacing as the Tabasco sauce and vodka burned her throat. ‘Happy Christmas, though.’

  ‘Shall we do presents now or after lunch?’ Sam asked. She gave a little laugh. �
��This is weird, isn’t it, spending Christmas together again. Do you remember how strict Mum was? One present in the morning and no more until after the Queen’s speech.’

  Nessie nodded. ‘Yeah. And then Dad would come back from the pub and they’d argue.’

  Sam was silent for a moment. ‘Remember the year he fell into the tree and crushed all the presents underneath?’

  Once again, Nessie nodded, suddenly ten years old again. ‘He broke the snow globe Mum had bought me from Paris.’

  ‘And my Barbie Fairytale Carriage,’ Sam said. She shuddered. ‘God, no wonder I’ve always hated this time of year. What time’s lunch?’

  Nessie sighed. ‘I’ve got some bad news about that . . .’

  They made do with fried bacon, sausage and mash, doing their best to laugh it off with paper hats and bad jokes. After they’d eaten, they swapped gifts: Nessie had bought Sam a charm bracelet with a glittering star and a silver sixpence attached and Sam gave Nessie some eye-wateringly expensive lingerie, ‘For when you make a move on Owen,’ she’d said with an encouraging wink. Then Sam had produced a bottle of tawny port Joss had found in the cellar and they’d sipped from generous glasses as they watched a film. By ten o’clock in the evening both sisters were ready to call it a day.

  ‘Still sober on Christmas night,’ Sam marvelled, hugging Nessie goodnight. ‘Dad would have disowned us.’

  ‘Still, at least we won’t have hangovers tomorrow,’ Nessie said, pulling a face. ‘Remind me whose idea it was to hold the grand re-opening on Boxing Day again?’

  ‘Not mine,’ Sam grumbled. ‘Christmas is about pigging out and relaxing, not worrying about whether you’ve stuffed enough vol-au-vents with prawn cocktail for the punters.’

  ‘Next year will be different,’ Nessie said soothingly. ‘I promise.’

  Sam nodded in agreement. ‘Bloody right. Next year, we’ll already be open, you’ll be banging Mr Blacksmith and we can blast the sodding turkey on the forge.’

  As she closed the shutters on her bedroom window, Nessie paused to glance into the shadowy yard of the forge below. The lamp over the door of Snowdrop Cottage glowed white, sending a pool of light cascading over the doorstep. She could see two empty milk bottles neatly lined up on one side and the silvery shimmer of an upturned wheelbarrow on the other. Closing her eyes, Nessie tried to picture the family inside the cottage: Luke should be asleep by now, although from what she knew of him, probably not. They might be playing a festive game, the kind no one ever won, or watching a film. Or perhaps Owen was raising a quiet glass to his wife and remembering Christmases past. Nessie had no way of knowing.

  When the door cracked suddenly open, it made her jump. A figure appeared beneath the light: Owen. His breath formed clouds in the air as he glanced upwards. Nessie stepped hurriedly back – she didn’t want him to think she was stalking him. Peering around the shutter, she watched as he turned the wheelbarrow the right way and wheeled it into the darkness. A minute later, he was back and the barrow was loaded with logs. He parked it by the cottage door and began to take the wood inside. When he’d finished, he tipped the wheelbarrow upside down and leaned it against the wall, then fired a swift glance at the pub again before disappearing inside once more.

  Nessie sighed as he closed the door and leaned her head against the cool wood of the shutter. Her feelings were so jumbled and she suspected the tawny port was only partly to blame. In the silence, she could admit what she had strenuously denied to Sam – that a little flame of hope had flickered into life when she’d discovered Owen was single. But wasn’t it too soon for another relationship? She hadn’t even started looking into the divorce process yet and that was assuming Owen was even interested – as Joss had pointed out, he wasn’t short of admirers among the village women. Why would he be interested in her?

  He wouldn’t be, of course. Closing the shutters, Nessie crossed to the bed and scooped up the lingerie Sam had given her. She held it for a moment, rubbing a thumb over its satin softness, then shook her head and buried it at the bottom of her underwear drawer. Out of sight, out of mind, she told herself, and slipped into bed.

  Chapter Nine

  The fire was burning low. Sam selected the heaviest log she could find from the burnished copper bucket and dropped it carefully among the glowing embers, flinching slightly at the flurry of sparks. Once the yellow flames began licking the dried wood, she straightened up and her eyes were drawn for what felt like the hundredth time to the oversized vintage clock on the wall, subtly lit by one of the downlights. She glanced over at Nessie, who was standing behind the bar looking every bit as anxious as Sam felt. ‘We did say seven o’clock, didn’t we? On the posters and flyers, I mean.’

  Nessie’s eyes strayed to the clock too: it was eight-twenty. She sighed. ‘We did. I suppose that is the right time, is it?’

  Joss checked his phone. ‘Yep. Spot on.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Sam said, frustration bubbling in her voice. ‘What are they waiting for? A red carpet and a limo?’

  ‘Search me,’ Joss said, shrugging. He waved a hand at the trays of rapidly curling sandwiches on one of the long tables. ‘Want me to cover them up? No sense in letting them dry out.’

  Sam was about to agree when she heard the tread of heavy feet on the gravel outside. ‘Finally,’ she said.

  When the door opened, Sam almost groaned at the sight of Owen. It wasn’t that she wasn’t pleased to see him – far from it – but she had been hoping for rather more than one potential customer. ‘Hello,’ she said, peering out into the night. ‘You haven’t got half the village behind you, have you?’

  Owen stepped inside, shaking droplets of rain from his wax-covered coat. ‘No, but it’s a filthy night out there.’ His roving gaze took in the subtle lighting, the untouched buffet and the empty bar. ‘Am I the first?’

  ‘The first and quite possibly the last,’ Nessie said with a wry grimace, although Sam noticed her eyes lingering on his face. ‘What can we get you?’

  Owen hung his coat on the stand by the door. ‘I’ll have the Thirsty Bishop, please.’

  Joss had given both sisters lessons in pulling the perfect pint, to give exactly the right amount of froth to beer ratio in the glass. He’d made it look so easy that Sam was annoyed with herself when she didn’t get a flawless pint immediately. But Joss had turned out to be a surprisingly patient teacher and it wasn’t long before they’d got the hang of the pumps.

  Frowning in concentration, Nessie placed a foaming pint on the bar. ‘This one’s on the house,’ she said, when Owen tried to pay. ‘A thank you for making our grate so – er – great.’

  Owen looked reluctant to accept but lifted the pint to his mouth and took a long sip. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed this, Joss,’ he said at last, smacking his lips in appreciation. ‘Bottled beer just isn’t the same.’

  Joss nodded and once again, Sam was grateful for his expertise. It wouldn’t count for much if they didn’t have more custom, however. ‘Is there another grand re-opening tonight?’ she asked Owen. ‘Is that where everyone is?’

  He took another drink, then placed it carefully on the bar. ‘I did wonder if this might happen.’

  ‘What?’ Sam demanded.

  Owen’s dark-eyed gaze met hers. ‘What you have to understand is that they’re a funny lot in Little Monkham, a bit . . . set in their ways. They like things to stay mostly the same and – well, you’ve shaken things up a bit with all the changes here.’

  Sam couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Seriously? They expected us just to carry on with things the way they were?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘The men’s toilets flooded every time they were flushed.’

  ‘I know,’ Owen said reasonably. ‘I’m all in favour of what you’ve done. But the truth is, you’ve ruffled a few feathers along the way too, on birds that take a lot of smoothing down once they’ve been disturbed.’

  ‘You mean Henry Fitzsimmons,’ Nessie said, turning a resigned gaze tow
ards Sam. ‘I told you we should have kept the paintings.’

  ‘Oh please,’ Sam snapped. ‘That old goat needs to get over himself.’

  ‘I heard you had a little run-in with Franny too,’ Owen said, raising his eyebrows.

  Sam folded her arms defensively. ‘It was hardly a run-in. She started asking a lot of personal questions and I wouldn’t tell her what she wanted to know, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m surprised she let you out of the shop,’ Joss said, grinning. ‘Parcel tape is almost as good as duct tape for interrogation purposes, I hear.’

  ‘I know she can be a bit nosy but most of us have learned to humour her,’ Owen said. ‘The trouble is, she’s got a lot of influence among the villagers. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the reason no one’s here tonight – her and Henry.’

  ‘But that’s ridiculous!’ Sam burst out. ‘She’s the one who gave us this crazy deadline. And now she’s thrown her toys out of the pram because I didn’t spill my guts the moment she asked?’

  Owen took another sip of his beer. ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘And everyone else has gone along with it?’ Sam went on, feeling an incandescent bubble of rage growing bigger and bigger. ‘God, it’s like that TV show where the whole village of weirdos was played by the same three people.’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Nessie said. ‘What can we do to fix things?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. I might be barking up the wrong tree completely.’

  Sam turned to Joss. ‘What about you? Have you heard anything?’

  ‘They’d hardly tell me, would they?’ he said in a reasonable tone. ‘Besides, I’m not exactly Franny’s favourite person. She doesn’t approve of me.’

  Doesn’t approve of your love life, you mean, Sam thought, but she didn’t say it. To his credit, Joss didn’t seem in the least bit troubled by Franny’s condemnation. ‘A couple of the village women have asked about you, though,’ he added. ‘There’s a small chance they might be a little jealous.’