To Pauline and Francis,
with love
Season’s Greetings!
Please join us for
Carols by Candlelight
3.30 p.m.
Christmas Eve
at St Mary’s Church,
Little Monkham, Shropshire
followed by a Festive Fayre
on the village green.
Mulled Wine – Roasted Chestnuts –
Warm Mince Pies
All welcome!
Chapter One
Eight-foot Christmas trees and sixteenth-century coaching inns did not mix, Nessie Blake decided, as she paused halfway across the Star and Sixpence bar to watch her sister put the finishing touches to the pub’s festive decorations. Sam was doing a great job but there was no escaping that the top of the tree she’d chosen was almost brushing the oak-beamed ceiling.
‘What do you think?’ Sam called, draping silver strands along the already-laden branches. ‘Christmassy enough?’
Nessie’s gaze took in the colour co-ordinated baubles, the thick strings of tinsel and cool white fairy lights; Sam’s eye for detail was second to none. ‘It looks great. Franny will be unhappy that there’s no star on the top, though.’
Franny Forster was chairwoman of the Little Monkham Village Preservation Society and she took her role very seriously. Christmas was the highlight of her year and she’d made sure everyone knew how important it was that everything was perfect. Both sisters had learned fast that she was not someone to cross.
Sam let out a short sigh. ‘But our ceiling is too low. I can’t magic a higher one out of thin air.’
‘Then why didn’t you buy a smaller tree?’ Nessie asked, feeling a little exasperated.
‘I told you, this was the last one they had,’ Sam said. ‘The guy said there were more arriving tomorrow but we couldn’t wait.’
They certainly couldn’t, Nessie thought; the village Christmas lights were due to be switched on in less than three hours’ time and the pub was acting as HQ. It simply had to have a tree, with or without a star, just as there had to be a mulled something to drink and mince pies to eat. Nessie drew the line at snow, though – Sam had been all for finding a way to blast the village green with fake whiteness but Nessie had refused. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t helping to set the scene – the odds on a white Christmas were slim.
‘Maybe Franny won’t notice,’ Nessie suggested, knowing how unlikely the idea was: the eagle-eyed postmistress noticed everything.
‘With a bit of luck, she’ll be distracted by our VIP,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sure I heard her say the Flames were her favourite band when she was a teenager. Although I’m not convinced Franny ever was a teenager.’
Nessie grinned. She’d seen pictures of the Flames in the seventies, when they were at the height of their considerable fame – they’d been very good-looking, especially lead singer, Micky Holiday. The band had recently finished a world tour so it was even more amazing that Sam had managed to call in a few old PR favours to entice him to turn on the Little Monkham Christmas lights; it turned out Micky had grown up in a nearby village and was only too happy to do the honours. If the object of Franny’s teenage desire couldn’t distract her from noticing Sam’s less-than-perfect decorations then nothing would, Nessie decided. ‘Where is Micky, anyway?’
Sam stepped back to admire the tree. ‘Tucking into a bottle of champagne in the guest rooms upstairs, staying out of sight so that he doesn’t give the game away.’
The identity of the mystery guest had been a closely guarded secret and not even Franny knew whom Sam had booked. The posters had hinted at a not-to-be-missed celebrity and the Star and Sixpence regulars had done their best to weasel the truth out of Sam and Nessie, without success. The rumours were that curiosity had been piqued in the neighbouring villages as well and a bumper crowd was expected. Nessie had to hand it to her sister – she certainly knew how to get people’s attention.
‘As long as he doesn’t miss it,’ she said, picturing the rock star passed out on the four-poster bed.
‘No chance,’ Sam said firmly. ‘Speaking of missing things, hadn’t you better get going? You don’t want to miss the post.’
She nodded at the envelope in Nessie’s hands: the paperwork for the Real Ale Drinkers’ Association Pub of the Year award. The Star and Sixpence had already won Regional Pub of the Year – now they were in the running for the biggest prize of all and a glitzy award ceremony in London beckoned. As long as Nessie posted the forms in time.
‘I’d better go. If I’m not back in half an hour, start baking the mince pies without me.’
Sam snorted. ‘Then Franny really would be furious. Burnt mince pies definitely won’t get her seal of approval. I’ll start mulling the cider instead.’
There was a queue in the post office.
Nessie shifted from one foot to the other and resisted the temptation to check her watch again. She supposed it was to be expected – there were only twenty-two shopping days until Christmas, the busiest time of the year for the postal service – but that didn’t explain why Franny was currently engaged in a seven-minute-and-counting conversation about the varied merits of goose fat with Mrs Glossop. She must know she had a queue of customers, so why wasn’t she moving Gossipy Glossop along with a firm but unmistakably final Franny smile?
The bell above the door jingled, suggesting the queue had just become longer. Nessie glanced around and her feeling of irritation melted away when she saw it was Owen Rhys. Even a year after they’d first met, Nessie still felt a jolt of electricity whenever she saw the blacksmith, an attraction that had only deepened as the months passed. She almost blushed when she remembered their last date – a romantic meal in a restaurant far away from the village that had ended in the kind of kiss that had steamed up the car windows to practically indecent levels. Yes, she thought now, as Owen’s dark eyes crinkled into a smile, it was safe to say things were hotting up between them. She was even starting to hope they might—
‘Next!’
Nessie’s head whipped around to see Franny frowning over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses. ‘Come along, Vanessa, I haven’t got all day and nor have you.’
Biting her tongue, Nessie stepped forwards and slid her bulky envelope through the gap at the bottom of the window. ‘Special Delivery, please.’
Franny zoomed in on the address. ‘Your Pub of the Year award paperwork?’
Nessie nodded. ‘It needs to arrive by Monday.’
‘You’ve left it to the last minute.’ The postmistress tapped at her keyboard, each click somehow resounding with disapproval. She sniffed. ‘But better late than never, especially with the might of the Royal Mail behind you. We’ll make sure it gets there on time.’
Nessie hid a smile. Franny’s fearsome reputation reached far beyond Little Monkham – she wouldn’t be surprised if the entire postal network was terrified of her – but underneath the older woman’s brittle exterior there was a surprisingly soft centre. Nessie knew she was proud that the Star and Sixpence was flourishing and felt she’d played no small part in its triumph. Even so, Nessie didn’t really want to antagonise her.
She handed over a ten-pound note, tucking the change and the receipt into her purse. ‘Thank you.’
The postmistress nodded. ‘You’re welcome. Is everything ready for later?’
Nessie thought of the starless Christmas tree, the unbaked mince pies in the kitchen and the VIP guest snoozing upstairs. ‘Of course,’ she said, crossing her fingers underneath the counter. ‘We’re all set.’
‘Good,’ Franny replied, her eyes gleaming. ‘The Little Monkham Christmas lights switch-on heralds the beginning of the fe
stive season. I hope you and Samantha appreciate its importance.’
Nessie smiled weakly. ‘We do, Franny. Now, I must be getting back. See you later.’
She hurried for the door, almost forgetting Owen was waiting in the queue. ‘No pressure,’ he murmured as she passed.
She threw him an agonised look but didn’t dare to stop, not with Franny’s gimlet gaze burning a hole in her back. Instead, she hurried out of the door and across the green, shivering at the hint of frost in the air. To quote her sister’s favourite TV show, winter was coming and it would arrive a lot sooner if the Christmas lights switch-on didn’t go exactly as Franny expected.
‘Three . . . two . . . one . . . ’
On the steps of the Star and Sixpence, perma-tanned pop veteran Micky Holiday hit the oversized switch in front of him and the village green lit up. The Christmas tree beside the pub burst into multi-coloured glory too and the crowd cheered.
Mickey leaned close to the microphone stand and grinned. ‘It’s officially Christmas! I hope none of you have been naughty? Because if you have I might have to—’
Next to the sound system, Sam dropped the microphone volume and swept up the music. The sound of Kirsty MacColl and The Pogues filled the air. Micky threw her an injured glance. ‘I wasn’t going to be rude. Anyone would think you didn’t trust me, Sam.’
Sam smiled as she handed him a steaming cup of richly spiced cider. ‘You forget how well I know you, Micky. Remember the time you mooned the Prince of Wales?’
Micky shrugged. ‘That was years ago. I’ve grown up since then.’
‘It was two years ago,’ Sam corrected with a laugh. ‘And I’m pretty sure rockers like you never grow up.’
Ruby Cabernet appeared at Mickey’s elbow. ‘I can vouch for that.’
Micky beamed in delight. ‘Ruby!’ he cried, sweeping her into a hug. ‘It’s been too bloody long.’
The retired actress smiled as he kissed her cheek. ‘Lovely to see you, darling. You haven’t changed a bit.’
‘Nor have you – still as glamorous as ever,’ Micky said, standing back to study her. ‘Although the cane is new. Been in the wars?’
Ruby pulled a face as she glanced down at the elegant walking stick in her hand. ‘I took a little tumble. Nothing serious, but these chilly December nights don’t help.’
Micky nudged her. ‘You need something to warm your cockles, my girl.’ He held out his mulled cider. ‘Wrap your lips around this.’
For a moment, it looked to Sam as though Ruby would take it, but then she shook her head. ‘Not for me, Micky.’
He pushed the drink nearer. ‘Go on, take it. It’s good stuff.’
Sam felt herself tense on the other woman’s behalf. Ruby had been teetotal for just over a month now and Sam knew every day was a struggle for her; both sisters had grown fond of their late father’s girlfriend and often talked her through the moments when she wanted a drink. Sam stepped forwards, intending to intervene but Ruby held up a hand. ‘It’s okay, Sam.’ She fixed Micky with an honest look. ‘You might not have changed, but I have. I’m not much of a drinker these days.’
A flash of comprehension crossed Micky’s face. He handed his cup back to Sam. ‘Thank God for that. It’s exhausting being a wild man of rock – sometimes all I want is a nice cup of tea, but do you think anyone ever offers me one?’
‘I’m sure you can get one inside,’ Sam said, feeling a rush of warmth towards him. ‘Tilly will sort you out at the bar.’
Micky gave Ruby a sideways glance. ‘I can bring you one out, if you like? I know going into pubs can be tricky.’
‘Goodness no,’ Ruby said, slipping her arm through Micky’s. ‘I might have given up the demon drink but I could never give up the Star and Sixpence.’
Sam smiled. ‘And we couldn’t do without you, Ruby.’
She watched as the two of them made their way through the entrance, which was festooned with fairy lights. Nessie hurried over. ‘Is that a good idea?’ she said, tipping her head in the direction Ruby and Micky had taken. ‘I thought you said he was a champion boozer?’
‘He is,’ Sam replied. ‘But he’s also been around the block a few times and knows a bit about addiction. As soon as he worked out Ruby was an alcoholic, he handed over his drink and asked for a cup of tea.’
Nessie’s gaze widened in surprise. ‘Really?’
Sam nodded. ‘He was actually the perfect gentleman.’ Her own eyes narrowed in thought. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a spark of something between them.’
Franny appeared before Nessie could respond. ‘Ah, there you are, Vanessa. I just want to make sure that you’re aware of your Christmas Eve responsibilities.’
Nessie exchanged glances with Sam. ‘What responsibilities?’
‘The landlord of the Star and Sixpence always attends our candlelit carol service,’ Franny said. ‘It’s a tradition that has been in place for more than four hundred years.’
Sam frowned. ‘But what about last year? Nessie’s name was over the door then too but you didn’t demand she went.’
‘Last year was different,’ Franny replied briskly. ‘You’d only just arrived and we weren’t sure how long you would be staying.’
Sam stared at her with mounting indignation. Franny had insisted that the pub re-opened on Boxing Day and then made sure none of the villagers actually came to the grand re-opening party. If there’d been any doubt about whether the sisters were staying in Little Monkham, it could only have come from Franny herself.
Nessie placed a calming hand on Sam’s arm. ‘I’d be happy to attend. I’m – er – not required to sing, am I?’
Franny pursed her lips. ‘It’s a carol service, not a karaoke evening. Joining in with the rest of the congregation will do.’
Nessie looked visibly relieved. ‘Then count me in.’
The postmistress glanced at Sam. ‘You’d be very welcome too, of course.’
‘I’ll be busy here, mulling the wine for all you thirsty carollers and making sure the Festive Fayre is under control,’ Sam replied quickly. ‘But I’ll hum a few Christmassy tunes while I’m doing it.’
Franny gave a stiff nod. ‘That will have to do, then.’ Her expression softened and became almost girlish as she glanced over Sam’s shoulder. ‘Now, did either of you see which way Micky went? I want to thank him personally for doing such a wonderful job.’
‘Of course.’ Sam kept her face perfectly straight as she pointed inside the Star and Sixpence. ‘I think he went that way.’
The older woman patted her hair as she hurried away. ‘Good. I wouldn’t want him to think we didn’t appreciate him.’
‘I think Franny has a crush,’ Nessie said, shaking her head. She glanced over at Henry Fitzsimmons, who had been stepping out with the postmistress for a few months now. ‘Poor Henry.’
‘Poor Henry?’ Sam almost snorted. ‘Poor Micky, more like. He’s about to meet the most intense old Flamer ever.’
‘I’ve got some news.’
Sam Chapman paused in the act of stirring her latte. Further along the bar, Nessie stopped loading bottles of wine into the fridges. They both looked at Kathryn Rhys, who was standing on the other side of the empty bar with an excited, apprehensive look on her face.
‘What kind of news?’ Sam asked. ‘The kind that needs bubbles or the kind that means we need to be sitting down?’
‘Bubbles, I think.’ Kathryn hesitated. ‘The band is going on tour.’
Sam grinned; Kathryn was Owen’s sister and lived in the cottage next door to the Star and Sixpence, helping him to care for his nine-year-old son, Luke. Kathryn played the violin with a band called Sonic Folk and they’d been getting steadily busier for months. A tour was a sign that they were more in demand than ever. ‘Definitely bubbles,’ she said. ‘Although eleven o’clock in the morning is probably too early for champagne, even on a Saturday.’
‘That’s great news,’ Nessie said, straightening up. ‘When do you go?’
‘Good for you, it’s about time you guys hit the big time,’ Sam said. She fired a covert glance at Nessie. ‘How has Owen taken the news?’
‘He’s pleased,’ Kathryn said. ‘And he won’t be solo parenting for long – Luke’s grandmother is coming to stay for a few weeks.’
Sam considered her careful choice of words; Kathryn hadn’t said ‘my mum’, meaning that the grandparent in question must be the mother of Eliza, Owen’s late wife. Sam sneaked another look at Nessie, who looked a little rattled, suggesting the inference wasn’t lost on her either.
‘How lovely,’ Nessie said. ‘It’s been a while since Luke saw her, hasn’t it?’
Kathryn paused. ‘A few years – she took Eliza’s death very hard. And Luke is so like Eliza that I imagine it must be difficult to see past the resemblance sometimes, which is probably part of the reason.’
‘Part of the reason?’ Nessie echoed, wondering how anyone could stay away from a child as lovable as Luke. ‘What’s the rest?’
‘She’s . . . ’ Kathryn hesitated. ‘She’s not the warmest person I’ve ever met, that’s all. Not what you’d call maternal. But she’s very capable and I know she’ll take care of my boys.’
Sam raised her eyebrows. ‘Owen is old enough to take care of them both, surely?’
Kathryn laughed. ‘Of course he is. But he needs to work, too, and school hours don’t lend themselves to working parents. Having Gweneth around will be a big help.’
‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ Nessie said. ‘You deserve a break too.’
‘Don’t forget us when you’re famous, will you?’ Sam teased. ‘You’re booked to play at our New Year Party – last night Micky Holiday was talking about coming back to join you.’
Kathryn’s mouth fell open. ‘Really?’
Sam nodded. ‘He’s taken a bit of a shine to Ruby, much to Franny’s disappointment. I think we might be seeing a bit more of him, actually.’
Christmas at the Star and Sixpence Page 1
