by Heidi Swain
‘Any sound of wedding bells on the horizon?’ I asked on her behalf.
It was Jemma who shook her head and sighed.
‘Oh yes,’ she said sadly, ‘they’re chiming away, aren’t they, Lizzie, but always a little too far over the horizon for my liking!’
‘Oh please,’ sighed Lizzie, rolling her eyes, ‘not this again.’
‘Have I put my foot in it?’ I winced, inwardly cursing Bea and her contagious one-track mind.
‘No,’ said Lizzie, taking a long sip of wine, ‘not really.’
‘Ben keeps asking her,’ cut in Jemma without a care for whether or not her best friend was happy for us to be privy to such personal information, ‘but she won’t commit.’
‘Thanks for that, Jem,’ said Lizzie.
‘Why ever not?’ gasped Bea, with as little tact and diplomacy as Jemma.
‘Because I just don’t need it,’ answered Lizzie with a shrug, ‘I couldn’t possibly be more in love or more committed to the relationship. A ring and a piece of paper certainly won’t change how I feel, so why go to all the bother and expense?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m shocked.’
‘Why?’ laughed Lizzie.
‘Because, I always imagined you and Ben would have the perfect wedding. Something the rest of the world would aspire to. Something simple but unique, a bit quirky and eccentric, you know?’
‘Exactly,’ cut in Jemma crossly. ‘This is one wedding I’ve been looking forward to helping plan for years, but she just won’t have it!’
‘It’s typical, isn’t it?’ said Bea, shaking her head and looking wistfully out at the view. ‘All I want is a proposal and I haven’t had one, and all Lizzie wants is to keep things as they are and yet Ben trails about behind her on bended knee!’
‘Yes,’ sighed Lizzie, with a little smile. ‘It is rather ironic, but cheer up, Bea, I’m sure there’s plenty of time for us to both get our happy ever after.’
‘You probably think I’m shallow, wanting the bother and expense of a wedding as you put it,’ sniffed Bea, ‘but it’s what I’ve always dreamt of.’
‘Not at all,’ said Lizzie, reaching for her hand, ‘everyone’s different. The world would be a boring place if we all wanted the same thing, wouldn’t it?’
‘And what about you, Ruby?’ asked Jemma, focusing everyone’s attention on me. ‘Do you think there’s any chance that you and Steve will find your way back to one another?’
‘God, no,’ I said with a little shudder, ‘absolutely not and I’m not even going to bore you with the ins and outs as to why. The only relationship I want right now,’ I said firmly, raising my glass and encouraging the girls to do the same, ‘is with a one-way plane ticket out of Wynbridge.’
Bea didn’t look as if she believed a single word but for once, thankfully, decided not to contradict me.
Our afternoon of culture, after a leisurely look around the market, where Jemma picked up an excellent idea for Christmas baking kits we could sell on the stall, involved a trip to the Castle Museum’s special exhibition. I was delighted that the old mechanical knight, a firm favourite with school trips, was still in situ outside the gift shop. After a quick scrabble for coins, we were able to see him and his little doggy companion spring into life before we headed back to the station to catch the train back to Wynbridge.
‘I can’t believe we crammed so much into one day,’ laughed Lizzie as the train bore us back towards the Fens.
‘It feels like we’ve been away far longer,’ agreed Jemma. ‘Thank you, Bea, this is just what I needed. I feel more than ready to face the Christmas chaos now.’
Bea didn’t say anything and when we all turned to look at her we found her fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of her perfect proposal and dream wedding.
Chapter 19
Two mornings later and with our day trip already feeling more like light years away than mere days, Jemma presented me with a batch of bespoke Kilner jars, not dissimilar to those we had seen for sale on Norwich market.
‘What do you reckon?’ she asked. ‘I think they’ll sell like hot cakes, especially ahead of the bake sale on Saturday, but for some reason Lizzie isn’t quite so sure.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I said, holding one of the jars up to the light to admire the cleverly layered contents, ‘these are gorgeous. Of course they’ll sell.’
Every jar contained the correct measure of dry ingredients to make a batch of Christmas cookies, gingerbread men or Jemma’s trademark seasonal biscuits. Lizzie had added her own flourish by attaching pixie-sized cookie cutters tied on with a festive ribbon decorated with presents, snowflakes or plain red gingham. Each jar also came with its own holly-shaped instruction label so baking success was pretty much guaranteed!
‘With the bake sale just days away I can’t imagine we’ll have any left by Friday,’ I told her.
‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ said Jemma, ‘I thought we were on to a winner, but Lizzie has made me doubt the idea. Anyway, I’ve kept a couple back in the café for customers to see and Tom has taken some to work and school, so hopefully word will soon get round and we won’t have too many left over.’
‘Oh, what have you got there?’ asked Jude, rushing over to have a look. ‘I thought I spied some new stock.’
Jemma explained what was inside the pretty jars and Jude’s face lit up.
‘Can you put aside one of each for me, please?’ she asked.
‘One of each!’ laughed Jemma, quickly passing me three to stash under the stall.
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Jude. ‘I’m pants in the kitchen, but Simon’s mother is a baking queen. If I can pull these off she might actually think I’m not starving her son after all!’
Jemma and I giggled as Jude walked back over to her stall.
‘Actually,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘can you save another three?’
‘What, six in total?’ I called after her.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘three for me and three to give away. They’re so pretty, they’ll make perfect presents.’
‘What did I tell you?’ I said, turning back to Jemma. ‘They’re a hit already!’
Sales of everything began to pick up that week and the Kilner jars were an unmitigated success. In fact, as I looked around the market I could see that everyone was busier. Hanging up and opening a few doors on the advent calendars had clearly had quite an impact and galvanised the population of Wynbridge, along with the rest of the world it seemed, into a present buying and gift wrapping frenzy.
I also couldn’t help but notice that along with the increased footfall through the market, lots of the stallholders were now offering more festive items and Bob and Shirley’s ‘presents for pets’ range was proving hugely popular. I hoped the sea change was, at least in part, down to the suggestions I had made when I first arrived in town.
‘You all set, then?’ asked Lizzie, as she joined me early on Saturday morning ahead of the tree auction and bake sale.
‘I think so,’ I told her, handing over the money belt. ‘I hope you’ve got your thermals on under that coat.’
‘Oh I have,’ she said, ‘and Angela’s going to swap places with me at ten so I’ll have a chance to thaw out when I’m crafting with the kids.’
‘And where’s Ben?’ I asked, ‘I thought he was going to help you out.’
‘Um,’ she frowned, ‘he was, but he’s come over all lumberjack at the sight of all the trees and has decided to help Tom with the fetching and carrying instead.’
Jemma had decided earlier in the week that as she was going to be baking in the town hall and Lizzie would be running the crafting sessions for the children, it would be better all-round to close the café again. It was an incredibly generous gesture, especially given how busy the town was going to be, but she was thrilled to be able to ‘give something back’ to the townsfolk who had supported her and Lizzie ever since the Cherry Tree opened its doors.
‘So,’ I said, ‘let me get this straight. ‘The caf�
�’s closed, you and Angela are juggling the stall between you, Jemma’s baking and Tom and Ben are helping out with the tree auction. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Lizzie nodded. ‘And Noah and Ella are with my mum and dad. They’re playing the role of token grandchildren as I have yet to provide them with any of their own.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I see.’
‘Yep,’ she smiled grimly, ‘bring on the guilt!’
Perhaps I wasn’t the only daughter in town who had family issues after all, and talking of which . . .
‘I think you’re wanted at the town hall,’ said Dad, ‘some of the WI ladies would like a word before they open the doors.’
I had spotted him a little earlier, skulking about and having a discreet look at everything. With his collar turned up and his hat pulled down it was obvious that he was going out of his way to make sure he wasn’t noticed.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘thanks.’
Our brief conversations had been chillier than the weather since he had tried to convince me to leave the market and I couldn’t imagine the situation was likely to thaw before I left town now.
‘I saw some of these on the tables in the hall just now,’ he said, picking up one of the Kilner jars and examining the contents. ‘They’re a rather good idea, aren’t they? And these are lovely too,’ he added, pointing at Lizzie’s collection of Christmas stockings.
I stood rigid with shock rather than the cold and unable to form a coherent response.
‘Thank you, Mr Smith,’ said Lizzie, ‘I made those myself.’
‘Wonderful,’ Dad nodded.
He took a step back and looked about him again, taking in the predominantly testosterone-fuelled group striding about amongst the diverse collection of trees that had been delivered for sale and then at the much-enhanced market and light display.
‘This is how I remember it,’ he said wistfully. ‘Granted the stalls might be a bit different, but when I was a boy the town was always as busy as this, even on a week day.’
‘Well this is what we’ve been working towards, Dad,’ I said, finally finding my voice, ‘this is what we were hoping to do for the traders and the town in time for Christmas.’
‘You’d better get to the hall,’ he said croakily, ‘time’s pushing on.’
I didn’t have time to dissect his comments and reaction, but even without pulling it all apart I knew something was seriously wrong. When we had spoken about the market at home he had been almost scathing, but faced with our efforts and the reality of it all there was a definite warmth and fondness for all he saw and it just didn’t add up.
I rushed over to the town hall and the scene that met my eyes as I crossed the threshold was breathtakingly beautiful and enough to make me forget all about Dad’s moment of nostalgia. Ordinarily the building was reserved for monthly auctions and the odd civic reception, but today it was full of noise and colour and excitement. Marie had kindly supplied huge displays of festive foliage and hung tendrils of ivy from the snowy cloth-covered tables that were gradually filling up with plates full of festive bakes and treats.
There were iced and decorated cakes in abundance, gingerbread houses with stained-glass sweetie windows and, my favourite of all, a table at the end of the hall which had been set aside for the playgroup and schools contributions. This particular table was packed and I knew that some poor soul was going to be responsible for judging the wonky-eyed Santas and clumsily decorated trees. I didn’t envy whoever was going to be given that particular task at all.
Lizzie’s crafting corner was filled with Christmas-themed templates, brightly coloured card, glitter in every available colour and pots and pots of sequins, snowflakes and googly eyes. All in all, the scene looked set for a truly wonderful day and I was relieved that my afternoon on Bea’s sofa watching cheesy films had turned out to be worthwhile after all.
‘Miss Smith!’ called one of the WI ladies from the doorway of the kitchen. ‘Could we just have a quick word?’
‘Of course,’ I said, joining her, ‘but please call me Ruby.’
The kitchen was packed full of women from the WI and had I not seen the scene with my own eyes I would have considered any description of it as extremely exaggerated, but it wasn’t and I couldn’t help but smile as I imagined this sort of thing being played out in town and village halls up and down the country.
‘We just wanted to say,’ said the woman who had called me over, ‘that we all think this is going to be a great day for the town.’
‘Well I hope so,’ I said, the colour of my face turning from flushed to seriously scarlet.
‘And that we’re very grateful that you came up with the idea,’ piped up someone else.
‘Well,’ I said, staring at my shoes.
‘We all know that it was you who got Paul Thompson to turn the lights on,’ said another, ‘and that’s made all the difference to the town.’
‘Well everyone’s pulled together,’ I said, hating every second of their praise and just wanting to melt into the background. ‘But thank you for your kind words,’ I added as they each bustled back to their tasks. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘How about that then?’ said Mum with a smile as she pulled on her apron and set about gathering ingredients for the morning session. ‘You are honoured if the WI ladies have taken note of your efforts!’
‘Here,’ said Jemma, passing me my Cherry Tree apron and bringing me back down to earth with a bump, ‘can you come and give us a hand? We’ve had about thirty families sign up to bake altogether so there’s a fair bit to get ready.’
‘As many families as that,’ I gasped. ‘Wow, I had no idea!’
‘I know,’ she grinned, ‘but that means it’s going to be heaving. The WI and church ladies are going to be serving teas and coffees from the urns in the corner of the hall for health and safety reasons as much as anything else, and that will free up all this space for us to bake in.’
‘But it’s still going to be an awful squeeze,’ I said looking around and trying to imagine thirty families crammed into the kitchen.
‘They aren’t all going to be baking at once!’ Mum laughed. ‘We’ve split them into smaller groups, given everyone a timed slot and allowed a few minutes either side for washing up.’
‘And the biscuit and fairy cake decorating will be happening out in the hall,’ Jemma said pointedly, ‘when they’ve cooled down a little, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I nodded, feeling foolish for imagining that she would be anything other than meticulously organised. She even had regimented rows of name badges and matching Post-its so everyone would know who had baked what.
‘Is this what you imagined?’ she asked. ‘When you came up with the idea, is this how you imagined it would happen?’
‘No,’ I said truthfully, ‘not really. I just thought we would bake with a few children, the locals would contribute cakes and there would be a sale, much like what’s happening in the square with the trees. This is way and above what I hoped for.’
‘Well that’s good,’ she smiled. ‘There’s nothing so satisfying as when a plan comes together!’
She had of course spoken about ten seconds too soon. Just as I looked up and spotted Steve hovering awkwardly in the doorway there was an almighty crash and a collective cry of what sounded like about a thousand women’s voices.
‘I told you that shelf wasn’t strong enough!’ shouted one.
‘We’ve lost the lot!’ cried another.
‘What are we going to do now?’ contributed the majority.
The upshot of the situation was that someone had filled a tiny table with what looked like every egg that had been laid in the land during the last week and above it, on a less than sturdy shelf, were balanced the bags of caster sugar and flour. When the shelf inevitably collapsed the bags landed on top of the eggs, smashing practically every one and the entire scene was now covered with clouds of the snowy contents which billowed far and wide.
‘Oh no,’ groaned J
emma, ‘this is a disaster. We’ve only got an hour until the first bakers arrive.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Steve, rushing in, ‘honestly, we’ll sort it. Ruby, you come with me. We’ll go and buy more supplies while you lot scrape up the mess and dry the floor.’
Abandoning my apron as I went, I begrudgingly followed Steve out of the town hall and back to the market.
‘Let’s try John the butcher first,’ he called over his shoulder as he set off at a pace, ‘he always has trays of eggs.’
‘Right,’ I said sulkily, trailing behind in his wake.
‘Look,’ he said, suddenly stopping dead and spinning around so quickly that I almost walked straight into him, ‘I know you hate me and I dare say you’ve got every right to, but this is a genuine crisis, yes?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, looking everywhere but up at him.
‘And between us we can sort it, yes?’
‘Oh all right, yes,’ I said, trying to forcibly turn him back round, ‘point taken, now can we please just get on?’
For the next sixty minutes we raced between the market, the shops and the town hall, depositing supplies and feeling ever more grateful that we had been anywhere other than on our hands and knees in the kitchen trying to clear up the sticky mess that didn’t seem to want to shift at all.
As the first bakers arrived and with the smell of disinfectant hanging in the air and the floor still drying, we offloaded the last few boxes and bags and threw ourselves down at a table to catch our breath.
‘I only came over to see if everything was good to go,’ panted Steve, ‘and that you’d all got everything you needed.’
‘Well,’ I puffed, ‘to be fair, when you arrived, we did have.’
‘True,’ he smiled, ‘at least the rugby coach can’t moan that I’ve missed out on training today,’ he added. ‘He was already fed up I’m missing the match.’
‘Why aren’t you playing?’ I asked.
‘Because of the auction,’ he explained, ‘I always spend the day helping out shifting the trees.’
