by Heidi Swain
‘Oh,’ I sniffed, pinching the end of my nose to delay the sneeze I could feel brewing, ‘that sounds promising.’
‘Yes,’ frowned Paul, quickly taking what looked remarkably like a giant step away from his phone camera.
‘Don’t worry,’ I told him, ‘I’m fairly certain you can’t catch a cold over the internet. Now, what’s this news? I could do with cheering up.’
Paul took a tiny step closer again and began to relay the exciting update.
‘The couple, Tanya and Mike, who own the hotel up the road from your dream beach . . .’
‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘I remember.’
‘They’re going to be looking for more staff in the New Year and I’ve put your name forward.’
‘Really?’ I gasped.
‘Of course,’ he tutted, evidently annoyed that I had doubted him, ‘I told you I would.’
‘Sorry,’ I mouthed, feeling suitably chastened.
‘Now, they’re looking for one person to work in the hotel, just domestic stuff I’m afraid, and someone else to maintain the grounds.’
‘Well, I can strip a bed,’ I told him, my head already filled with the scents and sounds of an Indian summer, ‘and I can work on my towel folding skills!’
‘It’s long hours, though,’ he said, ‘and only one full day off a week, so not all that much time for sight-seeing.’
He was clearly intent on reminding me that I was going to be working for a living and that if I didn’t pull my weight it would be his head on the block.
‘No problem,’ I reassured him, ‘after all the early hours working in Wynbridge in winter I’m sure I’ll be able to manage.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ he smiled, sounding mollified. ‘They would like it if you could commit to working for eight to twelve weeks to begin with, living on site, of course, with all meals provided. The wages are more like pin money really and the work will be hard but it’s as good a starting point as any.’
‘It certainly is,’ I told him, ‘just the sort of thing I was hoping for, although until I met you, of course, I had no idea how to go about finding it!’
‘Well,’ he grinned, sounding flattered, ‘one good turn and all that.’
‘Don’t forget,’ I laughed, ‘that it was your good turn that got us out of a pickle when you were here.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ he shrugged, ‘but the good publicity has helped get my career back on track and actually helped me get other things into perspective on a far more personal level.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ he said, ‘I’ve got great plans for a couple more community-based projects and events, so watch this space, Ruby Smith.’
‘Oh I will,’ I told him, ‘I will.’
‘Right,’ he said, running his hands through his hair, ‘I have to go. These celebrity customers won’t feed themselves. I’ll email you Tanya and Mike’s details and you can contact them directly, but please keep me in the loop.’
‘Will do,’ I nodded, fighting back the sneeze again, ‘and thank you, Paul. I just know this trip is going to be the start of big things for me!’
When I said that, I really, really deep down believed it, but by the end of the week, with the cold still firmly in situ in my poor blocked sinuses I was beginning to doubt I would ever be well again, let alone have the energy to pursue the ‘big things’ I had been hoping for.
‘Right,’ said Mum, looking at me with a fierceness I’d never seen before, ‘that’s it.’
‘What?’ I croaked.
‘You are staying here.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I coughed, pulling myself upright in my sweat-soaked bed, ‘I need to get to the stall.’
‘No, you don’t,’ said Mum, deftly flicking off my alarm clock and pushing me back under the duvet. ‘I’m running the stall today.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but she didn’t give me a chance.
‘Tom’s helping me set up this morning and then Ben’s coming along later. I had a great time the night you were playing Santa’s little helper, but Angela wouldn’t let me do much. Well, today she’s serving in the Cherry Tree all day, so it’s my turn to get stuck in.’
‘But,’ I protested. ‘there’s only one Saturday left before Christmas. The market’s going to be heaving!’
‘Good,’ said Mum, ‘you know I can’t stand twiddling my thumbs.’
‘I can’t just stay here and do nothing!’ I protested.
She took a step towards the door and shook her head. ‘Jemma said you’d react like this,’ she tutted, ‘so we’ve come up with a back-up plan.’
‘A back-up plan?’ I sneezed.
‘Yes,’ said Mum, looking at her watch. ‘We reckon you’re probably past the contagious stage but you certainly can’t go spluttering about in the café. If you feel up to it, and not for a few hours yet, mind, you can join Marie and Lizzie in the town hall and help out with the wreath-making session they’re running today.’
With my life deftly organised I collapsed back on to the pillows and slept through the best lie-in I’d had in weeks.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the three or four undisturbed hours of sleep had cured me of the common cold, but when I joined Lizzie and Marie in the town hall that afternoon my head was feeling a lot clearer, even if my mood was still refusing to reach the giddy heights that Paul’s help, and timely organisation, deserved.
Inside the cavernous hall the floor was awash with greenery and the level of chatter and laughter reached the lofty ceiling, competing with and easily beating the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby whose familiar voice was belting out of the little CD player and its inadequate speakers. Lots of townsfolk had already completed their wreaths and left them displayed in rows on the trestle tables we had used earlier in the month for the bake sale, and no doubt they would be back to collect them later when they had finished their shopping.
Even my still blocked nose could smell the luscious seasonal scents emanating from the clove-studded oranges and cinnamon sticks, and as I picked my way through the ruby-studded holly and trailing lengths of ivy I found myself wishing I had had the opportunity to sign up for one of the sought-after spots.
‘Hello, Ruby,’ said Marie, as she bustled past with a pair of pretty candles standing in a bed of mistletoe and laurel and carefully added them to the already burgeoning display. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better, I think,’ I shrugged, ‘although to be honest, it’s hard to tell.’
‘Well, at least it’s warm in here, love, and out of that miserable wind.’
‘Yes,’ I said, thinking of Mum shivering outside, ‘I suppose I better—’
‘If you’re even thinking of swapping places with your mum,’ she interrupted, ‘forget it. I’m under strict instructions to keep you in here.’
‘Fair enough,’ I smiled back, thinking I should have known that Mum and Marie would have already had their heads together. ‘Where’s Lizzie?’
‘In the back,’ said Marie, ‘helping out with the teas.’
‘I’ll go and give her a hand,’ I said, making a beeline for the kitchen. ‘I won’t touch anything,’ I said over my shoulder, ‘I’ll just carry the trays out and let people take the mugs and cups themselves!’
The kitchen was a buzz of activity and along with the hot beverages there were all manner of cakes and mince pies and some of Jemma’s iced and spiced buns, plated up and ready to pass around to the wreath makers.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Lizzie, echoing Marie’s words. ‘You know Steve was in earlier and he has a stinking cold as well. There isn’t anything . . .’
‘No,’ I cut in sharply, guessing where her supposition was heading, ‘there isn’t. Shall I make a start with these?’
Poor Lizzie didn’t deserve being snapped at like that, but I hated the way everyone jumped to conclusions. Simon, I had noticed the day before, was also sounding decidedly snivelly but no one had suggested that I had been going around
kissing him.
‘I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,’ said Lizzie a little while later, as I helped her stash the crockery ready for washing. ‘I didn’t mean to, you know.’
‘Oh I know,’ I said, ‘just ignore me. Blame it on the cold. It seems to have sent my usually sunny self heading for the door.’
‘Even so,’ said Lizzie, giving me a quick hug, ‘I know this whole business about working next to Steve every day has taken its toll.’
‘Has it?’ I frowned, feeling instantly defensive again.
I could feel myself bristling even though I didn’t want to.
‘Why don’t you go and make something for your mum?’ she suggested, clearly aware that she’d overstepped the mark. ‘It’s quietened down out there now and I’m sure she’d appreciate it.’
‘That sounds like a great idea.’
It seemed to take me an age to twist and bend the willow base into any kind of shape and in the end I decided to make one of the pillar candleholders that I’d seen Marie carrying about earlier.
‘Not as easy as it looks, is it?’ she smiled, passing me some lengths of ivy which I hoped would hold everything in place.
‘No,’ I puffed, ‘it isn’t.’
Carefully I began to weave the tendrils through and between the basic circle and it wasn’t long before I was brave enough to let go and see if it would keep its shape and stand flat. Fortunately it did, which was just as well because considering the silly mood that had descended I might have otherwise been tempted to launch it across the town hall in true Noah tantrum fashion.
‘These are pretty,’ said Marie, handing me some of the cinnamon sticks which had already been threaded on to wires so they could just be twisted into place.
‘Perfect,’ I said, spinning around the base and looking for the best spot to put them, ‘are there any of the oranges left? I rather liked those too.’
‘Just these small ones,’ she said, ‘although actually, they’d be perfect for a holder that size.’
Eventually I was finished and I was rather pleased with the result.
‘You always make it look so easy,’ I said to Marie, whom I had watched making simple displays and arrangements with alarming speed on her stall on the market. ‘And you do it so quickly!’
‘Practice,’ she said, tapping the side of her nose, ‘and a few tricks of the trade.’
Her jeans pocket began to vibrate to the tune of jingle bells and she pulled out her phone and groaned.
‘Steve’s had to go home early,’ she tutted, ‘that’s not like him at all. He needs the love of a good woman to keep him warm and happy. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s picked up flu rather than just a cold,’ she added, looking pointedly in my direction.
I couldn’t help thinking that after his searing kisses in The Mermaid he had very nearly had one.
‘He’s feeling rotten,’ she continued, when I didn’t say anything.
‘Good,’ I said childishly.
I was of course hoping he was feeling rotten about sending my emotions and mind off on a reminiscent roller-coaster but Marie didn’t know that and her head snapped up, pinning me with a fierce expression which would have been worthy of any mother bear who had just found her cub in dire circumstances.
‘I didn’t mean . . .’ I began, but she didn’t give me a chance to finish.
‘I know what you meant,’ she retorted. ‘I know it must be hard for you to forgive him for breaking up with you.’
‘No,’ I said shaking my head. Now it was my turn to cut in and explain that we’d worked things out between us. ‘No, I do understand. I always have . . .’ but she was having none of it and talked right over me.
‘But before you go around thinking Steve was the villain of the piece, you want to look a bit closer to home.’
‘Marie!’ said Lizzie, rushing in from the kitchen and looking ashen.
‘What do you mean?’ I frowned.
‘Marie!’ shouted Lizzie again.
‘Have a chat with your dad,’ she said, turning to walk away, ‘see what he has to say for himself before you keep on blaming my boy!’
I was dumbstruck, absolutely dumbstruck. I’d never known Marie to raise her voice, let alone have a cross word with anyone. Not even with Chris, and his behaviour after a session in the pub was enough to test the patience of a saint. No, whatever she was getting at about Dad wasn’t going to be good news or easy listening.
Chapter 24
It seemed to me that the only day the Smith family found ourselves alone together at home was on a Sunday, and Sundays, rather than being about bonding, rest and recuperation, were fast becoming more of a weekly flashpoint and the opportunity for arguments and accusations. Two Sundays before Christmas, thanks to Marie’s timely outburst, was no exception.
The comforting smell and warmth of yet another of Mum’s legendary meals was gently wafting up the stairs as I ventured out of my bedroom and drew myself up to my full height (all five foot four of it), ready to go into battle. At exactly that very moment I discovered Dad backing quietly out of his office, locking the door, checking it twice and pocketing the key. Furtive would be the best word to describe his behaviour.
‘What are you doing?’ I demanded. ‘Why are you locking the door?’
‘Ruby!’ he gasped, spinning around and clutching his chest while at the same time trying not to topple over the banister. ‘What are you doing, sneaking about up here like that?’
‘Sneaking!’ I reacted, sounding far more like Gollum than I intended. ‘I’ve literally just walked out of my bedroom and found you locking the office. You never lock the office. What have you got in there? Enough secret paperwork to topple the top brass or were you browsing through the cruise catalogues looking for the best one to surprise Mum with?’
Rather than bite back he just stood there looking tired and careworn.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked, my attitude well and truly kicked into touch.
‘No, of course I’m not all right,’ he shot back, ‘you just scared me half to death!’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said, stomping down the stairs, ‘but whatever you were up to, I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Where else would I be at this time on a Sunday morning?’
‘Because,’ I said, ignoring his question, ‘I want to talk to you. It’s important.’
Watching Dad competently slice and neatly plate up the roast pork while Mum haphazardly added piles of crispy potatoes and spoonfuls of scattering peas only served to make me acknowledge yet again just how very different to each other my parents actually were.
Dad would always sigh as Mum noisily flung pots and pans around the sink rather than stacking them tidily next to the dishwasher, but their relationship had always worked. Dad’s fastidiousness and Mum’s more devil-may-care attitude normally balanced out perfectly, but something was certainly awry now. Dad sounded more exasperated than amused by her antics with the veg and Mum was clearly right to feel worried about what was going on.
‘So what did you want to talk about?’ Dad asked once he had finished stirring the gravy and checking it met up to his exacting standards.
It didn’t matter how I put it or where I chose to start from, the conversation was all about the Dempster family so I fathomed I might just as well dive in and get on with it.
‘At the wreath making yesterday—’ I began as we took our places around the table.
‘I can’t believe you found the time to make this,’ Mum butted in, ‘it’s actually very good, you know.’
She had given my first attempt at foliage arrangement pride of place on the dining table where it stood with only the tiniest of wobbles as we ate our delicious dinners.
‘Marie helped,’ I explained, grateful for the easy way of easing into the conversation.
Dad shifted in his seat a little and let out a long, slow breath.
‘Well, she’s the expert,’ smiled Mum, her eyes flicking to Dad for the briefest second.
&
nbsp; ‘She certainly is,’ I pressed on, ‘the wreaths she made were stunning and I’ve no idea how they managed it, but between her and Lizzie everyone who attended went away with something to be proud of.’
‘As did you,’ said Mum with a quick nod to Dad who was concentrating on his plate as if his life depended on it. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to talk about, my love?’
I had to feel sorry for her really. She no doubt thought she was steering the conversation into safer waters when what she was actually doing was releasing the piranhas!
‘It was about Marie, actually,’ I said, spearing a potato and now keeping my eyes firmly fixed on my plate.
‘Oh,’ said Mum, a slight waver in her voice.
Dad said nothing.
‘And Steve,’ I added.
Still no reaction from Dad.
‘And me and Steve,’ I said finally, my voice rising.
‘What about you and him?’ Dad eventually asked, an edge of frustration already noticeable in his tone.
I swallowed hard, amazed that he still couldn’t bring himself to mention Steve’s name in the same breath as mine.
‘Marie seemed to think,’ I said tentatively, hardly believing that I was about to pick the potentially biggest bout I’d had with Dad since my move back to Wynbridge.
‘It’s a dangerous occupation that,’ he said. ‘Thinking can get you into all kinds of trouble.’
‘Marie seemed to think,’ I tried again with a sigh, ‘she seemed to think, that you had something to do with the way Steve and I—’ I faltered, not quite sure of the label to stick on the situation.
‘How you and him what?’ Dad frowned.
‘How Steve and I ended up before I left for university.’ I swallowed. ‘How we broke up.’
There, I’d said it, and probably made it sound like some silly pre-teen melodrama, but who cared. I’d said it.
‘If you’re suggesting,’ said Dad, ‘that I was in some way responsible for him ending your relationship—’
