by Karen Clarke
‘Hi,’ said Marnie, giving me a sympathetic smile, as if she understood how overwhelming it was to be thrust into a room of strangers. She was about my age, with a smooth curtain of brown hair I instantly envied. ‘I’m only here because my grandmother, Celia, has a dog-training session today, and wanted me to represent her,’ she said. ‘I actually live in Wareham with my fiancé.’ She pushed over a tray of pink and white coconut ice, just like my grandmother used to make. ‘These are mine, if you’d like one.’
Impressed, I helped myself to a cube. ‘It’s delicious,’ I said, as the flavour hit my taste buds, bringing back more happy memories.
‘Marnie makes the sweets herself,’ Doris said, dabbing the corners of her mouth. ‘She had to really, after that woman’s campaign.’
The air around the table grew chilly.
‘Campaign?’ I recalled Alfie mentioning the sweet shop being threatened with closure, and it being something to do with the previous owner of my cottage. My cottage. I hadn’t got used to saying it, yet.
‘Isabel bloody Sinclair.’ Jane had adopted a doom-laden voice, and a disapproving murmur ran around the group. ‘Thought she was a cut above us right from the start.’
‘She’s the lady who lived next door?’ I made my voice extra warm, as if compensating for the awfulness of Isabel Sinclair.
‘That’s right.’ The voice from the head of the table belonged to Barry Lambert, still wearing a bandana over his collar-length grey hair, like an ageing punk. He’d been silent since his wife left the room, but I sensed his impatience to get back to the important business of the day. ‘She had a dog called Pollywollydoodle.’ He said it with a lip curl, leaving no room for doubt about his opinion of the dog. ‘It dug up our garden, the little… mutt.’
He cast me a baleful look through heavy-lidded eyes, as though it was all my fault.
‘Well, I don’t have a dog, and I’m definitely not planning to close down anyone’s business,’ I chirped, widening my smile until my cheeks hurt. ‘And I can assure you I’m very normal and down-to-earth.’ I inwardly cringed. People who were genuine didn’t need to announce it. And was it normal to move somewhere new on a whim? Alone?
‘Of course you are,’ murmured Doris, surreptitiously scribbling something in a notebook. I caught a question mark next to my name, and the words whereabouts in London?
‘East Finchley, born and bred,’ I whispered.
Colour shot to her cheeks and she snapped her notebook shut. ‘Just taking the minutes,’ she said.
‘So, what do you do, Lily?’ asked Marnie, delicately.
I flashed her a grateful look. ‘Well, I…’ I took a breath, wishing I’d invented a cover story for why I was in Shipley that didn’t sound like something from a soap. ‘I was a primary school teacher…’ I stopped, as a ripple of interest shot round the table.
‘Isn’t that strange, when we were talking earlier about Miss Anderson leaving school at the end of term?’ said Sheelagh, returning with a mug of brick-coloured tea, which she placed in front of me, before moving to place her hands on Barry’s shoulders.
‘It must be a sign,’ said Jane, with a delighted nod at the woman sitting next to Dennis.
‘Jill Edwards,’ she said, with a brisk but friendly nod. She looked to be in her forties, with solid features, and thick blonde hair cut just below her ears. ‘I’m head teacher at Nightingale Primary School.’ She’d been absently picking at a sausage roll, but now fixed me with a determined gleam. ‘You should come for an interview, Miss Ambrose.’ I smiled, recognising the unconscious teacher-habit of formally referring to adults. ‘I expect you’ve got references?’
‘Actually, I’m not teaching any more.’ I was keen to put a stop to this line of conversation, unwilling to relate the story of my humiliating classroom confrontation with Max’s wife, which had lodged itself so firmly in my mind it was as if a shutter slammed down whenever I thought about stepping in a classroom again. ‘I’m writing a novel.’
‘Ooh, how exciting!’ squeaked Jane, and I dragged my gaze from Jill Edwards’s thwarted frown. ‘What sort of novel?’
‘Well…’ Hellfire. ‘It’s… I… I haven’t quite decided yet.’
‘My grandmother’s always got her head in a thriller,’ Marnie said, sweeping her fringe to one side. ‘And my friend got me into historical fiction. She’s mad about Victorian London.’
‘Sounds great,’ I said. Historical. I hadn’t thought about that.
‘You could do another Fifty Shades.’ Jane leaned over, colour staining her cheeks. ‘Something steamy, maybe set in Texas. I’ve always had a soft spot for Texans. And cowboys.’
Dennis’s eyebrows quivered, as if it was the first he’d heard of it.
‘You know what they say about men in big hats.’ Jane gave a lascivious wink and shoved Doris again.
‘I think you mean big hands,’ Doris said.
She turned crimson when the newsagent, Mr Flannery, said with a smirk, ‘You’re a dark horse, Doris. I take it Roger was handy with his truncheon, back in the day?’
‘Awful man,’ Doris said in an undertone, which the newsagent clearly heard as his already thin lips tightened further.
‘Ex-cuse me.’ Barry’s hand slapped the table, making everyone jump.
I picked up my mug and gulped some tea as Barry’s meaty hands bunched into fists. ‘Can we please get back to the agenda?’
‘Everything was decided at the last meeting,’ said Doris, flipping to a previous page in her notepad, and reading from it. ‘All decisions approved by the council. The school choir, licences for the market stalls, PA system, stage and canopy organised, and the event’s been advertised via local press, posters, newsletter, Facebook and Twitter—’
‘Yes, yes, but we still haven’t found anyone to switch on the Christmas tree lights and announce the winner of the best house display.’ Barry looked about to explode with frustration.
‘Isn’t it a bit late for turning on the tree lights?’ I ventured. ‘I mean, the ones near where I used to live were switched on in November.’
‘Therein lies a story,’ said Doris, arching her slender eyebrows.
Barry gave a heavy exhalation, as if the thought of explaining was too much. ‘It’s a long-held tradition that the tree lights are switched on on the thirteenth of December,’ he began, but was interrupted by Jane.
‘For decades, a tree was donated every year by a long-standing Shipley resident called Harold Fletcher, who would turn on the lights himself on the last day of November at the Christmas Festival, as it was called then.’ She spoke in the manner of someone reading an exciting story to a small child. ‘But, one year, the lights mysteriously went out on the thirteenth of December at five o’clock on the dot. Poof!’ She flicked her fingers to demonstrate. ‘No reason that anyone could discover, and no one could get them to come back on.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Turned out Harold Fletcher died in his bed at the very moment the lights went out, and as a mark of respect they get switched on by a VIP at the exact same time, every year.’
‘Amazing,’ I said, as Jane sat back with the satisfaction of a tale well told. I suspected a dodgy power connection had been to blame – and guessed Doris did too, from the sceptical way she was tapping her pad with her pen – but there was no denying it made a good story.
‘I was just admiring the displays outside,’ I said, into the contemplative silence that had fallen. ‘Are you all taking part?’
‘Not all,’ said Barry. ‘Just me, him’ – he gave Mr Flannery a glowering stare – ‘the Jensens…’
‘That’s the Frozen house,’ said Jane, her tone admiring. ‘So clever.’
‘…but they’ve got high-powered jobs in Poole, so probably won’t be at the ceremony, again,’ Barry continued, ‘and them two.’ He nodded to a harassed-looking couple, each cradling a baby.
‘Ours is the gingerbread house,’ said the woman, who looked like she hadn’t slept for months, let alone had the energy to create a themed C
hristmas display. ‘Twins,’ she added, seeing me looking. ‘This is Jules.’ She tipped the swaddled bundle so I could see a thatch of black hair.
‘She’s lovely,’ I said, banishing an image of Max stroking my hair one evening, talking about how he’d like us to have children of our own one day.
‘It’s a boy,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Julius, after my grandfather.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Heat rushed to my cheeks.
‘And this is Robbie.’ The harassed man, who also had dark circles under his eyes, tilted his twin forward, revealing a small curled fist.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ I said.
‘She’s a girl.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘Roberta, after my grandmother.’
‘Anyway,’ said Barry, stretching the word out. ‘There’ll be no point having a stage and a PA system if there’s no one to switch on the flipping lights and announce who’s won the best house display.’
‘He’s in a paddy, because he’s hoping it’ll be him,’ said Mr Flannery, darkly. ‘He’s got no chance.’
‘What’s the prize?’ I said quickly, as Barry turned furious eyes on him.
‘A Christmas hamper, a fifty pound donation to a charity of the winner’s choice by our sponsors, Blake’s Estate Agents, and a weekend away at a Hudson Country House Hotel,’ Mr Flannery reeled off.
‘Nice,’ I said.
‘Bit of a palaver last year,’ Doris said to me. ‘Rumour has it Mr Flannery knew the judge and bribed him with a promise of free Mars bars for a year.’
‘That’s not true.’ Mr Flannery’s pale cheeks reddened. ‘Reverend George is a man of the cloth and not open to bribery. And, anyway, he prefers KitKats.’
‘Maybe you should have online voting instead,’ I suggested. ‘You could all send in a photo to the local paper, which they could upload onto their website. The public could pick their favourite and whoever’s switching on the lights could announce the winner.’
The Trappist silence that fell was broken by a burp from one of the twins.
‘Pardon me,’ whispered his harassed mum.
‘It’s a good idea, but apparently it wouldn’t be traditional,’ said Jill Edwards, making quote marks, and I guessed she’d suggested it before. ‘All this silliness is why I’m not participating this year.’
‘Well, I’m not taking part in the competition either,’ said Jane, ‘but we still enjoy it, don’t we, Dennis?’ Her husband swallowed his mouthful of chicken drumstick and nodded.
‘It’s a shame Mr Hudson pulled out at the last minute,’ she added. ‘He’s a fair man, as well as being very good-looking.’
‘Who’s Mr Hudson?’ I whispered to Doris.
‘The local hotel owner who donates the winning voucher,’ she whispered back. ‘He decided to go on a cruise, but forgot to let us know until about a week ago.’
‘Donal Kerrigan would have done it, if he hadn’t had other commitments,’ Sheelagh volunteered. She was by the dresser, rearranging some ivy-patterned crockery, clearly not as invested in the topic as her husband was.
‘Donal Kerrigan from Morning, Sunshine!? I said.
‘Oh, yes.’ Marnie gave a sweet smile. ‘He’s got a soft spot for Shipley, but his daughter’s getting married next week, in Ireland.’
‘We don’t need a celebrity,’ said Barry. ‘Just someone impartial.’ He glared at Mr Flannery as if he’d like to bump him off. ‘Someone who can’t be bribed.’
‘You’re just a sore loser.’
‘I won the year before,’ Barry said, pushing out his chest.
‘Only because I had a power cut,’ growled Mr Flannery. ‘There’ll be no chance of that this year. I’ve got a back-up generator.’
‘Here we go again,’ said Jill, sitting back with a sigh. ‘I can’t believe I gave up an hour of my time for this.’
‘Isn’t it very expensive to run all these lights?’ I chimed, hoping to distract them.
‘LED,’ Barry said, still glowering at Mr Flannery. ‘You can run a thousand lights for the price of a hundred watt bulb.’
‘Wow.’
A flurry of voices broke out.
‘They still cost a lot to buy though.’
‘All that flashing’s enough to bring on a migraine.’
‘I heard the Jensens paid someone to do their Frozen theme.’
‘Let’s face it, they can afford it with their high-powered jobs.’
‘Annabel Williams, from Number 11, wanted to get a petition to cancel the competition, but no one would sign it.’
The voices grew louder, and as Sheelagh moved around the table, refilling everyone’s mug from a giant teapot, an idea crept into my head.
‘I have a friend who works for a talent agency in London,’ I said, employing the voice I used to use when dealing with pushy-tiger mothers. ‘I could see if we could get a proper celebrity to switch on the lights and judge the house displays.’
A hush fell over the room, as if I’d summoned a spirit.
‘Why didn’t you say so before?’ Barry gave me an aggrieved stare. ‘Go and give her a call, and tell her it’s urgent.’
Chapter Four
Before I could respond to Barry’s demand, a barrage of questions broke out.
‘What sort of celebrity?’
‘Will it be a proper one?’
‘Can you ask for a comedian?’
Jane leaned across Doris and gripped my forearm. ‘Could you actually get him?’
‘Him?’
‘Jamie Wotsit,’ she said, a feverish light in her eyes. ‘The one who played Christian Grey.’
Doris tutted. ‘I’d prefer that nice man from Midsomer Murders,’ she said, patting her hair. ‘Barnaby Rudge.’
I compressed my lips.
‘You mean John Barnaby,’ said Jill Edwards, who’d been observing proceedings with an increasing air of irritation. ‘Barnaby Rudge was a Charles Dickens character.’
‘I know that,’ Doris huffed. ‘And I meant Tom Barnaby, if you must know.’
‘Why does it have to be a man?’ Mr Flannery sat forward, bony shoulders hunched. ‘What about that actress from Mamma Mia!?’
Marnie shot him an incredulous look. ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a musical lover.’
‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘But I like that Meryl Streep.’
Meryl Streep? ‘I’m afraid it’s not—’
‘Oh, I love her too,’ said Sheelagh, nudging a stool between Doris and me and wriggling her bottom onto it. ‘I loved her in Pretty Woman.’
There were several stifled snorts around the table, and one of the twins started to grizzle.
‘Sorry,’ said Harassed Mum, unbuttoning her shirt. ‘He needs a feed.’
‘I’m afraid it won’t be an A-list actor,’ I said, deciding to get it over with.
‘Who, then?’ demanded Barry, averting his gaze from the suckling twin. ‘A news presenter?’ He might as well have said toilet cleaner. ‘Or someone from a boyband?’
‘Ooh, our Calum’s a huge fan of One Direction.’ Jane’s beaming smile returned. ‘I like the one with the hair.’
‘Didn’t they break up?’ queried Marnie, glancing at her watch.
‘Only some of them.’ Sheelagh shifted her buttocks. ‘Or am I thinking of Take That?’
I was already starting to regret my impulsive suggestion. ‘It’s more…’ I hesitated, sensing they wouldn’t like what I was going to say. ‘Reality stars.’
‘Reality?’ Barry pulled in his chins. ‘You mean some loser who’s been in the jungle, eating a kangaroo’s arse?’
‘Barry!’ Sheelagh admonished, giving me an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sure they’re not all losers.’
‘A lot of them have been in films and television dramas,’ I pointed out, keen to calm ruffled feathers. ‘I’m sure I could book one of those.’
‘And how much will it cost to get one of these reality stars?’ Barry was scanning a printout through narrowed eyes. ‘Donal Kerrigan was going to do it for free.’
‘How much?’ Barry repeated.
‘Don’t hassle her when she’s just saved our skins,’ said Mr Flannery, looking as if he’d like to punch Barry on the nose.
‘I’m sure I can work something out,’ I said, deciding that if there was a fee I’d pay it myself.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ As Sheelagh gave my arm a motherly pat, I glanced down to see Marmite nestled on her roomy lap, his green gaze filled with contempt. I hadn’t much experience of cats, but he didn’t seem to like me.
‘Give him a rub,’ Sheelagh suggested, fondling his ears.
Worried he’d scratch me if I tried, I said, ‘I’m good, thanks.’ I scraped my chair back, banging my knees on the table as I stood up and squeezed out of the tiny space. ‘I’ll go and give my friend a ring now, and I’ll let you know.’
‘Sooner rather than later,’ grumped Barry.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Sheelagh qualified.
‘Lovely to meet you, Lily.’ Marnie gave a little wave as I backed into the hall and grabbed my coat.
‘Don’t forget to pop my basket back, dear, I’m in all day tomorrow,’ Doris called, but the last word belonged to Jill Edwards.
‘Let me know if you change your mind about an interview.’
* * *
‘I don’t think we’ve anyone available,’ said Erin, five minutes later, as I drew the curtains in the cottage and switched on a couple of lamps. The air felt chilly after the hothouse atmosphere at the Lamberts’, and I crossed the living room and turned the heating up. ‘Most of them are working, or going away for Christmas.’
‘It’ll only take a few hours to turn on some Christmas tree lights and judge a few houses,’ I said. ‘Half a day, tops.’
‘These things are usually booked ages in advance.’ On the other end of the phone, Erin sounded distracted, and I remembered that business wasn’t too good since a colleague had opened her own agency, taking their best clients with her. ‘And, with respect, Shipley’s the arse end of nowhere.’
