by Jo Thomas
Maeve shudders. ‘Can’t go there! No downstairs loo! There’s no dignity in having to take a Portapotty and having to sing loudly if I need to use it to stop anyone walking in on me! Bloody chair! My bloody joints! Taken all the joy out of life.’
‘Well, there you are. Come on, let’s get back to the guesthouse,’ says Pearl. ‘Maybe a spot of lunch in a bit will cheer you up.’
‘How was your first trip to the markets?’ asks Anja, when we arrive. She invites us into the small dining room where the smell of soup wraps around us like a warm hug. There are cold meats and cheeses too. And a tray of gingerbread biscuits beside a large pot of coffee. And although my stomach is knotted with excitement from this morning’s date and the prospect of tonight, it rumbles at the sight of lunch.
‘Noisy,’ says Maeve, clearly not pacified by the smell of the soup and freshly baked bread.
‘Sorry,’ I say, not sure whether Maeve is talking about the New Town or my stomach.
‘Ah … you went on the train to the New Town,’ Anja says, understanding.
They all nod.
‘Did you find something there to eat and drink?’
They take turns to complain about the cost of food and how it wasn’t quite what they wanted.
‘I just wanted a hot chocolate,’ says Alice, ‘but there was so much cream and so many marshmallows, I’m not even sure I got to the hot chocolate.’
‘You like hot chocolate?’ says Anja, smiling. ‘Have some soup and a sandwich, then come with me,’ she says. ‘Let me take you for hot chocolate.’
When they’re revived by potato soup and bread, and despite their reluctance to go back outside into the cold, Anja ushers everyone through the heavy wooden door, with its large green wreath, onto the cobbled side street, where the weather has turned bright and cold. She guides us into the market square, waving to stallholders as she passes. They clap their hands together, blowing into them, and wait expectantly for customers to welcome to their red-roofed wooden chalets, hoping to make some sales today.
‘This is Elias.’ Anja holds out a hand. ‘He’s been coming to the market for years,’ she says. ‘His father was here before that.’
He waves from behind his stall where he is selling wooden ornaments and nutcrackers in the shape of soldiers, large and small. Next to him a stall offers rows of scented candles, which could certainly brighten my little house back home. Glass baubles hang from the ceiling of another, and I can see moulds for Christmas cookies across the square. There are handmade leather bags, hats and gloves, golden amber or silver jewellery, and food stalls selling all sorts of festive treats: flavoured vodkas, honey and jams, homemade chocolate and spicy salamis. The owner of a stall with an open fire is cooking fish, while another is grilling bratwurst, big fat juicy sausages. The seller waves his long-handled tongs at Anja as we pass. The smell of cinnamon and spices, and a hint of vanilla, fills the air as we pass a bar setting up, advertising glühwein, red, white or rosé, and spiced apple juice.
I think about the eggnog I had with Heinrich. I liked the idea of it more than the taste. I make a note to tell Sam about it, when we’re back. He’s very keen to hear about my progress. I get a twinge of homesickness. Not for the house, or my job, but for Sam and being with him. I think about him with Amy, his girlfriend, and smile, happy to know he’s found love. Is it Sam I’m missing or am I missing love in my life, being with someone who wants to be with me? Someone to cook for, share the household chores with and battle with over the remote control. I haven’t shared everyday life with a partner in a long time. It’s the little things I miss, having someone to talk to as I stir the Sunday-lunch gravy, hearing the news from the papers as he reads through his Facebook feed and sorting the recycling together as the truck comes round. Someone who remembers I like doughnuts, I think, and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
We walk on. ‘And that is Christian! Serves the best hot chocolate in the whole of Germany!’ Anja’s round face lights up.
‘What’s that space for?’ I point to an empty area in front of the clock tower, by the big Christmas tree, which must be ten foot high. ‘Were you let down by stallholders?’
‘That’s where the ice rink will go,’ she says, in a lowered voice. ‘It’s supposed to be a big surprise.’
‘Why the surprise?’
‘Well, we like to keep our main attractions a secret until the big day. The Sunday before Christmas.’
‘How will people know to come if it’s a secret?’
‘That is a problem but, you see, we don’t want news of our plans getting out.’
‘But why?’ I’m confused.
‘Come, let’s get hot chocolate and I’ll explain.’ She guides us towards the covered area, by the hot chocolate. I can’t help but draw in the smell. It reminds me of something I can’t quite put my finger on, but I like it. Something missing in my life. Something that feels a lot like homesickness.
In the bakery shop, just off the market square, William’s head throbbed. He held the bandana wrapped around it with one hand in the hope it would pass. With the other he pressed the phone to his ear, keeping an eye on the oven behind him and wishing he could get back to his work. He had just made a batch of royal icing that would now be hardening. He’d have to start again.
The tirade he’d been listening to at the other end of the line ended and the line went dead – he’d barely managed to get a word in. He sighed and hung up too. When had Christmas become so stressful? He just wanted to see his son, that was all. Why did it have to be a battle every time he spoke to Marta? Why did she hate him so much? His life had changed overnight when she’d left with their son. It was like his family had been stolen from him and with it any dreams for the future he might have had. Were they ever going to find a middle ground? He doubted it. The Christmas spirit had long since got lost in all of this.
He looked down at his dog, which was in the back room, away from the shop and the ovens, looking up at him loyally. It barked, making William smile. He thought about Heinrich’s visit, about him sneezing before he’d even seen the dog and, once again, pointing out that he could report him to health and safety officials for having a dog on the premises. He needed to make sure that didn’t happen. His dog was all he had right now, that and the shop, and the chance of putting things right for the town on Sunday. He bent down and rubbed his friend’s head. Always there when he needed him.
He walked back into the shop and looked out the bay window towards the market square, the empty space that would hopefully put this market back on the map and draw the crowds back to the Old Town. He could see Anja, sitting with a group of people under the wooden-roofed terrace, by the open fire, passing around blankets from the backs of the wooden chairs. In the New Town everyone stood around high tables to socialize with friends. You could get more people into a bar area that way, but here, his father had insisted, people wanted to sit by a fire with a blanket and everyone had agreed.
As he watched Anja, he realized she was with the group of people from the UK he’d met earlier that morning, after Heinrich’s visit to the shop. Once again, he’d come to make an offer to buy it. And this time, it wasn’t half as insulting as the last. It had certainly given him food for thought. His only mistake was telling Marta about it when he’d rung to talk about Noah. She’d goaded him, saying he wasn’t doing anything to make things right between them. She couldn’t understand why he was hesitating, why he hadn’t just accepted the offer. It had come from Heinrich’s father, William knew, so why couldn’t he just give in and walk away from the business that was barely making him a living these days? But something was stopping him: he just wanted one last chance to prove to his wife, his family, that he could win the town baking contest, to put things right where he’d let them down in the past and bring the cup home to the Old Town. Then, if he did have to sell to Heinrich, he could leave knowing he’d brought the cup home at last and that the market was thriving.
The ice rink was his last attempt. He’d borrowed agai
nst the shop to pay for it, and in the new year, he’d have to start repaying the loan. If it didn’t work out, he’d be forced to accept Heinrich’s offer and he really didn’t want to think about that.
He carried on watching the group by the fire, drinking hot chocolate. And then he looked closer. There was that woman again. The one who’d been here to meet Heinrich. She was with them. Why would she come all the way to Germany to go on a date with a man she’d clearly never met before? Love, dating, relationships … It was a mystery to him and not something he planned ever to get mixed up in again. Right now, he’d stick to baking and trying to get his show-stopping cake finished for Sunday. All he wanted was to show his son the best he could do and hope his boy understood why he’d found it so hard to walk away. Baking was all he knew. If he wasn’t a cake-maker, who was he?
His dog barked again.
‘Okay, okay, Fritz,’ he said, knowing the dog wanted to go out for some air. He couldn’t help but think that Fritz wanted him to get some air too. Maybe it would shift his banging headache. He’d start the royal icing again when he got back. It was going to be a late night if he was to finish his sculpture on time. But he had to. He had to win this year. He had a lot of people relying on him. He couldn’t let them down again.
TEN
‘How long has the market been here?’ Pearl asks, as I watch her hand round mugs of hot chocolate.
‘Well, for as long as I can remember,’ says Anja. ‘It was a part of our growing up. Christmas began when the market stalls and lights went up, leading to the big tree being lit on Christmas Eve. After that we brought the smaller trees into the houses. But, of course, Christmas is very different from when I was a child.’
‘Tell me about it,’ says Alice, as Pearl gives her a mug.
‘I used to love coming here with my grandparents. They ran the guesthouse then, and my parents after that.’
‘Elsie’s parents ran a guesthouse too,’ says Pearl. ‘Our friend,’ she explains to Anja. ‘The one whose ashes we’ve come to scatter. She was sent to London to learn English and work in a hotel there. She never went back. But she loved Christmas, and the traditions. She said Christmas always brought happiness and magic into people’s lives.’ We all take a moment to think about Elsie.
‘The Christmas market has always brought families and friends together as well as customers and visitors to the town. But now … not quite so much.’
‘Why’s that?’ asks Pearl, sitting down, pulling a blanket over her knees, wrapping her hands around her mug and breathing in the deep, rich aroma rising on the curling steam. I do the same. Its bitter yet sweet smell is the perfect combination, unlike that of the eggnog, which was sweet on sweet. Sometimes you need some bitter to balance the flavour.
I pull out my notebook and make a note of the chocolate’s flavour to post to my Facebook baking friends. It’s a friendly group. There’s no upset or arguing like in other Facebook groups, just a bunch of people who like baking. We talk about flavours and recipes, and share experiences. It’s been a godsend to me. It feels like I’ve found where I fit in, even though I’ve never actually met any of them. I love talking cake. Cake was my lifesaver when Tom announced he wasn’t happy and had met someone else. I found myself watching reruns of Bake Off, then making cakes, loads of them. When I couldn’t sleep I got up and baked. When I thought I was going mad and couldn’t see the wood for the trees, I baked. When getting out of bed every day was a struggle, I baked. It wasn’t the eating that was the thing, it was the making. While I was baking, I was focusing on the job in hand, the weighing, the timings, the decorating. I wasn’t thinking about the pain inside.
But as the cakes piled up I realized I had to do something with them and started handing them out with the meals I delivered. It became a real ice-breaker with residents I hadn’t really got talking to before. John barely spoke after his wife died, but he did enjoy my sponges and Welsh cakes with a cup of tea in the afternoons. Their teatime was when he missed her most, and since she’d died, he’d stopped it. My cakes made him feel life was getting a little bit of normal back into it, he told me. It became a focal point in his week: I made a delivery and he’d brew a pot of tea and eat the cake. He’d put two cups on a tray, and I’m not sure if one was for his wife or me but I stayed and drank the tea anyway.
In fact, I drink a huge amount of tea on my rounds. It seems the least you can do is stay for a cup of tea and a chat. My boss, Islwyn, owner of Meadowsweet, is always telling me off for taking too long on the rounds. But I can’t not stay. I just wonder what’ll happen when he sells the business: his recent heart attack has made him realize he needs to retire before he ends up in sheltered housing eating his own awful ready meals. I would have given anything to take it over but I can’t, not now my money’s all gone and there’s no chance of getting it back. My hackles rise. It’s not the money, it’s the fact that someone stole from me, stole my dreams, my plans, my happiness … took me for a fool.
‘We’re struggling because people prefer the New Town now …’ Anja considers it. ‘I guess they love the bright lights and bands. They have big laser light shows, big band names, bigger every year. The fair is getting bigger, faster rides. They’ve done well ever since …’ She changes the conversation. ‘How’s the hot chocolate?’ she asks. Everyone nods, except Alice, who is lost in a world of her own, staring down at her china mug, her eyes filling with tears. I don’t think she’s happy to be here at all and I feel bad. Maybe we should just go home. I nudge Pearl and nod towards her. Pearl looks concerned.
‘Tell me about the castle, Anja,’ I say, trying to distract Alice.
‘It overlooks the two towns. You can see.’ She points up to it, just below the church on the hill above us. ‘The owner, Wolfgang Richter, loved the Christmas markets. He lived for this time of year. It’s because of him we have the cake competition, for all the problems it has created.’
‘Really? I thought it sounded fun.’
‘It was supposed to be. But it is way out of hand. Everything now rides on it. People’s livelihoods. When the New Town began to spread outside the city walls and over the bridge, he loved the two markets but couldn’t decide which he loved the most. So, when he died, he left a sum of money in his will. Every year the two markets compete to be better than the other and bring more customers to our towns. And on the Sunday before Christmas, this coming Sunday, the final one in Advent, there is a bakery competition. He loved all types of cake, you see. So, the town’s top bakers produce their creations to celebrate Christmas and the markets. The best market, and the best Christmas cake, wins the pot of money towards next year’s market.’ She smiles tightly.
‘And do you usually win?’ asks Norman, soaking up the atmosphere around the fire, the white fairy lights strung all around beginning to shine in the cold afternoon as the day starts to darken.
Anja’s smile drops. She looks at Christian, the hot-chocolate-seller, whose head shakes. ‘Sadly, no. We have not won for a while.’
‘Ten years,’ Christian joins in. ‘It is the Cologne curse.’
‘The what?’ I ask.
‘We used to win every year,’ Anja explains. ‘Our village baker was the best around. Him and then his son.’ She has a twinkle in her eye. ‘He used to have a business partner, but they went their separate ways. The partner wanted to get bigger premises, grow the business, use modern techniques. They parted, arguing, having resolved nothing. The cake competition became a battle of honour between the two. Our baker, here in the Old Town, his creations were wonderful. Everyone came to see what he would bake next. There would be whispers and ideas all around the town. Then each year it was revealed and the crowds would pour in.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, the son was asked to go to Cologne and work with a master baker there, doing celebration cakes for celebrities and the wealthy, and big sculptures for events. Extreme cakes! ‘We won the year he left, but then the old baker’s wife died.’ His son came back, took ove
r the shop and threw everything he had into making the annual cake. But somehow nothing worked. From then on, the New Town has won, their cake getting bigger and better every year.’
‘Like their market,’ says Christian, tipping hot chestnuts into cones and handing them around for us to try.
Anja shrugs. ‘It is the Cologne curse. Since Joseph’s wife died, and his son went to work away, it’s as if the spirit of our market has disappeared.’
‘So …’ I say quietly, putting two and two together, ‘your baker, Joseph, and his son …’
‘William, who runs the bakery now.’ She points towards the cobbled street where I met Heinrich. I feel a prickle run over my skin. He’s the son who went away and came back. The one Heinrich has offered to buy out. ‘And what will happen if you don’t win again this year?’ I ask.
‘The market,’ Anja sighs, ‘will close. There just isn’t enough money to keep putting it on. If we could have won one year, and got the money from the will, it would have been different. But nothing stays the same for ever. The New Town keeps winning so has more and more money to put into their market, and their competition pieces get bigger and bigger every year.’
We all sit with our thoughts for a while. Heinrich’s creation is happening now behind closed doors, away from the bustling market. I look around at the gentle pace of the market we’re sitting in and feel sad for Anja and the stallholders.
‘Well,’ I say, noticing that Alice is still looking glum, ‘maybe we should be getting back into the warm.’
Alice looks at me. ‘Not on your nelly! This is the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had! And I’m not leaving until I’ve had another!’
After a moment’s stunned silence we all burst out laughing.
ELEVEN
Alice draws another long breath and shuts her eyes, then opens them slowly. I see tears.
‘Sorry, silly I know …’ She sniffs and rubs her nose quickly.
