Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  Ella plumps for a sexy Red Riding Hood ensemble with a ‘country maiden’ corset and a slinky red hooded cape.

  Shona actually wants to be a Christmas tree.

  Charlie walks in just as Carol is considering a Snow White costume with a red skirt and a black, scoop-necked lace-up bodice. White as the driven snow it definitely ain’t.

  She flicks her eyes at Charlie. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Nice,’ he says, obligingly. ‘Let Bobbie try it on.’

  Carol’s smile freezes but she hands it over.

  I peer at Charlie as he rummages through the pile of brightly coloured fabric. What’s he trying to say, exactly? That I suit the slutty farm girl look?

  ‘This is more you,’ he says to Carol, holding out a slinky, black dress that sweeps the floor and is slashed to the thigh. It has a black and white chequerboard bodice and comes with a hairpiece that is sleek and black on one side and sparkly winter white on the other.

  He’s right. Carol will look fabulous in it.

  She frowns. ‘Isn’t that Cruella De Vil?’

  ‘Is it?’ Charlie’s oblivious to the drama he’s causing.

  ‘Yes!’ says Carol crossly. ‘Look!’ She tweaks the dalmatian puppy that’s supposed to peek cutely over the wearer’s shoulder.

  ‘Sexy, though,’ murmurs Charlie.

  ‘You think so?’

  He gives her a racy grin and she grabs the dress and holds it up against herself, peering at her reflection in the darkened window.

  I stare out at the mid-November gloom beyond the glass. All this Christmas Fayre palaver will be ultimately for nothing because once Charlie sees the accounts, there’s no way he’ll want to invest.

  And that will be that.

  End of the road for Spit and Polish.

  I catch Charlie’s eye. He grins at me, then at Cruella De Vil, and mimics wiping sweat from his brow.

  I smile back.

  Not so oblivious after all, then.

  Perhaps he’s beginning to see through the pretence, to the real Carol. The Carol who regards green issues in the workplace as costly codswallop and would never in a million years think an employee bonus scheme was a good idea.

  Later, on his way out of the office at five, he stops at my desk and asks if I’ve got time for a quick chat.

  ‘What, now?’ I look at him in surprise.

  ‘When you’re finished. Let’s grab a drink at that pub. The Grapevine?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I gather my things together. Maybe he has more ideas for the Fayre he wants to discuss.

  I dash to the Ladies on the pretext of clearing away the coffee mugs. I washed my hair this morning and left it down, and miraculously, it’s behaving itself for once, although it’s in dire need of a good cut. Also, I’ve been experimenting a little with colour, so I don’t feel quite so drab today.

  When I get back to the office, Carol’s sitting on my desk, chatting to Charlie.

  ‘Aha!’ She turns to me. ‘We need to go through the rotas for Christmas and New Year.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

  She shakes her head. ‘It’s only right we let the staff know as soon as possible so they can make plans.’ She turns to Charlie. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No problem.’ He looks at me. ‘Some other time.’

  Then he’s gone.

  Carol gives me a sly look that says, ‘Carol one, Bobbie nil.’

  God, I hate her.

  Let the staff know as soon as possible so they can make plans! As if …

  I settle down at my screen. ‘Right. The rotas.’

  I’m determined not to show I’m disappointed.

  I will not give her the satisfaction.

  Next day, after a lunch hour spent battling the Christmas shoppers on the High Street on a fruitless search for marzipan (Mum’s moved on from cross-eyed elves to Christmas cakes), I arrive back to find the office in cheerful chaos.

  The rest of Santa’s Little Helpers have arrived and are fighting over the remaining costumes.

  I’m hanging up my coat just as Steph says, ‘Snow White? What do you think?’

  Ella turns to me with a frown. ‘I thought you were going to be Snow White.’

  I’m confused. How did my costume end up back in the box?

  Oh well, it’s no big deal. I’ll wear something else.

  Except when I look in the box, there’s nothing left.

  Then I catch sight of Carol at her desk, eyeing the proceedings through her open door. She gives me a half-smile then emerges from her office holding out something that looks horribly like a Christmas pudding.

  My heart sinks. It has acres upon acres of puffed-up padding round the stomach area and skinny, stripy legs that dangle down. Completing this ‘hilarious’ little ensemble is an SAS-style hat in brandy butter yellow, with holly and berries perched on top.

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not wearing that. I draw the line at wearing a balaclava. Even for a good cause.’

  ‘Bah, humbug! Where’s your Christmas spirit?’ She smirks at me then drops the outfit on my desk and clips back to her office, humming ‘Jingle Bells’.

  A few minutes later, she emerges.

  ‘I’m going out. Bobbie, hold the fort while I’m gone. And check the proofs from the printer, will you? They’re on my desk.’

  ‘What a cow,’ says Ella when she’s safely out of the building. ‘Making you wear that.’ To Ella, dressing in anything less than perfect would be a fate worse than death. But I’m touched by her support.

  ‘Tell you what,’ she says, ‘You take my costume and I’ll go as a silver angel.’

  ‘A silver angel?’

  ‘Yes, I had a fancy dress party for my eighteenth. I’ve got the silver wings and everything.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you.’ I feel suddenly choked.

  ‘No probs.’ Ella shrugs. ‘We’ve got to stick together.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I’m on my way to Mum’s, the night before the Fayre, when Carol calls me on my mobile.

  ‘Oh, you are there. I thought you’d fled the country,’ she barks. ‘I’ve just had that dick of a caretaker on the phone, saying he can’t put up our banner because he’s got to be somewhere.’

  I think of mild-mannered Mike, who looks after the hall. He has gone out of his way to help me until now, so I know he’ll have a good reason – unless Carol’s rubbed him up the wrong way, of course. I’ve lost count of the number of suppliers she’s hacked off while I’ve worked for her.

  I suppose Shona and I could hang the banner before we decorate the tree. Except it’s after five and already dark. Plus we’ll need stepladders …

  ‘Do you want me to talk to Mike?’ I ask, holding the phone slightly away from my ear.

  ‘No need. I told him if that bloody banner isn’t in place above that hall door by nine o’clock on Saturday, I’ll personally see to it that he hasn’t got a fucking job to go to on Monday morning!’

  Nice.

  ‘Oh and by the way, Shona’s having a personal crisis so I’ll be doing the tree instead of her.’

  My heart sinks on both counts. ‘What’s wrong with Shona?’ I ask anxiously, thinking about her and Barry.

  Carol snorts. ‘Well, how would I know?’

  ‘Well, she must have mentioned – oh, never mind.’

  When I ring Mum’s bell, I can hear the Wombles Christmas song belting out at about nine million decibels from within.

  Mum comes to the door all flush-faced from the kitchen. ‘We’ve got everything packed up, ready to go. Come and look at the gingerbread men.’

  I follow her through, thinking, Who’s ‘we’? Oh God, please no …

  A booming voice, completely flat, hollers, ‘We wish you a Wombling Merry Christmas!’

  Bunty is standing at the counter with her back to us, ripping off sections of foil from a roll, wrapping things up and belting out Christmas songs at the top of her voice.

  Mum seems completely
oblivious to the racket. ‘I’ve done a dozen Christmas cakes.’ She indicates one of several large boxes on the kitchen table, packed with foil parcels. ‘They’re iced and everything.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s great, Mum.’

  ‘Come and look at these!’ orders Bunty, suddenly realising I’m here. ‘Haven’t you got a clever Ma? They’re going to sell like hot cakes!’ She laughs uproariously at her own joke.

  I go over and peer at the tray of gingerbread elves she’s wrapping in foil.

  ‘Wow.’ I’m very pleasantly surprised. ‘Well, I’d buy them, anyway.’

  The elves have cleaned up their act. They’ve gone from shifty jailbird to jolly party treat in the blink of a well-used icing bag.

  ‘We thought a pound each.’ Mum unscrews the lid from a bottle of vodka. ‘Have a drink.’ She sloshes some in a glass.

  I shake my head. ‘Better not. Got stuff to do.’

  ‘Oh, go on. Be a devil.’ She adds some lemonade and slides it across the table towards me.

  Mum hardly ever drinks. But her face is on fire and there’s a slight slur to her words. It’s That Awful Woman’s influence.

  ‘How much vodka have you had?’ I laugh.

  ‘This is the first.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Look.’ She picks up the bottle to let me see it’s almost full.

  ‘What’s left to do?’ asks Bunty.

  ‘Help The Boss decorate the tree.’ I groan. ‘Actually, on second thoughts—’ I grab the glass and take a swig, coughing as the almost neat vodka burns its way down my throat.

  Mum and Bunty help me carry the boxes out to the van and Bunty slips a couple of bottles into one of the boxes and gives me a nudge. ‘Homemade ginger cordial! Might cheer you up! Commiserations on having to spend the evening with old Vinegar Tits!’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I laugh. ‘The Boss?’

  Bunty nods. ‘Steph says she’s a miserable old Scrooge and no mistake!’

  ‘You know Steph?’

  ‘Know her?’ She barks a laugh. ‘Steph’s my daughter! She thinks you’re a bloody saint for putting up with old Frosty Features!’

  When I arrive at the hall, Carol’s already there, sitting on the edge of the stage, smoking furiously, her long legs in jeans scissoring agitatedly from side to side. The tree has been erected near the main door and gives off a glorious Christmassy scent.

  I sigh inwardly. Here goes.

  ‘How did you manage that?’ I nod at the tree.

  ‘I made Happy Harry bring it in.’ She drags on her ciggy and quickly exhales. ‘He did it without a murmur. Even found us a bucket. Then I got him to put the banner up.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘He wasn’t best pleased. Made up some lame excuse why he had to scoot off. But I gave him the evil eye and he did it anyway.’

  Oh God, poor Mike. ‘What was his excuse?’

  She shrugs. ‘Something to do with a nativity play? Said his daughter’s playing Mary.’ She laughs. ‘I mean, for Christ’s sake. The kid must be what? Seven or eight? I doubt we’re talking Oscar-winning performance here.’

  I start to say I think she’s missing the point but she leaps down from the stage and starts poking around in my box of decorations.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ She brings out a sad-looking fairy that’s had a dented wing as long as I can remember. ‘These are yours.’

  ‘Yes, I thought we could save money if I used my own and Mum’s. Can you help me bring in the rest of the boxes? Then we can get started.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ she says flatly. ‘My back’s playing up.’

  I grit my teeth.

  Yeah, right.

  She looks at me innocently. ‘Don’t want to be out of action for tomorrow, do I?’

  Fed up already, I go out to the van and start hauling boxes out, wondering how fast we can decorate this tree. Perhaps I’ll send her home to rest her bloody back, then I can do it myself.

  I’m trying to balance one box on top of another when a sliver of white suddenly floats past my nose.

  Then another. And another.

  Oh my God, it’s snowing!

  I set the boxes back down and stand there, staring up into the night sky, dizzily watching the flurry of snowflakes falling to earth. How’s that for timing? How wonderful if the hall gets a dusting of Christmas card magic in time for the big event tomorrow!

  My eye catches the banner that Mike has strung up above the door, welcoming one and all to our Christmas fayre. It’s impressively large; much bigger than I imagined. I peer at it through the gloom. The letters must be six feet high at least. That’s just what we need, a huge sign drawing in passing trade, so that all my sweaty efforts of the past few weeks will have paid off.

  I feel suddenly suffused with a warm glow of accomplishment.

  Everything’s done except for the tree. I’ve spoken personally to all the stallholders and they’ll be here from eight tomorrow morning to set up their stalls for the ten o’clock opening. Fingers crossed, it will be an event to remember.

  If it’s a success, I could even look into working as an events co-ordinator.

  I’ve worked fourteen-hour days and I’ve been so stressed at times I’m surprised my hair hasn’t started to fall out. But every time the workload threatened to overwhelm me, I would remind myself of Fez’s words: Even if it fails, no one’s actually going to die.

  Fez is great, I think suddenly. Always so caring and brilliant at coping when I have a meltdown.

  By the time all the boxes are in, Carol is sitting cross-legged on the floor by the tree, surrounded by tinsel and my family’s eclectic mix of tree decorations, collected over the years.

  She raises Bunty’s ginger cordial. ‘Hope you don’t mind. I found it in one of your boxes.’

  I look doubtfully at the bottle. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘Quite nice actually. Want some?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not keen on ginger.’

  She takes another swig and starts untangling a rope of multi-coloured Christmas lights. ‘These are new.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’ I look at her in surprise. ‘I bought them last year. But how did you know?’

  She shrugs. ‘They’re the only thing I don’t recognise.’

  I laugh and pick up a mini Santa and sleigh that I must have had for about twenty years. ‘You remember this?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I remember all this stuff.’

  I stare at her in astonishment.

  ‘We had a stupid blue tree in our house,’ she says suddenly. ‘Blue! Imagine! And we were never allowed to put it up until a few days before Christmas.’

  A memory pings into my head. ‘You hated that tree. So you used to come round and help me and Mum decorate ours.’

  She nods. ‘It had to be the first day of December, remember? Not a day earlier. Not a day later. And it was always a real tree from that farm in the next village.’

  ‘Where they had that Santa’s Grotto with fake snow and real reindeer?’

  ‘And hot apple juice with cinnamon and gingerbread elves.’

  I laugh. ‘Gingerbread elves? Of course. I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘I remember everything.’ She takes another long swallow of ginger cordial, gives the bottle an appreciative glance and passes it to me. I shake my head and she sets it down, leans back on her elbows and gazes up at the tree.

  She looks so relaxed.

  ‘What do you remember?’ I never realised our little first of December ritual meant so much to her.

  ‘It was so exciting at yours.’ She’s transfixed by the tree. ‘The start of Christmas, really. Your mum always gave us homemade sausage rolls, warm from the oven, and lemonade. Always lemonade. But the real stuff with actual lemons so you had juicy bits floating in it. That was amazing.’

  ‘Gosh, yes, you’re right.’ I laugh, remembering. ‘And she’d buy us all an advent calendar and we’d race to finish the decorations so we could open the first window.’


  ‘Yeah, they didn’t have chocolates in them in those days.’ She swings round and glares at me. ‘Did they?’

  I automatically tense up. Is that a trick question? Is she about to crucify me because I forgot to source advent calendars to sell at the Fayre?

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think they did.’

  ‘Did what?’ she asks vaguely, as if she’s forgotten what she said.

  ‘Have chocolate in advent calendars in those days.’

  She laughs and lies flat. ‘It didn’t matter, though, did it? Just opening the window and seeing a star or a robin or something was a thrill in itself.’

  I nod. ‘Simple pleasures, eh?’

  ‘I always used to run round to your house on Christmas afternoon.’

  ‘It was cupboard love.’ I sit cross-legged on the floor beside her. ‘You were after Mum’s cake.’

  ‘The icing!’ She pulls herself up to a sitting position. ‘She always put those little silver balls round the edge and a robin on the top.’

  ‘And she made up a stocking for you.’ I haven’t thought about any of this for years.

  ‘A stocking. Yes.’ She lies flat on the floor again, stretches her arms up and lets them fall. ‘Christmas,’ she mumbles to herself. ‘Ha!’

  I stare at her.

  Oh my God, is she tipsy? Is that why she’s so relaxed for a change?

  I look at the bottle. It’s almost empty. Too gingery for my liking but Carol certainly seems to be enjoying it.

  I take a cautious sniff but all I can smell is ginger. ‘I love the traditions of Christmas.’

  Discreetly, I slide away the bottle, out of her reach.

  There’s a long silence as we both stare at the tree.

  Then Carol says grumpily, ‘The only Christmas tradition in our house was Dad sleeping till lunchtime after his corporate festive do the night before.’ She turns in my vague direction. ‘Did you know we kids had to tiptoe round on Christmas morning. And open our presents in virtual silence in case we woke him up?’

  ‘Mum still invites you, you know.’

  It’s true. She does. She’s the only person in the world who thinks the Cold War is just a blip and Carol and I will eventually be great mates again. But only if I stop being her employee.