Christmas at the Dancing Duck

by Daisy James

  Christmas songs played on a continuous loop and a spurt of spontaneous singing broke out from the wreath-making table when the mums from the baby and toddler group decided to join in with a chorus of ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’.

  The Cranbury Brass Band arrived and caused great hilarity among the school choir as they tuned their instruments, their giggles interspersed with the words ‘fart’ and ‘burp’. However, they nearly didn’t get to play at all after the tuba player couldn’t understand why his enormous instrument wasn’t emitting the right notes during a rendition of ‘Joy to the World’, only to find on further exploration that some Smart Alec had stuffed a Christmas cupcake down the horn.

  The barn filled with the aroma of crushed pine needles and spices from the mulled wine Leon had prepared. Kirstie studiously avoided visiting the food table, yet she still had to steel herself when she caught a whiff of the warm mince pies and her emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Her mum and dad would have loved to have been a part of the festivities and it wasn’t the same without their smiling faces among the crowd.

  Then she thought of Olivia and Harry and Ethan; their absence too had left a huge gap in the day that no amount of jovial yuletide banter could fill. She made her excuses from the glass-painting table and dashed into the bar to take refuge in the privacy of the bathroom and allow her tears to fall.

  Would she ever be able to conquer her memories or was it simply the Christmas celebrations that intensified the pain?

  ‘Kirstie? Are you in there? Are you okay?’ called Emma from outside the door.

  ‘I’m fine. Be out in a minute.’

  ‘It’s okay to get a bit emotional, you know. Christmas does tend to do that to a lot of people. Do you want to take a break? Why don’t you go up to the flat for half an hour? We can hold the fort?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine.’ Kirstie blew her nose, combed her fingers through her curls, and plastered a smile on her face before opening the bathroom door to her friend. ‘Everything’s going really well, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s amazing. We’ve made twice as much money as last year already and there’s still an hour left to go. All the food has been sold and Leon reports that the brasserie is fully booked tonight.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  Kirstie swallowed down a surge of emotion and resolved to focus on her gratefulness at having such good friends to walk by her side when life got tough.

  ‘Come on.’ Emma linked Kirstie’s arm and together they trotted back to the barn. ‘Judging starts in a few minutes. Wouldn’t want to be in Kate’s shoes. Some of the entries in the glass-painting competition are fabulous.’

  Kirstie took a tour round the barn to see what Kate was up against. People she had known all her life stopped her to ask for her opinion on their works of art or to express their sadness at the sale of the Dancing Duck. Not one person made reference to her enforced sabbatical from Kirstie’s Christmas Kitchen. Despite her escape to the capital, she still felt like she was an integral part of the village community, accepted for who she was, regardless of her public declaration as the Grinch personified. And the fact that she was dressed in a borrowed Fair Isle sweater with minimal make-up didn’t matter to anyone.

  Not everyone had chosen to enter their masterpiece in the competitions, preferring to indulge in an hour or so of creativity for a bit of fun or to donate their works of art to Reverend Clarke to decorate the church hall. Extended families had come to make a day of it: grandmas, granddads in wheelchairs, cousins, uncles – everyone part of one big Cranbury family.

  And at the centre of everything was Josh. Tall, handsome, confident in his own skin, patiently helping a small boy glue his pompoms onto a cardboard ring and attach a ribbon so it could be hung from a wire for judging. The boy’s eyes widened when he saw it alongside all the other wreaths and he flung himself into Josh’s arms for a hug of thanks, the boy’s mother patting Josh’s arm in gratitude for saving the day.

  Without pausing to draw breath, Josh moved on to the wrapping paper table. He swung a chair round to sit astride, gently removing a huge potato from the crooked fingers of an elderly lady wearing a burnt orange beret and matching winter coat fastened up to her neck. He murmured instructions as he carved out the design she wanted, then stamped the potato into a plate of bright green paint and handed it to the woman who proceeded to carefully decorate her large sheet of brown paper with a Christmas tree shape. A smile of pride stretched her cheeks when she had finished her masterpiece and Josh pegged it on a washing line to dry.

  Josh returned the smile, relaxed and cheerful, completely in control of everything that was happening. He was clearly happy, at ease in his surroundings. A jolt of regret shot through Kirstie. What would have happened if she had stuck to the plan to go travelling with Josh as he had wanted instead of using her grief as an excuse to stay? However, when she had eventually overcome the debilitating dive in her self-belief, and realized that she could still live without the safety net of her beloved parents, Josh had been long gone.

  Was she as happy as Josh so clearly was? She wasn’t sure of the answer.

  ‘He’s a godsend, isn’t he?’ said a deep voice in her ear.

  ‘Oh, hello, Reverend Clarke. Yes, yes, he is.’

  ‘Remember when he dragged you out of the way of that rampaging bull when you were canoodling in one of Angus’s fields that summer? Josh can certainly be credited with saving you from serious injury! I know you would expect me to say this, Kirstie dear, but someone was certainly looking down on you both that day.’

  Kirstie didn’t want to think about that gloriously sunny summer when every day seemed to be tinged in a gold glow and she had spent every waking moment with Josh ‘canoodling’ as the vicar so eloquently put it. Those had been the happiest times of her life when she had no idea what tragedy lay ahead. But she couldn’t turn back the clock, so she changed the subject to safer ground before Josh looked across and realized they were talking about him.

  ‘Erm, have you and Sandra entered any of the competitions?’

  ‘Of course. I happen to have produced a fabulous glass lantern that would give those in Tiffany a run for their money. My creation will be displayed in pride of place on the vicarage mantelpiece.’

  Kirstie smiled at the current incumbent of St John’s parish church who, along with his wife, had been so kind to her and Olivia over the last two years. His soft grey eyes held compassion as the wintry breeze lifted his comb-over from his head and he reached up to pat it back down again.

  ‘How are you, Kirstie? I heard you had a little trouble before you arrived. I was just saying to Sandra that we haven’t seen much of you in Cranbury this year.’

  ‘True. I’m always so busy with the show during the week and I volunteer at the local drama school on Saturdays. I don’t seem to be able to make the trip back here as often as I would like.’ She smiled innocently, but she couldn’t fool the reverend who clearly thought she was fudging her answer.

  ‘All work and no play, my dear. And you don’t need me to tell you that you are missed by a certain young man.’ The vicar nodded his head emphatically in the direction of Josh then swiftly changed direction to the other issue on his mind. ‘It’s such a shame about the Dancing Duck changing hands in the new year, but of course, life must move on. I’m sure the new owner will want to continue with the old traditions and understands that, as well as St John’s, the villagers of Cranbury see their pub as an essential part of the community – even more so to some, I have no doubt.’

  ‘I don’t know what his plans are for the …’ Kirstie stopped. From the corner of her eye, she had seen a flash of familiar blond hair. She glanced over Reverend Clarke’s shoulder and continued: ‘Maybe you should ask him yourself.’

  Reverend Clarke turned in the direction Kirstie indicated. ‘Is this the young man who will be the inn’s new proprietor?’

  ‘Yes. Miles Morgan. Miles, may I introduce you to Reverend Robert Clarke and his wife Sandra?�
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  When Sandra Clarke had seen Miles stride over to join Kirstie, she had scuttled to her husband’s side, her well-powdered face flustered as she held out her palm in greeting. Unfortunately, she was still holding a branch of holly from her wreath-making activities and managed to stab Miles in the chest with it.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Oh, I’m so clumsy, forgive me.’

  Miles laughed. ‘If this is the way you greet all your parishioners on a Sunday morning, you might have to count me out!’

  ‘Oh, no, we don’t …’

  ‘I think Mr Morgan is joking, dear. Come on, let’s get some of that delicious-smelling coffee and have a go on the tombola. I really hope we don’t win another of those Fifty Shades of Grey novels, although it would solve the problem of what to get your mother for Christmas this year.’

  Sandra Clarke’s cheeks reddened and Kirstie took pity on the reverend’s wife. ‘Ah, listen, that’s Kate Grigson calling everyone to order. I think it’s time for the judging to begin.’

  ‘Good. I have high hopes for my lantern. Good to meet you, Miles. I hope you realize what a weighty responsibility owning the village pub confers on the unwary.’

  Miles nodded and offered a smile but remained silent. In his designer jeans, highly polished Italian loafers, and pale lemon cashmere sweater, he looked like he had stumbled in from another world. As always, his hair was carefully barbered and a cloud of his signature cologne lingered in the air.

  ‘You left this in my car on Wednesday night. Thought you might need it.’ Miles handed Kirstie a hand-knitted Aran mitten Emma had stitched for her birthday. He surveyed the packed Old Barn, filled to the rafters with the burble of contented conversation and the dulcet final notes of the school choir, every available surface strewn with the detritus of a day’s crafting. ‘It’s so quaint, like something out of the 1950s. Looks like everyone is having fun, though. You didn’t mention anything about these activities when we had dinner?’

  A jolt of guilt echoed through her veins. It was true, she hadn’t told Miles about their Christmas Craft Contest, nor had she mentioned the following week’s Big Christmas Baking Bash. She briefly wondered why, but the reason was obvious. She had avoided attending them since moving to London, so she had assumed there was no way Miles would be keen to show his face. However, strangely, her initial guilt melted quickly and was replaced by a surge of protectiveness of their celebrations.

  ‘These competitions have always been a popular part of the run-up to Christmas in Cranbury. Everyone in the village enters at least one.’ She heard her voice take on a defensive tone. ‘It’s fun and brings the whole family together, as you can see.’

  ‘What’s the return on something like this?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure. Harry could probably tell you if you were planning to continue …’

  ‘God, no way. Mmm, if I had to take an educated guess, I reckon it’s a loss-making exercise used to get diners into the brasserie afterwards. What are the bookings like this evening?’

  Kirstie eyed Miles closely before mumbling, ‘Fully booked.’

  ‘Thought so. Still, probably not worth the hassle.’

  Kirstie was saved from replying by the screech-back of a microphone.

  ‘Hello, everyone, and welcome to the very last Christmas Craft Contest at The Dancing Duck. It’s good to see that so many of Cranbury’s fabulous residents have turned out to say a final farewell to the Harrison stewardship. I’m sure you will want to join with me to express our thanks to the organizing committee of today’s festivities who have excelled themselves once again.’

  A thunder of applause reverberated round the audience who turned in unison towards Josh, Emma, and Leon who stood next to the wooden vegetable box podium on which Kate stood, like bodyguards ready to leap to her defence when she announced the winners of each category. A couple of villagers sought Kirstie’s eye with a smile that melted from their faces when they saw who she was consorting with.

  ‘Okay, now for the part of the show everyone has been waiting for – the judging! I have to say that this year has been especially difficult; the standard of all the entries is superb. We really do have some talented people in Cranbury.’

  ‘And Maltby!’ shouted someone from the back and everyone laughed.

  ‘Yes, quite. So, without further ado, we will start with the children’s competitions.’ Kate reached forward and selected the first of five silver trophies, this one fashioned in the shape of a Christmas bauble. ‘The winner of the category of Best Children’s Paper Tree Decorations is …’

  The Old Barn was the quietest it had been all day as everyone held their breath. All the children had gathered cross-legged on the tartan picnic rugs in front of the podium and hung on Kate’s every word.

  ‘Edward Farnham for his origami shark. Well done, Edward.’

  Edward jumped to his feet, beaming. He tentatively shook Kate’s hand as his friends went wild with applause and his mother surreptitiously wiped her eyes with a napkin.

  ‘The next category is the hand-made Christmas wrapping paper and I have to confess this was the most difficult category to judge. I wish I could give every entry a prize. There’s going to be some fabulously wrapped presents on Christmas morning in Cranbury … oh, and Maltby.’ A ripple of laughter rolled through the barn as Kate held up the silver trophy in the shape of a gift-wrapped box. ‘But there has to be a winner and the trophy goes to Martha Jones. Congratulations, Martha. I particularly loved the twist on the snowmen pulling the sleigh.’

  ‘They were polar bears,’ corrected Martha indignantly as she accepted her prize.

  ‘Ooops.’ Kate laughed. ‘Okay, on to the wreath-making category. I have to say this was one of the easiest to judge. The winning entry showcases an abundance of creativity and skill incorporating a mixture of unusual textures, shapes, and colours. I would be proud to hang this decoration on my front door. The winner is Cameron Green! Well done, Cameron.’

  Kate presented him with a hug and a wreath-shaped trophy on a pedestal.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered the little boy into the microphone. ‘Can I share my prize with Josh? He helped me with the gluing and sticking and he’s a very kind person.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ said Kate, smiling at Josh. His face lit with pleasure at being included in the acceptance speech. ‘Right, up next is the Christmas crackers!’

  ‘When are you planning on going back up to London?’ asked Miles, his eyes glazed over as the prize-giving continued.

  ‘The day after Boxing Day. Why?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to be my plus-one at the Law Society’s New Year’s Eve bash?’

  ‘Oh, erm, I …’ Kirstie paused, scouring her mind for the right answer. Miles had proved to be not only attractive, but also articulate and good company. She knew she would have a great night. But then, on the other hand, she was about to sell her family home to him and she didn’t want to cause any problems during the transaction by getting too close to him. She knew how tongues had a habit of wagging around Cranbury.

  Miles laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll understand if you say no. It’s short notice and I’m sure you have other things planned. My friend Rory scored an extra two tickets and suggested I should ask someone to tag along.’

  ‘Actually, I’m not sure what I have planned. I’ll definitely think about it.’

  ‘Great, I’ll call you. Now, judging by the looks I’m attracting from those ladies over there, I think it would be prudent if I made a quick getaway before I’m lynched for being the Big Bad Wolf.’

  Miles pulled a comical expression and Kirstie laughed. It wasn’t his fault. If Miles hadn’t put an offer in for the Dancing Duck someone else would have, and who knew what plans they would have had. At least Miles intended to run it as a pub and restaurant – other pubs in the surrounding villages had been turned into supermarkets and that would really have put a spanner in the works for the businesses in Cranbury.

  ‘Bye, Miles. Thanks for returning my gl
ove.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Kirstie tuned back in to the ongoing prize-giving proceedings.

  ‘And finally, the trophy for best Adult Glass-Painting goes to …’

  Kirstie smiled as she heard a sharp intake of breath from Sandra Clarke who stood next to her, her fingers at her lips, her face creased in anxiety.

  ‘Our very own Reverend Clarke!’

  The whole audience erupted with applause, foot-stamping and wolf-whistling as the popular vicar pushed his way forward to claim his reward. Every step he took he stopped to receive congratulatory handshakes. His face reddened with pride as he accepted the trophy from Kate.

  ‘Thank you, thank you. I will treasure this accolade!’ He beamed around the room in delight. ‘Now, permit me to remind you all that there’ll be coffee and mince pies in the church hall tomorrow after Sunday morning service. We will be singing a selection of the most popular Christmas carols chosen this week by the children from the local primary school who have entertained us this afternoon so beautifully. Everyone is welcome and I hope to see many of you there. And lastly, a call-out for volunteers to help set up the hall for the lunch on Christmas Day. Thank you and God bless.’

  Reverend Clarke stepped down from the podium and promptly dropped his trophy into glamorous Mrs Thomson’s lap. His face blazed with embarrassment as he apologized profusely and his wife rushed forward to collect his arm and steer him home to the vicarage before he caused any more trouble.

  Chapter 12

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I think that was the best Christmas Craft Contest the Dancing Duck has ever had,’ declared Rachel.

  It was almost midnight. Kirstie and Rachel had just finished sweeping the barn floor and locked the huge oak doors for the night. They had been immensely grateful for the help of the mothers from the baby and toddler group, and Angus had shown up to help with the heavy lifting because Josh, Leon, and Emma had to put in a shift at the pub. They sat at the pine table in the kitchen above the pub, their feet resting on discarded cardboard boxes to ease their aching limbs, and sipping hot chocolate laced with a generous slug of brandy.