Christmas at the Dancing Duck

by Daisy James

  ‘Up to Craiglea Hall again?’

  ‘No, actually. We went to a little trattoria in Wimbledon.’

  ‘Wimbledon? As in Wimbledon, London? A little ostentatious, don’t you think?’

  ‘I had a great time, Em. Look, I know he’s been cast in the role of the Big Bad Wolf because he’s the one who’s buying this place, but he’s a really nice guy. And you know, I think that his involvement in the pub could be a good thing for Cranbury.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘He’s got great ideas for it. Actually, he had just come from a meeting with the planning department to finalize the plans. You know, if he modernizes the pub, it will bring in a whole new clientele, which will increase footfall for the rest of the village. And that has to be a good thing for everyone, don’t you think?’

  ‘Will he still organize the spring fayre? Or the summer afternoon tea party for the homeless charity? What about the Christmas Craft Contest and the Big Christmas Baking Bash?’

  Kirstie knew it was unlikely Miles would be interested in carrying on the old traditions introduced by her parents given his reaction when she met him at the Christmas Craft Contest last week.

  ‘I don’t think so, but …’

  ‘I rest my case,’ said Emma, squinting as she considered her friend’s response. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There is. I know you better than anyone, Kirstie Louise Harrison, and I can tell when you’re holding something back. What is it? Is it that Marvellous Mr Morgan is planning to knock down the pub and build a casino? Or I’ve heard health clubs are profitable?’

  ‘No.’ Kirstie laughed. Emma really didn’t like Miles – that was blatantly obvious. She would have to tread carefully if she wanted to keep her friend onside, especially as she intended to have dinner with Miles again. ‘But he has invited me to a New Year’s Eve dinner organized by the Law Society.’

  ‘I hope you said no.’

  ‘I said I’d think about it,’ Kirstie hedged. Struggling to conceal the pleading note in her voice, she continued, ‘He’s lovely, Em, if you take the time to get to know him as a person instead of the hard-headed businessman.’

  Emma opened her mouth to continue their argument, but saw the expression on Kirstie’s face and decided to change the subject.

  ‘Okay, I’m prepared to give him a chance because you’re my best friend and I trust you to make the right choices. Now, let’s go through this list Olivia made for the Baking Bash on Saturday. Everything is organized. The electric oven has arrived but we still need to test it. What do you say about donning a sous chef hat and helping Leon make a batch of mince pies and some asparagus quiches?’

  Kirstie was keen to keep Emma onside and what better way than by throwing herself into the preparations for Saturday’s Big Christmas Baking Bash? But her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. Was she making a mistake about Miles?

  ‘Okay, let’s bake!’

  ‘Fab! Rachel is on her way too. She’s been busy baking gingerbread shapes like a domestic demon all weekend for the children’s gingerbread houses. She needs our help gluing them together with icing. Then all the kids have to do is decorate the outside walls and the roof with the sweets and tubes of coloured icing. I think most of them will want to take their creations home with them, so we’re pinning our hopes on lots of adults having a go and donating them to the Rev’s lunch party.’

  ‘So the rules of the competition are that the adults can prepare the gingerbread shapes they need at home but they must assemble and decorate the structure at the competition on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes. But the apple pies have to be baked and decorated on the day. That’s why we need to make sure the industrial-sized oven works properly. At least we won’t need to wheel in the oil heaters this time.’

  ‘True.’

  They had arrived in Leon’s kitchen where he was issuing last-minute directions to Michel. The two chefs had trained together in Paris and were best of friends although you wouldn’t think it when you heard them talk to each other. Kirstie loved Michel, with his French accent thick enough to plaster over the cracks in the kitchen wall, and long, elegant fingers. He had been endowed with a heart of gold and a ready smile.

  However, it was clear that Leon struggled to hand over the reins of his precious kitchen to anyone, even someone as accomplished as Michel. The brasserie was his baby and he needed to oversee every meal it produced, right down to the home-made petits fours. Kirstie didn’t know how he was going to cope when the time came to close the pub. It would feel like having his baby wrenched from his loving arms and adopted. Her heart squeezed in sympathy.

  ‘Hi, girls.’

  ‘Hi, Leon,’ sang Emma. ‘Here we are, ready and willing to follow your instructions for the great mince pie experiment.’

  ‘Well, willing might be pushing it,’ muttered Kirstie.

  Leon handed them a baking tray each of buttery shortcrust pastry filled with sweet mince to transport to the Old Barn for baking.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emma prodded as they trooped behind Leon across the cobbles of the courtyard.

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. It’s ridiculous really.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous if it’s worrying you. Tell me.’

  Kirstie deposited her tray on one of the benches they had used as craft tables now waiting to be transformed into baking benches. She waited until Leon was busy tinkering with the controls on the mobile electric oven before turning to face Emma. She needed to confess her bizarre aversion to the fragrance of Christmas to someone.

  ‘It’s just that every time I get a whiff of one of the Christmas spices – cloves, cinnamon, vanilla, but mainly ginger – I … well, I can’t seem to stop my memory zooming back to when Mum and Dad were alive. Remember that last Christmas, the Big Christmas Baking Bash they held before the accident? The whole barn filled with the pungent aroma of warm spices, the lethal mulled wine Dad made, the mini Christmas cakes Mum slaved over for everyone to decorate. It was just such a wonderful time and nothing will ever be the same again. How can it, when they’re not right there at the centre of it all? I’ve tried, but I can’t stop myself from being overcome with sadness. So I decided that the best thing I could do was avoid it altogether – like I did last Christmas.’

  ‘Ahh, now your meltdown on live TV makes complete sense. Kirstie, it’s okay to be upset about the loss of your parents. It would be unusual if you weren’t. We have to remember our loved ones, keep their memory alive, pass their stories on to the next generation. We can’t ignore the fact that they lived. We have to rejoice in them being a part of our lives, even if it was for too short a time.’

  ‘I know you’re right, but I loved them so much; they were everything to me and Livie. Every time I think I’ve come to terms with everything, something happens and it’s as though it were only yesterday when the police knocked on the door to tell us the devastating news.’

  Tears collected along Kirstie’s lower lashes and she whisked them away with the back of her hand. She concentrated on watching Leon slide the trays into the oven to calm her raging emotions. When he had slotted in the last apple pie, he glanced in their direction. He opened his mouth to say something, saw their expressions and thought better of it, and made a speedy getaway instead. Emma took her hand and led Kirstie to a wooden bench at the back of the barn.

  ‘I remember every single moment of that night, too.’

  ‘Oh, Em. If only they hadn’t decided to come back from their trip a day early. Why didn’t they stay until the end? If they had, they would never have been on that road and they would still be here today organizing the Baking Bash. Why didn’t they trust me and Livie to run the pub without them?’

  ‘Of course they did! It was because they were missing you both so much they decided to come home sooner. You were their whole life, too. They adored you both, and they adored the home they had made for you. Whatever you think, Kirstie, you must never bl
ame yourself. That totally irresponsible tractor driver who decided to pull out into the narrow lane without checking for cars caused the accident. He didn’t even have a driver’s licence. You were at the inquest; you heard what was said; you have the Coroner’s verdict in writing. You know every detail of what happened. It’s devastating and heartbreaking, but it was an accident.’

  Kirstie couldn’t hang on to her tears any longer. She cried so hard she felt as though her lungs were on fire and her heart was actually going to crack under the strain. Emma slipped her arm around Kirstie’s shoulders, drawing her blotchy face into her chest, waiting until her sobs subsided then handing her a Christmas napkin to dry her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Em.’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize,’ Emma said, her voice tight and strained. ‘I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to lose a parent, never mind both of them.’

  The fragrance of warm buttery pastry burst into the Old Barn, tickling Kirstie’s nostrils and causing her to shed fresh tears. ‘It’s that scent of Christmas; does it to me every time. I think about Mum and Dad every day but I can still manage to function like a normal human being, keep the grief locked away in the darker crevices of my heart. But I suppose everyone has a trigger that unlocks the tightly sealed box of memories; for some it’s pictures, for others it’s music, and for me it’s the smell of cloves and ginger.’

  Emma inhaled a lungful of the delicious perfume and smiled. ‘It’s like liquid Christmas.’

  Kirstie returned her smile. ‘It’s crazy really because before the accident, Christmas was always my favourite time of the year and the smell of the Christmas tree pine needles was a welcome harbinger that it was on its way. I loved ginger biscuits and ginger snaps. I loved nutmeg sprinkled on custard tarts. I loved vanilla potpourri, air fresheners, even body spray. But now I can’t even bear to eat vanilla ice cream!’

  ‘Well, it’s no hardship to swap to chocolate or strawberry!’

  Kirstie nodded, drying her eyes. She dragged her bushy curls away from her face and deposited them over her shoulders. ‘Do you think we’d better check on the pies? Leon would never forgive us if we let them burn. I think he’s probably skulking in the kitchen for fear of being dragged into an impromptu sobfest.’

  Emma grabbed a pair of oven gloves and slid out a tray of mince pies.

  ‘Perfect,’ she announced, setting them on a wire rack and returning to empty the oven. ‘I can safely say we’ll have no problem with the baking part of the competitions on Saturday. One less thing to worry about.’

  She handed one of the warm apple pies to Kirstie and together they nibbled the golden pastry, crumbs of sugar cascading down their chins and onto the stone floor.

  ‘Ah, Leon Blanchard is a true culinary maestro.’

  ‘Thanks for listening, Emma. I’m sorry I lost it like that.’

  ‘Nothing to thank me for. It’s what friends are for.’

  ‘You know, I reckon I can probably cope with the ordeal on Saturday now, as long as I have you by my side to keep me in check.’

  ‘It’s good to talk, don’t you think?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then you should complete your course of therapy by talking to Josh.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know if I’m …’

  ‘You may not get a better chance. If you plan on returning to London next week then when are you going to do it?’

  A surge of optimism and confidence rushed through Kirstie’s veins. ‘Emma, you’re right – as usual. Okay, I’ll talk to Josh.’

  And even just saying those words to Emma made Kirstie feel better. She owed Josh an explanation for what she had done and it was about time she delivered it.

  Chapter 18

  It was Friday, the day before Christmas Eve, and Kirstie decided on the spur of the moment to contact Brad to wish him a happy Christmas. He had taught her so much over the last eighteen months and she had a lot of time for him, not only as a professional but also as a friend. She dialled his number and waited.

  ‘Hello?’ came a harassed voice.

  ‘Brad? It’s Kirstie.’

  ‘Ah, erm, hello, Kirstie …’ Kirstie’s stomach lurched when she heard the hesitancy in Brad’s tone. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. I just called to wish you a happy Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, right. Thank you. And the same to you. Look, I’m a little busy right now, can I …’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sorry. It’s manic, isn’t it? This time of year …’ She was gabbling – she knew it – but the lack of enthusiasm in his voice unsettled her. She felt like he couldn’t wait to get her off the phone. ‘So, are we still okay to meet up next week? I’m due back in London on Tuesday night. Wednesday would be …’

  ‘Actually, Kirstie, I’ve been meaning to call you. Do you mind if we postpone until later in the week, say Friday the thirtieth? I have a couple of meetings coming up that I can’t get out of so …’

  ‘Yes, of course. No problem. Great in fact. That means I can spend some time with my sister. She’s back from Ireland on Tuesday and …’

  ‘Yes, yes, good. Merry Christmas to you too, Kirstie. See you next week.’

  And the line went dead leaving a toxic, leaden feeling in her stomach She didn’t want to admit it but she had to face up to the fact that perhaps their meeting was no longer a priority for Brad.

  What did that mean? Did it mean that Flora was the new star on the block? Would it be Flora’s Feasts on the morning show and Kirstie’s Kitchen would be relegated to a late-night slot again? Or worse – would her segment be cancelled completely and she would be looking for another job this time next week?

  Oh, God, no! She loved what she did. She loved the pressure, the research, and the get-togethers when the whole team bounced around ideas. She loved the sizzle of creative energy, and adored being in front of the camera. She loved the recipes and the guests they invited to showcase their culinary talents, even those inhabiting the quirky end of the spectrum.

  What would she do if she were axed from her spot? From the way Brad had reacted to her call, it was clear something was going on. She felt sick with trepidation, so she did what she always did when faced with difficult issues. She wrapped the episode up, tied it with a big red ribbon, and stored it away for later dissection when sleep eluded her – as it did so often these days. Then she trotted down the stairs to put in a full shift in the bar, a smile plastered on her face and a warm word for everyone.

  Chapter 19

  Saturday dawned grey and overcast. A bruised, pewter canopy hung languidly over the treetops and eaves. The forecast was for heavy rain that day and Kirstie hoped the weather wouldn’t put people off coming to the very last Big Christmas Baking Bash the Dancing Duck was likely to see. It was also Christmas Eve and she knew everyone would be busy with their last-minute preparations for the following day. Previous Baking Bashes had always been well attended and the list of participants who wanted to enter their creations in the competitions this year was impressive.

  ‘Everything set?’ asked Josh, joining Kirstie, Emma, and Rachel in the middle of the Old Barn.

  Balanced across Josh’s forearms was an enormous canteen of cutlery. He was followed by Leon and Michel, weighed down by a crate of plates and mugs respectively for the makeshift cafeteria they were manning to cater for hungry and thirsty competitors and their families with hot beverages, as well as a huge bowl of warm mulled wine that Josh had concocted from Don Harrison’s famous recipe the previous day.

  The fragrance of pine needles from the Christmas tree, the warm alcohol, and the chocolate chip cookies Leon had baked in the mobile oven as a final test, mingled with the festive atmosphere. The tables were covered with red gingham cloths, each displaying a sign in the shape of a holly leaf informing the participants which activity would take place at which table. Each table could accommodate four bakers at a time, who would be expected to vacate their seat once their creation was ready for the oven. It was not quite twel
ve o’clock but already a queue had formed outside in the courtyard, umbrellas and raincoats protecting their precious entries.

  ‘Come in, come in!’ said Josh ushering the group inside. ‘Might as well get started.’

  ‘Awful weather.’

  ‘Brr, it’s freezing out there.’

  ‘Do you think it will snow? I love snow on Christmas Day.’

  Just some of the comments made as the Old Barn filled up with villagers and visitors. Over the next four hours the whole place thrummed with high-octane activity. The competitors ranged from those having a fun-filled afternoon of creativity before disappearing home to consume their works of art, to those who looked like they were professional gingerbread house builders.

  The pyramids of various quiches and tartlets increased and an impressive array of apple pies lined up on the judge’s table: apple and caramel, apple and date, apple and cranberry, crab apple and ginger, blackberry and apple. Kirstie was overjoyed at the satisfaction on Robert’s and Sandra’s faces as they wandered round inspecting the produce.

  The most popular table with the children had to be the hand-made chocolates table. They made full use of every one of the myriad sweets they could cram into the moulds before their creations were whisked away to the freezers. But the table Kirstie stopped at most often was the gingerbread table. The structures were not just standard gingerbread men or gingerbread houses.

  One woman had designed a gingerbread treehouse, complete with a twisted tree trunk and miniature green leaves made from royal icing. Perched precariously among the branches was a shed-like structure with heart-shaped windows and intricate overlapping roof tiles. There was also a beach hut with striped bunting and deckchairs, and a lighthouse with chocolate-covered marshmallows as rocks and multi-coloured boiled sweets representing the lantern.

  Once again, she thanked the culinary gods that she was not required to be on the judging panel. She had seen the stress on Tony Butterworth’s face as he wandered around the tables making notes on his clipboard and occasionally whispering worried words to Rachel.