Wishing on a Star

by Christina Jones

  WISHING ON A STAR

  A Christmas Anthology from Accent Press

  Edited by

  Catriona Camacho and Greg Rees

  Christmas comes but once a year … so get into the mood with this fantastic feast of festive tales from Accent Press!

  With some brilliant short stories from best-selling authors, there’s something for everyone: Yuletide laughs from Christina Jones and Tricia Maw, an Edwardian Advent from Caroline Dunford, some Christmas criminality from Bill Kitson and Marsali Taylor, and heart-warming episodes from Jane Wenham-Jones, Jane Risdon, and Jane Jackson, ’tis the season for jolly good reading!

  Comfort and Joy

  by Christina Jones

  Eighty might be the new sixty, but the enlightened elderly ladies of The Terrace still aren’t too pleased when they realise that the council have moved a single mother into a house on the street. It might be the season of comfort and joy, but there’s trouble brewing on The Terrace …

  Santa Lives

  by Tricia Maw

  Tessa Stanton knows the launderette isn’t the ideal place to spend Christmas Eve, but it sure beats her empty house. She dozes off, and when she wakes she’s somewhat surprised to see Santa tumbling around in a washing machine, struggling to get out …

  A Christmas Murder

  by Marsali Taylor

  Live-aboard yacht skipper Cass Lynch is preparing for Christmas with DI Gavin Macrae at his family home in the Highlands … but first of all they need to find out just why the Father Christmas dummy at Scalloway Castle has suddenly come to life – or rather, to death …

  No Smoke Without Fire

  by Bill Kitson

  Christmas: a time of joy and happiness, but not for the emergency services. After last year’s fatal arson attack, Dinsdale police fear the worst when they’re called back to another fire on the Normanton estate. But things aren’t as they seem – certainly not for Lauren, who meets a very strange character outside her house on Christmas Eve …

  Proof of the Pudding

  by Jane Wenham-Jones

  After Christmas dinner with all the trimmings and cake smothered in icing and marzipan, no one ever eats the Christmas pudding anyway. But when Mum decides not to bother with one this year, there’s uproar from Dad and the children, and she realises that the proof of the pudding isn’t in the eating after all.

  What the Dickens!

  by Caroline Dunford

  At the Mullers’ estate, Euphemia Martins is helping Richenda to make her daughter’s first family Christmas a special one. But when Bertram Stapleford comes to stay, his bad mood sours the festive atmosphere. Richenda decides to play a practical joke on her moody sibling – but sometimes laughter can end in tears …

  Merry Christmas Everybody

  by Jane Risdon

  There are tensions in the studio when Twister record their new album. The band members are at each other’s throats and someone is messing up the mix on their recordings. The band blames their producer, but it soon becomes clear that someone unexpected is trying to get a message of festive goodwill through to them …

  Family Matters

  by Jane Jackson

  It hasn’t been a great year for Jess. Newly widowed and left in massive debt, she tries to forget about things as she prepares for Christmas. But when a frightened young couple stow away in Polvellan church hall before the Christmas concert, Jess soon realises what really matters as she and her friends rally round for two people in need.

  Contents

  Comfort and Joy

  A Christmas Murder

  Santa Lives

  No Smoke Without Fire

  Proof of the Pudding

  What the Dickens!

  Merry Christmas Everybody

  Family Matters

  Comfort and Joy

  Christina Jones

  Of course, they all agreed, nodding sagely, and stirring their terminally weak tea, it was very sad, and life in The Terrace would never be the same, but it was for the best really, wasn’t it? Ivy would be cared for properly now. She’d have someone watching over her. Nurses and carers day and night.

  Naturally, it was shocking that she’d been struck down so early. Well, Ivy wasn’t much past eighty, was she? And eighty was the new sixty, so all the papers kept saying. Practically middle-aged. But even if she couldn’t get about much any more, at least Ivy still had all her marbles, so to speak. She’d still be able to read her books and watch her soaps and do her crossword puzzles and word-searches, and the nursing home was top of the tree, so it certainly wasn’t the worst way to face the autumn years of such an eventful and active life.

  It was a shame, they all said, tinkling teaspoons into their saucers, that Ivy’s family couldn’t have taken her in. But then, what with her walking frame and needing to sleep downstairs, maybe the nursing home was the best answer.

  They’d all go and visit her, naturally. Well, maybe not until Christmas was over, because there were so many other things to do, and to be honest, Ivy would probably be kept busy with in-house carol concerts and little pantomimes put on by the staff, and that sort of thing. They’d pop cards and a little gift into the post for her. That was probably best.

  Hilda and Myrtle drained their teacups, politely refused Elsie’s offer of a refill, and creaked slowly to their feet.

  ‘’Course,’ Elsie lifted down their serviceable winter coats and sorted scarves and gloves and snug woolly hats, ‘there’s the problem of the house.’

  ‘House?’ Myrtle paused in winding her scarf tightly round her throat as if she had miles to go instead of just next-door-but-one. ‘Ivy’s house?’

  ‘Ivy’s house,’ Elsie nodded. ‘What’ll happen to it? She never bought it, did she?’

  No, Myrtle and Hilda shook their heads. She never did. They had, of course. But they’d still had their husbands then. Husbands who understood that little leaflet, The Right to Buy. Ivy’s Bill had passed on way back in the seventies. Sadly, he’d been a widow for longer than she’d been a wife. Not that Ivy had ever let it get her down. She was a cheerful soul, was Ivy.

  They looked at each other.

  Ivy’s house …

  ‘I suppose it’s still council, then?’ Hilda ventured.

  ‘You don’t call it that any more.’ Elsie was up on these things. Dennis, her eldest, worked in planning. ‘Housing Association took over years back – it’s called social housing now, not council.’

  ‘Ah,’ Myrtle struggled into her astrakhan coat and sucked her teeth. ‘So that means they could put, well, anybody in there?’

  ‘Anybody,’ Elsie confirmed with a gloomy nod. ‘Absolutely anybody.’

  It was unthinkable. They’d all moved into The Terrace at the same time, young wives with their lives ahead of them. They’d been friends and shared everything for decades. And now the Housing Association could put just anybody into Ivy’s house.

  ‘There must be someone we can speak to,’ Hilda puffed as she zipped up her bootees. ‘Explain to them that The Terrace is special. Say that we need someone who will keep up standards and what have you.’

  The others nodded vigorously. They’d never let their standards drop. The competition had always been fierce. Doorsteps gleamed, windows dazzled, door-knockers sparkled, flowerbeds blazed. They couldn’t have just anybody living in Ivy’s house.

  ‘I’ll speak to our Dennis and see if he can pull any strings. Put in a good word, you know,’ Elsie said. ‘He’ll probably nip round with a card and a little what-not before Christmas.’

  ‘You’re not going to him for The Day, then?’ Hilda and Myrtle had reached the front door.

  ‘No.’ Elsie flushed and briskly straightened her shoulders. ‘Caroline thought they’d have a quiet time
this year – just them and the children – they might be able to fit me in on Boxing Day, mind. What about you?’

  ‘Peter and Susan are going to a hotel,’ Myrtle fiddled with her gloves.

  ‘And mine seem to have so many things planned – office dos, parties with their friends, they’re very busy …’ Hilda studied Elsie’s hall carpet. It was multi-coloured swirls and very loud. ‘I said not to worry, I’d be fine on my own …’

  ‘Ah well,’ Elsie pulled open the front door, letting in a blast of icy air that could have come straight from Siberia, ‘that’s youngsters, for you. Still, only a week to go and Christmas will be all over. It’s not the same as it was. And at least we’re luckier than Ivy.’

  ‘Ah, we’ve got our health and strength,’ Myrtle nodded, ‘and that’s the best present any of us could ask for.’ She shivered, squinting at Elsie. ‘Now, don’t you go forgetting to mention Ivy’s house to your Dennis. He’ll know what to do.’

  They said their goodbyes then, scuttling along the windswept terrace in the freezing late afternoon, not looking at Ivy’s house, with its dark, sightless windows, its cold, smokeless chimney, its air of happy memories drenched in tears.

  ‘Mine?’ Holly Winters stared hard at the door key in her hand, then stared again across the desk. ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yours,’ Mr Barker nodded. This was one of the very few pleasant things about his job. ‘You ticked all our boxes, your bid was the best, and the workmen have just finished. It’s a nice little home, Miss Winters. It’s only got two bedrooms which was why it was unsuitable for most of the families on our list. There’s a cooker and a fridge and all the basic necessities, but no central heating, I’m afraid. Still, it’s just in time for you and – er –’ he looked at his screen, ‘little – um – Star to be there for Christmas.’

  Holly shifted the toddler on her lap, ran her fingers over the key in disbelief, and let the tears roll unashamedly down her cheeks.

  Mr Barker looked rather embarrassed and groped in the desk drawer for the box of tissues specially kept for tearful clients. They weren’t usually happy tears.

  He liked this girl. She really deserved the house. She’d been in bed-and-breakfast ever since the child had been born. He’d met her several times before and liked her sense of dignity and her polite manner even when he’d had to tell her that her online housing application had been unsuccessful. Politeness and dignity were two things that were frequently missing in his job. Holly Winters had them in spades.

  Painfully thin herself and never dressed warmly, she made sure that – er – little Star was always clean and plump and well muffled in this bitter weather. And Miss Winters had always been patient and had never made any demands. She’d always accepted that her wait for a home would be a long one. Yes, Holly Winters deserved a break. And it was very comforting to know she’d be under her own roof for Christmas.

  ‘Is it all right if I move in straight away?’ Holly asked. ‘I’m not sure what the procedure is …’

  ‘Straight away,’ Mr Barker confirmed. ‘We can get you help with second-hand furniture and things, if you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Holly said proudly, ‘but I’ve got my basic odds and ends in storage, so Star and I have everything we need. We wouldn’t want to take anything we weren’t entitled to.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Mr Barker rose to his feet and shook Holly’s free hand. He hoped he hadn’t insulted her. ‘And good luck, Miss Winters. I hope you’ll be very happy in The Terrace.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’ Holly smiled through the tears. ‘Thank you so much for your help.’

  She didn’t notice the iciness of the wind, or the threatening ochre sky, or the needle-sting of sleet in the air as she left the housing office. Holly Winters could only feel warmth and happiness; see only peace and security. At last.

  Only three days until Christmas. Star would wake up in her own bedroom for the first time. Holly would be able to pack a sock with little bits and pieces and watch her daughter’s eyes sparkle with festive magic as her tiny fingers unwrapped each one. Star wouldn’t put a price on her presents. They would be given and received with love. The purest emotion of all.

  ‘Star, sweetie,’ Holly looked down at her child as she toddled trustingly beside her. ‘This is going to be the best Christmas ever. Let’s go home, shall we? Home …’

  Star giggled with delight as Holly waltzed her along the High Street, and even the most jaded shopper stopped, stared and smiled at the skinny fair-haired girl in her worn jeans and flimsy jacket with the laughing, ruddy-faced child clinging to her hand. Never mind ‘oh, what on earth can we get for your mother this year?’. This mother and child brought back memories of rustling paper, Christmas bells pealing across the silent frozen countryside, carols and prayers …

  ‘She’s an unmarried mother!’ Myrtle hissed. ‘And blatant about it!’

  ‘I think you have to say single parent these days, actually,’ Elsie sipped her sweet sherry and grimaced. It wasn’t a named brand. Hilda had always been tight that way. ‘It’s more politically correct.’

  Myrtle sighed heavily and pulled a face.

  ‘Anyway,’ Elsie continued, ‘my Dennis said it was all cut and dried. They’d allocated the house ages ago. As soon as Ivy had had her assessment. It was all done online – ridiculous if you ask me – and there weren’t many people interested because of it only being two bedrooms. There was nothing anyone could do.’

  Myrtle bridled. ‘Only two bedrooms! Why, we brought up our entire families in only two bedrooms, didn’t we?’

  They all nodded. They had.

  ‘And now they want umpteen bedrooms and more than one bathroom,’ Hilda added. ‘I’ve seen it on the telly shows. They turn down properly decent houses because they’ve only got one bathroom … Madness!’

  An air of gloom descended on Hilda’s rather prim parlour. There were no decorations. Half a dozen Christmas cards leaned heavily on the mantelpiece. It was Christmas Eve.

  ‘Disgusting, I call it,’ Hilda played with a rather overdone mince pie. It would never have passed muster with Mary Berry, that’s for sure. ‘After all, what does a young person know about The Terrace? And she’s probably no better than she ought to be. There’ll be men in there morning, noon, and night, you mark my words.’

  Myrtle choked on her mince pie crumbs, and took a swig of sherry. It didn’t help much.

  They sat in mournful silence, each thinking of other Christmases when none of them would have believed they’d ever be old and alone. And they thought about Holly Winters in Ivy’s house – where she had no right to be – and hearing her singing Christmas carols to that child and giggling like a child herself as she clattered around with her few bits of furniture.

  They’d looked in the windows as they’d passed – not as if they were being nosy or anything – and shaken their heads at the desecration of Ivy’s house.

  There hadn’t been even enough to furnish one room properly, Elsie thought. Elsie liked fat furniture all jostling for space. It made a real cosy home, did lots of nice pieces all squashed together. Holly Winters seemed to have only the very barest of essentials.

  Holly Winters, they all agreed, had no right – no right at all – to be living in The Terrace.

  ‘I think it’s too cold tonight to go to church for Midnight Service,’ Myrtle broke into the silence. ‘We don’t want to be struck down with pneumonia come the new year, do we?’

  Hilda and Elsie shook their heads.

  ‘I think I’ll just worship with the telly, this year,’ Elsie said. ‘Maybe next year it won’t be so bitter …’

  Myrtle and Hilda nodded.

  ‘About time I was making a move,’ Elsie said, hauling herself out of her chair.

  Myrtle creaked to her feet too.

  They buttoned themselves into their coats, wished one another season’s greetings, thanked Hilda for her festive hospitality, and made their way back to their respective houses in the icy darkness, averting the
ir eyes from Ivy’s house, where lights glowed from behind ill-fitting scarlet curtains and ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ was blaring out into the night.

  ‘Orange,’ Star chuckled triumphantly. ‘Apple. Nits!’

  ‘Nuts,’ Holly laughed, scooping the discarded paper from Star’s bed. Star didn’t know it was old free-sheets. It made exciting crackling noises and revealed even more excitement when it was torn apart. ‘And a bar of chocolate and packets of sweets and a tiny teddy! Hasn’t Father Christmas been kind, Star? Aren’t you a lucky girl?’

  Star, her mouth smeared with chocolate, beamed and raised sticky hands to Holly who swept her daughter up into her arms and carried her downstairs.

  It was cold in the bedrooms, but she’d got up very early and riddled the logs in the downstairs fireplace and they danced and sparked and glowed now and the living room was toastily snug. Holly opened the door.

  ‘Oooh!’ Star’s eyes were enormous. ‘Fairy magic!’

  ‘Fairy magic,’ Holly agreed, putting her down, watching with tenderness as she toddled towards the tree.

  Of course, it wasn’t a real Christmas tree, just a blown-down branch she’d found in the garden when she’d been looking for wood for the fire, but hung with the best baubles and lights the charity shop and Poundland could offer, Holly was sure it’d put Trafalgar Square to shame.

  The paper chains had been a real labour of love. Strips of colourful paper cut from discarded glossy magazines and glued together, they hung and spun from the ceiling in a rainbow profusion.

  ‘And we’ve got a chicken for dinner, and I’ve made a great big cake. Aren’t we lucky?’

  ‘Lucky …’ Star repeated, settling down on the carpet-strip in front of the fire, and staring wide-eyed at the dancing, glittering room.

  It started to snow at just after two o’clock. Star rushed to the window, pointing delightedly at the fat, goose-feather flakes as they swirled faster and ever faster from the low, gunmetal sky. Holly watched too, cuddling her daughter, feeling a shiver of pure happiness. It was so perfect. She really couldn’t ask for more.