by Debbie Young
My eye followed them to the inglenook, now stacked full of logs. Not only were there enough logs to spare me a couple of weeks of hauling them in from outside, the pile was also beautifully stacked, creating a pleasing mosaic effect of neatly aligned cross-sections of trees. On the rug just to one side, the log basket was filled with newly split kindling, taking care of my fire-lighting needs too. He must have taken ages.
I sank down on to the sofa in amazement, savouring the fresh scent. It was like inhaling a forest.
Touched by Damian’s unexpected kindness, I almost forgave him the shower of biscuit crumbs that had settled on my keyboard like snow, and the fact that he’d deleted from the browsing history any record of what he’d used my laptop for.
Perhaps he hadn’t used it at all, and the crumbs were a plant to make it look as if he had.
I wrote a note in biro on the back of my hand to ask him to return my key. But I had no time to ponder further. It was the Wendlebury Writers’ night, and after a hasty supper eaten on the sofa, gazing at my new wooden art installation, I headed back up to Hector’s House to open it for our meeting.
20 The Advent Anthology
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they recruited some more members now they’ve got that gorgeous new director.” Local dentist Jacky looked away, slightly abashed, as she spoke. I’d forgotten several of the Wendlebury Writers had left the Players after falling out with the previous director.
I sighed to myself. Why did people always see Damian’s looks before his personality?
Karen’s quick response spared me from answering. “If people join the Players for the wrong reasons, the quality of their show will be at risk. What they really need are some more male actors.”
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” said Dinah briskly. I was glad to know that at least one of the Writers was immune to Damian’s charms. “Women can always play men’s parts. Anyway, enough about the Players. What about our own Christmas event?” Dinah tapped the first point on her short agenda. “Have you all finished your pieces for our afternoon of festive readings?”
We’d agreed at the previous week’s meeting to write a festive story, essay or poem, no more than three minutes long, to read at one of Hector’s Sunday openings. We each produced folded pieces of paper, as if presenting homework to a strict teacher. Dinah looked pleased. The event had been her idea, an addition to our usual start-of-term open mic night, and she’d already persuaded Hector that it might be an extra draw to customers during the Christmas shopping season.
“Come on. Let’s hear what you’ve all come up with. A two-sentence summary. Your elevator pitch.”
She looked to Karen, sitting to her left. Karen took her cue. “I’ve written a very short story, just five hundred words, about a woman stuck in a supermarket queue with a trolley full of fancy Christmas food that she can’t afford. Realising she’d have a happier Christmas if she focused her time on her family instead of shopping and cooking, she abandons the trolley and goes straight home. The story closes with her family having fun over a board game and bacon sandwiches on Christmas Day. The message is that Christmas is about quality time with family, not reckless and unnecessary extravagance.”
Dinah nodded approval. Timidly I ventured a suggestion. “Maybe to reflect the fact that we’re holding it in a bookshop, you could have them sitting round the fire sharing a book instead of a board game? Maybe “A Christmas Carol”?”
Dinah shook her head. “Wouldn’t chime with the theme. Remember Scrooge orders the biggest turkey in the shop.”
“Yes, but not for himself. It’s for the Cratchit family.”
“They could send a goat to Oxfam,” said Jessica.
“I’ll work on it,” said Karen quickly.
Next round the table was Jacky.
“I hope you’ll forgive the shop talk, but I’ve written a story about a lonely bachelor dentist who volunteers to man the emergency service on Christmas Day. His only patient is a long-lost girlfriend who’s just broken a tooth on a sixpence in a Christmas pudding. The theme is that love and luck aren’t always where you look for them. It’s also a useful warning not to hide hard things in soft food, but that’s by the by.”
Then came Jessica’s turn. Knowing her speciality was animal poems, I almost suggested she write a comic verse about a dog in a manger, but didn’t want to pay the customary 50p fine for clichés that the group imposed.
“My Christmas poem is about the nativity from the viewpoint of a lamb, which compares itself to the baby Jesus. It’s called ‘Innocents’.”
“And they will both be slaughtered when they grow up. Perfect.” That came from Dinah, of course.
Jessica flinched. She was vegetarian.
“Oh no, I haven’t taken it that far. I just allude to the love between mother and child, and how a mother is the centre of the new-born’s world at first. But I could add some ominous brooding on what lies ahead, if you think that would help.”
Her fellow poet Bella got in quickly before Dinah could comment any further. “I’ve taken the weather as my subject and written about the absurdity of associating Christmas with snow, when there’s never any snow in Bethlehem. Then I segue into a comparison between snowflakes and stars, which of course are inextricably linked with the Bible story.”
Dinah nodded approvingly. “Interesting take.”
Julia unfolded her sheet next. “Well, you won’t be surprised to hear I’ve written something historical. I’ve described how Christmas has been celebrated through the ages, the Christian church subsuming pagan traditions along the way. I hope it won’t sound too much like a history lesson. Though to be honest, I did draw on the material that I’ve often used in school for the last lesson before Christmas.”
“No problem, as long as you haven’t written it like a lecture,” said Dinah. “Is it non-fiction? That’s a change for you.”
“No, I’ve presented it as the diary of someone who’s lived a very long time and seen it all happen. A bit like Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, Sophie, so you should like it.”
I tried to look as if I knew who Orlando was.
Next it was Louisa’s turn. She was a crime writer.
“I didn’t want to write anything that might scare people at Christmas,” she said. “So instead I’ve written about a long-term unemployed man who decides to shoplift Christmas presents because he can’t afford to buy them. He disguises himself as Santa, on the basis that no-one would suspect Santa of theft, and thinks he’s been rumbled when the store manager collars him. It turns out the store’s real Santa has been suddenly taken ill, so they ask the man to stand in. He does it so well that they offer him a job, and to stay on after Christmas as store detective.”
Dinah nodded.
“I suppose you can’t have Christmas without crime, can you?” she said. “Which leads us on to you, Sophie.”
I coughed nervously, not sure whether I was comfortable with her train of thought.
“Similar to my ‘Travels with my Aunt’s Garden’ column, I’ve written about the poinsettia.” Writing about plants was becoming my speciality, not because I knew anything about them, but because my aunt’s eclectic garden inspired me. And it was an easy subject to research. “It’s got a fascinating history with lots of different stories attached to it, mostly associating it with Christmas, but also with Easter in some places. We tend to think of the poinsettia as an American import, but actually it’s quite cosmopolitan.”
Sounds of approval issued from around the table.
“So that just leaves you, Dinah,” I said, relieved to have got my turn over with.
Dinah sat up straight in her seat.
“I’ve done a feminist take on the notion of Santa Claus. My short story, ‘The Multi-tasking Christmas’, allocates the role of gift distribution to Mrs Claus instead. Setting her husband to shovelling snow to clear the path for the reindeer – an endless task at the North Pole – she reorganises his workshop and distribution system to make it mu
ch more efficient.”
“Is it funny?” Bella asked hopefully. “I mean, it’s not a political tract, is it?”
“It’s lighthearted enough,” said Dinah. “But if any men want to infer a hint to get their Christmas act together, that’s fine by me.”
There was a moment’s silence while we all digested what we’d shared.
“Gosh, I think we’re doing jolly well,” declared Jessica. “That’s a great mix of pieces, covering Christmas from lots of different angles without any overlap. I think it’ll be a lovely event.”
Even Dinah looked pleased. “More by luck than – er – careful advance planning.”
“What a shame there’s only one performance,” said Karen, one of the former Players. “It’ll all be over far too quickly.”
Bella rapped the table for attention. “Why don’t I type the pieces up and photocopy them?” She was a wiz on the computer, thanks to her work as parish clerk. “Then we could hand out hard copies.”
“Or sell them,” said Dinah. “Though I’m not sure people who are there to do Christmas shopping will want to spend money on photocopied sheets.”
“If only it were in book form, it would make a lovely Christmas present,” said Jacky. “I’d buy copies for my friends and family. My mum would love one.”
Gazing at the shop counter, where Hector wrote his own books, I had a brilliant idea. “I know, I’ll get Hector to make a proper printed book for us. That way we could sell it as a Christmas present, and we’d have a great souvenir of the day for ourselves.”
Everyone fell upon the idea at once, clearly sharing my enthusiasm. Then Dinah held up her hand, as if spotting a problem. “Wait a minute, how does Hector know how to do that?”
I turned cold for a moment, realising how close I’d come to giving away Hector’s secret identity as the romantic novelist Hermione Minty.
“Oh, you know Hector,” I said brightly. “He’s a dark horse. He knows how to do all sorts of things you wouldn’t expect him to.”
Dinah raised an eyebrow at me and opened her mouth to speak, but Jessica’s enthusiastic interruption spared me from further probing. “Oh, do ask him, please, Sophie. It would be so exciting to have our own book out. I’d buy copies for all my friends and relations for Christmas.”
“We could take a stall at the school Christmas fair, too,” added Karen. “They’d make great stocking fillers.”
Dinah hesitated for a moment. “Worst case, he says no. Although who buys books by unknown authors?”
“We’re not unknown around here,” said Bella, reasonably enough.
I spotted a chance to show off knowledge I’d gained from working at Hector’s House.
“Lesser-known writers’ books sell better if they have a cover endorsement by a famous name, usually an author or other celebrity.”
“Then let’s get one,” said Jessica.
“Not a celebrity, please,” said Dinah, making air quotes around ‘celebrity’. “For our own credibility, it must be an author. Who’s your current bestseller, Sophie?”
That was easy. I pointed to a stack of Hermione Minty books on the centre table.
“She’ll do.” Dinah minuted it like a done deal. “I’m putting you down to email a request to her publisher, Sophie. You’ll have the most clout, as you’re in the trade.”
I forced a smile of assent.
“No problem, Dinah. Leave it with me.”
We spent the rest of the meeting reading our pieces aloud to each other. I needed to fill my water glass twice during my turn. My mouth was as dry as a sandbox.
When Dinah called the meeting to a close, the Wendlebury Writers set off home, leaving me to shut up the shop. Just as I was setting the alarm, I heard Dinah’s voice floating back through the chill night air.
“By the way, Sophie, when you’re on to Hermione Minty, could you also invite her to be our guest of honour when we launch the book?”
Then there was a clunk above my head, and I looked up to see Hector peering down at me from his front room window.
21 Cocoa with Hermione
“What was that about Hermione Minty?”
In the darkness, I couldn’t tell whether he was pleased or cross.
“Do you want to come up and tell me about it?”
I didn’t, actually. I glanced at my watch, thinking to cry off on the grounds of the late hour, but it was only just gone nine.
“I’ll come down and let you in.”
Without waiting for an answer, he withdrew his head and closed the window.
A few minutes later I was curled up in my usual fireside chair, sipping a very dark cocoa, hesitantly unveiling the Writers’ plan to self-publish an anthology. Well, to get Hector to publish it for us, anyway. Convincing him was proving harder than I’d expected. He had a string of objections.
“For one thing, you’re about six months too late. Christmas books are usually launched in September, to give the reps a chance to pitch them to bookshops.”
Embarrassed by my rookie error, I thought fast. “Yes, but we don’t have any reps to pitch for us, and the only bookseller we want to sell it for us is you. Consider this my pitch.”
His ensuing silence gave me the courage to strengthen my case.
“Besides, you’d already agreed with Dinah that we could hold our festive reading event in Hector’s House. And the Writers are kindly giving up their Sunday afternoon to come and support your shop, and advertising it to all their friends and relations. For free.”
I gave him a hard stare, and he seemed to waver, so I steamrollered on.
“You’re always telling me that having visiting writers in the shop for book signings attracts more customers. Well, you’ve got the Writers. Now all we need is the book.”
Was I laying it on too thick? Hector kept me waiting, shrewd enough to use the power of silence in negotiating, a tactic I knew about but never managed to employ. He leaned forward, added another couple of logs to the wood-burner, and sat back, hands clasped thoughtfully on his lap.
Finally he deigned to speak. “OK, but only because it’s you, and strictly as a one-off. It’ll take me a good few hours to format your manuscript on the computer and upload it to the print-on-demand service I use, and you’ll have to make do with one of their stock covers. And I’ll only sell it if you get it professionally proofread. I can probably get Hermione’s proofreader to squeeze it into her busy schedule as it’ll be a very short book. I’ll deduct her cost out of the profits.”
I nodded dumbly. At this point, if he’d stipulated we should sign the books in our own blood, I’d have agreed.
“The shop will take its usual cut for every book sold. Normal business rates, mind. And I’ll expect the Writers each to do a bit of Christmas shopping while they’re here.”
He finished his cocoa like a man who had earned it, and set the empty mug on the hearth.
“Thank you so much, Hector,” I said in a small voice. “I’m sure the Writers will agree.”
Hector relaxed for a moment, then his brow furrowed. “One question, though. How did you explain away that I knew how to self-publish books? I hope you didn’t give away my alter ego?”
I smiled innocently.
“They’re ready to believe you can do anything.”
Hector grinned.
“Just one of my many superpowers, I suppose.” He wagged a reproachful finger at me. “Never underestimate a bookseller.”
A shower of sparks fizzed against the wood-burner’s glass door, reminding me of Fireworks Night. Sipping cocoa, cosy and warm in the best company that I could think of, I believed all was right with the world – until I remembered the Writers’ final request.
I rattled it out quickly before I lost my nerve. “Oh, and they’d also like a cover endorsement from a well-known author to add credibility and appeal. Like Hermione Minty.” I leaned forward, my hands on his knees, eyes as wide and appealing as I could make them without looking deranged.
Hector put his han
ds over his face and sighed. “I suppose I could ask her. But only if she likes what they’ve written. She has her principles.”
“And I’ll recommend they all buy one of Hermione’s books to show their appreciation.”
“As long as they don’t expect her to come in and sign them.”
He set his empty mug on the hearth.
“Signed copies?” I sat up straight. “What a brilliant idea!”
“What? Are you mad?”
“But you told me before that you sell them at a premium on eBay.”
“Yes, but that’s remote, altogether different from flaunting my secret identify on my doorstep.”
I waved my hand dismissively. “It’s not as if she has to sign them in front of everybody.”
“Ha! I should think not, indeed!”
“No, you just do it in private before you put them out on display. No-one need ever know. Just think, it would give you a Christmas exclusive that no other bookshop could offer.”
Hector fetched the brandy bottle and balloon glasses from the cabinet, and set them down on the hearth.
“I’d better top up my superpowers,” he said, unscrewing the lid and splashing a generous amount in each glass.
“Don’t worry, Hector,” I said, taking one of them from him. “Hermione’s secrets are safe with me.”
22 Adding Depth
Damian punctuated his opening address to the cast with the critical facial expressions and gestures of an Oscar-winning director. He hadn’t become an actor for nothing. Then, to my surprise and delight, he began to play his part genuinely, coaching the cast to get the best out of their lines and choreographing effective moves to freshen up the familiar story.
As I sat at the back of the hall, under instructions to shout whenever anyone wasn’t projecting their voice, I mused on how modern day wise men might undertake their journey. They’d probably fly business class, while the holy family caught an overcrowded bus. Perhaps Mary and Joseph’s subsequent flight into Egypt would have been a literal one – via a no-frills airline, of course. What a worry if it got delayed or cancelled. Would it be possible to smuggle a baby through passport control to escape the slaughter ordered by King Herod? And would they get the gold, frankincense and myrrh past security? They’d probably have to put it in the hold, not their in-flight bags. That would make a big dent in their baggage allowance.
