by Debbie Young
“But—” I was about to admonish them, then I stopped. If that made them happy, who was I to interfere?
The door banged behind them, and for a moment all was peaceful. Billy was the first to break the silence.
“Now, let’s be having that Tomintoul, young Hector. It’s the closest I’m going to get to flying today.”
32 The Holly and the Ivy
“What you need to set your window display off a treat is a nice bit of fresh mistletoe.”
Busy arranging ceramic figures in a nativity scene in the bookshop window, I looked round to see who had spoken. A trail of muddy wellington boot prints from door to counter led me to Billy, standing partially camouflaged by a huge bunch of evergreens. I set down a china shepherd beside its sheep and turned to face him.
“I don’t think so, Billy, thank you all the same. Live greenery dripping sap and spiders isn’t a great asset to a bookshop. Besides, I don’t think mistletoe really goes with a manger scene. That would seem rather bad taste.”
I also didn’t fancy being with Billy near mistletoe, though I wouldn’t have minded if Hector bought some for his flat.
“But it’s very reasonably priced at just a fiver a bunch. Prices will rise nearer Christmas, and it might get scarce due to excessive demand.” He held out a sprig of mistletoe as if tempting Janet, the donkey, with a carrot. “Everyone in the village will be wanting it today, so they can get their houses done up ready for the tree lights being switched on tomorrow night. You’d better get some while you can.”
A knock on the shop window nearly hard enough to break the glass drew my attention to Tommy, standing guard outside over a rusting wheelbarrow brimming with festive greenery.
“How about some holly and ivy instead?” Billy tried again. “You can’t disapprove of holly and ivy, because they’re in a Christmas carol. That makes them holy, more or less.”
The shop door creaked open to admit Hector, half hidden behind a large potted Christmas tree he’d been to fetch from the garden centre in Slate Green.
“What’s all this, Birnam Wood moving to Dunsinane?” I asked, eager to make a literary reference.
Smiling at me approvingly through the uppermost branches, Hector kicked the door closed behind him to stop the rush of cold air that had accompanied him. He nodded towards Billy.
“It rather looks like Pogles’ Wood has beaten Birnam Wood to it.”
Billy offered up a dripping sprig of holly, like a gypsy pressing lucky heather upon a reluctant stranger.
“I’ve brought the perfect complement to your Christmas tree, young Hector,” he said. “What could be more Christmassy than a bit of holly?”
“I could say turkeys, but that doesn’t mean I want either of them messing up my nice, clean shop.”
Hector lowered the pot to the floor beside the counter and took off his coat, releasing a shower of loose pine needles to mingle with the mud on the floor.
“Whose woods have you been raiding this time, Billy?”
Billy bridled.
“I had Stanley’s permission. You can ask him if you don’t believe me.”
Affronted, he turned his back on Hector and tried me again.
“Well, how about some offcuts to put in those little posy vases on your tearoom tables? I can do you a big handful of holly, ivy and mistletoe trimmings for a couple of quid.”
He pointed through the window to the barrow, and Hector peered through the glass to inspect its load.
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a decent sized bit of mistletoe.”
Billy pursed his lips.
“Carol took the best of it to hang inside the shop door. She doesn’t usually put any evergreens up at Christmas, so I reckon she must have someone special in her sights this year. You better look out next time you’re up there, young Hector.”
Hector grimaced. “I don’t think she’s after me any more, Billy.”
I made a mental note to make sure Billy wasn’t in the village shop next time I visited.
Hector reached a hand into his jeans pocket, pulled out a two-pound coin and handed it to Billy. “But let Sophie choose which bits she wants. I don’t want any rubbish.”
Billy jerked his thumb in Tommy’s direction. “On you go then, girlie. Let the boy show you what we’ve got. And don’t go sweet-talking him into giving you more than two quid’s worth either.”
I collected an empty tray from the tearoom, swung the shop door open and was met by a big smile from Tommy.
I picked carefully through the shorter branches, trying to avoid pricking my fingers on holly leaves as I searched for sprigs with lots of berries. The mistletoe berries, slightly damp from the drizzle outside, glistened, pearlescent. Trying to remember whether they were poisonous, I thought I’d better look them up in one of May’s gardening books before putting them in vases on the tearoom tables. I could imagine a toddler mistaking them for sweets.
“I hope Billy’s not taking advantage of you in his little venture,” I said, piling the best bits up on my tray.
Tommy was wide-eyed. “Oh no, miss, he’s letting me have all the fun. Climbing the trees with the saw to cut the branches down, chopping them down to size when I’m back on the ground, pushing the barrow—”
“And what’s left for Billy to do, exactly?” I shuddered at this health and safety nightmare.
“He looks after the money side of things, which is fine by me. I hate maths. This isn’t meant to be like homework.”
“And have you sold much?”
Tommy threw back his shoulders with pride. “This is our third barrow full, and we’ve only done one side of the High Street so far.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a side line in fairy lights? I’ve just realised I haven’t got any for my cottage yet.”
“Oh no, miss, just the greenery. Because we can get all that stuff for free. It’s pure profit, see?”
Yes, I saw, but I wondered how little of the profit ended up in Tommy’s pocket. I decided to have a word with Billy out of Tommy’s earshot later, to make sure. I suspected a bit of pocket money would make a big difference to Tommy, whereas Billy would just spend the lot in the pub.
My tea-tray fully loaded, I thanked Tommy and was just turning to go back indoors when he grabbed at my sleeve.
“Miss, will you help me do something tomorrow?”
I knew Tommy better than to commit myself without further enquiry. “Does it involve climbing trees with sharp implements?”
He grinned, apparently glad of the distraction from his real request. It took him a moment to spit it out.
“Will you help me choose some Christmas presents in the bookshop? I mean, I’m not much good at knowing what to get my mum and my sister, but I really want to get something they’ll like.” He frowned. “And now it looks as if I might have to buy something for a baby too. I know babies can’t read when they’re born, but I thought maybe one of those hard books with no words in might make a good Christmas present for a baby.”
“It can’t be that hard if there are no words,” I said, wondering whether he’d get the joke. He didn’t.
“Not hard to read. Just hard. You know, the sort of books that babies can chew.”
“You mean board books.” I smiled. “Yes, of course, Tommy. I’ll help you choose a good one, if you like. And I’ll get Billy to leave some money with Hector from what you’ve earned so far, to make sure you’ve got enough for what you want to buy.”
Tommy beamed. “Thanks, miss. You’re all right, you are.”
I slipped back into the shop, blocking Billy’s exit until I’d extracted thirty pounds from him on Tommy’s behalf. I watched them wander back up the High Street together, Tommy eagerly pushing the barrow, Billy thumbing through his remaining roll of banknotes. Then I turned round one of our little books on babies’ names to display the cover as a hint to Tommy’s mother, just in case she happened to call in before her baby was due.
33 Second Time Lucky
“Why don’t
we hold a book swap party after Christmas, so that children can come in and exchange books they have been given for Christmas but don’t like?”
Replenishing the children’s classics section, I had a flashback to receiving three copies of “Little Women” at Christmas when I was ten. At that age, that was three too many, and it had put me off reading the book ever since.
“That sounds a good idea, Sophie,” said a mother, placing a five-pound note and a box of Christmas cards on the counter. “Something free to look forward to after Christmas. Can you do it for adults too, Hector?”
Her husband came up behind her. “A bit like swinging, eh, Hector?” He winked behind her back. She turned around to acknowledge him.
“I think you mean swishing, darling. Like clothes-swapping parties.”
“I know what I mean, love.” He patted her bottom as I gave her a pound and a penny change.
I turned, wide-eyed, to Hector, as they left the shop. “Gosh, is there anything that doesn’t happen in Wendlebury Barrow?”
“I’d be the last to know about that one,” he said. “Though if it doesn’t happen in Wendlebury Barrow, it’s probably not worth doing. But I think your book swap idea is a good one, provided they only swap with each other’s books, and not with our stock. I doubt any books would be in saleable condition after being in sticky hands on Christmas Day.”
As I went to serve some customers waiting in the tearoom, I kept an eye open for husbands or wives changing tables, but was disappointed.
I’d almost forgotten about the nativity play rehearsal taking place at the Village Hall until just after four o’clock, when Tommy made his characteristic noisy and breathless entrance into the shop.
“Want to see this week’s film?” he asked hopefully. I was nervous of seeing the evidence after last week’s showing, but he looked so earnest that I didn’t have the heart to say no.
“OK,” I said tentatively. “Will it take longer than last week?” I rather hoped so, or else it meant no-one had learned their lines, and the children had spent the afternoon crying.
Tommy scraped a chair out from under a table and spun it round to sit on it back to front, balancing on the back (now front) two legs only. I was about to caution him, when I realised that if he could climb trees holding sharp instruments and jump off the Village Hall roof without damaging himself, he was probably indestructible. He pushed the sugar bowl and milk jug out of his way to clear a space for his camera.
Hector remained at the till while customers were in the shop, then came over to join us when the video was half way through. So far, it was running surprisingly well, with no forgotten lines or upset children.
“Of course, they don’t look like much without their costumes,” said Tommy, narrowing his eyes critically. “But Damian said Carol will have them all done in time for next week.”
I clutched one hand to my chest. “That’s a relief. I’m glad he’s persuaded her to make them after all. I was worried she might refuse, as the play’s about Christmas.”
Hector raised his eyebrows. “Is she making the costumes for the whole cast? That’s over a hundred people. That’s a tall order.”
“Most of the kids are short,” said Tommy. “Anyway, any of them who have got an animal onesie at home are being allowed to use that as their costume.”
“Surely they’re not all sheep onesies?”
I had a horrible feeling the chief shepherd might end up looking like Noah.
Tommy shrugged. “I dunno. Besides, the shepherds only need dressing gowns and tea towels on their heads. So Carol hasn’t got to make that many.”
At that point in the filming, Tommy must have got bored, as he’d started to pan round the hall.
“Look, Damian brought some of the costumes to show us.”
The camera zoomed in on an apparent sea of feathers nestling in the corner of the hall.
Hector burst out laughing. “My God, it’s Mother Goose! Is one of the three wise men bringing a golden egg?”
I clapped my hands over my eyes. “Oh, my goodness, don’t joke, Hector. I hope Carol isn’t going over the top.”
Even this extraordinary sight didn’t hold Tommy’s attention for long, and he continued to turn the camera about. Next, he stopped to focus on the glass panel in the door that led in from the lobby, where a hooded face was pressed to the glass, looking in.
“Bloody hell, I didn’t notice her the first time around,” said Tommy. “Who do you think that is? A ghost?”
“Why a ghost?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of the Village Hall being haunted.”
“It’s probably just someone’s mum sneaking a look to see how her child is getting on,” said the practical Hector.
Tommy looked up in surprise, as if Hector’s was the more outlandish suggestion. “Well, you get ghosts at Christmas, don’t you?”
Hector frowned. “What, like the Ghost of Christmas Past?”
Tommy acknowledged Hector’s suggestion with a sweep of his arm, jogging the table enough to make the camera wobble. “There, you see, Sophie, Hector knows what I’m talking about. And anyway, I didn’t notice it when I was filming. It’s just like those programmes you see on the telly, where they set up cameras to film haunted houses and no-one sees the ghost until after the film’s been developed.”
“It’s called Photoshop, Tommy,” said Hector gently, returning to the counter.
Tommy was undaunted. “No, it’s definitely a ghost. Which explains why I heard more of those weird baby crying noises from that van this afternoon.”
“So the ghost drives a van?” asked Hector. “That’ll give the Ghostbusters a run for their money.”
“No, it’s Damian’s van,” said Tommy. “I think it must be haunted. Now I’ve seen this ghost, I think it must be the mother of the baby, and the baby in Damian’s van is a baby ghost.”
“Are you sure it was Damian’s van?” I asked, doubtfully. “It could have been the other white van that was in the car park last week when you heard it.”
I glanced across to Hector to gauge his reaction, but he had his head down, cashing up for the night. Tommy raised his hands defensively.
“Don’t blame me. I’m just the cameraman.”
I looked back at the screen for further evidence, only to see Tommy had spent the next twenty seconds focusing on a pile of donkey droppings on the wooden parquet floor. They were definitely not in my script either.
34 Lights!
As I stood outside The Bluebird in the dark, trying to spot Hector amongst the crowd, a stocky figure in a duffle coat sidled up to me. It wore a bobble hat covered with mistletoe, topped with an old bicycle lamp tied on with string. In its hand was a pint glass spilling over with mulled wine. Its growly voice startled me.
“Good evening, girlie.”
It was Billy. He pointed to his hat.
“Got a Christmas kiss for your old friend tonight?”
To my relief, at that precise moment Hector came jostling through the crowd, wearing an ancient deerstalker and a thick stripy scarf over a long overcoat. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d missed the notice for fancy dress to be worn.
“Do I detect unrest?” was his greeting to me.
I grinned.
“Nice hat, Sherlock.”
He touched it appreciatively.
“I’ve had it since I was a teenager. It came from my parents’ antique shop. It’s so battered that I only bring it out in the dark when you can’t see the moth holes. But I’m very attached to it.”
“Can I be your Dr Watson?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be Mrs Hudson? You do make a fine cup of tea.”
I batted his arm for teasing me, but before I could protest further, a slight figure dressed entirely in black bowled up to join us, a sinister balaclava covering all of its face but the eyes. Alarmed, I took a step back, but Hector was not worried.
“Hello, Tommy.”
Tommy pulled off the balaclava and stuffed it crossly into his pocket.
“How did you know it was me?”
Hector tapped his deerstalker. “Sherlock Holmes says you can never disguise a back.”
“But this is my front.”
Tommy stomped off, pulling his video camera out of his other pocket as he went. I surveyed the crowd as it absorbed him.
“Gosh, I’d forgotten quite how many people live here.”
I reached into my coat pocket to pull out the pile of invitations to the Wendlebury Writers’ book launch. The lighting-up ceremony provided the perfect opportunity to distribute them to villagers without having to go door-to-door. I wondered where to start.
“I suppose these are all villagers.”
Hector nodded.
“Most of them, as far as I can tell, although I suspect a few usually come up from Slate Green to get their hands on some free mulled wine. Word gets around about such things.” He pulled his scarf a little closer around his neck, and I looped my arm through his to snuggle closer.
“I’m surprised how many villagers I know now. And it’s nice to no longer be the newest person in town. I can see at least one person who wasn’t even born when I moved into my cottage.”
I pointed to a tiny baby in the arms of a slight lone female standing on the edge of the crowd. The mother, hood up, head bowed, was completely engrossed in her baby’s company, holding its hands and talking to it, as if there was no-one else around. I wondered whether she was as much a newcomer to the village as the baby. Perhaps she was painfully shy. There was no father in evidence, and of all the crowd, she seemed to be the only one not mingling with others.
“She looks a bit lonely and awkward,” I said. “I don’t know who she is, but there’s something familiar about her. Why does she remind me of Billy? No, hang on, she’s more like Carol, only a young, pretty version.”
Hector laughed. “Everyone looks the same on a dark night like this, all bundled up against the cold. It’s easier to recognise people in their Halloween outfits.”
