by Debbie Young
He turned around to check her out, and gazed at the woman for so long that I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t think she was that good-looking.
“Actually I don’t know who she is either,” he said at last. “I wonder whether she’s a traveller? They congregate down on Slate Common now and again, until the council gets the police to move them on. I hadn’t heard they were back.”
I wanted him to return his attention to me.
“So what happens now?” I asked.
“I’ll show you.”
He took my hand and led me through the crowd to a trestle table outside the pub, where Donald and his wife were busy ladling mulled wine into polystyrene cups.
“First, we all have some of this, on the house.” He picked up two full cups and handed one to me. “Then we all assemble round the Christmas tree on the green, where the youngest child in the school and the oldest person in the village do the ceremonial switching on of the tree lights. It’s a big honour.”
I thought about this for a moment.
“Has anyone ever hung around long enough to have done both?” I asked.
“Good question, Sophie. If you ask Bella, as the parish clerk, she’ll be able to look it up in the council archives and tell you.”
As they collected their mulled wine, people began to surge away from the pub towards the green. Nobody took the most direct route, but wove in and out as they talked to each other. The sight put me in mind of a murmuration of starlings at dusk.
“Has anyone ever been the oldest person in the village for more than a year?” I asked. “I don’t think I’d fancy being the chosen one. It would feel like stepping to the front of the queue for the village graveyard.”
Hector steered us expertly into a place at the inner edge of the throng, now arranging itself in a circle around the green. “I think the record was five times for one old lady when I was a child. I was starting to think she was immortal, some kind of witch. She even survived the lights fusing the fifth time she switched them on.”
“Maybe the power surge recharged her batteries.”
Wondering who would be the oldest and youngest this year, I was surprised when Billy stepped forward, along with a very small boy in a snowsuit and Thomas the Tank Engine wellies.
“I thought Joshua was older than Billy?” I said in a low voice to Hector as a hush fell over the crowd.
“Yes, but he’s not up to this kind of outing at night. Didn’t you read his message in the parish magazine delegating his duty to Billy?”
I chided myself for still not reading it from cover to cover, as it was the highest authority on village news.
The Reverend Murray stepped into the centre of the circle, with Mrs Murray, neat and smiling, at his side. Several people in the front row turned torches on him, during his brief speech of welcome, thanking The Bluebird for its hospitality and the team of dads who had put up the tree and the lights.
His words fell away in the cold night air, punctuated by puffs of vapour emanating from his mouth. When he stopped speaking, everyone clapped, and those who’d come early to the mulled wine whooped and cheered.
When the shouting died down to a respectful silence, the vicar pronounced a formal blessing on the ceremony and made a sign of the cross in the direction of the Christmas tree.
Finally, he beckoned to Billy and the little boy to step up to a large metal box at the foot of the tree. He lifted the lid to reveal a big red handle. I moved closer to Hector.
Billy reached first to the little boy, holding out his hand.
“Come along, Davy, you hold on to old Billy’s hand, and we’ll do this together.”
The little boy shook his head and backed away a step or two. Perhaps the sight of the red handle reminded him of the bomb detonator so often featured in cartoons.
Billy shrugged. “Suit yourself, then.” I heard his knees crack as he bent down to reach the handle. He grabbed it, then stood stock still, waiting, familiar with the drill after witnessing the process for scores of years.
“Torches off now, folks, please!” said Mr Murray. “Now let’s have the countdown. Five, four, three…”
At zero, there was a split second of expectant hush. Then BANG! But the Christmas tree lights remained dark.
35 Water and Wine
A collective gasp from the crowd sent puffs of vapour scudding about like tiny low clouds, while those with torches or torch apps on their phones turned them in the direction of the noise.
Poor Davy burst into tears and ran back to his dad, who hoisted the little boy on to his shoulders for safety, leaving Billy lying on his back like a stranded beetle, arms and legs flailing. I was glad to see he was still alive.
I was surprised no other children were crying, not even the baby. I turned my head to see how it was faring, but, with its mother, it had vanished into thin air.
Mr and Mrs Murray shot over to Billy’s rescue, grabbed his hands and hauled him back to his feet. Then they stood, each with an arm protectively about him, as if fearing he might keel over again like a ninepin, while Trevor came rushing up to check the switch.
“It’s all wet. As if someone had just tipped a glass of water over it. It looks like sabotage to me.”
He pulled a handful of tissues out of the pocket of his waterproof and swabbed the red handle until it was completely dry.
“But who would do a thing like that?” asked the vicar. “Who would spoil a harmless bit of Christmas fun?”
I thought of Carol, conspicuous by her absence. Had her dislike of Christmas festered to such a level that she wanted no-one else to enjoy it? She could easily have sneaked across from the shop with a bucket of water while everyone was at home getting ready to come out. Or it might have been that lone young mother. There was definitely something odd about her. Perhaps she was the type of misfit that begrudges other people’s happiness and wants to spoil it.
“Are you sure it’s not just spilled mulled wine?” asked Mrs Murray.
“That would seem more likely,” said the vicar.
“I wish I could turn water into wine,” said Billy.
Trevor stuffed the soggy tissues back into his pocket.
“Bloody nuisance, whatever it is,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers to dry them. “But I’ve given it a good dry, so it’s perfectly safe, and it should work now. Let’s have another go. You up for another crack at it, Davy?”
The little boy, wide-eyed, shook his head.
“Let’s leave it to Billy,” said his dad. “At least he wasn’t earthed. Davy’s boots are only plastic, but Billy’s are the real McCoy.”
“No, they’re not, they’re rubber,” said Billy, hauling himself up from the bench to stride defiantly back to the switch. “You lot going to give me another countdown?”
The masses obeyed, louder and more shrilly than before. I braced myself for another bang, but this time the only noise was the ripple of appreciative “ooohs” that permeated the crowd as the tree lights flickered into life. Then such a huge cheer was raised for the organising committee that you’d think they’d just performed a miracle. Which I suppose they had, persuading so many people of all ages to leave their cosy firesides to stand around in the cold on a dark winter’s night, for little more than a hot sugary drink in a polystyrene cup and a string of light bulbs.
Billy was enjoying himself now, especially after Donald had pressed more mulled wine upon him. I didn’t think Joshua would have bounced back so easily.
36 Booked Up
“Thank you very much, Hector,” said Dinah, slapping him hard on the back. “You’ve made it look so easy, I don’t know why you’ve never published anything yourself.”
Hector put the second of the two boxes of the Writers’ books on the counter.
“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, that’s me.”
Jessica wagged a finger at him. “Never say never.”
He passed me the scissors to open the boxes.
“You’re always welcome to join the
Wendlebury Writers, if you’d like to,” said Julia. “We’re very encouraging.”
Dinah gave a rare smile. “You could be our token man.”
Jessica stepped in to move the conversation to safer ground.
“You don’t seem very excited about the book, Sophie.”
I’d been wary of speaking until now, for fear of giving away Hector’s secret.
“Sorry, Jessica. Of course I’m excited. It’s just – it’s just that – I’d already seen the proof copy a few days ago, so I got the initial excitement out of my system then.”
I opened one of the slim holly-red books at the contents page and cast my eye down the list of items.
“And it’s exciting to see my name – all our names – in print. Look, we’re published authors now!”
The other Writers each took a copy, turning the pages eagerly to see their own contributions, before remembering their manners and admiring the rest of the entries. They were all so engrossed with the inside of the book that it was a few minutes before they spotted Hermione Minty’s endorsement on the back cover.
“Oh my word, she liked it!” Jessica squealed. “Look, Hermione Minty has actually read and enjoyed my work!”
“Our work,” Dinah corrected her sternly. She read aloud what they all believed Hermione had written: “‘The literary equivalent of a box of Christmas crackers, each containing a surprise, and the content carefully curated to offer something to suit every taste.’”
She looked up.
“Are you sure that’s not damning with faint praise? ‘Something to suit every taste’ indeed. Supposing the reader’s got bad taste?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Dinah, don’t look a gift horse – don’t be so ungrateful,” said Bella. “I think it’s completely marvellous of Miss Minty to have taken the time to read it and respond, and at such short notice too.”
“She sent us a box of signed books for sale too,” I said proudly, “although Hector says he won’t put them out in the shop until tomorrow, so as not to distract people from our book today.”
“I still think we should have asked her to come and launch it for us,” said Dinah. “Don’t you think so, Sophie? I mean, if you managed to persuade her to do this, maybe she’d have said yes if you’d asked her?”
I thought fast. “Her agent said she’s out of the country till after Christmas.”
I glanced across to Hector, calmly arranging copies of our book on the central display table.
“If she was here today, you might have found yourselves eclipsed,” he said, straight-faced. “Better not to have that distraction.”
I put my hand over my mouth to cover my smile. I was glad Hector was having fun. The Writers just nodded.
“Good thinking, Hector,” said Dinah, whom I’d never suspected of being a Minty fan. “Why didn’t you tell us that, Sophie?”
“It’s just as well, considering we’ve got 100 copies to shift in a village of less than 1,000,” said Jacky. Running her own dental practice, she had the soundest business brain of us all. “We could do without the competition.”
“Oh well, perhaps we can keep her up our sleeve for another project,” said Dinah. “Perhaps she’d like to join us for our reading event in the spring. A visit from her would be good for the village and the bookshop, as well as for the Writers. Public appearances are bread and butter for proper authors, you know.”
“Yes, but only if you pay them,” said Hector. “And I hear that to persuade Hermione Minty to appear here would require a very hefty fee indeed. Take it from me. I know these things.”
“Better than any of us,” I said, winking at Hector with my back to the others. I was glad his quick thinking had got Hermione off the hook. She trod a dangerous path these days.
Karen, as the only one of the Writers to have sold stories commercially, had the best appreciation of the time and effort that it had cost Hector to publish our book. She was keen to thank him in an appropriate manner. Turning her back to him, she said in a low voice to the rest of us, “I know, let’s all sign our pieces in one copy and present it to Hector as a thank you gift.”
“It could be worth a fortune if we all end up as famous authors,” said Jessica, ever the optimist.
We huddled around to do just that, then Dinah hid the signed copy in her handbag to present to him later. After we’d rearranged the furniture in the tearoom to create a space for our readings, we took turns in standing at the lectern (a music stand borrowed from the school) to read our pieces in the book. It wasn’t exactly a sound check – the shop was too small to justify using a sound system – but rehearsing gave us more confidence.
I took my turn first to free me up to help Hector prepare for opening. Then I scurried over to where he was now replenishing the children’s shelves from the stockroom. He seemed introspective, and I tried to make conversation.
“They’re all really pleased with the book, Hector, thank you so much.” He nodded acknowledgment. “I just hope someone comes to buy them,” I added, hoping for reassurance from an expert in bookselling.
I wished I’d given out more invitations the night before at the lighting up ceremony. I’d still had some left in my pocket when I got back to Hector’s afterwards, and had dashed back up to the pub to leave them on the bar as a last resort. If hardly anyone turned up, I felt it would be my fault.
37 Reading Allowed
But I needn’t have worried. Even before Hector had turned the sign on the shop door to “open”, customers were lining up outside. I knew most of them, but there was a fair smattering of strangers. I wondered whether the lonely mother and baby would come. I wished I’d given her an invitation before she disappeared. I was feeling guilty for suspecting her as well as Carol of sabotage now. I wanted to be kind to her to make up for it.
The tearoom chairs were soon filled with an eager audience, and once all the chairs were taken, people were happy to stand at the back of the room or to sit on the floor.
“Who are all these people?” I whispered as I huddled with the rest of the Writers in the stockroom, waiting for a cue from Hector to start our performance. “There’s quite a few I don’t recognise.”
I held the door ajar to keep watch on the arrivals.
“A few of them are my patients from the dental surgery,” said Jacky. “I’ve had a poster up in the waiting room about it, but I didn’t really expect any of them to come.”
“Those young people are from my school,” said Julia. “It’s funny, I’m never usually nervous in the classroom, but it feels quite different to be sharing my personal writing with them, rather than plain historical facts. I’m touched that they came, and relieved that they’re my better students, not the ones who graffiti rude things about teachers in the school toilets.”
Finally, Hector tapped on the stockroom door, our signal to go through to the tearoom, where he said a few kind words about our book before handing over to Dinah. With commendable grace, she thanked Hector for his support and encouragement.
The readings went very well. A few members of the audience bought copies before they sat down, and Mrs Murray followed our words line by line, as if the book were a church service sheet.
When we reached the end of the final piece, Dinah, as chair of the Writers, thanked Hector for his support, then the audience for buying copies (a not-so-subtle hint to those who hadn’t yet done so), and encouraged them, as I’d instructed her, to stay for some Christmas shopping and afternoon tea. Hector gave me a thumbs-up from behind the counter as the audience dispersed, most of them making at least a cursory show of browsing for other books. The rest of the Writers pushed two tables together and gathered chairs around to treat themselves to a cup of well-earned tea. I hastened behind the tearoom counter to resume my normal duties.
It wasn’t until I was starting to clear the tearoom tables towards four o’clock that I noticed Damian sitting in the far corner. I hadn’t served him any tea or cake, so the cheapskate must have sneaked in at the end when I
wasn’t looking. As I went over to remove the previous occupants’ cups from his table, he pulled out a copy of the Wendlebury Writers’ book from his pocket and looked up at me with a wry grin.
“Congratulations, Sophie.”
That was a phrase I’d never heard from him before. I thought he’d twist it into an insult saying that I was only a big fish in a small pond. He’d have been right.
I hesitated, my cleaning cloth poised over the table. I didn’t want to get his book wet. “You like it, then?”
“Yes, I think it’s a real achievement. Well done.”
I struggled for an appropriate reply.
“I’m touched that you bought a copy, after what you thought of my play script. And I know you like to travel light. It means a lot to me that you’ve found space in your van for it.”
“Oh, it’s not for me.” He laughed. He actually laughed. “I’m going to give it to Carol for Christmas.”
I bit back my disappointment. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m sure Carol will treasure it more than you would.”
Unperturbed, he scraped back his chair and stood up.
“Which reminds me, I’ve got to go. I promised Carol I’d water the Christmas tree on my way back.”
“The one on the village green? The big one?”
“Yes, I do it about this time every night. She leaves a watering can outside the shop so I can fill it from the tap in the wall.”
“And did you do it last night too, about this time?”
He gave me a disparaging look.
“What are you, my mother? It’s bad enough Carol reminding me.”
“And were you careful to avoid the electric box when you did so?”
He shrugged. “What electric box? I tipped it all round the base. It’s always pitch dark, so I just aim at the tree. What else am I meant to do? Don’t tell me there’s a village tree watering technique that has passed me by. Oh, I know, a special wellspring of festive water that only bursts forth during Advent. Bloody typical.”
Hector, who had been chatting outside the shop to a passer-by since going out to bring in our promotional A-board, had missed this little outburst. In blithe mood, he returned carrying the folded sign, set it down behind the door, and returned to the counter, where only a couple of dozen of our books remained.
