Chapter 5
17th December
I had thought I was cold painting my front door on Thursday, but that was positively tropical compared to standing around in the village square for four hours selling not only Sally’s produce but also cakes, biscuits, scones, bread and puddings from several other cooks who unfortunately ‘already had plans’ for the penultimate Saturday before Christmas. Sally had the foresight to ask me if I was wearing thermals and when I said I didn’t own any she very kindly offered to lend me some of hers, saying I would need them. She wasn’t joking. The conditions have been arctic since we arrived at nine this morning to set up the trestle tables and decorate them with tinsel and battery-operated fairy lights before laying out the delicacies and their price tags. The phrase ‘too cold to snow’ has been uttered dozens of times by customers wearing thick winter coats, with scarfs wrapped around several times to keep out the draught and woollen hats pulled down over pink-tinged ears. Most of them were too cold to stop and chat so Sally hadn’t really been able to introduce me to many people other than to say, ‘This is Carol, my new next-door neighbour.’ At least she used the word new, rather than single.
Every time I think we’re running low on stock and will be able to pack up early, Sally disappears under the holly-printed tablecloth and retrieves another tin or Tupperware container of home-baking for us to sell. I’m very grateful that she brought two flasks of tea, even though it’s not my favourite tipple, and at least the time is passing quickly as we have been rushed off our feet from the moment the vicar declared the fayre open at 11am. Unfortunately, it has meant that I haven’t yet had the chance to ask Sally if she knows anyone with a forwarding address for Leanne.
After Sally left on Thursday morning, I went to fetch the pale grey matt emulsion paint, and the roller to apply it with from the small shed in my back garden. When I got back, the post that Rick had propped up on the shelf in the hall was scattered on the floor, probably as a result of me opening the back door while the front one was open. As I picked it up, I noticed that among the bills from utility companies welcoming me to my new home, and Christmas cards from a couple of my fellow teachers at school, there was a card addressed to Leanne Sykes. Obviously, someone was unaware that she had moved away a year ago. I moved it, along with the other post, into the kitchen, fully intending to ring Fellows and Webb later to see if they had a forwarding address for Leanne and then completely forgot about it until last night. The pink envelope is now propped back on the shelf in the hall so that I won’t forget about it again.
In fairness, I have been pretty busy. Along with the decorating, I also went out yesterday to buy my first-ever Christmas tree which is currently standing in a bucket of water outside my back door. I bought a fancy holder to stand it in and I haven’t figured out how it works, so Dad is coming tomorrow morning to help me with it and also to show me how to light a decent fire and programme my heating. There have been a few times this past week when I have seriously doubted my ability to live on my own, but I guess everyone has to start somewhere. Mum asked me over for Sunday lunch but I declined as I went last week and I don’t want it to become an expected routine. Besides, once Dad has set my tree up for me, I’m really looking forward to decorating it and maybe even wrapping a few presents to put beneath it.
‘Did you hear me, dear? I’d like half a dozen of the iced snowman biscuits please.’
‘Sorry,’ I manage, ‘I was miles away.’ I carefully place the biscuits into a shallow box and tie it with festive ribbon as Sally had shown me. ‘That’s five pounds please.’
‘No extra discount for pensioners?’
I look across at Sally, my eyebrows raised in question.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hambleton, you’re already getting one free,’ she says, smiling. ‘We’re trying to raise as much money as possible to get the church roof repaired. We wouldn’t want it dripping on you in the middle of Sunday morning service, would we?’
Briefly, it looked as though Mrs Hambleton was going to respond but then thought better of it. She handed over a five-pound note and snatched up her box of biscuits, muttering under her breath about the young people of today having no respect for their elders.
‘Don’t be fooled by her poor pensioner routine. She lives in the big house on the right as you come into the village. She and her husband have just had an extension done to house a sauna and swimming pool.’
‘Maybe that’s why rich people are rich. They watch every penny.’
‘There’s a difference between watching the pennies and being mean, and those two fall into the latter category, I’m afraid. I know you shouldn’t judge, but when the collection plate is handed around she rarely puts in more than fifty pence.’
‘Do you and Matt go to church every week?’
‘We do at the moment. It’s a gorgeous old building and I want to get married there so we have become parishioners. It’s quite good fun. The vicar is young and his sermons are relevant to the modern day. Come to think of it, he’s also single. What are you up to tomorrow morning?’
‘My dad’s coming over to help me with a few things,’ I say, shaking my head at her.
‘Not to worry, there’ll be plenty of other opportunities. You will come to the service on Christmas Eve, won’t you?’
‘Only if you promise not to introduce me as Carol, your single neighbour.’
‘Deal. Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that there are no more tins of goodies stashed under the table so when we’ve sold this lot we can pack up and go back to mine to tot up how much we made.’
The thought that we are on the final stretch brings a smile to my numb face that seems to attract even more customers. Either that, or the realisation that there isn’t going to be any stock left at the end to reduce in price. Within fifteen minutes, every last crumb has been sold and we are packing up when Sally calls me over. She is talking to a man in his early forties and although he has a kind face he’s not my type at all. I hope she’s not going to embarrass us both.
‘Carol, this is Darren. Remember I mentioned him to you when we were talking about gardening the other day?’
Relief washes over me. I’m cold, tired and not in the mood for being polite to men that Sally views as prospective boyfriend material.
‘When would you like me to start on the garden?’ he asks, eagerly.
‘Once Christmas is out of the way,’ I reply.
‘That’s a date,’ he says, pumping my arm up and down before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd.
‘Don’t get any ideas, it’s definitely not!’ I say to Sally.
She just smiles and raises her eyebrows. I can see I’m going to have a job on my hands when it comes to stopping her attempts at matchmaking.