The Great Christmas Knit Off (34 page)

‘Ah, yes,’ Lawrence smiles. ‘They’re having a bit of a lie in. Seems they may have overindulged on the mulled wine last night and are now feeling a bit delicate. No requests for breakfast either, which I tried to explain wasn’t a good idea and that you can’t beat a good full English to soak up a hangover, but they weren’t convinced.’ He shrugs. ‘I think they’ll be joining us later,’ he finishes diplomatically.

‘Ouch!’ And we both laugh. ‘So, what can I get you to drink?’ I grin.

‘Ooh, I’ll have a—’

‘I’ll get these!’ It’s Ruby, and she looks glorious as always, in a crimson faux fur swingy cape with a fluffy white collar and matching hand muff. She places the muff on the bar and sweeps the cape from her body, revealing a jaunty, and very kitsch, prancing reindeer print vintage blouse.

‘Wow! You look sensational,’ I say impulsively.

‘Thank you, honey. Wish I could say the same for you!’ And she whips open her bag and pulls out her purse, as I try to reunite my jaw to the rest of my face.

‘Oh, that was harsh, Rubes,’ Lawrence says, nudging her with his elbow. ‘Sybs looks lovely, she’s a natural beauty.’ He nods.

‘Thank you, Lawrence,’ I smile, having quickly recovered from her bluntness.

‘Of course she does,’ Ruby continues, ‘but what I meant was – she may want to get rid of that manky tea towel she has slung over her shoulder.’ And she points a sparkly tipped finger at me.

‘Why?’ Lawrence asks, before I manage to.

‘Because there’s one very hot doctor waiting outside for her.’ Both Ruby and Lawrence look directly at me, and I swear my heart skips a beat.

‘But—’ I open my mouth.

‘No buts.’ Cher is at my side now, having earwigged the conversation.

‘He asked me to send you outside as he can’t come in,’ Ruby says nonchalantly, smoothing her hair.

‘Why not?’

‘Why do you think? Because he’ll get bombarded with medical questions if he comes in here, like he always does, that’s why,’ Cher laughs. ‘Now, go on, shoo.’ And she grabs the tea towel from my shoulder and slings it in the sink underneath the bar.

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, checking it’s OK – I did offer to help out, but right now, I really want to see him, even if the pub is heaving three deep at the bar. Who knows when I’ll have another chance?

‘Yep. We’ll manage,’ Cher says.

‘And I know how to serve drinks.’ Ruby leaps down from her stool and sashays around to the serving side of the bar before bellowing, ‘OK, who’s up for a tequila shot?’ in her brilliantly throaty voice as she whips out four shot glasses from the shelf, places them on the bar and fills them up in one smooth movement, just like a pro. Grabbing a knife, she spears a lemon from the bowl, chops it into four wedges, and dares Leo to have a go.

‘Be quick,’ Cher groans, leaning into me and shaking her head in Ruby’s direction, and I don’t need telling twice so I dash out the back, grab my parka, scarf and mittens and after collecting Basil, figuring it’ll do him good to galvanise himself into action and stretch his legs, I step outside into the silvery snow that’s falling gently from the sky.

But Ben isn’t here.

I look around while Basil bites the snow, before dropping on to his back and rolling around like a crazy dog, swishing his tail to make the snow flurry up and on to his tummy, and I swear if he were human, he’d be laughing and whooping like a looper. I’m just about to turn around to go back inside, when the fifteen Japanese tourists come toddling along the lane, looking very delicate indeed.

‘Ah, hello Sybil,’ Mr Tanaka says, doing his customary bow in greeting.

‘Happy Christmas to you all,’ I say, hoping they hurry up and get inside the pub because if Ben is out here hiding somewhere, there’s no way he’s going to show himself with them all standing here taking more photos – the pub door, the pub sign, one of the wooden bench seats, one of Pear Tree Cottages, one of the merry woman from the other night who’d sworn to Ben she’d only had one drink with her blanket round her shoulders and her battered old Trilby hat (she’d turned up right on cue), and then finally the process is repeated all over again with me holding the camera while they all cram into view. And then they seem to muster up a modicum of fortitude as, for a grand finale, they stand in a line and whip off their coats, revealing their glorious Christmas jumpers for me to see while they all yell an obviously rehearsed, and very cheery ‘ho ho ho’, patting the sides of their stomachs like they’re Santa as they point to each other’s jumpers as if it’s the funniest thing ever. And I have to say, that it is pretty funny, to see them all guffawing; it’s infectious, and I end up laughing with them. Eventually they stop, and after thanking me profusely, once again, for saving the day back home in the theme park in Tokyo, they toddle off inside the pub.

There’s a rustling sound across the way by the village pond.

‘Psst. Over here.’ And I stifle a laugh on seeing Ben crouched behind a bunch of snow-covered bushes with the hood of his duffel coat pulled up over his head so that it’s practically covering his face. Basil bounds over to him right away, with me following on the end of his lead.

‘What are you doing?’ I breathe, covertly.

‘Hiding,’ he says, as if it’s the most obvious explanation ever. ‘It’s the only way.’ And he has such a hunted look on his face that I end up laughing again.

‘Oh God, please don’t laugh,’ he says, trying to keep a straight face as he goes to move from his crouched position, but Basil bombs in between his legs, making him lose balance and he plunges backwards into the bushes. We both crack up.

‘Ah, feck,’ Ben puffs, the first to recover. He sticks out his hand. ‘Jesus, will you pull me out of here, please?’ His Irish accent gets stronger as he lunges forward in a vain attempt at propelling himself free.

And I do.

And he keeps hold of my hand.

With his body pressed against mine, his breath warm on the cold of my cheeks, neither of us speaks. He lifts off his glasses to wipe away the specks of snow and my pulse quickens as I look into his beautiful emerald eyes. A lock of dark hair falls onto his face. After pushing it away, he places his hand on my cheek, gently sweeping it inside my hood and under my curls at the nape of my neck before pressing his warm lips onto mine. And in this moment, I have absolutely no idea why on earth I ever thought he was nervous, awkward or inexperienced with women when my tummy flips and my heart soars as he kisses me hard and very, very passionately.

We eventually pull apart and I do an actual gasp, just like they do in the rom-com films.

‘Merry Christmas, Sybs,’ he says gently. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since the first moment I clapped eyes on you on that train.’ Grinning, I touch my woolly-gloved hand to his face. ‘Sorry,’ he says gently, after pushing his glasses back on.

‘What for?’ I just about manage, wishing my breathing would slow, back to a normal-ish rhythm.

‘I probably shouldn’t have kissed you; I’m not sure it’s an appropriate way for a doctor to carry on,’ he smiles, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in close.

‘Mmm …’ I pause to ponder for a moment, and then look up into his beautiful face. ‘But you’re not my doctor!’

‘Well, technically I am – you came to see me in my surgery,’ he says, gently kissing the bridge of my nose.

‘Ah, yes, but we first met on a train,’ I point out.

‘Like
Brief Encounter
: wasn’t he a doctor too?’ And we both laugh again. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you back into the pub,’ he says, slipping his hand in mine and giving Basil a quick stroke when he stretches up and doofs both front paws on Ben’s thighs, eager not to be left out. ‘I’m on call this afternoon – I volunteered months ago, back when I had assumed I’d be on my own today, but maybe we could get together later this evening, someone said
Star Wars
is on if you fancy it?’ he adds, in a very breezy voice.

And I freeze.

I’m rooted to the spot like a statue. Even Basil hunkers down and lets out a little yelp.

‘Pardon?’ I just about manage.

I hold my breath.

‘It’s not really my thing, but …’ He shrugs.

And I let out an enormous sigh of relief before flinging my arms around his neck and squeezing him tight, thinking what a truly, wonderful, perfectly magical Christmas this is.

S
pring time. The gloriously warm sun streams through a perfect, cloud-puffed blue sky, while the gentle baa of the newborn lambs drifts over from the fields all around and the air is full with the heavenly scent of wild flowers.

‘That’s it. Oops, sorry, a little further to the right. Whoa, stop. Perfect,’ I say to Pete, as he stands on the top of his tractor, making sure the new Hettie’s House of Haberdashery shop sign is properly in place. And it looks magnificent – all art nouveau swirly gold lettering on a French-navy background – very shabby chic haberdashers. And exactly how I imagined it.

At last, the day I dreamt about, and fantasised over during those tedious long hours at my desk in the council offices, has finally arrived. I went back to work after Christmas and was reassured that I was in no way to blame for Jennifer Ford’s unexpected windfall, and that they had been genuinely worried about me, hence the suggestion I take some time off. Seems I wasn’t even in the office on the date and time when the transaction occurred – doctor’s appointment is what it said on the online team calendar, so I wasn’t the bungling employee after all. And they never did catch up with Jennifer Ford. The last that was heard of her – via a gossip magazine she had sold her story to – was of her swanking it up on a mystery man’s yacht moored in the Cayman Islands, having got lucky on the roulette tables in Vegas.

Anyway, soon after, the council needed to make cost savings, so I was offered voluntary redundancy and jumped at the chance, gave notice on my flat right away, packed up all my stuff and paid a man with a van to drive it to Tindledale. That’s right, I live here now. Marigold gave me first refusal on a tenancy for the Blackwood Estate lodge, set at the entrance to the farm, a tiny one-bedroom, turreted, Hogwarts-style house, and perfect for Basil and I.

I’m managing Hettie’s shop now and today we’re having a relaunch party, so she can take a bit of a back seat, and spend the rest of her years doing the things that she loves – knitting, dancing, and getting to know Gerry. But the most wonderful thing of all is that he tracked down his birth father, Gerald, too, the mystery man, G, that Hettie had written about in those letters Ruby found in the suitcase. I did pass on the message from Ruby regarding their potential worth, but Hettie said she couldn’t possibly part with them, not now she has them back. Hettie wrote the letters to her mother from America, and had no idea they’d been kept. But Hettie did agree to chat to Ruby, to share some of her glorious memories of the golden age of Hollywood and they’ve spent a number of evenings together, cosied up in Ruby’s vintage shop, reminiscing while listening to Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly on Ruby’s Dansette record player.

And Gerald had never forgotten Hettie, or indeed stopped loving her, not deep down, but his parents were very conservative and had put pressure on him to stay in America, and not ‘chase after the English girl who lived so far away’. Gerry never knew about the babies and said that if he had, then he’d have been there like a shot, even if it had meant never seeing his family in America again.

But the past is the past, and things are much brighter now, and Gerry senior and Hettie talk all the time on Skype – he’s a widower with two grown-up daughters, and still lives in America, in Manhattan. So I persuaded Hettie to treat herself to her very own laptop to have in the snug of her oast, and she now spends hours chatting to Gerry senior and catching up on old times. She said they’re planning an actual get-together very soon, Gerry’s daughter is organising it all for him to sail over on the
Queen Mary 2
from New York so he doesn’t have to bother with airports and flying, and all that carry-on, at his age.

So now that everything is unpacked, the knitted contents of my old spare bedroom are artfully displayed on little hangers in the window, the tea cosies lined up on shelves and Hettie’s mother’s old Singer sewing table has replaced the flaky, chipped counter, the shop is finally ready for today’s party. Even the bus shelter has had a makeover and is now adorned in a gorgeous sunshine-yellow yarnbombed extravaganza, courtesy of Taylor and her mates last night, I assume, as it definitely wasn’t here yesterday.

‘Oh, it looks marvellous, Sybil,’ Hettie is standing next to me now, wearing her best floral frock and a lovely light expression on her face. Gone are the worry lines, replaced only with contentment, now that her heart has healed and she’s finally found her peace. ‘You’ve done wonders with the old place, and I never thought I’d see the day – it would certainly wipe the smile off that nephew of mine’s face.’ She loops her arms through mine.

‘Have you heard anything more from him?’ I ask, remembering when he turned up again shortly after Christmas, only to take one look at me and scarper back into his shiny black Range Rover.

‘Oh no dear, he won’t be bothering us any more,’ Hettie says with a devious twinkle in her eye.

‘Why? What have you done?’ I smile cautiously.

‘Told him of course. Well, not me personally, no, the solicitor that Gerry junior found for me, did – that you’re in charge now, that the shop is yours and I’ll be staying put in my home until the time comes for them to take me away in a box, thank you very much, and not to be thinking he stands to inherit a penny, oh no, not now that Gerry is back in my life.’ And she chuckles. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and give her a big hug.

‘I’m so happy for you,’ I smile.

‘And me for you. Now, come on, dear, it’s nearly time for the speeches,’ says Hettie, breaking away and patting my arm.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum whip a hanky out of her sleeve before nudging Dad and pressing the hanky into his hand with a ‘wipe the sweat off your bald head at once’ stare.
What on earth will everyone think?
I chuckle inwardly. Mum looks amazing. They arrived yesterday and she went straight into Ruby’s shop and bought a vintage Aquascutum dress with matching bag and cute lace gloves, said it was only right if she was coming to the relaunch of a ‘premier’ establishment. Poor Glenda from next door has been getting a daily bulletin update on my move to Tindledale and plans for the shop for the last few months – anyone would think I’d single-handedly commissioned a shuttle to the moon, the way Mum’s been carrying on. You know, she even erected one of those electronic countdown clocks in the kitchen. Ticking away the days, hours and minutes. Won it on eBay, apparently, and none of us even knew she’d discovered online shopping.