Page 43 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas
“I’ve put a note on the door,” said Evelyn. “If anyone needs me, they’ll come and get me.”
“People have been decorating the trees in Potters Copse,” said Kate, wrapping fairy lights around the garland.
“Yes,” said Evelyn. “Your dad told me the other day. He brought a sprout tree in for me.”
“Oh,” said Kate. “That’s nice. Well anyway, it looks really magical, especially with the snow, and I thought it might be a nice idea to add it into the caroling walk?”
Every year on Christmas Eve, the Blexford residents went on a caroling walk around the village. It had started back in the Second World War, as a treat for the children who’d been evacuated from London. The Women’s Institute gathered all the children and they walked through the village singing carols. The residents would leave homemade gifts—paper airplanes, peg dolls, and knitted finger puppets—en route, hanging from branches or resting on garden walls, for the children to find as they went.
The tradition had endured, although these days the procession wasn’t just for the children, and the gifts tended to be of the edible kind. But it got everyone in the Christmas mood and it was an excellent excuse to nose at people’s outdoor decorations. Now there was a fair amount of unspoken competitiveness, which only made the village look even prettier.
“Good idea,” said Evelyn. “I’ll put it to the team.”
With the garland secure and the lights evenly spaced, Kate and Evelyn tied baubles and wooden trinkets—rocking horses, little nutcracker soldiers, and ruby hearts—in among the leaves and pinecones and berries, until it looked as extravagant as a Fortnum & Mason display.
Carla disappeared from bauble duty into the kitchen and reappeared five minutes later with a Christmas-tree-shaped serving platter, laden with steaming mince pies. The customers fell gratefully upon them; Kate had two.
If the café had looked festive before—what with the giant gaudy tree hung with everything from toilet roll Santas to paper snowflakes—now it looked positively grotto-like. The fairy lights, which covered the walls, glinted off the sea of ceiling baubles, so that the whole place seemed to twinkle.
“Isn’t it lovely.” Kate sighed.
Evelyn nodded.
“His mum would’ve loved the way he runs this place,” said Evelyn fondly.
Evelyn had been one of Matt’s mum’s oldest friends. Matt and Corinna’s dad left when Matt was a baby without leaving a forwarding address. When Matt’s mum died, her solicitor produced a letter, handwritten by her and witnessed, instructing that should anything happen to her, the children should be left in the care of Evelyn.
Matt hadn’t always appreciated Evelyn’s support, or her scoldings (Evelyn didn’t suffer fools), when he’d been younger, but for the last decade or so she had woken up every Mother’s Day to a card and a bouquet of flowers on her doorstep.
“Mince pie, Evelyn?” mumbled Matt through a mouthful of sweet shortcrust pastry.
He offered up the Christmas tree plate. Evelyn’s hand hovered over the pies while she chose one.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” she said.
Matt grinned.
“Right! I’m off,” said Kate. “How much do I owe you?”
“As if you’d pay,” said Matt. “Can you make me some more mince pies and a rocky road for Saturday? I’ll pay you for the brownies at the same time.”
“No problem,” answered Kate.
Kate exited the Pear Tree grotto, shutting out Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” as she pulled the door closed behind her.
The air was crisp and clean and the double shot in her flat white was having the desired effect. The sky had the laden look of more snow about it. Kate doubled back through Potters Copse and took photos while the light was still good and then dropped in on her dad, but he wasn’t home. She guessed he was at her place tending the vegetable garden. She guessed right.
Kate poured hot soup into bowls and laid the table while her dad banged his boots off outside. He shrugged out of his overcoat and gloves and soon they were seated at the table. The log burner in the corner crackled and Mac cupped his hands around his soup bowl to warm them.
“How’s your mum?” asked Mac.
“Do you really want to know?”
“We were married for thirty-four years. You care about someone for that long, it’s hard to switch it off just because they’re not around anymore,” said Mac.
“She’s good,” said Kate. “She’s in Barbados.”
“Barbados!” said Mac. “Crikey! Holiday?”
