Mince Pies and Mistletoe at the Christmas Market Read online

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I sighed. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I can pay for my own drink.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ he said, ‘but I was just trying to be friendly.’

  Of course he was, and wasn’t ‘friendly’ how I had decided to categorise our relationship now? This change of mind set was going to be harder to get used to than I first thought. Perhaps I would have been better off cutting him out of my life completely, but that would have hardly made for ideal working conditions in the season of goodwill, would it?

  ‘Are you still pissed off at me?’ he quizzed just as I was about to relent.

  For a second I thought he meant about dumping me all those years ago and changing the course of our lives forever. Momentarily thrown off guard, I fumbled for a response.

  ‘About me calling you Ruby Sue?’ he added helpfully when it became obvious I was struggling to understand exactly what it was that he was alluding to.

  I began to feel my internal temperature rise again and it had nothing to do with the roaring fires.

  ‘No,’ I shrugged, ‘why should I be? I know, probably better than anyone else here, that you’ve never been able to control what comes out of your mouth.’

  ‘Well that’s OK then,’ he nodded, ‘because Mia said it wasn’t appropriate—’

  ‘Oh well, if Mia said,’ I snapped, letting myself down completely.

  ‘Oh come on,’ he said, plucking at my sleeve and nodding towards the group, ‘come and prove to everyone that you’ve picked a side.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked, trying to ignore the unwanted shiver the feel of his fingers aroused as he picked up his tray of drinks.

  He looked over the top of my head towards the door and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he muttered, drawing my attention to Dad and his council cronies who had just arrived. ‘Are you coming, or what?’

  I did know which side of the fence I was going to be sitting on, but I didn’t want to make it too obvious. Dad may well have turned into one giant pain in the backside recently but he was still my father and I knew that such a public betrayal of loyalty was going to cut him to the quick. Fortunately I was saved from having to try and explain that to Steve by the timely arrival of Tom and Ben.

  ‘Ruby, finally, how are you?’ Ben grinned. ‘Lizzie and Jemma have talked of nothing other than what a grand job you’re making of the stall!’

  ‘Hello, Ben!’ I laughed, jumping up and giving him a quick hug. ‘My God,’ I gasped. ‘Look at the size of your beard! I can’t believe you’ve kept it all this time. I never had you down as a hipster type.’

  I felt my shoulders relax as Steve squeezed between us, carrying the loaded tray of drinks back to the group of stallholders. Tom, who was standing just behind Ben, rolled his eyes and sighed at my hipster comment.

  ‘What?’ I asked, wide-eyed, ‘I’m only teasing. You know that, don’t you, Ben?’

  ‘Hipster?’ He groaned, shaking his head and sounding thoroughly mortified. ‘I don’t really look like one of the tight trouser brigade, do I?’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ I laughed, waving over his head at Lizzie who had just arrived and beckoning her over.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, looking around as she unravelled her scarf, ‘great turnout—’ She stopped in mid-sentence when she spotted Ben’s forlorn expression. ‘What?’ she asked, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Ruby said I look like a hipster, Lizzie. It’s going to have to come off.’

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ she frowned, ‘I thought it was something serious!’

  Tom took a sharp breath and shook his head.

  ‘Beard business is serious,’ said Ben looking wounded. ‘Do you think it makes me look like I’m trying to fit in with the young trendy lot?’

  Considering I’d only been looking for a diversion from being told where to sit by Steve, I certainly seemed to have opened quite a can of worms. Fortunately, however, we were saved from further beard analysis by Jim ringing the bell behind the bar and calling the meeting to order.

  ‘Here, Ruby!’ called Marie from her position at the table of traders. ‘I’ve saved you a seat.’

  With the space so crammed it would have been impossible to try and wedge in with someone else and therefore, without daring to glance in Dad’s direction, I crossed the bar, painfully aware that his eyes were on my every step, and joined my current colleagues to publicly demonstrate far sooner than I had expected to have to that I had very definitely picked a side.

  The meeting got off to a lively start and it wasn’t many minutes before I realised I had chosen the right place to sit, even though I had initially been reluctant about it.

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ said Bob standing up to address Dad and his two accomplices who had delivered the first blow. ‘We’re going to have the same old switching on of the town lights as we always do, only this year there’s no money for a tree.’

  It sounded ridiculous. It was ridiculous. How much did a Christmas tree cost, for goodness’ sake?

  ‘That’s not entirely accurate,’ said Dad in a clipped tone, ‘as we have just gone to great lengths to explain, there will be a tree but not for the market. This year the town has been assigned just the one and it has been decided that it will be situated outside the council offices.’

  ‘Decided by who?’ shouted an irate voice from the back.

  ‘And more to the point, who’s going to bloody well see it if it’s stuck down there?’ protested someone else.

  ‘The market square always has a tree!’ joined in Marie. Unlike everyone else who had spoken so far, she sounded upset rather than angry.

  I took a deep breath and decided it was time to show everyone where my allegiances lay.

  ‘Why not,’ I suggested a little nervously, ‘take it to a vote. If there really is only enough money for one tree, then why not let those who would normally benefit from it decide where it should go? Let the traders choose between the market square and the council building. If there’s going to be just the one, then shouldn’t there be some discussion as to where it will be located? You shouldn’t just turn up here,’ I said, looking at Dad, my confidence and indignation growing with every word, ‘and tell them, us, I mean.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’

  ‘Surely,’ I continued, further encouraged by the positive response, ‘everyone should have a chance to decide where the tree goes, shouldn’t they?’

  There was a general murmur of assent as Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his jaw grinding in the familiar way it always did when he was faced with a situation he couldn’t control.

  ‘And we all know which way that vote would go!’ piped up Gordon. ‘Give us your tree, Robert, and let folk enjoy it as they go about Christmas shopping in the town!’

  ‘What’s left of the town!’ shouted another voice from the back.

  ‘And could we please just clarify,’ said Gwen, sounding calm from her position at the front, ‘who will be doing the switch-on this year?’

  ‘The mayor,’ said Dad wearily, no doubt knowing what the reaction to this little titbit would be, ‘as always.’

  ‘Why can’t we have someone different for a change?’ shouted Shirley.

  ‘Yes,’ joined in Bob. ‘Let’s have someone who people will actually want to turn out to see!’

  ‘Someone off The X Factor!’

  ‘Or one of the celebrities starring in the Peterborough panto,’ added Chris, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘Personally I wouldn’t mind seeing that girl out of EastEnders who’s playing Cinderella in the flesh!’

  Everyone started to laugh.

  ‘Hey!’ admonished Marie. ‘I can hear you, Chris!’

  Dad stood up and banged on the table in a vain attempt to instil some sort of order as the meeting rapidly threatened to descend into further chaos.

  ‘You all have to understand that funds are tighter than they’ve ever been this year,
’ he said, ‘and that we just don’t have the manpower to assign someone to organise anything different. Perhaps next year—’ he began.

  ‘It’ll be too late next year, Robbie,’ said Chris, beginning to sound properly angry. ‘The turnout for the switch-on was pitiful last year and people won’t come back for the same old rubbish, not again.’

  ‘Especially if there isn’t even a tree,’ tutted Shirley. ‘What are the kiddies supposed to look at?’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but that’s as much as I know,’ said Dad, clearly nettled by Chris calling him Robbie. He only ever said it to get a rise out of him.

  ‘The tree will be going up outside the council offices and the mayor will be turning on the lights on November the twenty-sixth as usual.’

  ‘But that’s just ten days away!’ said Jude, turning bright red.

  ‘And in line with Wynbridge tradition,’ retaliated Dad, looking straight at her. ‘I thought you traders were keen to uphold tradition,’ he added sarcastically, turning to look pointedly at me.

  ‘Not the shitty ones!’ cut in Steve.

  ‘What if,’ suggested Simon, ‘what if someone else funded a tree for the square and put it up themselves, or came up with an alternative person to turn the lights on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ one of Dad’s accomplices asked. ‘How would that work?’

  The noise level dropped again as Simon explained.

  ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘you just said the council are stretched and don’t have the manpower to come up with something new, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dad cautiously agreed.

  ‘So how would the powers-that-be at the council feel if we came up with something ourselves?’

  The noise level began to rise again.

  ‘Hey Si,’ said Chris, ‘that’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ responded Dad, shouting just about louder than everyone else and completely contradicting what he had said to me about the traders making an effort to help themselves. ‘There simply isn’t enough time and added to that there are all sorts of health and safety implications to consider when it comes to installing trees in public areas.’

  This last comment was met with a hail of ‘boos’.

  ‘As I said earlier,’ Dad continued trying to drown everyone out, ‘perhaps we can arrange something different for next year.’

  Chaos ensued as he and his colleagues pushed their way out of the pub and everyone carried on moaning and shouting.

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet, dear,’ said Gwen, plonking herself in the seat next to mine that had just become vacant.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ I told her, tapping the table and staring into space.

  ‘About what?’ she asked, her bright eyes sparkling mischievously.

  ‘That I might,’ I sighed, ‘be about to climb so deep into Dad’s bad books that I’ll never be able to pull myself out again.’

  ‘Oh bravo!’ she laughed, clapping her hands together. ‘Good girl! That definitely calls for another whisky and soda!’

  Chapter 8

  Having firmly made up my mind that I was going to interfere in the festive plans and make this the best Christmas the market had ever seen, I have to admit I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep that night. I had dreaded going home and facing the weight of Dad’s martyred expression and I’d consequently spun out my time in The Mermaid making tentative plans in my head, gossiping and somehow managing to drink more cider in one evening than I had managed to neck during the entirety of freshers’ week.

  As closing time lurched into view Tom kindly offered to drive me home. Pleading with me not to keep giggling, he waited patiently as I searched for my door key, then pressed his finger to his lips and gently shoved me over the threshold before heading off to Jemma. I needn’t have worried however, because the house was dark and silent and I crept up to bed knowing I was going to have to endure Dad’s disappointment stone cold sober.

  The following morning I plastered on the most defiant expression I could muster, but it was immediately obvious when I went downstairs that nothing had changed since I had been a teenager living at home and Dad and I had locked horns in some petty battle. Dad, still the definitive game player, had managed to pull the ultimate master stroke and had left ridiculously early for work, leaving me to ‘stew in my own juice’ and ‘think about my behaviour’ all day, as if I were twelve years old rather than twenty-two.

  However, unlike during my tempestuous teenage years when I fought every bit as stubbornly as he did, I now found there was a tiny part of me wishing he had stayed to thrash it out. I would have liked to clear the air and put our relationship back on track, but if this was how he wanted to play the situation then so be it.

  Shored up by the quarrelsome meeting and aided by the confidence boosting, not to mention group bonding effects of alcohol, everyone at the market, even Bob, was full of enthusiasm for the forthcoming battle. They were all ready to right some wrongs, set things straight and take back some control as to what should and shouldn’t happen in the market square. Personally I found the sudden change, although welcome and necessary, rather daunting and did my utmost to convince myself that none of it really had anything to do with what I had said.

  ‘Amazing what you can do when you set your mind to it, isn’t it?’ said Gwen, looking with fondness at them all as they bustled about, slapping one another on the back with their chests puffed out and their voices raised in cosy camaraderie.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, suddenly doubting that I really had it in me to make their dramatic change of attitude worthwhile.

  ‘All this!’ she said, pointing. ‘You’ve certainly got everyone fired up!’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything,’ I said, shaking my head and certainly not wanting to acknowledge responsibility. ‘Not really, not yet anyway.’

  Even though I’d drunk more than my share of Skylark Scrumpy I knew I’d had the sense to keep my ‘how to spice up Christmas’ ideas to myself. The only suggestion I had actually vocalised was the one about the council putting the positioning of the town’s solitary tree to a vote and there was nothing particularly remarkable or rebellious about that.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Gwen with a knowing wink. ‘You picked a side, Ruby Smith, and you told me you were going to stick to it.’

  From what I could remember, I had indeed told Gwen that I was going to get involved and I suppose I did have some interesting plans kicking around in my cider-soaked brain, so what was the point in putting it off? Christmas was already almost upon us and there was so much to do. I might just as well get the ball rolling, but not until I had faced my father and explained a few things first, of course.

  ‘I’m afraid he isn’t here,’ said Brenda, Dad’s ultra-efficient secretary. ‘He’s been in meetings over at Fenditch head office all day. I can send him a message, if you like. Let him know you need to speak to him.’

  ‘No,’ I said backing away and wondering if perhaps the early morning start wasn’t actually anything to do with avoiding me after all. Perhaps I had mistaken his pettiness for my own. ‘You’re all right, but thanks.’

  ‘Probably just as well,’ she confided, leaning across the desk. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t say it, but he was in a foul mood when I spoke to him earlier this morning. Foul. Made me quite glad he wasn’t here, to be honest.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sympathised, deciding not to explain that his miserable mood could, in some part, have been my fault. ‘I’ll just have a quick word with Tom before I go, if that’s all right?’

  ‘And he’s another one with a face on,’ she warned, before turning back to her computer screen. ‘He’s in his office.’

  I found Tom sitting behind his desk with his hands stuck in his hair, his tie skewed and a murderous look in his eye. Had he not looked up and spotted me loitering in the doorway I probably would have turned tail and put off thanking him for the lift home the night before until another day.

  ‘What?’ he snapped
when he spotted me.

  He sounded as unlike jovial, kind Tom as was humanly possible.

  ‘I just wanted to say thanks for the lift,’ I said already preparing to leave, ‘but it’ll keep.’

  He pulled his hands out of his hair, which stayed sticking up in tufts, and began throwing files from one side of his desk to the other.

  ‘This is all your bloody fault,’ he said, pointing an unsteady finger in my hastily retreating direction.

  ‘Me?’ I said stopping in my tracks. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Come in and shut the door.’

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to when he looked and sounded so dangerous, but I decided to risk it, as long as I could keep the desk between us and one eye on the door.

  ‘I’ve just had Jemma in tears on the phone,’ he said accusingly, but with rather less heat.

  ‘And that’s my fault as well, is it?’ I asked in confusion.

  ‘Yes,’ he said bluntly, ‘it damn well is.’

  ‘And what exactly have I done to cause such a downturn in the usually upbeat emotions of your competent and composed wife?’

  I was trying to make him smile, but it didn’t work and, given the fact that he had just told me Jemma was crying, I don’t suppose a few funny words would or should have made an impact.

  ‘You’ve made me cancel date night.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes, you bloody well have, and I wouldn’t mind, but since we instigated it six months ago we’ve only managed three, and two of those have just been quick trips to the pub.’

  He sounded thoroughly fed up, but I still couldn’t feel all of the guilt he had assigned me because I didn’t know what I had done to be the cause of such apparent marital disharmony.

  ‘So,’ I said, risking sitting on the very edge of the chair opposite him, ‘what exactly is it that I am supposed to have done that has sent your life spiralling out of control?’

  ‘This isn’t a joke, Ruby,’ he said seriously.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting it was,’ I backtracked, feeling suitably chastened.

  ‘Jemma and I never have any time together these days. Never. And now this bloody stall means she’s under even more pressure.’