Christmas Wishes Read online

  ‘After supper,’ Nan declared with relish. ‘I like to get them done nice and early.’

  When Sunday came around, Hannah had to admit that a dose of ‘Christmasness’ was welcome. They strolled through the village, waving at Melanie at Booze & News, passing the closed doors of Ratty’s garage. Nan leaned on her stick while Hannah detoured up crazy paving paths to push jolly red envelopes through letterboxes.

  Nan took a child-like joy in every cottage garden where frost rimed leaf and twig, twinkling in pale winter sunlight. ‘Look how pretty those red berries are amongst the frosty spider webs. Everything feels quiet and peaceful.’

  ‘It does.’ Hannah was content to amble at Nan’s pace, enjoying the still, spun-glass world of frozen fronds and icy bird baths.

  The village hall was, in contrast, a hive of industry. Carola was in the middle of everything, directing people up stepladders or to the machine that blew up balloons. Children held paper chains, a small black dog clicked his claws excitedly on the wooden floor as if happy to be involved and the Christmas tree twinkled like a star shower. People called for scissors or tape and provided critical feedback: ‘That angel’s wonky!’ or ‘The holly leaves are the wrong green.’

  Every single person wore a smile.

  Hannah was back in the ‘unimportant little village’ where she belonged. She made cups of tea amidst the banter and laughter and got all glittery from hanging decorations. The day sped by.

  It was as they wandered home through the darkened village, past the pub festooned with lights, that Hannah realised Nan was subdued. ‘Have you tired yourself out?’ she asked, concerned.

  Nan just grumbled, ‘This wind that’s got up is sharp enough to shave a gooseberry,’ and huddled into her coat.

  Hannah waited till they were home, warming up over a cuppa before she asked again. ‘Tired after your busy day?’ She got out the biscuits in the old Quality Street tin with the pictures that reminded her of the buildings of Stortorget, Gamla Stan, in the hope Nan would eat one or two. Age was shrinking her too quickly.

  ‘Thinking,’ said Nan, blowing her tea. ‘Last year Brett helped with the decorating of the hall.’

  Hannah twined her fingers with Nan’s where they protruded from the cast. ‘You miss him.’

  ‘We were great friends.’ The old lady turned her long-sighted gaze to the glowing bouquet of blood-red chrysanthemums and icy green eucalyptus. ‘If I hadn’t let him turn it into a romance then he’d never have wanted to marry me. He wouldn’t have pushed that agreement at me and I’d still have my best friend.’

  Gently, Hannah squeezed the papery fingers, cool despite the warmth of the room. ‘Can’t you go back to being friends?’

  Nan’s voice thickened. ‘It wasn’t enough for him, apparently. He said it was ridiculous not to share what time we had left, instead of being visitors in each other’s homes.’

  Hurting for this stalwart, elderly woman who deserved happiness after all the people she’d looked after in her life, Hannah murmured, ‘There must be a solution. You miss him. He’s sent you flowers.’ She took a breath and prepared to get her head bitten off. ‘Was the prenup idea so awful? You want what you own to go to Mum, I expect, not to pass to him and then his kids. He’ll want the same on his side.’

  ‘I haven’t got much.’ Nan’s voice was small and tired. ‘It was the not trusting.’ But, for the first time, she didn’t sound completely convinced. ‘I think I’ll have soup for supper then listen to the radio in bed. If your mum rings tell her I’ll speak to her next time.’

  Later, Hannah helped her to bed. Just before she left the room, Nan said, ‘Try and find some time for yourself as well as looking after me, duck. You need to start thinking about what you’re going to do next.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘I have been. I need to get my dosh out of Albin first, though.’ Downstairs, she sipped a glass of wine before the fire. Nan was right. In January, when Nan didn’t need her so much or Mo and Jeremy were back, she’d need to get her life going again, without Albin. The world, as the saying went, was her oyster. She could do anything. Go anywhere.

  Then, without meaning to, she thought of Nico and where she might have gone if they’d met again when both were happily single.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Monday evening, Hannah met her friend Deanna at The Three Fishes. Deanna’s mum Kitty had agreed to babysit. Nan was watching a box set of Call the Midwife that had been delivered today, another olive branch from Brett with a note suggesting they talk.

  Nan hadn’t made up her mind about that, though Hannah had reminded her she didn’t have to marry him. ‘Everyone lives together these days.’ Nan had given her an old-fashioned look.

  It was ‘Two meals for £15’ night and the pub was busy. Ferdy’s black-rimmed glasses reflected the colourful Christmas lights as he chatted a mile a minute with the customers. Elvis was quieter, neat in a shirt and tie and with a nervous habit of smoothing a hand over his bald head.

  ‘Let’s start as we mean to go on,’ Deanna said as she ordered a bottle of cava. ‘It’s bliss to be child-free for the evening.’ She sported four-inch heels that meant Hannah reached her shoulder and ripped jeans tight enough to look as if they’d ripped of their own accord. Her frizzy hair was caught up to cascade from one side and flipped people in the face when she turned her head.

  In contrast, Hannah – because, hey, it was only the village pub – wore comfy jeans, flat boots and a slouchy blue top. The men from MAR Motors were lounging around a table. Two Hannah knew only by sight but Ratty, the one with dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes who’d been here with his wife last week, nodded hello.

  ‘So why are you home?’ Deanna demanded when they’d found a table. It was a bit near the dartboard for Hannah’s tastes but only a few locals were playing rather than there being a raucous match against a visiting team.

  So Hannah explained economically, ‘Ex-boyfriend turned out to be a calculating shit at about the same time Nan needed help.’

  Deanna murmured, ‘Wow. It sounds a lot more exciting than nappies and clinic appointments.’

  ‘A bit too exciting,’ she said gloomily, pouring the wine, which fizzed and settled, reflecting the coloured lights all around the bar. ‘I feel as if someone stuck me in a cannon and shot me home. Nothing’s the same here. Nan’s hurt, Mum and Dad are travelling and Rob’s married.’ Then, thinking Deanna might feel left out, added, ‘And you’re a mum.’

  Deanna beamed. ‘You haven’t seen my Shelby since she was a baby, have you? You could have a job as my nanny.’

  ‘But I’m not a nanny and I don’t want to be one,’ Hannah pointed out.

  Deanna sighed. ‘And I can’t afford one. Fancy some crisps?’

  While Deanna was at the bar, Hannah listened to the conversations around her. A couple discussed work. A group of youngsters laughed over their phones.

  Ratty was talking about Simeon Carlysle. He spoke very Queen’s English compared to most of the villagers and Hannah knew he’d attended a posh school, despite his tattoos and his business restoring old cars. ‘Simeon was the same when we were at school. Spoilt boy,’ he said. ‘Carlysle Courtyard’s almost ready and now he’s vanished.’

  One of his mates, a blond man Hannah suddenly remembered was called Pete, asked, ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘Scotland. Met a woman and set off after her like a Jack Russell on heat. Refused to wait until he’d got Carlysle Courtyard open and safely trading. Cassie and Christopher Carlysle don’t know what to do with a batch of unready shops and dissatisfied tenants moving into them.’

  I could tell them, Hannah thought idly, remembering last week’s conversation with Carola and Gabe about the old stable yard Simeon Carlysle had converted into cute country retail units. Retail start-ups were not new to her. She turned and stared at the men. She could tell them. She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry to butt in but I used to help manage Creative Lanes in Bettsbrough and I ran a shop in Sweden,’ she ventured. ‘I might b
e able to help your friends if they need a project manager to get their shops trading. But I’m looking after my grandmother so wouldn’t be able to do nine to five.’

  Ratty looked at her with interest. ‘No idea, to be honest. Would you like an intro?’

  Hannah nodded. ‘Yes, please.’ She was ready to give him her email address but he whipped out his phone and in moments was saying into it, ‘I’m at the pub and there’s someone here who thinks she could sort out Carlysle Courtyard for you. Used to run a similar project. Are you interested or shall I tell her you’re sorted?’

  After a few moments, he handed the phone to Hannah. ‘Christopher Carlysle.’ He turned back to his own table as Deanna returned, bearing crisps and looking bemusedly from Hannah to Ratty.

  Put on the spot, Hannah took the phone and introduced herself to a gruff-sounding man, repeating what she’d told Ratty and outlining her duties at Creative Lanes and her experience in starting up Hannah Anna Butik. ‘Ratty thought you might need someone to get your project off the ground,’ she ended, because ‘I overheard Ratty talking about your business in a pub and butted in’ probably wasn’t professional.

  ‘I’d love to think you’re an answer to a prayer, dear,’ said the gruff voice patronisingly, ‘but can we afford you? That’s the thing. This has cost us quite enough, frankly.’

  Hannah bit back a sigh. Some people – like Albin – thought only they were entitled to make money. ‘I understand,’ she said coolly, knowing this guy Simeon wouldn’t have been working for nothing. ‘In-house management is your best option if there’s no budget.’

  She was about to end the conversation and return Ratty’s phone when Christopher Carlysle muttered, ‘Hang on.’ The sound of muffled conversation followed.

  Hannah waited while Deanna made ‘What’s going on?’ faces. Then a woman came on the line. ‘Hello, I’m Cassie Carlysle.’ She acted as if Hannah’s conversation with Christopher hadn’t happened. ‘Yes, we are looking for help in the final stages in opening Carlysle Courtyard – getting the shops spick and span for the tenants. Is that your thing?’ Her voice held a hopeful note.

  ‘It is.’ In a few minutes Hannah had arranged to meet Cassie the next morning at ten. She handed the phone back to Ratty with a grin. ‘Thanks!’ Her heart lifted at having something, even a short-term project, to feed her ambitions.

  He grinned back. ‘Do you know where to find Carlysle Courtyard? We’ve a new tenant moving into one of our rentals in Little Lane tomorrow or I could show you.’

  ‘I know, thanks,’ she said. ‘I owe you a drink.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Another time. I have to take the dog out before bed. Our little boy’s teething so we’re up half the night.’

  Half an hour later, Deanna too began to yawn because Shelby had been up at the crack of dawn and Hannah left the pub at the same time as her, shivering and pulling up her hood as she realised something cold was falling, touching her face like icy fingertips.

  ‘Snow?’ Deanna gazed at the spicules dancing like moths in the halo around a street light.

  ‘More like sleet,’ Hannah decided, thinking of the big feathery flakes she’d grown used to in Sweden. ‘Brr. Let’s go.’ After hugging goodbye, as Deanna lived on the Bankside Estate and Nan’s cottage was in the opposite direction, she strode through the village, calling goodnight to other hurrying villagers huddled into thick coats.

  She halted, captivated by a Christmas tree in a window of a red-brick terraced house, lights flickering green and red, tinsel glittering. Evidently, the little house’s occupants were in a hurry to welcome Christmas.

  Her heart warmed. She was going to be home in Middledip for Christmas after all with carol singers and festive meals, fairy lights glowing through winter mists. It would be the first of December tomorrow. A good day to make a new start.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Next morning, Hannah left fifteen minutes early for the meeting with Cassie, intrigued to see what was needed to get Carlysle Courtyard up and running.

  Port Road took her out of the village past the performing arts college. A couple of miles later she turned left into Fen Drove. Hawthorn hedges edged the lane, a tracery of bare sticks and thorns in the pale winter light. The remnants of last night’s sleet edged ruts and crevices like tentative white brushstrokes on a painting.

  The turning into Carlysle Courtyard looked like a farm track, rutted and muddy. She swung her mum’s car into the paved square that would once have been the stable yard and jumped out. Three small vans, two white and one yellow, stood on a gravel car park beyond the hedge.

  All was quiet. The stone stables with slate roofs formed three sides of a square, hence the name ‘courtyard’, presumably. Given a new lease of life by their conversion into shops, their new, large windows were presently smeared with plaster and dotted with stickers. Signs above read: Daintree Pottery, Posh Nosh, Paraphernalia, Fen Stones, Pix & Frames, Crafties and Mark’s Models. Doors stood ajar and from somewhere came the whine of distant music. Everywhere was speckled and splashed with plaster like a Jackson Pollock painting. Empty sandbags huddled in corners, dirty and torn.

  ‘You can’t park there.’ A middle-aged man wearing dusty overalls and a disgruntled expression emerged from Mark’s Models. ‘Deliveries can be made from the car park.’

  Hannah met his dourness with a smile. ‘I’m meeting Cassie Carlysle.’

  ‘Good! I’d like a word with her.’ He vanished back inside the dim interior.

  Undaunted, allying herself naturally with retailers rather than landlords, Hannah followed, calling after him as she stepped over a spattered stone threshold into the acrid smell of new plaster. ‘Are you the trader?’ ‘Trader’ was generally better received than ‘shopkeeper’.

  He turned back. A scraper and broom at his feet suggested he’d been scraping clean the tiled floor. ‘That’s right. I’m Mark,’ he acknowledged gruffly.

  ‘I’m Hannah. Have any of the shops opened?’

  ‘Ha!’ He wiped his dusty forehead on his dusty sleeve. ‘Not quite.’ Dripping sarcasm plainly invited her to use her eyes and see the mess everywhere.

  ‘Had you hoped to be, by now?’ she asked sympathetically. ‘I used to trade at Creative Lanes so I know what landlord issues are like.’

  Mark’s brown eyes showed a spark of interest as he snorted, ‘We’ve been left properly in the cart. Simeon took himself off and the builders left this bloody shambles behind. When he was trying to get tenants for the place Simeon promised all kinds of opening hoopla but nothing’s been done and he doesn’t answer his phone. Mr and Mrs Carlysle fob us off.’

  After they’d talked for a few minutes a small blue Mercedes swept into the square and a dainty woman in her fifties stepped out, well-cut hair blowing over the collar of her waxed jacket.

  Hannah murmured to Mark, ‘This is Cassie? How about you leave me to talk to her first?’

  He agreed, picking up his scraper. ‘I’m not going nowhere.’

  Striding outside, Hannah pinned on her most confident smile and introduced herself.

  Cassie, face pinched with worry, wasted no time on small talk. ‘What do you think?’

  Hannah glanced around the courtyard. ‘What’s needed to get the shops ready to open looks cosmetic. I’ve been talking to Mark at Mark’s Models and his utilities are connected and he’s signed a tenancy agreement. Everything ground to a halt in the final stages.’

  Unsmiling, Cassie nodded. ‘This was my son Simeon’s project. Property development’s all the thing, isn’t it? Converting the old stables into a little country shopping area seemed a good business plan but he—’ She hesitated. ‘He can’t be here right now.’

  Hannah remembered Ratty’s comment about Simeon setting off after a woman like a Jack Russell on heat. ‘These things happen,’ she said wisely.

  Cassie’s expression drooped. ‘Simeon said Carlysle Courtyard’s ready to go but it doesn’t look like it.’

  Hannah offered, diplomatically
, ‘I can look round and see what I think it would take to manage the project up to opening. I’m living with my grandmother because she needs help so I wouldn’t be able to work regular hours but I’d pop backwards and forwards and work remotely from home.’

  Cassie waved that aside. ‘If you can get it done, how you accomplish it doesn’t matter,’ she proclaimed.

  They spent the next two hours going over each shop unit. Hannah met Daintree from the pottery, who wore a headscarf tied at the front like a land girl, wisps of hair showing beneath the knot. ‘Are we soon going to get sorted?’ Daintree demanded of Cassie pugnaciously. ‘I’m supposed to be open. I’ve got the kiln and the wheel in but that’s about it. These units were meant to be handed over ready to move into. I’ll stop my standing order for my rent if it’s not done soon.’

  Cassie shrank from Daintree so Hannah jumped in. ‘I’m here to see if I can get things on track. Tell me about your unit.’

  Daintree’s shop was a large corner one, creating a pottery studio and sales area. Her potter’s wheel stood idle. ‘I’m spending hours scratching stickers off pigging windows!’

  It was a similar story at Posh Nosh, where Hannah met Perla and Teo, who wanted their tea room and farm shop to reflect their Italian heritage as well as selling locally made treats like pies or mustard. Perla’s dark ponytail swung as she showed Hannah stacks of chairs and tables in protective packaging. ‘How can we open when the place is filthy?’ she demanded.

  Murmuring soothingly, Hannah took photos. Excitement and purpose filled her. Carlysle Courtyard wasn’t the chain of shops or luxury emporium of her hopes and dreams but she could shake it free of its current dingy garb of cement dust and builders’ detritus. Guiding the transformation to shining windows full of colourful stock to pull in non-high-street shoppers would be fun, as well as great experience.

  Cassie, visibly stressed by the tenants’ grumbles, said, ‘I’ll show you the office,’ and ushered Hannah to a little building at the back of the others where a laptop computer lay on a desk.