Читать книгу Christmas at the Dancing Duck - Daisy James - Страница 11

Chapter 3

After a short journey through the teeming streets of London, Kirstie shot from the warmth of the monosyllabic driver’s black cab into Waterloo station and scoured the flashing departures board, grateful the train that would take her to Winchester, the closest station to Cranbury, was waiting at platform five.

A blast of arctic December air whipped the breath from her lips, lifting her corkscrew auburn curls from her shoulders and slapping them across her face. Goose pimples rippled over every inch of her skin and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Why hadn’t she dressed more warmly? However, the question was a rhetorical one because she didn’t actually own a winter coat. One of the perks of working for FMTV was that they paid all her travel expenses so, if the company car wasn’t available, she usually took a taxi to work. As a committed workaholic, she didn’t need an extensive outdoor wardrobe for the weekend. Cue the reason she hadn’t dated for the last six months either.

She squirmed when she thought back to the lecture Max had given her when he ended their relationship in June, citing abandonment and boredom, but failing to mention his dalliance with a certain minor royal.

At the end of a whirlwind week she was usually too exhausted to be the life and soul of the party and preferred to stay in with a takeaway and a bottle of Chianti. When Kirstie did find the energy to socialize, she, along with her neighbour Poppy and occasionally Bridget when she wasn’t out on one of her internet dates, would saunter down two flights of stairs to the wine bar beneath their studio apartments.

It was a solitary life, but it was the only way she could keep her demons at bay. Being constantly busy meant they had no chance to poke their ugly faces above the parapet and insist on a public airing.

As Kirstie made her way to platform five, she realized she was attracting curious glances from her fellow travellers trying to place her, probably after seeing her on-screen faux pas. She had watched it on YouTube so many times she could recite her cringe-inducing monologue backwards, the images curling around her brain as if on non-stop ticker tape.

She had also tortured herself by scrolling through the countless showbiz gossip columns, which usually stuck to sartorial criticism but had decided, on this occasion, to stretch themselves to cover her fall from grace under the overly dramatic heading Breaking News! Our Kirstie Curses Christmas! Whilst #KirstiesKitchenCalamity was no longer trending on Twitter, so-called Facebook friends were still posting comments about her outburst. Lionel had been right – she was the new Christmas Grinch and it hurt tremendously.

She hitched the woven handles of her overnight bag over her shoulder, ducked her head low, and hurried onto the train. She selected a window seat and slumped into the corner, rubbing her palms on her thighs and blowing on her fingers in an effort to warm up.

A cup of hot chocolate from the trolley was the best thing that had happened to her that day, until her freezing fingertips misjudged her grasp and she sent the contents flowing across the table towards the ample lap of a snoring, besuited gentleman sporting an impressive Gandalf-style beard. She dabbed furiously at the brown river before it cascaded into his groin and delivered a rude awakening.

She had telephoned her sister the night before and poured out every last excruciating detail of the humiliation she had endured. Of course, Olivia had been sympathetic and had said all the right things to soothe her ragged nerves but she couldn’t disguise her delight that Kirstie’s misfortune meant she was coming to Cranbury to spend Christmas at the Dancing Duck with her, Harry, and Ethan.

Before Kirstie had the chance to warn her that she did not intend to stay for the whole two weeks leading up to the big day, Olivia had promised to send Harry to collect her from the train and zoomed off to answer a hungry wail from Ethan who was demanding his next bottle of milk.

The emotional exhaustion of the previous day crept up on her as the warm carriage lulled and lurched southwest and she decided to close her eyes for a few moments. Thirty minutes later a crackling announcement broke into her slumber to advise passengers that they would soon be arriving at Winchester and to ensure they had all their luggage with them when they disembarked.

An obliging commuter helped her to lift her luggage down from the train to the platform and she smarted at the amusement in his eyes. Yet it was her own fault she was dressed for a day out at the beach.

‘I’d put a coat on if I were you, love.’

Kirstie rolled her eyes at him for stating the obvious. She wrapped the sides of her ivory cotton cardigan around her chest and sprinted for the waiting room. She lunged into the tiny room, mumbling to herself as she dusted her knees and shins free of the globules of melted snow and shook out her curls. She unzipped her bag and grabbed another cardigan, shivering like a newborn lamb. Then she heard the dulcet tones of her mobile from the depths of her handbag. With numb fingers, she scrambled around to find it.

‘Hello?’

‘Kirstie! It’s Livie. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour. Where exactly are you?’

‘In the waiting room at Winchester train station. Why?’

‘Oh, Kirstie, I’m so sorry. Harry’s mother has just called. His father has been rushed to hospital – suspected heart attack – not sure he’s going to survive the night. She’s in a right state. Harry has promised her we’ll fly over to Dublin straight away in case … well, just in case.’

Kirstie heard her elder sister pause to gulp down her emotions. ‘Livie, I’m so sorry. Poor George, and Francesca must be frantic.’ Then she registered what her sister had said. ‘Did you say “we”?’

‘I’m so, so sorry, Kirstie. Harry wants us to go over together. It might be the last time …’

‘But what about the pub? Who’s going to run it while you’re away?’

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Oh, God, thought Kirstie. She could tell from Olivia’s tone that she wasn’t going to like what her sister said next. ‘Because this is the last Christmas for the Dancing Duck in its current guise, Harry and I have arranged a few weekend activities leading up to Christmas Day when there’s going to be a huge communal meal at the church hall, courtesy of Reverend Clarke and the Cranbury Residents’ Association.’

‘Activities? What sort of activities?’

‘Oh, just some Christmas-themed stuff in the Old Barn. You know, in addition to the annual barn dance, the Easter egg hunt, and the Cranbury summer fayre, something the community can enjoy together in the run-up to Christmas.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, Rachel has organized the annual Big Christmas Baking Bash, and Emma is helping with the Christmas Craft Contest; you know, wreath-making, glass-painting, and home-made crackers, and then there’s the … well, something else for the following Saturday, which will be New Year’s Eve, but we’ll be back for that I hope.’

‘But why have you gone to all that trouble when the pub is being sold in the new year? What’s the point?’

‘We just wanted to say a huge thank you to the villagers for all their support and friendship over the last thirty years. It’s what Mum and Dad would have wanted, don’t you think? The Dancing Duck is the beating heart of the community, after all. And well … you know how upset everyone is that we are having to sell up.’

‘But Miles Morgan assured us that he intends to run it as a pub.’

‘So he says,’ Olivia said darkly. ‘But he’s already talking about ripping out all the fixtures and fittings and replacing them with a glass and steel bar and marble columns with silver and bronze statues. It’s just village gossip, but I heard he’s got some famous Danish chef lined up to run the kitchen and turn it into a “destination gastropub”, whatever that is. He showed up last month with his architect and let slip that he’s applied for planning permission to turn the Old Barn into two cottages for weekend City escapees.’

Kirstie couldn’t fail to hear the pain in her sister’s voice. She knew how upset Olivia had been when their accountant had sat all three of them down shortly before Ethan had burst into the world to inform them that the business was on the verge of bankruptcy and the only way of avoiding that humiliation was to sell their beloved childhood home as soon as possible as a going concern.

Of course, Kirstie had been upset too, but she hadn’t been the one who had slaved eighteen hours a day to keep the Grand Old Duchess of Cranbury ticking over after their parents’ untimely death. To be truthful, she was surprised Olivia and Harry had hung on to it for so long, especially after they discovered Ethan was on his way. But Olivia adored the village and was devastated when she realized what had to be done to avoid the risk of the bankruptcy affecting Harry’s position as a local magistrate.

There hadn’t been a queue of potential purchasers eager to snap up the pub, but why did it have to be bought by a rich City lawyer with no idea how important the Dancing Duck was to the community of Cranbury? Kirstie had only met Miles Morgan once when she visited Olivia and Harry to meet Ethan for the first time. There was no denying how handsome he was in his designer suit and Jermyn Street shirt with cufflinks fashioned into pound signs. How crass. She had grimaced, even before he introduced her to the architect he had brought down from London and made a huge palaver about what ‘improvements’ he intended to make to ‘maximize potential revenue’.

She had urged Olivia to concentrate on the positives. Once the pub was sold she would be able to buy that dream cottage on the outskirts of the village she had been salivating over ever since old Mrs Darton had moved to live with her daughter in the next village. With its profusion of fragrant ivory roses round the door and a quaint old-fashioned garden, including an orchard, Ethan would be able to run around to his heart’s content – unlike where they lived now, in a tiny flat above the pub.

They had put in an offer for Bramble Cottage and old Mrs Darton had accepted it immediately, expressing her pleasure that a family would grow up within its four walls, and hoping they would be as happy there as she had been. Harry was as choked up about the decision to sell as his wife, but could see it was their only option, save for winning the lottery.

‘So, Kirstie, I’m relying on you to hold the fort while we’re in Dublin. In any case, everyone’s going to be so pleased to see you behind the bar again. It’ll be just like the old days.’

Kirstie groaned. She had actually been hoping to hole up in her sister’s flat and lick her wounds, only offering to help out with the cleaning and restocking when the doors were firmly closed, even agreeing to peel the potatoes in Leon’s kitchen – the frenzied domain of the Dancing Duck’s fiery French chef – if she had to. Did she dare to hope that the villagers were not avid fans of daytime TV and therefore unaware of the reason behind her impromptu visit home?

‘Livie, I …’

‘It’s your last chance to decide what you want to take from the pub, too. You’ve been promising to come down and help me with the packing for the last six weeks. I know it’ll be a traumatic experience but we’re signing the contracts at the end of December and the sale will complete in the new year. We have to make a start – Mum and Dad accumulated so much stuff over the years. Miles Morgan made it absolutely clear that what we don’t take with us will be going in the skip.’

‘The skip? Oh, my God …’

Olivia laughed for the first time. ‘I know. Dad would have been horrified to think of his collections of ancient tools being chucked away. All his wonderful treasures being reduced to landfill.’

‘Best place for them,’ murmured Kirstie, a weak smile appearing on her lips as she recalled with a stab of nostalgia her parents’ penchant for scouring the local auction houses and charity shops whenever they had a few hours off.

Don and Sue Harrison invariably came home with a carload of questionable antiques and ancient knick-knacks, which they proudly displayed around the walls and shelves of the pub and the Old Barn at the other side of the cobbled car park. Oil paintings, watercolours, pencil drawings, ceramics, horse brasses, Oriental vases, vintage drinking glasses, paperweights, not to mention the larger items such as wardrobes, chests of drawers, chairs, trestle tables, rugs, coat and umbrella stands, mirrors.

Every December a cornucopia of porcelain Santa Clauses, reindeers, antique fairies, and vintage glass baubles would appear as if by magic to clutter every spare nook and cranny alongside the largest fir tree Don could get his hands on, which would be draped in a proliferation of decorations, old and new. It had been her mother’s favourite time of the year, as well as her daughters’, until the tragedy two years ago when the world changed for ever.

Kirstie swallowed down hard as a surge of grief, always so close to the surface, threatened to overwhelm her in the deserted train station waiting room. She glanced out of the window and was relieved to see it had stopped snowing.

She made a decision – she had to allow Harry and Olivia to rush to George’s bedside without feeling guilty about leaving the pub at such a critical time. She would step into the breach with a beaming smile and a confident tilt of her chin just like she did every day when she faced the FMTV cameras. She would make the Dancing Duck’s last Christmas under the Harrison name the best one ever, and make her sister, and her parents as they looked down on her, the proudest they had been. It was her turn, after all.

‘No problem, Livie. Go to Ireland and tell George to get well soon from me. Don’t worry about the pub. Emma is the best barmaid ever, so together I’m sure we will manage to deliver the village of Cranbury the absolute ultimate in Christmas celebrations, one that everyone will remember for years to come. I won’t let you down.’

‘Thank you, Kirstie. I knew you would do it. Oh, and by the way, you’ll have the benefit of an extra pair of hands to help you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I haven’t had chance to tell you yet, but I’ve taken on a new bar manager to help out when I’m busy with Ethan.’

‘You did? Well, that’s a great …’

‘It’s Josh. Josh Turner.’

‘Oh, no, Livie, I …

‘Sorry, Kirstie, got to go. The taxi’s arrived to take us to the airport. If you make your way to the station car park Josh will be waiting to give you a lift home.’

‘Livie …’

But her sister had disconnected. Kirstie stood there, her phone still clamped to her ear, as memories ricocheted around her brain before crystallizing into a clear image of Josh Turner. Heat rushed through her veins and her heart hammered against her ribcage to the tune of ‘Last Christmas’.