Читать книгу Christmas at the Dancing Duck - Daisy James - Страница 15

Chapter 7

‘Thanks, everyone,’ said Josh, standing back to examine the results of their creativity an hour later. ‘The bar looks festive enough now and thankfully we didn’t have to resort to those hideous flashing Santa Clauses, nor the life-size plastic gnomes dressed as elves. Seriously, Kirstie, did your mother actually hand-knit those elf sweaters?’

‘Of course!’

From the top of a stepladder, Kirstie surveyed the discarded pile of Christmas jumble, knowing her parents would have found a perfect place for each and every item. Decorating the pub hadn’t been as painful as she had expected, but that was because of the constant stream of jovial chatter and copious infusions of coffee and cupcakes. They had managed to keep the focus of their conversation good-humoured and light. She couldn’t recall giggling so much since, well, since she had been out with Bridget for her birthday in October and consumed two bottles of Chianti.

She fleetingly wondered if she should bite the bullet and throw out all the Christmas decorations they hadn’t used. Neither she nor Olivia would have any use for them next year and it would be a step in the right direction in the mammoth task that awaited them before the year was out.

‘What’s the point of all this?’ asked Leon, holding his palms aloft in a classic Gallic reaction to English craziness. ‘One simple tree should suffice. Everyone knows it’s Christmas so why shove the fact in their faces? I absolutely refuse to allow you access to my dining room!’

Leon scrunched up his nose and shook his head in disgust, smoothing back his mahogany curls from his forehead so that they nestled against the collar of his white chef’s jacket. Privately, Kirstie agreed with Leon, but for different reasons. She had been one of the most zealous of Christmas supporters before her life had imploded. However, she knew she and Leon were in the minority and decided to keep her own counsel.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, tweaking the garland of Christmas bunting around the frame of what had been her mother’s favourite painting.

‘Looks great. Your mum loved that picture, didn’t she?’ Emma said, coming to stand at the bottom of the stepladder to study it more closely.

‘She did,’ confirmed Kirstie, running her eyes over the picturesque scene of a snowy village landscape complete with quaint village church surrounded by skeletal branches iced with snow and an adjacent field dotted with sheep corralled by a black-and-white sheepdog as his master watched on.

‘I always thought it looked a bit like Cranbury,’ mused Emma.

‘So did Mum. That’s why she bought it. But Dad said it was probably somewhere in Yorkshire because that’s where the artist spent most of his life.’

‘It’s just like one of those old-fashioned Christmas cards my aunt Muriel sends me every year. She refuses to buy cards with fluffy bunnies dressed in Christmas outfits, or teddy bears wearing Santa hats. “One needs to reflect on the reason for the season, dear”.’ Rachel mimicked her aunt’s Welsh accent perfectly. She squinted at the signature at the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. ‘Joseph L. Farmer. Is he famous?’

‘I doubt it.’ Kirstie laughed. ‘This is just another one of the questionable “masterpieces” Mum and Dad got from Angus. Sometimes I think he just wanted to offload the artwork he couldn’t get rid of in the auction rooms. Look around you and tell me I’m wrong.’

The group surveyed the bar that was as familiar as their own homes. The jazzy crimson and green carpet, the polished mahogany furniture, and every inch of wall space filled with portraits, seascapes and landscapes, and still lifes. Coupled with the numerous boxes disgorging their contents, the room looked like a scene from the Christmas Chainsaw Massacre.

Kirstie knew that Olivia and Harry had tried to dilute the kaleidoscope effect by removing what they could, but, understandably, it had been a difficult balance between maintaining the pub’s appeal to the local patrons and putting their own stamp on a place that would always be home to Don and Sue Harrison’s spirit.

With a disgusted paph, Leon set a Pierrot clown dressed as an elf onto the mantelpiece. ‘If you will excuse me, I must make a start on tonight’s menu.’

‘I’ll come and help you,’ offered Kirstie climbing down from the ladder and making her way towards the kitchen.

‘Not so fast,’ shot Josh. ‘Have you forgotten our trip up to Angus’s? Emma, will you help Leon?’

Kirstie saw Leon’s ebony eyes light up at the prospect of spending an hour in close proximity with the girl of his dreams. She turned her lips downwards and shrugged her shoulders at Emma. She couldn’t deny Leon his hour of pleasure. Yet, whilst the complete adoration scrawled across the chef’s handsome features betrayed his feelings, Emma hadn’t noticed.

‘Fine. I’ll go grab a coat.’

Kirstie tramped back up the stairs to help herself to one of Olivia’s fake fur jackets. She selected one fashioned out of arctic white fluff and glanced at herself in the hall mirror. The jacket made her look like a beauty pageant poodle, its coat shampooed in bleach to dazzle the judges.

A whoosh of sadness crept over her. What a transformation her appearance had undergone in the space of forty-eight hours! From the camera-friendly outfits selected by the FMTV studio’s stylists, all so worthy of her Instagram addiction, to the local playschool’s dressing up box jumble that she wouldn’t dream of showcasing to her followers.

How she wished with every fibre of her soul that she had kept her mouth shut and her life would still be the constant whirlwind of dilemmas, decisions, and deadlines, instead of an impending visit to the local farmyard – dressed as one of its inhabitants. However, she wasn’t at the studio, she was in Cranbury and she had to adjust to the collision of her present and her past. And anyway, it was unlikely that anyone would notice, let alone comment on her choice of attire, and that gave her pause for thought.

Whilst she had no real objection to picking out a Christmas tree, she did not relish being subjected to another grilling from Josh about their decision to sell the pub; nor for that matter was she looking forward to an encounter, however brief, with Angus Anderson, her father’s best friend, whose views would most certainly be sung from the same songbook as Josh’s.

‘Ready?’

Kirstie thought she saw a glint of amusement in Josh’s eyes, but he wisely decided to maintain his counsel as he held open the door of his Spider for her to climb into the passenger seat. She was relieved he didn’t do social media, because she wouldn’t have put it past him to splash her flirtation with sartorial disaster all over Facebook. On the other hand, Josh was definitely photo-shoot-ready, with his buttock-hugging black jeans and the sleeves of his pale lilac cashmere sweater pushed up his forearms to reveal a smattering of dark hairs.

A tickle of a long-buried emotion stirred deep in Kirstie’s abdomen. Her throat had suddenly become dry, so they rode along the country lanes in silence until Josh swung through the impressive carved stone pillars guarding the entrance to the Anderson estate and crunched along the winding gravel driveway, its borders lined with wrought-iron lampposts.

‘You know, Angus must have supplied my parents with a Christmas tree for the flat for the last thirty years.’

‘I know. It’s a shame he didn’t stop there.’ Josh smirked in an effort to lift the mood. ‘Want to have a nosy around the auction rooms whilst we’re here? You used to love a good mooch among the kitchen utensils. Perhaps you could pick something up for Rachel and Leon for their Christmas gifts?’

‘Great idea.’ Kirstie smiled, grateful that Josh had burst the awkwardness bubble. ‘And Angus always has a huge selection of vintage jewellery. I’ll look out for something for Emma to upcycle.’

Josh parked in the cobbled car park and they made their way to the converted barn that was now used as an office-cum-showroom-cum-auction room. A familiar feeling of excited anticipation rushed through Kirstie’s veins and tingled out to her fingertips as she thought of what lay ahead. She was about to enter an Aladdin’s Cave of infinite wonders and she couldn’t wait to lose herself in the twisting warrens of furniture and curios. There was even a storeroom dedicated to architectural salvage – moss-covered roof tiles, carved stone lintels, old-fashioned chimney pots.

Kirstie could feel her genetic propensity for amassing junk writhe through her body. She was definitely her parents’ daughter, except she worked hard to control her instinct to splurge on random items of tat so that her studio in Hammersmith was almost minimalist. Yet, if she were honest with herself, she had always viewed her flat as somewhere to lay her head when she wasn’t at work, or the theatre club she volunteered at on weekends, rather than a cosy retreat from the daily grind to six o’clock.

Whilst Josh went off to find Angus and talk about the relative merits of Norwegian spruce versus Nordmann fir, she took her time wandering through the avenues of bookshelves crammed with ancient leather-bound books on subjects no one could possibly be interested in. She ran her fingertips along their jutting spines, like keys on a grand piano. She and Olivia had done exactly the same thing when they were children and had been let loose in the cathedral of treasure while their parents focused their attention on bidding for the next shipment of junk.

She meandered along a narrow passageway, its whitewashed walls bedecked with a cornucopia of artwork, from garish contemporary to nicotine-tinged oils and pencils sketches of nudes. She wondered which image her mother would have favoured had she been standing next to her. A surge of melancholy washed over her. Her mother had been fifty-five when she died. She should have enjoyed many more years to amass her collections of ceramics, Dutch china, and porcelain dolls dressed in national costume.

Life was so unfair. Who knew when a random metaphorical grenade would explode in their face?

Emma was right. You had to squeeze every ounce of enjoyment from each and every moment that was given to you whilst you could. Perhaps she would take her friend up on the offer to make up a foursome with Barnie. It was time to move on with her life, to look forward to the future and not back to the past, or dwell on the things in the present that couldn’t be changed. She should start dating again and join her sister in producing the next generation of Harrisons.

Kirstie decided that the first step in her challenge to make changes was to invest in a piece of art to brighten up her bedroom back in Hammersmith. She would turn the house into a home, just as her mother would have advised.

She retraced her steps and unhooked a gaudy canvas from the wall. It looked like something a toddler would produce during an art lesson at nursery. Huge splodges of primary colours had been dispersed randomly on a white background. It would never be a contender for the Turner Prize, but it would break up the expanse of magnolia in her apartment.

‘Having fun?’ asked Josh.

‘I am, thanks.’ She smiled. ‘I’m going to ask Angus if I can put in a commission bid for this. What do you think?’

‘Honest opinion?’

‘Sure.’

‘Hideous. I prefer the Joseph L. Farmer back at The Duck.’

‘But that’s so old-fashioned. This is modern and colourful and contemporary and uplifting. That’s more the sort of look I’m going for.’

‘Did you find anything for Emma and Rachel?’

‘Ah, knew I’d forgotten something.’

Kirstie shoved the canvas into Josh’s arms and stalked off to the glass cabinets that housed the jewellery.

‘I love this amber necklace.’ Kirstie held the string of beads up to the light. ‘Oh, and this Whitby jet bracelet is gorgeous. I can so see Emma wearing this. Or she could turn it into a pair of fabulous earrings.’

‘Hang on,’ said Josh, dashing down an aisle of bulky sideboards and grabbing a set of silver blancmange moulds. ‘What about these for Rachel?’

‘Perfect!’

‘Ah, Kirstie. The Winchester Wanderer returns!’ boomed the unmistakable voice of Angus Anderson, his gravelly tone testament to the twenty-a-day smoking habit he had been trying to kick for the last ten years. ‘Good to see you still remember us plain old country folk occasionally now that fame has come calling.’

Angus enveloped Kirstie in a bear hug and held her tight to his barrelled chest. The fragrance of woody cologne mingled with dusty books and beeswax invaded her nostrils and took her on a brief excursion of nostalgia to happier times. Neither of her parents had any siblings, so Angus had performed the role of surrogate uncle to her and Olivia with wonderful panache. He would always have a finger of fudge secreted somewhere in his voluminous sports jackets to keep them going whilst their parents disappeared into the labyrinthine avenues of furniture on their antique scouting missions.

‘Hello, Angus. Yes, I’m spending a couple of weeks at the Dancing Duck, helping out Livie while she’s in Ireland with Harry.’ Kirstie didn’t dare look at Josh whom she knew would be itching to correct her explanation with a more accurate report of the truth.

‘Yes, I heard they’d rushed off to Dublin. All well, I hope?’

‘I had a text from Livie this morning. George is still in intensive care but they say his condition is stable.’

‘Send them my regards, won’t you?’ Angus shoved his fat thumbs into the pockets of his tweed waistcoat, causing the buttons to strain dangerously across his belly. He narrowed his silver eyes at Kirstie and contemplated her for a couple of seconds. Her stomach lurched. She knew she was in for a lecture.

‘So, you’re selling up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Bit of a bombshell, I don’t mind admitting. Not sure what Don and Sue would have made of it.’

Kirstie glanced across at Josh who was hugging the silver moulds to his chest, but he clearly had no intention of coming to her rescue. He simply raised his eyebrows and shook his head. He was in Angus’s corner.

‘Angus, I’m sure you’ve had this conversation with Livie and Harry already. The only reason we are selling the pub is financial. You must understand that. Harry has combed through the accounts, taken all sorts of professional advice, and if we don’t sell soon we’ll be bankrupt by May. We can’t allow that to happen.’

‘I could offer you an injection of cash …’

‘Angus, that is a very kind offer, but that’s not the point. The pub is no longer a viable business. Livie and Harry have tried everything. The summer fayre, the Hallowe’en dance, the Big Christmas Baking Bash. Leon’s brasserie is breaking even but that’s not enough to keep the pub afloat. It’s a tragedy. I’m as devastated at losing the Dancing Duck as you are, but it’s the only way.’

Kirstie heard a humph from Josh when she said she was devastated, but she ignored him.

‘Sold it to some Hooray Henry type from the City, I hear?’ Disgust flitted across Angus’s ruddy expression. It was no secret what he thought of the moneymen from London.

‘Yes, Miles Morgan. He’s a litigation lawyer with one of the big City firms, I’m told. But his family does have a weekend cottage over in Maltby.’

‘Those vultures are responsible for the demise of our local economy and the destruction of our communities. They buy up all the “cute little cottages” at inflated prices so there’s nothing left for the people who actually want to make a life here: all those who work in the area and send their kids to the local schools, use the local shops, put something back.’

It was a familiar rant. One which Angus rehearsed regularly when he stopped by the Dancing Duck for his pint of Guinness after a long day at the auction house and managing his farm. He wasn’t the only one, though. It was a consistent refrain from many of Cranbury’s residents.

‘He’s offered the asking price …’

‘You do know he will change the place beyond all recognition. Just another yuppie drinking establishment, I don’t doubt. Already heard on the grapevine that he’s applied for planning permission to convert the Old Barn into a pair of dwellings. Change the whole nature of the village that will.’

Kirstie was about to shoot back a retort, but she didn’t want to upset Angus any further by pointing out to him that what Miles wanted to do was no different from what Angus himself had already done with the two disused barns on his own land. Only twelve months before, he had sold them for conversion, one of which Josh had snapped up.

‘Sorry, Angus. I know it’s hard, but it was our only choice.’

‘Yes, well, here. If you like that monstrosity, take it. I bought it from a friend in the summer as a favour to their son who’s trying to make a living as an artist. I’m afraid it just doesn’t match the aesthetics of my kitchen!’ Angus pulled a superior expression, then held up a watercolour of a lopsided, five-tier wedding cake, the tumbling sides being supported by a battalion of mice dressed in aprons and chef’s hats whilst a cascade of icing dripped down onto their paws. ‘Do you think your friend Rachel would like this?’

‘Oh, Angus, she’ll love it!’ Kirstie stepped forward to hug the brusque farmer-cum-auctioneer. ‘It’s the perfect Christmas present.’

‘Judith ordered one of her cakes for my brother’s birthday last month. An exact replica of his bulldog: Clem. He loved it. Talented young lady is our Miss Butterworth. In her genes, of course.’

And with that he shook hands with Josh and strode into his office, closing the door firmly.

‘Come on, Harrison. Let’s get this tree back to The Duck and finish the decorations.’