Page 20 of The Village Christmas Party

‘Okay, thanks, Dad, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Nothing is too much trouble for my only daughter. And I know someone who can give me a good price,’ he says.

‘I thought you might.’ I giggle as Dad seems to know a lot of people who can supply just about anything ‘for a good price’. He got to know a lot of people in his gardening days, chatting to householders who were often tradesmen who could help him out if he ever needed anything, which has come in very handy over the years.

As my dad and his friend sip a mug of tea before they head off, I think of the forthcoming party. Checking my list, I realise we don’t have any Christmas crackers. I also think of Mum’s face when she saw the price tag on the ones we stock in Bentham’s, so they will be from a discount shop, unless I can persuade the manager to donate some. He did last year, but things have been a bit tight this year, with sales targets not always being reached. Let’s hope the pre-Christmas sales will boost things a little. The town needs a store like Bentham’s.

After Dad and his friend leave, I apply my make-up for work and my finger glides over the tiny lump on my cheek. I’m a bit old for teenage spots, which I thought it was initially, but it isn’t, and doesn’t appear to be going away. I’d read an article recently in a magazine about skin cancer, which concerned me enough to get it checked out which I will do, of course, but I’ve just been so busy at work, especially in the run up to Christmas. I’m probably worrying over nothing, although I will see a doctor after Christmas.

‘Oh my goodness, why didn’t you call me?’ asks Gemma as we replenish some lipsticks on a make-up display and I tell her all about last night’s burglary. ‘That must have been awful walking into the house and seeing it like that.’

‘It was a little. I’m sorry I didn’t call, but it was getting late. Eileen next door gave me a brandy and the use of her guest room for the night,’ I explain.

‘That’s good. Although I would have come over and stayed the night if you’d called, you know that.’

‘I know you would.’ I lean over and give her a hug. ‘You’re a good friend.’

‘So are you.’ She smiles at me.

I’m sat in the staffroom at lunchtime when I receive a call from Sue.

‘Hiya, honey, are you okay to talk?’ she asks brightly.

‘I am. I’m on my lunch break, so good timing,’ I tell her.

‘Great. I was just calling to see if you wanted any more decorations for the centre. There was more stuff in the loft where the giant snowman came from apparently. They are a bit old-fashioned, crêpe lanterns and that sort of thing, but hey, it’s a pensioners’ party I guess, so it might be to their taste.’

You would never think to listen to her that Sue is actually a pensioner herself, albeit still in her sixties.

‘I think that would be wonderful! And, yes, I’m sure they would love them and they might bring back lots of memories,’ I say, suddenly thinking of the chat I had with my mum. I also recall making those paper chains in red and green with Gran, and a snowman I’d made at school, made from a kitchen roll and covered in cotton wool. It stood proudly on the fireplace at Christmas time. I heard recently that kids aren’t allowed to bring toilet roll tubes in to school now, something to do with health and safety I think, which is baffling, especially as they’re allowed to play in mud in outdoor areas that are known to be teeming with germs and bacteria.

I’ve thought about Mum a few times recently, wondering if she is happy living alone, although I’m sure she would tell me if that wasn’t the case. Or would she? She’s always protected me from worrying about her and Dad, believing that parents shouldn’t burden their children. I guess that’s what parents do.

‘Old decorations do make you feel a bit nostalgic,’ agrees Sue. ‘Oh, and there is also some of those three-dimensional plastic reindeer and rosy-cheeked Santas that can be displayed on windows. We could really go to town with the decorations this year,’ she says excitedly.

‘Can you imagine what the council would have to say about us climbing ladders and hanging things from ceilings if they knew. They would probably insist we do a risk assessment first,’ I say, laughing, but thinking that they most definitely would.

‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’ She laughs. ‘Right. I’m off to have my lunchtime Slim Shake now. They taste like pond slime, but I need to shift a few pounds before Christmas.’ She chuckles again.

‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry about your weight,’ I say.

‘I don’t usually, it’s just I bought a dress in the sales a size smaller than I am. It was too much of a bargain to resist so I am determined to get into it. It’s hard work though, and your mincepies at the Christmas party won’t help. I simply can’t resist them.’

Sue, still raven haired with regular trips to the hairdresser to keep the grey at bay, has a shapely figure. I could imagine her being one of those young women with a really tiny waist.

‘Right, I’ll keep the decorations,’ says Sue as we are about to wrap up the call. ‘Oh, by the way, who won the gingerbread house competition?’ she asks. ‘I couldn’t make it last night.’

‘It was a young lady called Audrey. Her house was out of this world, it looked really professional,’ I tell her, recalling how perfect Audrey’s house had been and wouldn’t look out of place in a confectioner’s window.

‘Oh, lovely. I’m glad there is a bit more competition now. Do you remember when the old postmistress won it year after year, before it turned into such a big event?’ asks Sue.

‘That was maybe a little bit before my time, but I did hear about it, yes,’ I reply.

Before Jo opened the bakery in town and offered a masterclass for the winner, the prize was simply a silver trophy, which was displayed on a shelf behind the post office counter for all to see. My mum often told me stories of the formidable postmistress who won the competition annually, back in the day.

‘She was crushed the first time she didn’t win the competition, but I won’t lie, I was secretly chuffed,’ confesses Sue. ‘Do you know, I once saw her turn the door sign to closed on a lady with a parcel in the rain, because it was one minute to closing time,’ she tells me, and I can imagine her shaking her head. ‘And carol singers at her door were given short shrift too, she was like bloody Ebenezer Scrooge. Anyway, I’m off, speak soon.’

‘Bye, Sue.’ I hang up with a smile on my face, as I always do after I’ve had a chat with her.

---