Page 7 of The Village Christmas Party

‘Go on.’ I can’t believe the nerve of the man.

‘Well, we were just chatting when all of a sudden he looked like he’d seen a ghost.’ She reins herself in from having another slice of cake. ‘He literally covered his face with a menu, as he swiftly made his way outside.’ She shakes her head.

‘You’re joking, what was that all about?’ I ask, shocked.

‘I stormed outside and asked him what the hell was going on, and he told me his wife’s friend had just walked into the pub.’ She sighs. ‘I asked him why that was a problem if he was separated? He stammered a bit when he finally replied. I think his exact words were, “Well, we’re not officially, but there’s nothing between us anymore.” Even then, he only owned up after I threatened to go inside and ask his wife’s friend.’

‘So, what did you do?’ I ask, still mad on my friend’s behalf.

‘I told him to get stuffed, went back inside, and ordered myself another drink before ordering a taxi home.’

‘Oh, Gemma, I’m so sorry. It was good that you found out early on though,’ I try to reassure her.

‘Yep, I agree. It’s a shame but as you said, there’s no way I’m going to be the other woman in a marriage break-up.’ She wipes crumbs from her mouth. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine.’

She reminds me then about the gingerbread house decorating competition the day after tomorrow, and how she is looking forward to it.

‘Oh, me too, I can’t wait.’

Every year, in the Fellview Community Centre across town, a competition takes place that involves decorating gingerbread houses, having a chat and drinking mulled wine to the strains of Christmas songs in the background.

It started off with half a dozen of us, hosted by a lady from the local bakery, and is now a bookable event, with over fifty people attending last year. We meet people from the village and beyond and have a brilliant evening, filled with fun and laughter, especially at the sight of some of the gingerbread houses, but it is all in good spirit. There is an overall winner who wins a baking masterclass and lots of smaller raffle prizes up for grabs.

‘I wouldn’t miss it. It always puts me in the mood for Christmas.’ I smile even thinking about it, the Christmas carolsin the background, the sound of laughter ringing around the room, the fizz of bubbles hitting my tongue.

‘It’s a shame it’s mainly women though,’ moans Gemma. ‘Apart from that old guy at the next table last year.’

‘Which one? I think there were at least two blokes.’

‘The one with the very red face and the white beard, who looked a bit like Santa,’ Gemma reminds me.

‘Oh yes, I remember him.’ I smile. ‘Well you never know who will turn up this year, the event gets bigger every Christmas. And maybe it was the real Santa.’ I wink.

Gemma has never been good with her own company and hates not having a boyfriend, but it’s not so easy to meet someone in a small village, which is why she often meets blokes in the pubs in our closest town, or in work. She was with someone from high school but when he headed off for university in Newcastle, they went their separate ways. I’ve told her multiple times that it’s better to be alone than with the wrong person, but I guess we are all different. I’m quite happy with Tony the Tiger in my life. For now, at least. Life is so much simpler this way.

FOUR

‘Someone got arrested?’ I ask in shock, unable to believe what I am hearing.

‘Yes, banged up with a one-inch mattress that was no better than my yoga mat by all accounts,’ Mum tells me. ‘It’s a good job it was one of the younger protestors, as I am not sure my back could take that. Maybe that’s why the young policeman didn’t pick on me,’ she reasons.

‘Oh, Mum, I do worry about you. And I’m not sure how much these protests actually achieve.’ I sigh. ‘Have you thought about maybe posting some leaflets through doors, or something similar? Maybe I could help you put something together?’

‘Hmm. Worth a thought, maybe. Anyway, the real reason I’m calling is to ask if I can come over for a shower? Mine is on the blink at the flat. A plumber is coming out tomorrow morning,’ she informs me.

‘Of course, Mum. But I’ll be leaving for work in exactly twenty minutes,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘So you may need to call a cab,’ I tell her, feeling a little torn. ‘I’ll pay for your taxi though.’

‘I’m not short of money, love, but thanks anyway,’ says Mum. Never one to take a freebie from anyone, even me.

I truly hope this protesting doesn’t get out of hand. She’s already expressed her disgust at the amount of money the council have spent on the town centre Christmas decorations, especially the tree, when ‘that money could have gone straight to the homeless shelter or the women’s refuge’. I have visions of the tree being daubed in orange paint or hacked into a dozen pieces and thrown into a skip.

‘So there we were, peacefully protesting with placards about the proposed bypass through some ancient woodland not twenty miles from here. There’s a nature reserve in that area too,’ Mum explains. ‘Some people we spoke to knew nothing about it which is what they want.’ She takes a slurp of her tea. ‘And only an inch of coverage in the local newspaper that no one would even notice.’

We are sat in my kitchen and Mum is hungrily munching on some toast and drinking a second cup of tea.

‘We did consider chaining ourselves to the council office railings, it was good enough for the suffragettes back in the day, which, okay, was at the House of Commons, but you get my drift,’ she says.

‘Oh, Mum.’ I gently shake my head.

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