Page 3 of The Gingerbread Cafe
Gretel inched open the front door and a gust of wind blew in. The glass decorations on her plastic Christmas tree shivered in protest. She never had visitors, which was probably just as well. There was barely enough room to swing a ferret as it was; not that she’d ever be so cruel.
‘This one needs to be signed for, miss, if you’ve got a moment.’
It was a young elf of a postman, waving a letter with his red-sleeved arm. She gulped. It looked kind of official. Had she paid that electricity bill? She made a mental note to turn the tree lights off and stop being so frivolous.
As she tried to scratch her signature onto the postman’s tiny screen with a plastic pen, she could sense him gawping over her shoulder.
‘You’re ready for Christmas early. We’re only two days past Halloween.’
Gretel pursed her lips. Who’d sent this cheeky guy? She wouldn’t get this kind of chat from her ordinary postwoman,who knew full well she kept the place like this all year round. And why not? She had her reasons.
But Gretel gave a faint smile and hoped that was the end of it. That waspeoplefor you. They rarely meant any harm, but it was simpler not to befriend them unless you had to. It invariably ended in awkwardness or feeling exceptionally sad. She handed back the screen and took the letter.
‘Mistletoe too. Who are you planning to kiss this year?’
‘No one!’ She hadn’t meant for it to come out like a bark. She muttered an apology.
The postman took a step back and held his hands up. ‘OK, miss. Just joking with you. Didn’t mean to hit a nerve.’
He hadn’t hit a nerve. Had he? She’d chosen this quieter life, after all. She looked at him, all Bambi eyes and bumfluff beard. He could only be about seventeen. When she was that age, she’d lost her mum and Rosa. Nearly a decade had hurtled past, and yet most days she still felt stranded in her late teens too. Most people mistook her for younger than her twenty-six years, although if she did insist on dressing like a reindeer …
She cleared her throat and found a faint smile. She wasn’t a natural with people, but she couldn’t stand to make any creature feel bad. She wasn’t the Grinch.
‘It’s fine,’ she told him. ‘I’m not offended. Anyway, the mistletoe’s made of glass. It just … lives there.’ It hung from the rickety light fitting and looked kind of sparkly when the lights were on. Not that it was her job to educate him on pretty decor.
And she didn’t need to explain why her life had no space for smooching under parasitic plants, even if they did look cute in winter. Tradition had it that you had to pick off one berry for every person you kissed. She had no time for sharing her berries.
‘Awesome,’ he replied, looking relieved that his runaway mouth hadn’t got him into trouble. ‘Hope Santa’s sent you something nice.’ He pointed to the envelope in Gretel’s hand.
Did nice things arrive by official-looking letter? It was no Christmas parcel with sweet little robin paper. Wouldn’t Santa have at least added a bow?
‘Merry Christmas,’ she wished him as she closed the door. It might have been a bit early, but you never could be sure when you’d see people again. If at all.
And you never could tell when the contents of a letter, hand-delivered by a red-coated elf with bum fluff, could change things for ever.
Chapter 2
Duckman & Birdwhistle Solicitors
18–20 Bell Lane
Mistleton
Gloucestershire
1st November
Miss G. Rosenhart
42b Holly Road
Mistleton
Gloucestershire
Dear Miss Rosenhart,
Re: The Estate of Mrs Eleanor Ellbridge
