Page 40 of Tis the Season
I waited until he was out of sight to, at last, exhale. Racing to the door, I flipped the shop sign to closed, and turning, leant my back against the glass. Sliding downwards until my bum hit the ground, I rested my elbows on my knees. Cringing at my behaviour, I couldn’t believe I’d made a fool of myself again. I closed my eyes and let my head drop into my hands.
CHAPTER21
George Farrington hadn’t been lying when he said Beryl was as good as new. Gone was her coughing and spluttering. Her engine didn’t have as much as a tickle on the thirty-minute drive to Copington. Upon my arrival, I’d circled the car park three times to find a space and not once had Beryl backfired. She performed brilliantly.
I wasn’t surprised to find the area crammed with vehicles. Copington was host to one of the county’s best Christmas markets. An ancient town, full of winding cobbled streets and quaint historic architecture, for one week every December it was transformed into a festive shopping winter wonderland. It was the ideal place to pick up gifts for loved ones, which under the circumstances was a good job. With everything that had been going on, I’d continued to let my Christmas preparations slide and now I was really playing catch-up. Climbing out of my van and heading down the street, I was on a mission.
Thankfully, I didn’t have many people to buy for. There was Erin, Joyce, and Richard… An image of Alex popped into my head, but feeling a stab of guilt, I immediately dismissed it. No way was I buying him a present. One, because I didn’t want to send him another mixed message; there’d been enough of those already. And two, because abstaining gave me more cash towards a gift for Gideon. I knew getting Gideon something extra special wouldn’t completely assuage the remorse I felt, but I needed to do something to make up for my actions.
Copington Christmas Market was always marked in Gran’s calendar. Every year she’d shut up shop and we’d head over to delight in the sights and smells of all things festive. We’d sample food, drink hot chocolate, and treat ourselves to a hand-blown glass tree decoration or intricately iced gingerbread house. Like festive sponges, we’d soak up the atmosphere and taking it home with us, our countdown to Christmas would begin in earnest.
When Gran died, I vowed never to keep our Copington tradition again. Without her, it simply wouldn’t have been the same. I hadn’t planned on attending that evening either. I’d simply wanted to escape the flat and be alone with my thoughts. Jumping into my van, with no clue as to where I was going, I’d suddenly felt drawn to the market. It was as if Gran had been guiding me.
Walking along, I picked up my pace, ready to join the Christmas throng and turning one last corner, my heart danced. As soon as I saw the huge Christmas tree and familiar rows of red and white tented stalls, I immediately felt comforted. Tears threatened my eyes, and I looked up at the night sky, thanking Gran for giving me the push I needed.
Fairy lights everywhere, the whole market sparkled. Aromas from rich spices to roasted chestnuts to fried onions filled the air. Carols played through loudspeakers and children giggled as they went round and round on the festive carousel, while others struggled to contain their excitement as they waited in line to see Santa in his grotto.
Perusing the goods on offer, I saw handmade soaps and wooden toys. Artisans like silversmiths, ceramicists and leather smiths sold their handcrafted wares. Handing over my money, I couldn’t resist a zipped leather pouch for Erin. She was forever searching the bottom of her bag for something or other, and it was just the right size to hold one of her elusive lipsticks, numerous hair pins or a handful of coins.
Continuing on my way, I spotted a stall displaying woollen socks and shoes and with my curiosity piqued, I headed over for a closer look. I smiled at the vendor who sat cocooned in a thick padded coat and wore fingerless gloves. I couldn’t help but admire her. Busy knitting, she worked her needles at an impressive speed. I picked up two pairs of felted slippers, one in navy and one in beige, and sitting them side by side, admired the skill with which they’d been made.
Seeing me home in on the details, the vendor put down her work.
‘These are gorgeous,’ I said, running my fingers along the stitches.
‘They’re knitted tighter so they can perfectly mould to your feet.’
‘I can see that.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘Pure wool?’
The woman nodded. ‘Of course. In a pair of those, you’ll never have numb toes again.’
Thinking they’d make a greathis and hergift for Joyce and Richard, I knew I could have made them myself. But aware of how much work the vendor had put into her creations, I was happy to support a fellow wool crafter. ‘I’ll take them,’ I said.
The woman indicated a sheet of mistletoe and eucalyptus design wrapping paper and ball of red ribbon. ‘Together or separately?’
‘Separate please.’
While the vendor got to work, I glanced around, smiling on as little ones dragged reluctant parents towards the sweet stands. Couples, arm in arm, meandered from stall to stall and people sat at plastic dining sets, their hands tight around steaming glasses of mulled wine or mugs of hot chocolate.
A lone chap at one such table caught my attention and telling myself I was imagining things, I narrowed my eyes to better focus.What’s he doing here?WhileGideon’s presence confused me, there was no denying it was him.
Collar up and scarf wrapped tight, his hands were stuffed into his coat pockets. He appeared miserable, although I supposed it was hardly breaking news that he’d want to be anywhere but Copington Christmas Market. Never mind during Yuletide, Gideon found shopping at any time of year irritating. He was the kind of person who bought only the essentials, and he usually got those online. When it came to clothes, if Gideon liked something he purchased it in every colour and only replaced items when they fell apart. An artisan-fuelled festive street market certainly didn’t usually appeal to him.
Hoping to head over and surprise him before he saw me, I quickly dug into my bag and grabbed my bank card from my purse. Holding it out at the ready, it seemed the vendor wasn’t the quickest at gift wrapping. Sellotaping the wrapping paper and picking up her scissors, she casually snipped a long piece of ribbon. Singing while she worked, she weaved it around the first of my two packages and tied it into a bow.
Watching her was painful and my impatience grew. As did my curiosity over Gideon’s presence and I glanced his way again. It was hard not to feel sorry for him, such was his misery, and as I opened my mouth to call out and get his attention, the vendor interrupted me before I got the chance.
‘Here you are.’ She passed me the slipper parcels with one hand and held out her card reader with the other.
While I waited for the machine to bleep, I saw Gideon check his watch and look around as if waiting for someone. I frowned as I scanned the people in our vicinity. I didn’t recognise anyone in line waiting for coffee, or, indeed, at the nearby stalls. I supposed his family could be down for a visit. I scowled. Something I’d have known if he’d been in touch.
My chest tightened, reminding me that Gideon keeping his distance wasn’t the only problem in our relationship. Having almost kissed another man, my behaviour wasn’t squeaky clean. Full of regret, I told myself there was no point wishing I could go back and change events. All I could do was make better choices moving forward.
I knew it would be just like Gideon to let his mum Serena go off browsing while he sat waiting for her to finish. I cringed as I looked down at my duffel coat. Already hearing her back-handed compliments, I wished I’d made more of an effort.
Finally, the machine accepted my payment and thanking the vendor, I headed towards my boyfriend. Swallowing my guilt, I held my head high as I walked. ‘Gideon,’ I said, making sure to smile.
‘Hattie?’ The colour drained from his face, and he jumped up from his seat. ‘I didn’t expect to bump into you.’
