A December to Remember (67)
“Have you killed someone?”
“Not yet.”
“What day is it?”
“Thursday. Why does this matter? Are you unable to dig pits on Thursdays? Or do you have a pressing engagement?”
“Ugh! I hate it when you’re so chirpy in the mornings.”
“I’ll try to be meaner. We need a pit dug before we start laying the bonfire wood in it. I am reliably informed by Milton and Harini, our resident fire-safety experts, that this is an important measure. They’re going to supervise you. I’ve been over there this morning, and they’ve already measured it all out for you.”
Rowan Thorp possessed one retired firefighter, Milton—Doreen’s husband—and one Harini, who worked full-time as manager of the post office and also part-time as a firefighter for the surrounding rural areas.
“Arrrghh,” Patrick groaned dramatically. “Why me?”
“Because you’re young and haven’t yet slipped any discs in your spine or recently had a gallstone removed. Please, love. I really can’t have Milton and Harini digging holes with their various ailments.”
He rolled over in bed and pulled his head under the duvet.
“Make Joe do it, and I’ll help you out in the shop,” he mumbled.
“Okay fine, I’ll do that. Sorry to have woken you at the crack of nine a.m.,” she said sarcastically. She moved to the bedroom door, then added, “Harini said her granddaughter is coming to help. You might know her. Her name’s Louella?” she said archly. “I’ll just call and tell them to expect Joe instead of you because you don’t like getting up.”
Patrick’s head popped out from under the duvet just as she was stroking her imaginary evil-genius beard.
“No fair,” he said, laughing. “I’m complaining to the ombudsman for devious mothers.”
She shrugged, all innocence. “I didn’t invite her. But wouldn’t it be a shame for Louella to miss out on all those muscles you’ve been building up in the uni gym?”
Patrick scowled and then grinned. “Give me half an hour,” he said.
Maggie left the room rubbing her hands together. “One job down, eight hundred and sixty-two left to go,” she said to herself.
* * *
Kat almost fell into the greengrocer’s, the bell jangling furiously above her. “I’ve run out of onions!” she panted. “I’m in the middle of making a savory tart.”
“Didn’t I drop, like, ten kilos of onions into you this morning?” Maggie laughed.
“Yeah,” agreed Kat, maniacally stuffing her arms full with bunches of coriander and parsley. “But most of those went into the French onion soup special, and then I made tomato sauce for meatballs, and now I haven’t enough to caramelize for the tarts.”
“Blimey.” Maggie began to tip onions into the burlap bag Kat had thrust at her.
By now Kat had added several vines of cherry tomatoes and had a large daikon radish tucked in her armpit. Maggie held out a cardboard box, and Kat gratefully dropped her spoils in.
“How’s it all going with the solstice arrangements and the curios shop?”
“Oh, you know, getting there slowly but surely.”
“Must be nice having your sisters back.”
“Do you know, I never thought I’d say this, but it actually is.”
Saskia Brannigan—Vanessa’s mum—came in for a kilo of clementines and some brussels sprouts, followed by Ellen of Cussing Crocheters infamy.
“Here,” said Ellen, thrusting a paper bag at Maggie. “I’ve made you something.”
Maggie opened the bag and pulled out a crochet hat with crochet mistletoe in the place of the more traditional bobble on the top and the words kiss me, you twat embroidered around the band.
“Wow. Thank you, it’s . . .”
“It’s a double whammy. Keep you warm in the shop and keep that Joe thinking about your lips.” Ellen waggled her eyebrows.
“Oh!” Maggie was taken aback. Despite their afternoon in the tent of intent, she hadn’t yet told anyone that she and Joe were official.
“He’s terribly handsome,” agreed Saskia. “You’d make a lovely couple.”
“Um, thank you,” she said awkwardly.
“I’ve seen people giving him the eye,” said Ellen. “There’s some lonely ladies who make a special effort when they know young Joe will be delivering their veg box.”
Really? Should she start doing all the deliveries herself? Ellen broke her train of thought by asking, “Now does Simone do private consultations? Apparently, she’s got ‘healing hands’ and I’ve got this hip, you see . . .”
* * *
Three hours after he’d left, Patrick strolled back into the shop, looking mightily pleased with himself. He plucked a green apple from a basket, spun it around in his palm, and took a bite, wiping the juice off his chin with the back of his hand.
“How did you get on? All done?” Maggie asked.
“Yep. I dug it all out and then we built up the outside edges with big stones and old bricks we found around the place.”
“And was Louella there?”