A December to Remember (78)
“The Women’s Institute sewing machines will be at your disposal, and I’m sure we can rustle up some canvas. There must be tents languishing in sheds all over the village,” said Betty.
“Count the Cussing Crocheters in with whatever plans you’re hatching,” said Ellen.
“Abso-bloody-lutely!” echoed Doreen.
“Knew I could count on you ladies.” Betty smiled warmly.
“What exactly did you have in mind, Duncan?” Maggie asked.
“I was thinking, what if we make a kind of patchwork tarpaulin out of the bits of canvas left and tie it to the high branches of the trees in the rowan tree woods? The clearing near the tree house is plenty big enough to get everyone together. It’ll mean a longer journey getting the food from the pub kitchen to the tables, but the space will be dry and sheltered.”
Many heads nodded as the possibilities took root in their minds.
Simone found her spirits rising.
“You’ll still have the patio heaters,” said Troy, and Ryan agreed. “I’m just glad we didn’t leave them in the marquee last night.”
“Do you really think you could make something out of this lot?” Maggie asked, waving her arm at the mess.
“I do,” said Duncan. “We’ll need to clean it up a bit, but other than that, it’s just like putting together an oddly shaped quilt—easier, in fact, since it doesn’t need lining or to be particularly neat, it just needs to be fit for purpose.”
“Piece of cake!” said Ellen.
“Right, we have a plan. Let’s get cracking,” shouted Betty.
“What about work?” asked Maggie. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“I’ll call Sotheby’s myself if they’re going to be dicks about it,” piped up Doreen.
Similar offers of being rude to his employer ensued. Those Cussing Crocheters sure knew their cusses.
“That won’t be necessary,” Duncan assured the small army of women who appeared ready to do battle for him. “I’ve got some time owing from all the extra hours at North Novelties.”
“That wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain North sister that happens to be staying at the shop, would it?” asked Ellen.
Duncan studied his snowy trainers. Simone looked over to see Star looking anywhere but at him. Something was definitely off with those two; she’d noticed a distance between them yesterday at decoration making.
“Right! It’s a plan!” called Betty. “I’ll close the café at two o’clock today, and we can stitch and bitch in there. In the meantime, we’ll need this canvas cleaned up a bit and a search of all sheds in the area for more. Bring your sewing machines and your can-do attitudes, and I’ll provide the mince pies and mulled wine.”
A cheer went up, and the village of Rowan Thorp sprang into action.
“I knew that Duncan was a good egg,” said Betty as she passed by Simone. “Excellent knees.”
Simone couldn’t help feeling a strange rush of affection as she watched the scene before her. People bustled about helping to clear the mess, some in pajamas and boots, others dressed for blizzard conditions. Mugs of hot tea were handed over garden walls, and plates of toast were ferried back and forth while children made snow angels on the grass. Belinda flung open the church doors so that everyone could hear Ron’s masterful organ playing, his fingers performing a kind of musical alchemy as haunting melodies of medieval Christmas carols suffused the cold morning air. This is what it was like to be a part of something bigger than herself. For too long she had been in a desert of her own sadness with nothing to see on the horizon but more of the same. There was no miraculous cure for her pain, but she felt ready to step into the little oasis that the village of Rowan Thorp was offering.
39
When Maggie had put the word around that there would be tree decorating in the rowan tree woods on Wednesday evening, she hadn’t expected almost the entire village to show up. Especially since many of them had not only helped with the cleanup that morning but also spent the best part of the day fashioning a patchwork tarpaulin that would be hung tomorrow, ready for the feast on Friday evening.
Joe had spent most of the afternoon replacing all the old strings of garden lights left by Augustus and adding twice as many more. Using the tree house as a kind of central flagpole—and performing some hijinks at the top of a ladder that were definitely against health and safety—he’d fixed strings of LED fairy lights to the base of the house and then stretched them across to the tops of the rowan trees around it. He wound lights around gnarly trunks, dropped them over bramble patches and up-lit mounds of ferns, and was rewarded with Maggie smothering him with kisses.
Now, well insulated against the determined chill in the air, the summer sisters stood by the open gate to Augustus’s garden to welcome everyone onto their father’s land.
At the far end of the garden by the entrance to the woods, Verity and Patrick guarded the wooden crates loaded with salvaged decorations from some rather bumptious squirrels. The pyre in the center of the long garden had steadily grown over the past few days and now looked set to rival any Guy Fawkes bonfire.
The trickle of familiar faces became a torrent, and soon a queue to get through the gate had formed, which trailed back along the high street.