She continued: “As soon as we heard that you would be reinstating the winter solstice festival, we changed our habit of making our famous apple jams and chutneys from our little orchard and began the cider-making process.”
“It’s good stuff,” added Gerry, whose ruddy complexion would appear to verify his statement. “It’ll put hairs on your chest and blast away the winter chills. And if hairs on your chest isn’t your thing, it works wonders on brass; it’s brought my fireplace tools up like new.”
Parminder, in a stylish kurta over trousers, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a loose chignon, flapped her hand good-naturedly at her husband for him to shut up, and continued.
“Historically, the apples from our land were always used for the traditional wassail drink at the winter solstice celebrations, back when it belonged to old Bob Taylor—and even before—and we would be honored if you would accept our homemade cider for the newly reinstated solstice festival.”
“And don’t worry,” added Gerry. “We’ve got flippin’ tons of the stuff, so no whistle will go unwetted!”
Parminder smiled graciously as uproarious clapping and whooping rang through the little wooden hall. Maggie was too stunned to speak, so Star gave an appropriate level of grateful thanks, while Simone crossed cider for wassail off their very long to-do list.
Next came the WI, who donated their cake-making services to include the traditional b?che de No?l—chocolate yule log cakes—along with ginger parkin, fruitcakes, and their own take on the Black Forest gateau, aptly named Rowan Thorp gateau.
“We’ve been perfecting the recipe for some time,” said Betty. “Mostly made using ingredients that grow nearby, but don’t panic, there will be lots of chocolate included.”
An audible sigh of relief whisked around the hall. Belinda said they could borrow trestle tables, chairs, and tablecloths from the village hall. Simone was greedily ticking things off the list.
For cooking the feast, Kev and Ryan, owners of the Stag and Hound, offered the use of the pub kitchen, which also happened to be a cookery school. Kat, the Stag and Hound’s chef, promised her help and expertise.
Troy donated himself and his bar staff to the cause, promising to be an extra pair of hands on the day for food running, table waiting, and general helping duties. The Stag and Hound and Rowan Tree Inn would close to the public during the feast, and open up again later in the evening, “For a proper good knees-up!”
“Both pubs have applied for a special late-opening license for that night,” said Troy. “I dropped the paperwork off personally into a pair of very safe hands.” He turned to grin at Anita, a willowy woman with flawless dark skin, round glasses, and a halting manner, who worked in the village council building next to the library.
Anita was a quiet-spoken powerhouse whom everybody knew they could rely on to get a job done, and any who underestimated her did so at their peril. She gave Troy a self-conscious thumbs-up and said, “I am pleased to inform you that your joint applications have been successful.” She delicately punched the air and added, “Hurrah to late-night openings!”
The hall exploded again into whoops and cheers.
When the noise had quieted down again, Ellen, leader of the Cussing Crocheters, announced their intentions to dress the banquet table and decorate the marquee with wintry displays. Nobody doubted they would do an excellent job. These women were the Banksys of the crochet world. One never knew when you would wake to find crochet dioramas of village scenes attached to the tops of postboxes or garden gates festooned with crochet characters from popular children’s literature.
There was a natural crossover between the various groups and clubs of Rowan Thorp. Some members of the Cussing Crocheters also belonged to the Women’s Institute or the historical society or the library book club or the church flower association, and all of them were happy to join forces should the need arise. It seemed the winter solstice warranted just such a call to arms.
One of the farmers who supplied Maggie’s shop with free-range eggs promised to donate ten chickens to the feast. This spurred more offers of homegrown garden produce and an abundance of stewed fruits from various households.
Belinda, no stranger to calling upon the parish for volunteers, had come equipped with a clipboard and a stack of paper. As proceedings drew to a close, she urged people to write down their names, contact details, and what they could contribute to the winter solstice event. To the North sisters’ delight and relief, there was a queue for the sign-up sheets.
Antonia and Troy walked over to the stage to congratulate them on a successful meeting.
“I’m so excited!” Antonia smiled. “We used to celebrate it back home. It’s so nice to see you all together! You must all come into the pub for a meal.” She put an arm around Star. “This one comes in for discounted dinners.” She kissed Star’s cheek. “But we don’t mind. She brings out the Italian mama in me; she makes me want to feed her. Simone, we’ve hardly seen you since you arrived.”
“Oh, I’ve been around. You know me, always busy.” Simone smiled. “We will all definitely come in for dinner before we head our separate ways.”
Slowly the community of Rowan Thorp trickled out into the evening and made their way home to warm houses and suppers in front of the TV. Not for the first time, Star felt the pull of the village like a physical force. If, as she was coming to understand, her heart had always truly belonged in Rowan Thorp, perhaps it was time to stop forcing herself to fit elsewhere and accept that this was the place she had been searching for all along.
28
Simone was almost at the gate to Dalgleish cottage when Star came up beside her, keeping step. There was no one else around; the hubbub of moments before had dissipated and the street was quiet.
“Fancy a hot chocolate at mine?” Star asked.
“Yours?” Sometimes she surprised herself with how easily the snark came.
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m pretty tired,” said Simone. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She was relieved when Star stopped walking beside her. She didn’t want to be mean, but she was hanging on by a thread and needed to be alone. She pushed open the gate to the front garden.
“It’s because Antonia’s pregnant, isn’t it?”
Simone stopped dead.
“That’s why you haven’t been in to see her. It breaks your heart.”
She was angry with herself; she thought she’d hidden it so well. The last person she wanted to get into this with was her irresponsible sister. Without turning to face Star, she snapped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re Simone—unflappable, unemotional, and unapproachable. At least, that’s how you act. That way no one can see what’s really going on in your head.”
“Don’t try to psychobabble me, Star, I’m married to the real deal.”
“And where is your wife?”
Simone still hadn’t turned around, but she could feel Star’s eyes boring into the back of her head, picture her face set in challenge. “Go away, Star!”
“Sure, push me away like you have with Evette.”