Duncan looked bashful. “I’m more of a general practitioner of antiques. I’m not an art specialist. But I would be very surprised if it wasn’t a Hilliard.”
“Is it too early for wine?” asked Simone. “I feel like I need a drink after that revelation.”
“Me too,” Maggie agreed.
“It’s half past ten,” Star replied.
“Yeah, but it’s nearly Christmas,” Maggie countered.
“Patrick says wine makes you stupid, Mama,” said Verity, having finished her inspection of all the crafts on offer.
“Patrick needs a smacked bottom,” Simone replied dryly.
“What did I do?” Patrick stepped in through the canvas door, grinning.
“You’re supposed to be helping Joe out over at the shop—what am I paying you for?” asked Maggie.
“Technically I’m out on a delivery,” he answered, holding aloft the bag he’d been swinging at his side. “Kat’s making nut roasts, and she’s run out of mushrooms.”
“Ooh, we should definitely do nut roasts for the banquet,” said Star. “That’s very in keeping with the wholesome vibe.”
“Agreed,” said Maggie. “Can you ask Kat how far in advance we can make nut roasts, please, darling, and also if she’ll help us make them?”
“You see, this is what you’re paying me for,” said Patrick. “I’m your nut roast dealer.”
“I know how to make nut roasts,” piped up Star. “I used to help in the kitchen tent when Mum took me to live in that commune in Dorset.”
“I’m not sure we’ll find a recipe more authentic than one from a genuine commune,” said Maggie. “You are now our official nut roast guru, Star.”
Star beamed.
Patrick grabbed a handful of popcorn and stuffed half of it in his mouth before screwing his face up in disgust. “Plain?” he complained.
“Birds and squirrels aren’t as keen on sweet and salty popcorn as you are,” said Star.
“Have you asked them?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied without a hint of sarcasm.
“Oh, I also brought you this.” He pulled a small Bluetooth speaker out of the mushroom bag. “Thought you might like some festive music while you work.”
“Oh, thanks, darling, that’s a great idea. How do I do it?” She turned the oblong speaker in her hands.
Patrick smiled, shaking his head. “Give it here,” he said, taking her phone too, and after a couple of swipes, Bing Crosby began to croon “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” out of the speaker.
As Patrick left, the crafters, young and old, began to trickle in and take their seats. Thoughts of Elizabethan heirlooms and day drinking were pushed to the side as the sisters walked up and down the tables assisting.
Doreen arrived with her husband and eldest grandson in tow. “Suet mix!” she hollered. Each of them carried a catering-sized stainless steel stockpot, which they dumped heavily down onto the tables.
“Brilliant!” said Maggie, looking over into the pans. “It actually looks quite tasty.”
“Lard, nuts, birdseed, berries, oats, and peanut butter. Different variations in each pot. Some heavier on the seed, some on the berries. All heavy on the lard. This one’s got mealworms in it, fancy a taste?” Doreen gave a wink.
“Umm, I think I’ll pass. Would you like me to talk them through the process or . . .”
“I’ve got it,” she said.
All eyes turned to Doreen as she showed the crafters how to take handfuls of the stiff mixture and smoosh it into their cookie cutter shapes. The shapes would then be pushed out onto the baking sheets, holes made in their tops for threading later, and left to set overnight.
Artemis padded up and down the center of the tables inspecting proceedings, but nobody paid her any mind. The wind had picked up further and it buffeted the walls of the marquee. But people seemed happy enough to work in their coats and scarves, and the Christmas music had a warming effect. There was something about being inside, even inside a tent, when the weather was blowing a hooley outside, that made people glow with gratitude. And when Belinda arrived with a catering urn of hot chocolate, and a pillow-sized bag of mini marshmallows, the cozy factor ramped up to ten.
Simone couldn’t quite believe the response to their call to arms. Two weeks ago, she firmly believed reinstating the winter solstice festival would be an impossible task. She certainly hadn’t expected that she would enjoy herself after decades spent looking down her nose at what she’d felt was a provincial little village. And now she was standing in a decorated marquee filled to bursting with that same community, who had welcomed her home with open arms. Perhaps she didn’t need to choose between being the confident, accomplished woman in Greenwich and the girl she’d been in Rowan Thorp. Maybe there was room for both.
38
The storm’s name was Holly, and Holly had been busy. No one had expected the low-pressure weather front pushing over from France to exact a freak blizzard upon Kent. Holly had raged throughout the night while Simone had laid in bed listening as rubbish bins were toppled and twigs, ripped from their branches, scratched the windows.
She had got up twice in the night to peer out through the bay window, craning her neck to try to see the marquee. But it was almost impossible to make anything out between the thick dark and the swirling mass of snow.
At six o’clock in the morning, her phone buzzed with a text. It was Maggie.
The storm took out the marquee. Come now. I’ll bring coffee.
Simone’s heart sank. Surely it couldn’t be completely gone? She threw her coat over a pair of hastily chosen jogging bottoms and a hoodie. She hadn’t brought any boots with her, but Mrs. Dalgleish had a pair by the back door, which she wriggled her feet into and headed out into the dark morning. Artemis was waiting for her on the gatepost.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
Artemis gave a long slow blink, then threw her head back and meowed mournfully like a werewolf at the moon.
“That bad, huh? Come on, then, let’s go.” The cat jumped softly down into the snow and trotted beside her.
As she passed her car, she noticed a crack right along the center of the windscreen. “Great!” It had either been walloped by flying debris or the chip in the glass made by the tractor had fractured in the cold.
Holly’s histrionics had burned themselves out, and the air was calm with a glacial sting. The village was transformed. Snow banked up against garden walls and postboxes and crunched under her boots. Fairy lights lit the predawn streets.
She saw it as soon as she turned the corner: the marquee skeleton was a buckled and bent carcass; torn strips of fabric hung limply from its brittle bones. The trestle tables had been overturned; some had been blown into the gardens of the Rowan Tree Inn and the Stag and Hound. The white tablecloths were scattered around the green, having been redistributed by the wind. Some of the garlands hung listlessly from the ceiling beams, but most had been ripped apart and lay scattered in the snow along with the trays of lovingly made bird feeders.
In the dim glow given off by the snow, Simone could see Maggie’s eyes were red rimmed. At the same moment, a gasp from her left made her look around; Star was raking both hands through her bed-mussed tresses and shaking her head in disbelief. They’d worked so hard.