‘Oh, that’s amazing,’ Lucy coos, her eyes lighting up, taking in the intricate icing – all different shades of browns and greens. ‘You’ve even captured the moss on the barn roof. It’s beautiful.’
I listen in, setting Mum’s best teacups down in their saucers – again, they’re for Fern’s benefit.
‘You’ve worked so hard, you two.’ I tell them and give Fern a little hug that makes her cheeks bloom pink. ‘You would make smashing committee members.’
‘We would?’ says Fern.
I sit and look levelly at the three young women. This feels like a moment for letting them in a little. I breathe and exhale sharply before telling them the truth.
‘You see, the thing is, this might be the last gingerbread grotto, unless someone new takes over running the whole thing. Izz is too busy with the cafe to do it and should have retired years ago from all this nonsense, truth be told, and Patrick’s moving on, I think, and…’ I don’t know how to finish this sentence, and the worried look Lucy’s giving me makes it impossible to tell her I’m ready to jack it all in and up sticks for Birmingham where we could be near neighbours, popping to the museums and art galleries, or strolling by the canals, whenever the mood took us.
Fern’s looking between me and her handiwork a few times, struck wordless, it seems.
‘The last grotto?’ Shell says. ‘But everyone loves the grotto. I’ve been every year of my life. The whole fam drive over, and we get a chippy tea on the way home. It’s, like, a tradition. Christmas without the gingerbread grotto?’ she says again in disbelief.
‘I know,’ I say, ‘but times change. Just because it’s been a tradition forever doesn’t mean it can carry on, not without massive support anyway.’
I pour the tea and plop a slice of cake on each plate. The scent of sweet marzipan and booze mixes with the fresh gingerbread in the air.
‘I feel bad,’ states Fern bluntly. ‘Me and Dad haven’t visited it. We’re always with the ewes in the barn in late December. Maybe if we’d made the effort…’
‘We’d still be skint and struggling,’ I say.
Shell reaches for Fern’s hand under the table. It must be nice having someone to comfort you like that.
I reach for the one idea that’s been in my mind for a while now. Only it doesn’t appeal as a solution for this year. Maybe when I’m out of here it would work? ‘The projectcouldbe saved by going back to its roots, only decorating the shelf inside the church porch. That’s how it all began, when Mum started it.’
This catches Fern’s imagination. She wants to hear more, and before we know it, I’ve got the albums out and we’re poring over pictures of Mum when she was younger. There are newspaper clippings too, from the days before the grotto established itself as a Wheaton institution, when it was just one woman’s way of making the world sweeter.
Turning the sheets, Fern stops at pictures of Izz and me during our first Christmases working together on the grotto.
‘Do you think Izz is OK?’ Fern asks. ‘She was really quiet this morning in the cafe. Is it Alexi, do you think? Does she still miss him?’
‘She’ll be all right,’ I offer. ‘She just needs a bit more time to herself, and to stop running around like a mad woman, doing far too much.’
We’re taking our last bites of cake and draining our cups. It’s getting late and Lucy’s stifling a yawn. I can see Fern wants to pursue the story of Izz’s broken heart but I stand up to clear the tea things in hopes of putting her off.
Suddenly, there’s a pinging sound. And another.
‘What is that?’ Then I realise it’s coming from the sofa. ‘Oh, it’s me! ’Scuse me a sec.’
In the quiet of the den, I check my messages. Nothing from Patrick, but there are two app notifications. I open them and have to fight the urge to chuck the phone into the log burner.
Kenneth, 69, wants to meet up.Then another.Rusty, 62, wants to meet up.
‘How do I get rid of these?’ I say to myself.
‘What is it?’ Lucy shouts from the kitchen.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Is it the app?’ she says, delight sneaking into her voice.
I carry the phone back to the kitchen table like I’ve found an undetonated bomb.
‘What do I do?’ I say.
The girls immediately cotton on to what’s been happening here tonight, and I’m amazed to see they’re not smirking. They’re genuinely interested.
