‘Go on then.’
‘What now?’
‘Yes now.’ Vicky waited. The sooner the connection to Owen Hockley was broken the better.
*
Vicky didn’t usually dwell on things but the mention of Owen was playing on her mind the next day at work. As she checked and boxed candles she replayed the conversation with Blythe, which had unlocked many memories of the boy she used to date. Some of them happy, some of them a shitstorm. Their relationship had been a tumultuous one and had ended badly. Now he was poking around in her corner of the world and that bothered her. Was it just an old friend trying to reconnect or was he onto her? She could have shaken Blythe for friending him but to be fair to her she only knew half the story. A story Vicky wouldn’t be telling anyone ever.
She tried to refocus on her job and block out all things Owen. As factories went it wasn’t the worst. The chicken factory she’d very briefly worked in held that title. The smell there had been stomach-churning. The candle factory smelled of cardboard and patchouli. Patchouli featured in a lot of their candles and especially their most popular creation called ‘a happy home’, which it seemed everyone wanted. Perhaps buying the candle was a step on the road to happiness for some buyers or sadly as close as others would ever get. Vicky had bought a couple with her discount but only lit them when people came round because they were still pricey.
The thrum of the belts was oddly soothing. Some of the other workers wore headphones and listened to music but Vicky liked the rhythm of the factory. Usually she used her time for thinking about what to cook for tea or something Eden had said at breakfast. She was going through a phase of asking a lot of questions. This morning’s classic had been: ‘Mummy, why do fingers have little knees?’ How long would it be before Eden started asking other questions? Ones that Vicky didn’t have the answers to.
She had decided a long time ago that some things were best left in the past and she stood by the decisions she had made at the time. They might not have been good decisions but once made Vicky wasn’t one to change her mind. Case in point, it had been Vicky’s decision that the father’s name on Eden’s birth certificate should sayunknown. She’d told Blythe that the father was a temporary worker at the factory who had been hired to help with the Christmas rush. A nice enough guy, not the brightest, hence his nickname of Dim Wick, and not someone she wanted butting into her life for evermore. Blythe had accepted her story and her decision, and like the true friend she was had pledged to support Vicky however she could. For the past five years she had been true to her word. But the truth was that whilst her baby’s father could well have been Dim Wick it could also have been Owen Hockley – Vicky just didn’t know.
*
Later that day Blythe waved a stalk whilst standing outside Sam’s kitchen window. He scowled at her whilst drying his hands. He threw down the towel and came to join her in the back garden.
‘I come in peace,’ she said, waving it again. ‘It’s a figurative olive branch.’
‘There’s a sprout on it.’ He pointed at the small green vegetable clinging to the stalk.
‘Which is why it’s figurative.’ She stopped waving it. ‘I’m not sure where to get hold of an actual olive branch so I improvised. And it worked.’
‘I’d not go that far,’ said Sam, his voice gruff.
‘But youaretalking to me. That’s a start.’ She tried giving him her best smile but his expression didn’t change. ‘I wondered if I could buy you a pint… as an apology.’ He opened his mouth but she continued in case he was going to refuse her. ‘I’m sure we can resolve this like adults. What do you say?’
‘Full forgiveness in exchange for one pint? I don’t want people thinking I’m cheap.’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘Understandable. How about a curry to go with the pint? But that’s my final offer.’
‘Okay. But this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.’
‘Absolutely not,’ she said, although she was pretty sure it did and it meant step one of her plan to win the bet and get Sam to love Christmas was in motion.
*
The pub was busy but they found a small table in the back room near the real fire that fed two rooms. The doorways and ceilings were low but Blythe reminded Sam at the last moment so he just missed banging his head. They took their seats and she watched him look around and take in his surroundings. The pub took cosy to the extreme with its mismatched furniture, some ornate, some utilitarian, bare herringbone brick walls and gnarled dark oak beams. Where there were patches of rugged plastered walls they were painted white and dotted with a mix of black and white prints of the pub, both old and new, including a few taken at Christmas. It was quaint and quirky without being kitsch. Sarvan and Jassi had worked hard to update the pub but retain its olde-worlde charm, and they’d nailed it.
‘It’s a nice pub, isn’t it?’ said Blythe, handing Sam a menu.
‘Yeah, it’s bigger than it looks from outside.’
‘This bit was the stables. They converted and attached it just before the war. When the new owners took over they made a memory book. It was a way of them getting to know people in the village but it also preserved all the memories and the stories about the pub’s history.’
‘Nice idea.’ Sam was nodding, and Blythe took that as a good sign.
‘It’s a close community. On the run-up to Christmas we all—’ Sam was holding up his palm and frowning, making him look like a grumpy traffic cop. ‘What?’
‘I hope you’ve not brought me here to wear me down, because I might not be moving house but I’m not taking part in any of this Christmas fiasco.’
‘Fiasco is a bit harsh. It raises a lot of money for charity.’
‘Great, let me know where to donate but I still don’t want to be involved. I’m thinking about getting away from here for Christmas. Maybe hire somewhere on a remote Scottish island or take a foreign holiday.’
Blythe bit her lip and nodded. She knew now wasn’t the time to point out that because his cottage was centre stage opposite the village green it was pretty much the focus point of the lights and decorations, with most events either kicking off from or taking place just outside his front door.
