‘Smackers? Has anyone said that since Del Boy Trotter left our screens?’ asked Blythe.
‘You know what I mean.’ Vicky stuck her tongue out.
‘It’s a good idea and everything but… how are you going to make a hundred of these in time for the fayre?’
‘Because we’re all going to make them.’ Vicky picked up some wool and handed it to Blythe. ‘Here you go. You can do sprouts because they’re just one colour so they’re easier.’
*
They all became engrossed in their task although Eden was a little distracted by Mr Tumble on the telly.
Blythe nodded at the screen whilst she dug the scissors into an almost finished pom-pom. ‘He creeps me out.’
‘I went through a phase of dreaming about him,’ said Vicky.
Blythe looked mildly horrified. ‘That’s weird.’
‘Oh no, notthosesort of dreams. We were playing pass the parcel and using sign language to communicate with each other about chips, that kind of thing.’
‘You’re right that’s not weird at all.’ Blythe held up her green pom-pom. ‘How’s that?’
‘One sprout down, about thirty to go,’ said Vicky.
‘Slave driver,’ muttered Blythe, picking the green wool back up and starting another one.
‘What’s a slave driver?’ asked Eden.
‘Someone mean,’ said Vicky, cutting in before Blythe gave a more graphic response.
Blythe’s phone pinged. ‘It’s Owen asking how Eden is.’ She narrowed her eyes at Vicky. ‘Did you not give him your phone number like I suggested?’
‘Why would I want him to have my number?’
‘So he stops texting me for a start. And because he’s been nothing but kind since the fireworks.’
Vicky couldn’t really disagree. Blythe had told her Owen had been messaging every other day to check up on the patient. But she needed to keep him at a distance. The closer he got the more complicated everything became. Owen was someone from her past and she wished he’d stayed there.
‘What should I tell him?’ asked Blythe.
‘That she’s fully recovered.’ Vicky and Blythe both glanced across at Eden, who did look the picture of health.
Blythe shrugged. ‘Okay. Shall I give him your number?’
‘Definitely not.’
27
20thNovember
The Saturday of the big lights switch-on came around and, as usual, Leonora was banging her flip chart and having a rant about timings. Not many were listening because Norman was passing around the first batch of mince pies of the season. They were always a treat but Blythe felt there was something extra special about that very first one. And there was something particularly special about every one of Norman’s mince pies. She didn’t know what his secret was but wherever she’d been she’d never tasted another one like it. The pastry crumbled and melted into a buttery delight in your mouth and the filling was sweet but with a citrus kick. They really were completely and utterly delicious.
Vicky was juggling an overstuffed carrier bag in one hand and her mince pie in the other whilst trying to pull out a chair. ‘What have you got there?’ asked Blythe before popping in the last of her mince pie and savouring the flavours of Christmas.
‘Wool,’ said Vicky, tapping the side of her nose with her mince pie and leaving an icing sugar smudge. ‘A dozen people sat doing very little for an hour – how many pom-poms can they make?’
‘Is this like one of those how many reindeer does it take to change a lightbulb jokes?’ asked Blythe.
‘You’re hilarious.’ Vicky settled herself in her seat.
