‘Still doing your round?’ Billy called over to Frank Bushy, the postman, as he came into the shop with what looked like a full sack of mail. ‘I thought you’d be long since at home warming your feet in front of the fire with a bottle of beer in your hand.’
‘Chance would be fine thing,’ said Frank, puffing out his cheeks as he squeezed his way passed the customers. ‘With this snow I doubt I’ll be home before midnight.’ To Florence he said, ‘I thought I’d drop your post off here, seeing as there’s a parcel for your George.’ He handed her a small package tied up with string and three envelopes. Hardly daring to look at the envelopes, she put the post on the shelf beneath the counter. She then popped a couple of mince pies into a paper bag. ‘Here you go, Frank,’ she said, ‘something to keep you going on your round. Happy Christmas to you and the family.’
‘Thanks, love. You too.’
When he’d gone, wishing everyone in the queue a happy Christmas, Florence scooped up the post and pushed through the swing doors, telling Billy she would get the next batch of bread rolls out of the oven.
Only when she had placed the hot rolls on a wooden tray did she steel herself to open the envelopes. The first one, which was addressed to Mr and Mrs Minton, and to her relief, was just a Christmas card, as was the second. But the third – addressed only to her – had Florence’s fingers fumbling.
women like you are so stupid!
you have only yourself to blame
for your husband looking elsewhere.
She knew that the accusation was rubbish. Of course it was! But there was something about seeing it in black and white that made it seem true.
‘Flo, how are those rolls doing?’ called Billy from the shop, ‘we’re clean out here!’
Stuffing the letter into her apron pocket, she grabbed the tray and pushed open the swing doors.
‘I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep back there,’ he said with a laugh. At the front of the queue Gladys Turner laughed as well. A big-bosomed divorcée who wore too much make-up and her skirts too short and too tight, Gladys always had a lewd word to share with anyone who would listen. She winked at Billy. ‘I’d be happy to take your old woman’s place if she’s not up to the job, you just say the word, lover-boy.’ Her remark produced laughter from the queue.
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Billy replied with a wink and a smile. He was merely entering into the spirit of the exchange, as he always did, but with this third letter in her apron pocket, Florence couldn’t help but regard Gladys with suspicion. Had she done more than just flirt with Billy? And had that enormous bosom of hers lured him into her bed? Could she actually be the sender of the anonymous letters?
With no concern for the cold, her coat undone to reveal an expanse of wobbling cleavage that was trying to escape over the top of her low-neck dress, Gladys said, ‘I’ll have one of your special cream horns, Billy.’ She let rip with a lusty cackle, which predictably set everybody else off.
‘Sorry,’ said Florence, barging Billy out of the way as she carried the tray of bread rolls over to the window, ‘there’s only four cream horns left and they’re reserved.’
Billy gave her a quizzical look. ‘Your mother,’ lied Florence. ‘She asked me to put them by for her. Rosie, when you’ve finished serving Mrs Turner, put them in a box, will you?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘You okay, Flo?’ Billy asked quietly some minutes later when Gladys had taken her bosom off to flaunt under some other man’s nose.
‘I’m fine,’ she said through gritted teeth, her back to the queue of customers. ‘Why wouldn’t I be fine when that trollop throws herself at you? I’m surprised she didn’t haul you over the counter and have her way with you right there in front of all the customers!’
‘You know what Gladys is like, she can’t help herself,’ Billy said. ‘You’ve never complained about her before; why today?’
Because I’m sick of receiving these horrible letters, thought Florence miserably.
By the time Romily came into the shop to collect her bread order, the snow was coming down so heavily the buildings on the other side of the market square were hardly visible. George had returned from delivering orders and with the queue for the shop slowing down, he and Rosie had gone next door to see their grandmother.
‘You two looked like you were having fun earlier,’ Florence said to Romily, glancing at the man with her. He was very tall and had a commanding presence about him, even with the knitted hat that was jammed onto his head. It was red with a white pom-pom like a snowball perched on the top. Florence recognised it as one of Romily’s skiing hats. It contrasted with the man’s smart woollen overcoat and the dove-grey coloured scarf tied around his neck. She put him in his mid-fifties and most definitely in the category of ‘extremely handsome’. He looked like a film star.
‘You must be Florence,’ he said with an instantly engaging smile. ‘Romily tells me you’re indispensable to her, and that you’ve been through thick and thin together.’
Blushing, and conscious that the other customers in the shop were as curious as she was and were blatantly listening, she said, ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. But I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ he said, taking off a glove to shake her hand. ‘Red St Clair is the name.’
‘You’re American, then?’ she said, immediately feeling stupid for stating the obvious.
‘Got me bang to rights,’ he said with an expansive grin that revealed two rows of perfectly white and very straight teeth. ‘How did I give myself away?’
‘I can’t think,’ said Romily, exchanging a smile with Florence.
‘And you, sir,’ the handsome American said, turning to Billy, ‘must be none other than Billy Minton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Billy shook hands with him. ‘Are you staying in the village?’
‘I sure am. I showed up unannounced and being the perfect English hostess, Romily has kindly invited me to stay for Christmas.’
‘You might not think that after I’ve put you on potato peeling and washing-up duty for the duration of your stay,’ said Romily.
He laughed and Florence said, ‘How will Mrs Collings feel about that?’
‘She won’t know anything about it. She’s snowed in, so I shall be in sole charge of the kitchen this year. You and the family will join us on Boxing Day for drinks, won’t you? Snow permitting, that is.’
‘Of course.’
From a large shopping bag, Romily pulled out four beautifully wrapped presents. ‘Put these under your tree,’ she said.