‘What am I supposed to do with them?’ Cathy asked, laughing. ‘Who am I going to be kissing?’
‘They’re not just for kissing under, you know,’ Fleur replied. ‘That’s some nonsense that Charles Dickens came up with.’
‘I wouldn’t tell your customers that if you want to sell it,’ Cathy replied with a smile.
‘I’d rather have it for the original use anyway,’ Fleur said. ‘Far more valuable.’
‘Which is?’
‘To protect against evil spirits and bring luck.’
‘God, give me that whole delivery then!’
Fleur chuckled. ‘So you can hang it in your house and not worry about that kissing rubbish.’
‘Hmm, kissing is overrated – at least, that’s what I keep telling myself so I’ll feel better about not getting any.’
‘You and me both, my love,’ Fleur said. ‘Not that I’m bothered right now. Best thing I did was kick that no-good loser out of my house.’
‘You mean Gavin?’ Cathy asked.
‘Don’t!’ Fleur held up a hand. ‘Don’t utter that name in my presence!’
‘Sorry,’ Cathy said, though she could see that while Fleur meant it, she wasn’t angry at Cathy. She was angry at her ex, of course, who’d moved in all charm and good looks and, once he’d got his feet under Fleur’s table, had systematically gone about trying to take her for every penny she had. In subtle ways at first, so that nobody had realised it was happening – least of all Fleur. But Fleur was no gullible fool and it hadn’t taken her long to realise she was being taken for a mug. She’d booted him out, no fuss, no tears, though Cathy also knew that was a front. She’d been hurt, no doubt about that, and she’d felt stupid too, but she wasn’t going to let anyone see that.
‘Sometimes I think there’s not a one of them worth having,’ Fleur continued. ‘Here’s me, single at forty-eight, still not able to find a good man worth my effort.’
‘I’m sure it’s not like that,’ Cathy said.
Fleur looked unconvinced. And the conversation had turned Cathy’s thoughts to another man, one who she had thought she’d known well but was turning out to be someone else entirely.
‘I don’t suppose Jonas has been to the stall again?’ she asked, almost dreading to hear the answer, whatever it was.
‘No. Perhaps he’s got the message.’
‘I didn’t realise I was sending one,’ Cathy said.
‘You weren’t really; you’re far too nice for that. I was doing my best to get it over loud and clear though. A man like that shouldn’t be messing around, especially not with the feelings of a woman like you.’
A woman like me? Cathy held back a frown. What did that mean? Did Fleur view her as fragile? Someone who was damaged, vulnerable, gullible… even desperate? Cathy wasn’t sure what to say in reply to that. She’d always felt she looked as if she was coping, even when she wasn’t. But did Fleur see it differently? Did everyone see it as her boss did? Did something about her scream pity case?
‘Enough of that anyway,’ Fleur said, sparing Cathy the need to respond. ‘I expect you’ll be going to see your mum’s ashes soon, as it’s getting nearer to Christmas. If you are, you can take this…’ She produced a wreath from beneath the counter, fashioned from glossy holly studded with scarlet berries. ‘I made one too many for an order. I could sell it, of course, but I wondered if you might want it.’
‘How much is it?’ Cathy asked.
Fleur chuckled. ‘For you? A cake! What have you got for me today?’
‘Really?’ Cathy asked, touched at Fleur’s kindness. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am! It’s like bartering, isn’t it? I swap something that I’ve made for something that you’ve made. Now, come on, don’t tease – I know you’ve baked something. The day you stop baking is the day the earth will stop turning.’
Cathy grinned. ‘You know me too well. I thought, as it’s almost December, it was time for mince pies.’
Fleur clapped her hands together. ‘Perfect!’
Cathy smiled as she pulled the plastic tub from her bag and offered it to Fleur. It was full of perfect circles of frilled pastry, dusted with icing sugar, and the rich smell of Cathy’s home-made, brandy-laced mincemeat wafted out. Fleur grabbed one and bit into it, looking rapturous as the flavours exploded onto her tongue.
‘Worth every scratch from those blasted holly leaves,’ she said. ‘Seriously, woman, I think you were put on this earth to make me fat.’
Cathy giggled. ‘Maybe I should give the baking a rest for a while then.’
‘No way!’ Fleur said, laughing as she popped the last morsel into her mouth. ‘The minute you stop bringing me cakes you’re fired!’
Fleur’s wreath really was beautiful. Cathy was sitting on the bus out of town, the wreath in a thick, padded plastic bag on her knee. Every so often she’d open it to have a look at the leathery leaves and bright berries, and it would give her a warm feeling. It was more than just an arrangement; it was a heartfelt gift. Cathy wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to learn that Fleur hadn’t made it by accident at all and that she’d made it especially for Cathy and had just told her that to make her feel OK about taking it. Fleur liked to give the impression she didn’t care about anything or anyone, when really she probably cared too much. While Cathy might not be certain if Fleur’s extra wreath had been purposely crafted or not, she was sure that if her mum could have seen it she’d have thought it beautiful too. Her mum loved Christmas and everything that came with it, and by now she’d have had the house decorated with holly and mistletoe, and a new poinsettia would have appeared on the windowsill too, scarlet leaves against a grey sky. Before she’d been too ill to get around she would have been cooking and baking for weeks, the air of the kitchen constantly warm and sweet.
As the bus rocked and rolled, climbing the hill out of Linnetford and towards the forest where Cathy’s mum now rested, Cathy let her mind wander back to the last Christmas she could remember her mum being well enough to bake. It had been non-stop for the week before – fruit cake, mince pies, sausage rolls, ham and egg pies, yule logs dusted with sugar and plain old fairy cakes made fancy with iced Christmas scenes – and there’d been far too much for the two of them to eat. They’d taken some to relatives and some to the homeless shelter and even then her mum hadn’t been able to stop. Cathy hadn’t minded. Miriam had been ill for a few weeks and had hardly bothered to move from the sofa, so it was good to see her feel like doing anything and even better to work alongside her. They’d sang along to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack – her mum’s favourite. Hardly festive, Cathy had pointed out, so Miriam had fetched an old Santa hat from a box in the loft and put it on.
‘Festive enough for you?’ she’d laughed, before launching into the chorus of ‘The Music of the Night’.
Cathy had been more of a pop music girl at that age and she hadn’t appreciated her mum’s music taste, though she’d always loved to hear her sing and these days loved to listen to those old soundtracks herself. But even back then she’d joined in, laughing at the absurdity of it as they both got louder and louder to sing over the sounds of the food processor as they made breadcrumbs for far too many Scotch eggs for them to eat in a year, let alone a week. They’d been so happy that day and they’d had the loveliest Christmas that year – not full of parties or lavish three-course dinners dressed in their finest like some of her friends were having with their families, but humble and quiet, cosy and full of love.