On Thursday evening I had purchased supplies for the fair and made a start on the stencils for my cookies and had fallen asleep on my notebook thinking of sustainable ways to keep The Village Gazette alive and kicking.
Now, I pull my beanie a little tighter over my ears as I lock up my front door. Today there is a frosty nip in the air, the wind letting me know that snow could be just around the corner. I love the snow and I love a cosy beanie, especially at this time of year. My snapbacks had made their way out of my wardrobe during my college years. No matter how much Hope stood up for me I quickly got fed up of the negative comments about my fashion sense and my mum’s constant nagging that women don’t wear caps and especially not backwards, but my beanies aren’t going anywhere. Granted I’m wearing a light blue one with sparkly snowflakes on it that my mum bought for me, but at least this time she had acknowledged my love of beanies. Last year she had attempted to get me to wear some sort of French beret, telling me it looked sophisticated and demure. I am neither of those things, which displeases her greatly.
*
‘You look beautiful, Hope,’ my mum says as Hope and I walk into my house after college. I drop my bag on the kitchen table and look to my mum in shock.
‘Mum, she’s wearing a Star Wars tee,’ I say, defiantly.
‘Thank you, Mrs Davis,’ Hope replies with a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile.
‘Oh, is that what that writing is. Well, it looks cute,’ she adds, rubbing salt further into my wound.
‘You won’t let me wear graphic T-shirts,’ I protest, choosing my words carefully. Hope doesn’t know I have a hidden drawer of old superhero tees, for two reasons: one being my mother and two because of ex best friends I don’t wish to tell her about.
‘But you never tuck them in or wear them with such delicate trousers. You’re always trying to wear those ugly flares and boy cuts,’ my mum argues. ‘Can you please take your bag off the table,’ she adds.
I roll my eyes and do as I’m told. I can’t believe Hope has made her vintage Star Wars tee cool, not just to the girls at school, but to my mum as well. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pick up some more bits and pieces next time I’m out. You girls will be starting work soon – you will need to dress accordingly, Scarlett.’
I throw my bag over my shoulder and make for the stairs, feeling disgruntled. When Hope dresses in her vintage hippie way, she’s stylish; when I do I receive funny looks and have to endure rants from my mother about growing up.
*
I’m not sure why I allow my mother to dress me. Our relationship has always been a little strained. Maybe I feel like it will make her like me more, either that or the guilt I have for ruining way too many frocks when I was a child has something to do with it. But really who in their right mind puts a six-year-old in white? And a six-year-old who loves skateboarding and eating mud pies for dinner at that?
And that is why I’m walking funny, sporting a stiff black A-line dress underneath my parka. The beautiful decorations that leap out from the village square distract me from the private disgruntled complaints about my mum that are going on in my head as I wobble along. A giant fir tree has replaced the autumn pumpkin patch in the middle of the green and the hay bales have been replaced by giant presents and a Santa sleigh. I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
I walk past the library as Mrs Bride is opening up for the day and send her a wave. ‘Morning, Mrs Bride,’ I say loudly so she can hear me. She turns eighty-two next month and her hearing isn’t what it used to be, but she turns around and smiles warmly.
‘Hello, dear,’ she says with a wave in return. ‘Have you seen…’ She starts to speak but is interrupted by Rex, Mr Thompson’s dog, who barks his greeting at me and wags his tail at my feet. Mr Thompson is holding his lead from about four metres away, engaged in conversation with Elliot who’s on his newspaper round. It takes a moment for him to notice where his dog has wandered and when he spots me, he chuckles and waves Elliot off on his bike so he can catch up with his dog.
‘Morning, Scarlett, sorry about that. This fella is too fast for me these days.’ He grins.
‘Morning, Mr Thompson, and that’s no trouble. I rather enjoy my morning cuddles,’ I say, bending down with some difficulty, thanks to the cardboard-like dress, to scratch the adorable Jack Russell behind the ears.
‘Hello, Mrs Bride,’ Mr Thompson calls across the path as the old lady waves and ducks into the library.
‘Well, I best get to work. Have a lovely day, you two, and thank you for the cuddles, Rex,’ I say, feeling the festivity in the air as the weeks wind down towards Christmas. After the bumpy start to the week, today I feel like a new me. I have the Christmas fair to think about, my house smells consistently of gingerbread thanks to my baking, and I get to see my dad next week. I leave Mr Thompson and Rex to their walk and cross the green, taking in the sparkle of the larger-than-life presents and the twinkle of Santa’s gold sleigh. I push open the door of Rolphs’ Bakery and pass the aisle of freshly baked cakes when I notice a tall figure at the counter. My body freezes and goosebumps prickle my arms.
*
‘Hold him still, D,’ I demand as Mrs Rolph’s cat is trying to scratch and claw at Devon’s eyes.
‘I’m trying, Scar, she doesn’t like it,’ D says his bottom lip pouting as he holds on to the cat for dear life so our plan doesn’t fail.
‘She’ll love it when it’s on properly. Hold still, Bonny, nearly done,’ I say in a softer tone this time, trying to soothe the cat. I really want this to work but I also want D to keep his eyes too. ‘OK, it’s on.’
‘Do I just let go?’ D asks nervously.
‘I think so,’ I reply, peering over the scaffolding. We’re not that high up – my dad won’t let us climb higher than two planks.
‘Do I just drop her?’ D asks me like I have all the answers. I guess this was my idea; I suppose I should know what to do. But I thought Bonny would like it more. Her hissing is starting to freak me out.
‘Maybe, or maybe we should put her on the ground first and let her jump,’ I say undecided. Before D can give his thoughts on my lack of direction, Bonny shrieks and leaps out of his hands. She soars into the air, her cape floating up behind her, then lands on all fours on the dusty concrete. I stand with my mouth open in awe.
‘Whoa, did you see that?’ Devon exclaims, his eyes just as wide as mine.
‘That was so cool,’ I reply. ‘Now it’s our turn,’ I add, grabbing D’s hand.
‘What?’ Devon says aghast. His hand is clammy in mine.
‘Oh, come on, D, it’s not that high. If Bonny can do it, so can we.’ My seven-year-old brain is determined. ‘Together, after three: one, two, three…’
*
The till chimes and instantly knocks some sense into my head. I leap behind the largest cake stack and peer over the cherries on top of the Bakewells, carefully checking to see if the figure is still there.
Thankfully, he is still facing away from the shelves and is deep in conversation with Mr and Mrs Rolph. Really, I can’t be certain that it is who I think it is by only looking at the back of his head. It’s been ten years since he was in this village and we all know movie posters are Photoshopped. But so much for my morning coffee. There’s no way I can move, just in case it is him. Do I race to the door now and pray he doesn’t see me, or do I wait it out until he leaves? I wish my brain was more decisive sometimes.