Christmas at the Dancing Duck. Daisy James
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woven handles of her overnight bag over her shoulder, ducked her head low, and hurried onto the train. She selected a window seat and slumped into the corner, rubbing her palms on her thighs and blowing on her fingers in an effort to warm up.
A cup of hot chocolate from the trolley was the best thing that had happened to her that day, until her freezing fingertips misjudged her grasp and she sent the contents flowing across the table towards the ample lap of a snoring, besuited gentleman sporting an impressive Gandalf-style beard. She dabbed furiously at the brown river before it cascaded into his groin and delivered a rude awakening.
She had telephoned her sister the night before and poured out every last excruciating detail of the humiliation she had endured. Of course, Olivia had been sympathetic and had said all the right things to soothe her ragged nerves but she couldn’t disguise her delight that Kirstie’s misfortune meant she was coming to Cranbury to spend Christmas at the Dancing Duck with her, Harry, and Ethan.
Before Kirstie had the chance to warn her that she did not intend to stay for the whole two weeks leading up to the big day, Olivia had promised to send Harry to collect her from the train and zoomed off to answer a hungry wail from Ethan who was demanding his next bottle of milk.
The emotional exhaustion of the previous day crept up on her as the warm carriage lulled and lurched southwest and she decided to close her eyes for a few moments. Thirty minutes later a crackling announcement broke into her slumber to advise passengers that they would soon be arriving at Winchester and to ensure they had all their luggage with them when they disembarked.
An obliging commuter helped her to lift her luggage down from the train to the platform and she smarted at the amusement in his eyes. Yet it was her own fault she was dressed for a day out at the beach.
‘I’d put a coat on if I were you, love.’
Kirstie rolled her eyes at him for stating the obvious. She wrapped the sides of her ivory cotton cardigan around her chest and sprinted for the waiting room. She lunged into the tiny room, mumbling to herself as she dusted her knees and shins free of the globules of melted snow and shook out her curls. She unzipped her bag and grabbed another cardigan, shivering like a newborn lamb. Then she heard the dulcet tones of her mobile from the depths of her handbag. With numb fingers, she scrambled around to find it.
‘Hello?’
‘Kirstie! It’s Livie. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour. Where exactly are you?’
‘In the waiting room at Winchester train station. Why?’
‘Oh, Kirstie, I’m so sorry. Harry’s mother has just called. His father has been rushed to hospital – suspected heart attack – not sure he’s going to survive the night. She’s in a right state. Harry has promised her we’ll fly over to Dublin straight away in case … well, just in case.’
Kirstie heard her elder sister pause to gulp down her emotions. ‘Livie, I’m so sorry. Poor George, and Francesca must be frantic.’ Then she registered what her sister had said. ‘Did you say “we”?’
‘I’m so, so sorry, Kirstie. Harry wants us to go over together. It might be the last time …’
‘But what about the pub? Who’s going to run it while you’re away?’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Oh, God, thought Kirstie. She could tell from Olivia’s tone that she wasn’t going to like what her sister said next. ‘Because this is the last Christmas for the Dancing Duck in its current guise, Harry and I have arranged a few weekend activities leading up to Christmas Day when there’s going to be a huge communal meal at the church hall, courtesy of Reverend Clarke and the Cranbury Residents’ Association.’
‘Activities? What sort of activities?’
‘Oh, just some Christmas-themed stuff in the Old Barn. You know, in addition to the annual barn dance, the Easter egg hunt, and the Cranbury summer fayre, something the community can enjoy together in the run-up to Christmas.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, Rachel has organized the annual Big Christmas Baking Bash, and Emma is helping with the Christmas Craft Contest; you know, wreath-making, glass-painting, and home-made crackers, and then there’s the … well, something else for the following Saturday, which will be New Year’s Eve, but we’ll be back for that I hope.’
‘But why have you gone to all that trouble when the pub is being sold in the new year? What’s the point?’
‘We just wanted to say a huge thank you to the villagers for all their support and friendship over the last thirty years. It’s what Mum and Dad would have wanted, don’t you think? The Dancing Duck is the beating heart of the community, after all. And well … you know how upset everyone is that we are having to sell up.’
‘But Miles Morgan assured us that he intends to run it as a pub.’
‘So he says,’ Olivia said darkly. ‘But he’s already talking about ripping out all the fixtures and fittings and replacing them with a glass and steel bar and marble columns with silver and bronze statues. It’s just village gossip, but I heard he’s got some famous Danish chef lined up to run the kitchen and turn it into a “destination gastropub”, whatever that is. He showed up last month with his architect and let slip that he’s applied for planning permission to turn the Old Barn into two cottages for weekend City escapees.’
Kirstie couldn’t fail to hear the pain in her sister’s voice. She knew how upset Olivia had been when their accountant had sat all three of them down shortly before Ethan had burst into the world to inform them that the business was on the verge of bankruptcy and the only way of avoiding that humiliation was to sell their beloved childhood home as soon as possible as a going concern.
Of course, Kirstie had been upset too, but she hadn’t been the one who had slaved eighteen hours a day to keep the Grand Old Duchess of Cranbury ticking over after their parents’ untimely death. To be truthful, she was surprised Olivia and Harry had hung on to it for so long, especially after they discovered Ethan was on his way. But Olivia adored the village and was devastated when she realized what had to be done to avoid the risk of the bankruptcy affecting Harry’s position as a local magistrate.
There hadn’t been a queue of potential purchasers eager to snap up the pub, but why did it have to be bought by a rich City lawyer with no idea how important the Dancing Duck was to the community of Cranbury? Kirstie had only met Miles Morgan once when she visited Olivia and Harry to meet Ethan for the first time. There was no denying how handsome he was in his designer suit and Jermyn Street shirt with cufflinks fashioned into pound signs. How crass. She had grimaced, even before he introduced her to the architect he had brought down from London and made a huge palaver about what ‘improvements’ he intended to make to ‘maximize potential revenue’.
She had urged Olivia to concentrate on the positives. Once the pub was sold she would be able to buy that dream cottage on the outskirts of the village she had been salivating over ever since old Mrs Darton had moved to live with her daughter in the next village. With its profusion of fragrant ivory roses round the door and a quaint old-fashioned garden, including an orchard, Ethan would be able to run around to his heart’s content – unlike where they lived now, in a tiny flat above the pub.
They had put in an offer for Bramble Cottage and old Mrs Darton had accepted it immediately, expressing her pleasure that a family would grow up within its four walls, and hoping they would be as happy there as she had been. Harry was as choked up about the decision to sell as his wife, but could see it was their only option, save for winning the lottery.
‘So, Kirstie, I’m relying on you to hold the fort while we’re in Dublin. In any case, everyone’s going to be so pleased to see you behind the bar again. It’ll be just like the old days.’
Kirstie groaned. She had actually been hoping to hole up in her sister’s flat and lick her wounds, only offering to help out with the cleaning and restocking when the doors were firmly closed, even agreeing to peel the potatoes in Leon’s kitchen –