She was holding on to the side of the door, ready to close it, when Duncan stepped toward her and bent to kiss her cheek. His lips were soft, and he smelled of aftershave and cinnamon biscuits. Then just as quickly, he turned and walked to the gate without looking back, closing it behind him. Star stood in the doorway wanting to preserve the moment just a little longer. She bit her lip to keep her smile under control. This wasn’t how her encounters with men usually played out. Typically, men were greedy for her, wanting all of her at once, not thinking she was worth waiting for. To be fair, she’d never really cared to mind; she enjoyed sex and had always been happy to embrace that side of herself. She wondered now if perhaps, though fulfilling on a physical level, her consistent acts of spontaneity had become a bit boring.
Rain pattered down through the trees in an uneven rhythm, and the strings of solar-powered fairy lights swung in the breeze, making the tips of the wet grass below glitter like a lawn of diamonds for the taking. She pushed the door closed and locked out the night. For the first time in years, she felt a thrill of hope, and as she climbed into her old single bed in her old room with Artemis by her feet, she reveled in the luxury of having been kissed by a man who didn’t take a thing.
25
Saturday’s drizzle had been frozen out by Sunday morning, and the ice that’d formed over everything showed no sign of thawing yet. Every roof in the village was thickly white, and every pavement and car had swirls of frost painted over them.
Maggie sipped her double shot black Americano and tried not to be a coffee snob about Simone’s half-fat, one shot latte with sugar-free hazelnut syrup or Star’s decaf oat milk mocha, which were sat on the small table by the window waiting for their owners to arrive. Artemis sat on the chair next to her, taunting the cockapoo at the next table. She had left Verity watching Disney Christmas cartoons on the sofa with a massively hungover Patrick, who looked like a cadaver in a tartan dressing gown. This was her second Americano of the day, and she didn’t imagine it would be her last.
So far, she and her sisters had done a lot of talking about the winter solstice celebration, but they hadn’t actually set anything in motion. It was, she imagined, rather like being part of one of those government think tanks, where they spend endless hours talking about how to solve a problem without ever putting a solution into practice. Time was ticking on. The solstice was on the twenty-first, which gave them just eleven days to organize an entire festival. They had a list of things as long as their combined arms that needed doing and none had a tick beside them. If they didn’t get a move on soon, they would fail without ever having tried.
“It’s nice to have the three of you back in the village again,” said Betty as she spritzed antibacterial spray onto a table just left by a group of gym mummies.
“Yeah,” Maggie agreed. “I like having them around.” She was surprised to find she actually meant it.
“I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels right somehow. Balances the energy of the place. Used to feel the same when your father was back from his travels. But then I have always been very in tune with elemental energies.”
She could well believe it. Betty had a sideline in herbal remedies and made her own essential oil blend candles to sell in the café.
“Betty, what do you know about winter solstice celebrations?”
Betty snickered. “What don’t I know, more’s to the point.”
“You must have been too young to remember the ones held here, though.”
Betty patted her short gray hair, flattered. “Nice of you to say. I was six when the last solstice celebration was held in Rowan Thorp, but oh, how well I remember them. Good memories stick. Old Bob Taylor had a veritable orchard at the end of his garden, and he would make the cider that would be used for the wassail. I kid you not, by early evening on the solstice you could have gotten pissed on the air alone with all that mulled cider brewing in cauldrons. Of course, everything feels like magic when you’re knee high to a grasshopper, but what with all the candles and the smell of the bonfire, and oh my goodness the roast boar turning on the spit, makes my mouth water just thinking about it. I don’t mind telling you: I am excited that you North girls are going to bring it back.”
Maggie puffed her cheeks out. “If we can get our act together in time.”
“It’s the talk of the village.” Betty was not making her feel better. “The Women’s Institute have been champing at the bit waiting for you to ask for their cakes-pertise . . . See what I did there!”
“You think they’d help, then?”
“Course they would. At our last meeting, your winter solstice festival was at the top of our agenda. Just say the word, my girl. Everyone wants to help, but nobody wants to tread on your toes, so we’re giving you space. Ask and you’ll be inundated with offers.”
“Really?”
Betty tutted. “That’s the trouble with you young’uns. You think you’re so connected, with your snappy-chats and your clock-toks. You’re more likely to ask a virtual friend in Guatemala for advice than the people on your own doorstep.”
Maggie could barely navigate Instagram, but she didn’t bother to correct her, because she made a good point. She’d learned more about the winter solstice celebration through two minutes of idle chitchat with Betty than she had in the two hours spent trawling through Google in bed last night.
The bell above the door tinkled, and Simone and Star weaved their way through the café to the table.
“Took your time!” said Betty. “Your coffees are half-cold.”
“Sorry, Betty,” they mumbled together as they took off their coats and hung them on the coat stand next to the radiator.
Betty bustled off toward the kitchen with a tray laden with empty coffee mugs and plates. Simone sat down, smoothed first her hair, then her skirt, then opened her notebook and smoothed the pages on that too.
“So,” she began, as though calling a meeting to order. “Where are we on how to actually start this thing? I was looking at the photographs again last night, and it looks like the bonfire used to be set up in the middle of the street, but I’m not sure the council would allow that now. Health and safety and all that.”
“What about if we have it in Dad’s garden? It’s got access from the street, and we could have the celebration down near the woods,” Star suggested.
“Not too near,” said Maggie. “We don’t want to start a forest fire.”
“Halfway down, then. The council can’t complain if it’s on private land, can they? And we own the land now, so we only need our own permission.”
Simone tapped her pen to her red lips and then nodded and made a note in her book. “We’ll need to figure out a route for the procession as well,” she mused.
“Maybe we could hold the banquet in the garden too, I mean it’s probably long enough. Although I’m not sure it’s a good idea to have a marquee near an open fire.” Star was pondering.
“A marquee?” asked Maggie. “Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I reckon most of the village is going to turn out for it,” said Star. “We need to think big.”
“Plus, it’s the middle of December in England, so there’s a good chance it’ll be raining,” Simone countered. “If we have a marquee, we can get some of those patio heaters in to keep people warm.”
“Couldn’t we just hold it in the village hall?” Maggie asked.
Star screwed her face up. “It’s not very inspiring, is it?”
“We could spruce it up a bit.”