“And double denim!” called someone else.
“Doesn’t make it right, though, Peter!” heckled one of the Cussing Crocheters, giving him a knowing look. Peter unapologetically flicked up the collar of his denim jacket and straightened the denim shirt, which was tucked into stonewashed denim jeans with stiff creases ironed down the middle.
Maggie cleared her throat again. “Yes, well, like those things, our dad obviously felt it was time for us to bring back the winter solstice festival.” She looked down at her speech notes with shaking hands. Star slipped her arm around her waist and squeezed, earning her a grateful smile.
“Augustus had a deep love of this village and the people in it. I have asked myself why he tasked my sisters and me with reinstating the winter solstice festival, and aside from because he wanted to be a pain in the bum, I think it is because he didn’t want us to drift as he did. I think he wanted us to be ensconced in this community. What better way to ensure Rowan Thorp continues to be a supportive, tight-knit neighborhood for years to come than to install a festival into our village calendar, one that makes us come together every year and join in celebration, like our ancestors did before us? If you can help us make this happen for our community and for our dad, then us North girls will be forever grateful.” She let out a shaky breath and stuffed the note cards into her dungarees pocket.
Simone and Star each linked an arm through hers. Star rested her head on Maggie’s shoulder, and Simone, who was taller, mirrored the image by resting hers on top of Maggie’s head.
“You were amazing,” Star whispered.
“I’m so proud of you,” echoed Simone.
The response in the hall was overwhelming. The clapping began and seemed like it would never stop. People got up out of their chairs in a standing ovation. Whoops and whistles—the loudest coming from Belinda—and a stamping of feet vibrated through the wooden floorboards all the way up onto the stage. When the applause began to abate, Belinda climbed the steps, cassock swinging, and took over the microphone. The sisters gratefully sank back into their plastic chairs.
“Right, then, you motley lot!” the vicar boomed into the mic. “You’ve heard the North girls’ plea, now let’s hear what you’ve got and see if we can make this thing happen.” Star watched as Artemis weaved in and out of the chairs in the hall, as though joining Belinda in chivying the crowd along. “To my mind, God and Mother Nature are one and the same—and both female, obviously.” Belinda gave a wink that earned a few disgruntled noises from some of the octogenarian men in the hall. “So let’s honor them both by celebrating the winter solstice!” She punched the air like a dog-collared rockstar, and Star marveled at her ability to work the crowd. If this was the kind of energy Belinda brought to the pulpit every Sunday, it was no wonder St. Swithun’s had seen an uptick in attendance. “I’ll start proceedings by saying I’ve got a mate who rents out marquees for festivals. I’ll tap him up and see if I can wrangle us one. Who’s next?”
The Myerses were the first to raise their hands. Gerry had retired with a golden handshake after being something big in the city and these days haunted the local golf club. Parminder Myers was manager of the Rowan Thorp library and what she didn’t know about Rowan Thorp wasn’t worth knowing. “As soon as we heard about your father’s will . . .” Parminder began.
Someone in the audience—possibly Troy—quipped, “Approximately fifteen seconds after it was read.”
Parminder gave a little side nod and a wry smile in acceptance of the probable truth of the statement.
She continued: “As soon as we heard that you would be reinstating the winter solstice festival, we changed our habit of making our famous apple jams and chutneys from our little orchard and began the cider-making process.”
“It’s good stuff,” added Gerry, whose ruddy complexion would appear to verify his statement. “It’ll put hairs on your chest and blast away the winter chills. And if hairs on your chest isn’t your thing, it works wonders on brass; it’s brought my fireplace tools up like new.”
Parminder, in a stylish kurta over trousers, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a loose chignon, flapped her hand good-naturedly at her husband for him to shut up, and continued.
“Historically, the apples from our land were always used for the traditional wassail drink at the winter solstice celebrations, back when it belonged to old Bob Taylor—and even before—and we would be honored if you would accept our homemade cider for the newly reinstated solstice festival.”
“And don’t worry,” added Gerry. “We’ve got flippin’ tons of the stuff, so no whistle will go unwetted!”
Parminder smiled graciously as uproarious clapping and whooping rang through the little wooden hall. Maggie was too stunned to speak, so Star gave an appropriate level of grateful thanks, while Simone crossed cider for wassail off their very long to-do list.
Next came the WI, who donated their cake-making services to include the traditional b?che de No?l—chocolate yule log cakes—along with ginger parkin, fruitcakes, and their own take on the Black Forest gateau, aptly named Rowan Thorp gateau.
“We’ve been perfecting the recipe for some time,” said Betty. “Mostly made using ingredients that grow nearby, but don’t panic, there will be lots of chocolate included.”
An audible sigh of relief whisked around the hall. Belinda said they could borrow trestle tables, chairs, and tablecloths from the village hall. Simone was greedily ticking things off the list.
For cooking the feast, Kev and Ryan, owners of the Stag and Hound, offered the use of the pub kitchen, which also happened to be a cookery school. Kat, the Stag and Hound’s chef, promised her help and expertise.
Troy donated himself and his bar staff to the cause, promising to be an extra pair of hands on the day for food running, table waiting, and general helping duties. The Stag and Hound and Rowan Tree Inn would close to the public during the feast, and open up again later in the evening, “For a proper good knees-up!”
“Both pubs have applied for a special late-opening license for that night,” said Troy. “I dropped the paperwork off personally into a pair of very safe hands.” He turned to grin at Anita, a willowy woman with flawless dark skin, round glasses, and a halting manner, who worked in the village council building next to the library.
Anita was a quiet-spoken powerhouse whom everybody knew they could rely on to get a job done, and any who underestimated her did so at their peril. She gave Troy a self-conscious thumbs-up and said, “I am pleased to inform you that your joint applications have been successful.” She delicately punched the air and added, “Hurrah to late-night openings!”