Authors: Trisha Ashley
Strange … I wondered if perhaps the missing name was that of Esau Almond, the black sheep of the three brothers up at Badger’s Bolt, the one that Ma didn’t want to talk about. What little I knew about them was that the eldest, Saul, had stayed on the farm during the war, since food production was vital, while the other two brothers, Amos and Esau, had enlisted. I’d asked her once if they’d both survived and she’d just said she thought the past was best left behind us, and then clammed up.
On the way home, as an afterthought, we detoured for a quick look at the war memorial. There were two Almonds listed as killed in the First World War, but none in the Second … though again, someone had roughly chiselled out a name in the As.
It was all very mysterious.
When we got back I didn’t mention it to Ma, though Stella told her all about the angels when we took her some sandwiches and a couple of the Eccles cake-style Christmas puffs I’d made earlier, which were a great success.
When I arrived there early that evening I was both surprised and touched by how full the village hall was. In fact, I spotted Celia and Will, squeezed into the far end of the back row, only because Will, a tall, cadaverous man with a lantern jaw, stood up and waved at me.
A paper banner bearing the hand-lettered words ‘Stella’s Stars’ hung over the stage, which was set with a row of chairs and a small table with a jug of water on it. I would have tried to squeeze myself in next to Celia and Will, but the small, wiry woman at the door detached a plump Brownie from a group of hovering helpers to usher me to a seat right at the front of the hall instead, though at least, to my huge relief, it wasn’t actually on the stage.
Someone – probably the wiry woman – had efficiently reserved the front row by placing named slips of paper on them and mine was right next to Jago, who was already there. Beyond him, Mrs Snowball was unwrapping a stripy mint humbug.
Jago grinned at me. ‘Thought you’d be up on the stage,’ he whispered.
‘I’m so glad I’m not! I asked Raffy if I could leave it all to him and take a back seat. I feel a bit too close to things to be objective, and I don’t know how interested people will be in the idea when she isn’t a local child.’
‘Of course they’ll be interested, look how many are here tonight! And where she’s from won’t matter a bit,’ he assured me. ‘Anyway, your mother comes from the village, didn’t you tell me?’
‘Yes, but she’s not exactly part of it and I don’t think her family, the Almonds, were much liked.’
Florrie Snowball had evidently got ears like a bat, despite her advanced years, for she leaned forward and, adjusting the humbug so that it bulged in her cheek, said, ‘The three lads used to come into the village to the pub and to dance – just before the war that was. They were all tall, with very fair, curly hair and blue eyes just like yours. They were good-looking, even if they were a bit close-mouthed. The eldest, Saul, he married a land girl.’
‘Lots of people have commented I’ve got the Almond colouring – but only the older ones, who remember the family before they emigrated.’
‘That’s right, and so has Martha – you’d know either of you for an Almond straight away.’
‘Except I’m not close-mouthed.’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘And that little girl of yours seems chatty enough.’
‘Did all three of the brothers survive the war, Mrs Snowball?’ I ventured.
‘Ah, that would be telling,’ she said annoyingly, then moved the humbug out of her cheek and sat back.
Several people, including Raffy, now took up their places on the stage and Jago whispered, ‘Who’s that scary-looking tall, elderly woman with the hawk nose, sitting next to the vicar?’
‘Hebe Winter, the twin sister of Ma’s friend Ottie. She lives up at Winter’s End with her great-niece Sophy and her family, and apparently she’s always had a finger in any Sticklepond pies going. The man behind her is her retired steward, Laurence Yatton – I know that because he was in the bookshop once and we got talking. Sophy Winter is married to the head gardener, Seth Greenwood – see, they’re sitting over there, on the other side, next to Raffy’s wife, Chloe, who runs the chocolate shop. And
her
grandfather’s that man with long silver hair and a blue velvet cloak. He’s Gregory Lyon and has the Witchcraft Museum—’
‘Whoa!’ Jago said, before I could carry on listing all the more notable – or infamous – of the village characters that I knew.
‘Sorry,’ I apologised, ‘that was a bit of an information overload! In fact, I hadn’t realised quite how many people I know, or how much I know about them!’
The wiry elderly lady who’d been manning the door now slipped into the empty aisle seat next to me and I saw that Raffy was getting to his feet and nudged Jago.
‘Here goes,’ I said nervously.
When Raffy Sinclair got to his feet everyone immediately fell silent. He looked around the packed village hall and said, ‘Welcome, everyone, and I’m delighted to see so many of you here tonight. The people of Sticklepond have a tradition of coming together in times of adversity and need, but this time the cause is, quite literally, one of life and death. Let me tell you about little Stella Weston.’
He did so, clearly and concisely outlining the situation and then, with a gesture towards where I was sitting, introduced me. ‘I know Cally just wants to say a couple of words to you before we go on.’
Clearing my throat nervously – and there was already a lump in it from what Raffy’d said – I got to my feet and turned to face the packed hall with its pale swimming sea of faces. ‘I … I’d just like to thank you all for coming tonight and to say that I’d be deeply grateful for any help you could give me. The operation in America is Stella’s only chance of leading a long and normal life and I’m determined to give her that hope of a future, whatever it takes.’
There was a spatter of applause and I sat down again more abruptly than I intended, due to my knees giving way.
Jago took my hand and squeezed it, murmuring, ‘Well done!’
‘Thank you, Cally,’ Raffy said. ‘So, everyone: little Stella needs to go to Boston in America for the operation, leaving the UK around the end of October. Now, I’ve already told Cally that we’re a caring, sharing village, so she should go ahead and book the flights, the hotels and the procedure while we – all of us – will raise the rest of the money needed.’
‘Hear, hear,’ a chorus of voices called from the hall.
‘Poor little mite,’ exclaimed Zillah Smith, who kept house and helped in the Witchcraft Museum for Gregory Lyon, who she was sitting next to. ‘I’ve seen her about and she looks as if a decent gust of wind would blow her away.’
‘How much do we need to raise?’ asked Hebe Winter practically, turning her bright blue eagle gaze from the audience to Raffy.
‘It
was
around twenty thousand pounds, but I’m told that an anonymous benefactor has just donated half of that.’
‘Well, I’m sure we can’t imagine where
that
came from, then,’ said Florrie Snowball sarkily, but quietly.
I glanced at her across Jago and mouthed silently, ‘It was the
vicar
?’
She nodded and whispered, ‘And all the local charities have had anonymous donations since he moved here, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.’
‘The remaining ten thousand pounds will still be quite a lot to raise in such a short space of time,’ Hebe was observing.
‘Ah,’ Raffy said, ‘but if you break it down so that a hundred groups or individuals each raise a hundred pounds of that, it sounds much more do-able, doesn’t it? I’m sure there must be that many people here tonight. Miss Yatton, who has kindly been on the door, might be able to tell us. Effie?’
He looked towards the wiry whippet of a woman with pepper-and-salt hair, who’d slipped late into the front seat next to me on the end of the row.
‘One hundred exactly,’ Effie said efficiently, ‘including the child’s mother and yourself, that is.’
‘Really? Then that has to be a sign from God that the event will be a stellar success,’ he joked and there were several good-natured groans from the audience.
‘There you are, then – I’m sure we can do it. Some people will raise more than a hundred pounds and some much less, but it’ll all come to the right amount, you’ll see, and with a contingency fund for any unforeseen expenses.’
‘There are bound to be some of those,’ said Laurence Yatton, nodding his handsome, silver-haired head. He was sitting just behind Miss Winter and seemed to be scribbling down notes of the meeting.
‘I think we could all take our inspiration from the great start at fundraising made by Jago Tremayne,’ Raffy continued, and I felt Jago, who was still holding my hand, give a galvanic start.
‘As some of you might know, he’s recently helped a friend to open the Happy Macaroon shop in Ormskirk, but he’s already raised over a hundred pounds for Stella by selling gingerbread stars. I’m happy to say he’s here tonight.’
There was more enthusiastic clapping and when I glanced at Jago he was looking self-conscious. I think because there were so few strangers there, he’d already felt he stuck out like a sore thumb up in the front row.
He half-rose to his feet, made a sort of bow and sank down again. The tips of his ears under the curling dark hair turned pink.
‘I’m indebted to him for making me realise that if we all do one small thing to help, we’ll get a big result,’ Raffy continued. ‘Are you all behind me?’
‘No, we’re all in front of you,’ called Hal, in his usual deadpan way. He was sitting in a row further back with the other Winter’s End gardeners and most of the rest of the Winter family (though not Ottie, who was away at her cottage in Cornwall).
‘Smart arse,’ Raffy said amiably, but there had been a chorus of assent from the body of the hall and Hebe Winter, after quelling her under-gardener with an icy glare, volunteered her supposedly retired steward, Laurence Yatton, to register the names of all the fundraisers.
‘And his sister, Effie, can help him,’ she added.
‘Of course, I’m glad to,’ Effie agreed from her seat next to me. Florrie Snowball, evidently feeling this needed a reward, passed her across a mint humbug.
‘And further,’ continued Hebe, ‘I suggest we hold a summer fête in the hall and on the adjoining green, to include a raffle. What do you think of the idea, Vicar?’
‘It’s a very good one. And perhaps we could also have an auction as a separate event, if we can get some good prizes donated?’
‘Or promises,’ Hebe suggested. ‘For instance, I and the rest of the Elizabethan Re-enactment Society could promise to come and perform a dance at any event or celebration that the bidder wanted and –’ here she fixed her piercing bright blue eyes on a man quietly sitting a few rows back and raised her voice, ‘if
Ivo Hawksley
were to offer his services reading an excerpt from Shakespeare, I should certainly be among the bidders for that.’
There was a heartfelt masculine groan and some laughter.
‘Ivo Hawksley’s a retired Shakespearian actor, almost as reclusive as Ma,’ I whispered to Jago. ‘He’s married to Tansy Poole who runs Cinderella’s Slippers, the specialist wedding shoe shop in the village.’
‘I could read the tea leaves for the highest bidder,’ Zillah Smith was offering, with a glinting gold gypsy smile. ‘And Gregory, you could name the next new ley line you discover after someone.’
‘
I’ll
put myself up to do something, too,’ Raffy said. ‘Anything.’
‘
Almost
anything,’ Raffy’s wife, Chloe, qualified, to more laughter.
‘I don’t mind collecting and cataloguing the auction prizes,’ Effie said, ‘and doing the raffle at the fête.’
‘And Laurence and I will collate all the fundraising endeavours,’ stated Hebe, without consulting him.
‘My Mother and Toddler group will be a team, won’t we?’ Chloe asked, turning to the room at large, and a chorus of agreement echoed back. ‘In fact, we’ve already got a jumble sale organised for June.’
‘I could hold a book-signing event, if some of our local authors would oblige?’ Felix Hemming, the proprietor of the Marked Pages bookshop, suggested. ‘I know Cally Weston is the author of
Around the World in Eighty Cakes
and
The Cake Diaries
, but we also have Ivo’s
Nicholas Marlowe
crime novels, Tansy’s
Slipper Monkey
children’s books, Gregory Lyon’s supernatural thrillers and Seth Greenwood’s very popular gardening book,
The Artful Knot
.’
‘Gosh, the place is a hotbed of literary talent,’ Jago muttered.
‘The Sticklepond knitting circle has a large stock of items ready for sale,’ someone called out. ‘We’d already started building up to the Christmas fair, but there’s plenty of time to make more for that.’
‘And I’m having a Knitathon and a Crafty Garden Party with a selling exhibition at my house in Southport,’ I heard Celia’s clear voice announce. ‘You’re all welcome to come.’
‘Brilliant,’ Laurence Yatton said, scribbling busily. Then he looked up and added, ‘There are opportunities to sell all kinds of home-made items on the internet too, these days.’
‘That’s right,’ piped up Florrie Snowball unexpectedly. ‘My barmaid Molly’s always going on about selling that weird jewellery she makes on Ditsy and Bitsy.’
‘Etsy and Folksy?’ suggested Chloe tentatively.
‘Them too,’ Florrie agreed. ‘I could easily make up a hundred of those little protection charms on leather neck thongs that I sell through the Witchcraft Museum and Molly can flog them on the interweb for me.’
‘It’s called the internet, Florrie, and I already sell my knitted tea cosies on Etsy,’ a woman corrected her.
‘You big know-all, Josie Pucket!’ Florrie told her, turning round. ‘What are
you
going to do for little Stella?’
‘I’ll donate a month’s profits to the fund.’
‘I should cocoa!’ Florrie said, and then, satisfied, turned back to face the stage. ‘Go on then, Vicar,’ she urged.
‘I think we’ve about wrapped it up for the evening, actually,’ he said. ‘Well done, everyone, for the great ideas – and keep them coming. I’m sure we’ll hit our target … and in fact, I confidently expect we’ll exceed it. There are one or two things that Cally has already ruled out, because of the expense. For instance, she would prefer to have a qualified nurse with her on the flight.’