Christmas At Thrush Green Read online

  Bob Jones stopped drying one of the pint glasses and eyed Albert on the other side of the bar. ‘Well, if you’re going to be there, what with all the photographers and reporters, you’ll have to spruce yourself up. You’re a right shambles at the moment. Your chin is a mess, your hands need a good scrub and goodness only knows when you last had a haircut.’

  ‘My Nelly . . .’ Albert paused when Percy Hodge gave another of his resounding snorts. ‘My Nelly does me hair regular once a month. I were goin’ to get ’er to do it for Chris’mas but I’ll get ’er to do it tomorrer. An’ these shavin’ cuts,’ he said, fingering his stubbly chin, ‘will ’ave gone by Thursday.’

  ‘What you goin’ to wear, then?’ asked Percy. ‘Something a bit tidier than what you’re wearin’ now, I trust.’

  ‘Course, I will. It’ll be my funeral suit. Just the ticket. The ol’ gel come back yesterday with a very posh frock. Must’ve cost ’er a fortune.’

  ‘I just might turn up to watch this pantomime. Specially if there’s to be cameras,’ chortled Percy.

  ‘Nelly said she’d be layin’ on a bit of a celebration after closin’ time,’ said Albert, getting stiffly off the bar stool.

  ‘Then I’ll definitely come down,’ Percy said.

  ‘For staff only she said - an’,’ Albert added quickly, ‘family, of course.’

  The Fuchsia Bush was a hive of activity from before it even got light on Thursday morning. Nelly had arranged for Bert Nobbs, the Lulling taxi driver, to collect her from Thrush Green and take her to work. She wasn’t going to risk creasing her lovely new dress by carrying it over her arm as she walked down the hill to Lulling. And there were her best high heels and handbag, too.

  ‘See you this afternoon,’ said Albert as Nelly was leaving to go out to the waiting taxi.

  Nelly turned on the doorstep. ‘What? You’re not coming, and that’s flat. You’d disgrace the ceremony.’

  ‘Go on wi’ you. Course I’m comin’. I’m not lettin’ me wife receive her award and not be there for her big day.’ Before Nelly could argue, he added, ‘Anyways, I’m proud of you, gel.’

  That stopped Nelly in her tracks. He’d never said that before. ‘Well, if you must,’ she relented. ‘But mind you tidy up, and have a good scrub first.’

  On the way down to Lulling, Nelly thought about her lazybones of a husband. Now that he’d finally decided to hang up his churchyard boots, what on earth would he do with himself all day? Of course, she knew the answer to that - drink his pension away in The Two Pheasants - but she’d have to find something to occupy him. Then she pushed all thoughts of Albert to the back of her mind and ran through what there was still to be done.

  With the award ceremony at four o’clock, it had been decided to close the tea-room at three, once the customers who had come in for a late lunch after an exhausting morning’s Christmas shopping had gone. At first, Nelly had thought they would re-open for teas later but then she decided that she could afford to lose one afternoon’s takings: after all, it wasn’t every day that they got a Gold Award.

  The hour after closing would give them time to clear away the lunch things, lay up some of the tables for tea for the visitors, and change out of their working clothes. The girls - Gloria, Rosa, Poppy and the kitchen staff - all seemed to be as excited as she was. Clare Border, who didn’t usually work in The Fuchsia Bush in the afternoons, had arranged for her children to be collected from school by a neighbour and given their tea so she could be here. And quite right, too, thought Nelly. Clare had been such a help when they’d set up Nelly’s next door. She was one of the team now. Gloria had decided to close the sandwich shop at two o’clock, once all the locals had been in for their lunchtime sandwiches and rolls, so she too could help with the preparations.

  It was not just the award ceremony that was taking place that afternoon. Nelly had asked all the staff to stay on afterwards and she’d been busy preparing some tasty nibbles to go with the bottles of champagne that she had bought. Well, not real champagne, of course, since that cost the earth, but some sparkling white wine that the local off-licence had recommended. This was going to be her surprise. She had bought the bottles the day before, after everyone else had gone home, and had pushed them right to the back of the huge fridge in the kitchen, hiding them behind a stack of catering-size tubs of butter.

  Word about the award had got round her most regular customers. A little paragraph in the local paper that came out each Friday had ensured that everyone in Lulling, it seemed, knew that the ceremony was going to take place that afternoon.

  Nelly glanced at her watch. ‘Oh lawks!’ she exclaimed. It was just on three o’clock. Time to close, and she hurried through to the front.

  Rosa had done her job well. She was holding the door open for the last customers who were now departing down the steps. She was about to close the door when three thin figures tottered down the pavement and the first had a foot on the steps.

  The three Miss Lovelocks!

  ‘Leave this to me,’ Nelly said quickly to Rosa. ‘Start clearing away then go into the back and change.’

  As Miss Violet - the youngest of the three elderly ladies - was about to put her hand out to open the door of The Fuchsia Bush, Nelly swung the door wide, filling the entrance with her considerable bulk.

  ‘Miss Violet! Good afternoon to you, but I am afraid we are closing early this afternoon.’

  ‘Ah yes, Mrs Piggott. We heard all about the award presentation when we came in for lunch today.’ The Lovelock sisters came in to The Fuchsia Bush for a midday meal on Wednesdays and Thursdays, once the remains of their weekend joint had been used up. They would buy a piece of fish for Friday - very small, mind: the Lovelocks were notoriously parsimonious. ‘And that’s why we are here. We want to be present to congratulate you when you receive the award.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s to be a private occasion,’ Nelly responded, looking down on the demure hats that each of the sisters wore on their silvery hair.

  ‘Oh dear, how disappointing!’ cried Miss Ada, peering round her sister on the step above her.

  ‘As some of your most regular customers,’ continued Miss Violet, ‘might we not be permitted to be here?’

  ‘We would sit as quiet as mice in our usual corner,’ wheedled Miss Bertha, who was still standing on the pavement.

  Nelly’s heart softened. They weren’t all that bad, she thought, even though her own brief employment in the Lovelocks’ house had been less than satisfactory. And it was true: they came in for lunch as regular as clockwork two days a week.

  ‘Very well, why not? But could I ask you to come back later, say at five to four. We need to close the shop now and get ready.’ There was no way, Nelly thought, she was going to let them sit in the tea-room alone; Miss Bertha’s light fingers had caused enough trouble in the past.

  The three sisters retreated, chattering like excited children anticipating a special treat.

  At a quarter to four, Nelly went into the front of the shop, to be ready to open the door as soon as the representatives of the Guild of Tea Shops arrived. It was only a few moments later that she saw a van draw up in the road outside. She watched as a young man opened the van’s back door and began off-loading a pile of camera paraphernalia. The press! Nelly involuntarily patted her hair - not that there was a single strand out of place because she had asked the hairdresser, whom she had visited earlier that morning, to use plenty of lacquer. She ran her hands down the soft folds of her raspberry-coloured dress and adjusted the neckline so it sat squarely. The gold chain necklace that her erstwhile lover, Charlie the oilman, had bequeathed to her after his death hung in a double row round her throat.

  ‘Afternoon!’ cried the young man, coming into the shop and dumping camera equipment all over the floor. ‘I’m Geoff from Cotswold Highlights. Got to take some shots of you receiving the award. But I’ll take a few while the room is set up as I presume you usually have it.’

  It wasn’t long before he was snapping away
. Nelly made sure she was out of range of his camera. She hated having her photograph taken.

  ‘Now,’ the young man said, looking round him, ‘can we shift some of these tables? Anywhere they can go in the back?’

  Nelly bridled. She wasn’t going to be pushed around by a photographer chappie. ‘No, there’s no room anywhere else.’

  The young man began pushing the tables back against the wall. ‘Got to have room to move, haven’t we?’ he said.

  Gloria came through from the back at that moment. She was wearing a navy blue skirt with a flowered blouse, and some pretty beads.

  ‘I think it would be best if we could make a little more room in the middle,’ she said. ‘What if we push these tables back to the edge and the extra chairs can go through to Nelly’s kitchen. They’ll be out of the way there.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nelly. If truth be told, she was a tiny bit nervous about the forthcoming proceedings, and was happy to let Gloria take over.

  ‘Rosa, Poppy!’ called Gloria through the swing door. ‘I need some help here when you’re ready.’

  Rosa joined her and together they moved most of the chairs out of the tea-room.

  ‘Leave the chairs there,’ said Nelly, pointing to a table in the corner by the window. ‘I promised the Lovelocks they could have their usual place.’

  Geoff the photographer continued to take photographs: the window with its Christmas decorations, the counter where Nelly had placed some of her best cakes, some scones and a plate of neat sandwiches. Just as he was pointing his camera at the back of the tea-room, the door from the kitchen swung open and Poppy came through.

  ‘Oh, my!’ crooned the young man. ‘Hold it there, miss!’ Click click.

  Poppy, looking sparkling in a short tight dress, her slim legs seeming quite at ease in what Nelly thought were ridiculously high heels, preened and turned this way and that.

  Nelly sighed. There had been a time, long long ago, when she’d had a figure like that.

  The front door of The Fuchsia Bush opened, and a group of people unknown to Nelly swarmed in.

  ‘Mrs Piggott,’ said one of them, coming forward with his hand outstretched. ‘I’m Mr Hunter from the Guild of Tea Shops. Many congratulations on your award!’ He introduced the other people who were with him but Nelly’s head was in such a whirl that she didn’t remember any of the names. ‘Now,’ said Mr Hunter, looking around, ‘can I suggest we present the award right away so Geoff can take his pictures and get off home. Perhaps then we might be able to have a cup of your excellent tea and,’ he said, swivelling round to look at the counter behind him, ‘taste one or two of your delicious cakes.’

  Mr Hunter gently manoeuvred Nelly to stand in front of the counter, and then from a box he had stood on one of the tables, he pulled out a large teapot. It was one of the most beautiful teapots Nelly had ever seen: pale cream bone china, with gold leaf on the lid and handle. He then came to stand beside Nelly, while the photographer bent over his camera a little way away.

  ‘Mrs Piggott,’ boomed Mr Hunter in what was obviously his award-giving voice, ‘on behalf of the Guild of Tea Shops, I am delighted to present this year’s Gold Award for the Cotswolds area to you and The Fuchsia Bush of Lulling. I, and my committee and team of inspectors, would like to congratulate you on your excellent performance and to say what a credit you are to the tea business and, of course, tourism in the area!’

  Mr Hunter then presented the fine teapot to Nelly who took it in trembling fingers. She read the gold inscription on the front: ‘Awarded to The Fuchsia Bush by the Guild of Tea Shops’ with the date in curly writing underneath.

  ‘Look this way, Mrs Piggott,’ called out the photographer, and his camera flashed.

  From the corner of the room came a little smatter of clapping. Nelly looked across and saw the three Misses Lovelocks who must have crept in behind the contingent from the Guild and Cotswold Highlights. And beside them sat Albert, an unaccustomed smile on his pink, well-scrubbed face.

  Then from near the kitchen door came more clapping - her faithful staff! Soon everyone was clapping. Clare Border lifted the recently received certificate from the wall and passed it to Nelly to hold, as well as the teapot.

  ‘Can all the staff gather round, please?’ called Mr Hunter. ‘I’m sure everyone has contributed to this award.’

  ‘Can you all move together, please?’ cried the photographer. ‘You,’ he said, pointing to Poppy, ‘will you move more to the front?’

  Nelly swivelled round to ensure that everyone was in the photograph, and she caught sight of Gloria who had stayed by the kitchen door.

  ‘Come along, Gloria,’ she cried.

  ‘No, I’m Nelly’s,’ the girl replied. ‘This is the Fuchsia’s award.’

  ‘Nonsense, girl!’ retorted Nelly. ‘We’re all part of the award, you too.’ So Gloria shyly stood on the edge of the party.

  Once all the photographs had been taken - apart from Geoff from Cotswold Highlights, there was a man they knew from the local Lulling paper as well as someone from the Oxford Mail - the girls slipped out to the kitchen to make the tea. Nelly and Clare re-positioned the tables that had been laid for tea in the middle of the room and chairs were collected from the back. Soon the guests from the Guild were seated, and while Rosa and Poppy put teapots and milk jugs on the tables, Nelly and Gloria handed round sandwiches and scones.

  ‘Now then, Mrs Piggott,’ called Mr Hunter, patting a chair beside him, ‘you come and sit down and tell me all about yourself and your very fine tea-shop.’

  Gratefully, Nelly sank down on the chair and accepted the cup of tea he poured for her. Across the table was a young woman who had a notebook open, with pencil poised.

  ‘You don’t mind if Jane takes a few notes, do you?’ asked Mr Hunter.

  ‘I’m from Cotswold Highlights,’ the girl explained. ‘We always like to write about the tea-shop that wins the regional award.’

  Nelly was happy to talk about The Fuchsia Bush, making it clear that it was her first boss, Mrs Peters, who had set the standard. She skimmed over her own life but did point out that her husband, Albert, was over there with three of her most valued customers.

  Mr Hunter accepted a second slice of coffee cake that Rosa offered him. ‘This is really most delicious!’ he said, brushing a few crumbs from his little moustache. ‘There’s coffee cake and coffee cake, but,’ he said, patting a not inconsiderable stomach, ‘this is truly the best I have ever eaten. I expect you have a special ingredient. Are you going to tell me what it is?’ he asked mischievously.

  ‘Of course not!’ laughed Nelly, now much more relaxed. ‘You wouldn’t expect me to give away my trade secrets, would you?’

  When the time came for the delegation from the Guild and Cotswold Highlights to leave, Nelly popped a fresh coffee cake into a box, tied it up with some pretty pink ribbon and presented it to Mr Hunter.

  ‘Now it’s my turn to give you something. I hope you have a very happy Christmas, Mr Hunter.’

  To Nelly’s surprise, Mr Hunter gave her soft cheek a little kiss. ‘And a very happy Christmas to you, too! And to all your customers.’

  When Nelly had waved them goodbye, she shut the door and leaned against it. ‘Phew! Thank goodness that’s over!’

  ‘Well done, Mrs Piggott!’ called Poppy. ‘Well done, congratulations, Nelly,’ echoed Gloria. Soon her staff were all round her, clapping her on the back.

  ‘Now, then, steady,’ puffed Nelly, quite overcome. ‘Let’s get this ’ere teapot into pride of place.’ She cleared some space on the attractive Welsh pine dresser that stood to the right of the counter, and settled the teapot - gold lettering facing into the room - in the centre of the middle shelf. ‘There, now, ain’t that bonny!’

  She asked the girls to clear away the tea things. ‘Just put it all into the scullery. We can deal with it tomorrow. I hope none of you has any engagements this evening, cos I’ve got one or two nibbles for us to eat, and a bit of fizz for celebration.’r />
  ‘Fizz!’ squeaked Poppy, her pretty face aglow.

  ‘Fizz!’ repeated Miss Bertha from the corner where she and her sisters were still sitting.

  Nelly had quite forgotten about them. Oh well, never mind. The more the merrier.

  At that moment, she noticed a face peering in through the window from the street - Percy Hodge.

  ‘Albert,’ she said, turning to where her husband was still sitting, ‘I think Perce has come to take you home.’

  ‘Course ’e ’asn’t,’ retorted her husband who, Nelly had to admit, had turned himself out quite well. Though his best black funeral suit was a bit sombre for the occasion, he had found a brightly coloured tie which livened up the ensemble. ‘ ’E’s come for the party!’

  ‘Oh, go on then, let him in,’ said Nelly. ‘He can do some helping, though. You pass round those glasses, and Perce can get opening the bottles. I’ll get ’em out of the fridge.’

  An hour later saw the party at The Fuchsia Bush still in full swing. Miss Ada and Miss Bertha were quite pink in the face after a couple of glasses of fizzy white wine. Miss Violet, Nelly noticed, was being responsible and nursing her first glass. In fact, Violet had to admit she didn’t really like champagne - the bubbles fizzed up her nose in a most uncomfortable way. She would have loved another cup of tea, but decided against asking for one.

  Percy had had one glass in order to join in the toast but had then slipped out to the off-licence to get some cans of beer that he and Albert were putting away at an alarming rate. Nelly made sure they had a large plate of well-filled rolls on their table, to soak up the excesses.

  She saw that Geoff the photographer had returned, and he and Poppy had their heads close together, and were laughing a lot. When Poppy returned to sit with the others, having waved Geoff off to another job he had that evening, her eyes were sparkling.

  The Lovelocks departed at seven o’clock, and Clare Border offered to see them to their door. She helped them down the steps of The Fuchsia Bush, along the pavement, then up the steps of their own handsome house. Miss Ada fumbled for a while in her handbag for the key then found it in her pocket. ‘Here we are,’ she tinkled merrily. ‘All safe and sound. Good night, Mrs Border, good night and thank you.’