Christmas at the Dancing Duck

‘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 – the frenzied domain of the Dancing Duck’s fiery French chef – if she had to. Did she dare to hope that the villagers were not avid fans of daytime TV and therefore unaware of the reason behind her impromptu visit home?

‘Livie, I …’

‘It’s your last chance to decide what you want to take from the pub, too. You’ve been promising to come down and help me with the packing for the last six weeks. I know it’ll be a traumatic experience but we’re signing the contracts at the end of December and the sale will complete in the new year. We have to make a start – Mum and Dad accumulated so much stuff over the years. Miles Morgan made it absolutely clear that what we don’t take with us will be going in the skip.’

‘The skip? Oh, my God …’

Olivia laughed for the first time. ‘I know. Dad would have been horrified to think of his collections of ancient tools being chucked away. All his wonderful treasures being reduced to landfill.’

‘Best place for them,’ murmured Kirstie, a weak smile appearing on her lips as she recalled with a stab of nostalgia her parents’ penchant for scouring the local auction houses and charity shops whenever they had a few hours off.

Don and Sue Harrison invariably came home with a carload of questionable antiques and ancient knick-knacks, which they proudly displayed around the walls and shelves of the pub and the Old Barn at the other side of the cobbled car park. Oil paintings, watercolours, pencil drawings, ceramics, horse brasses, Oriental vases, vintage drinking glasses, paperweights, not to mention the larger items such as wardrobes, chests of drawers, chairs, trestle tables, rugs, coat and umbrella stands, mirrors.

Every December a cornucopia of porcelain Santa Clauses, reindeers, antique fairies, and vintage glass baubles would appear as if by magic to clutter every spare nook and cranny alongside the largest fir tree Don could get his hands on, which would be draped in a proliferation of decorations, old and new. It had been her mother’s favourite time of the year, as well as her daughters’, until the tragedy two years ago when the world changed for ever.

Kirstie swallowed down hard as a surge of grief, always so close to the surface, threatened to overwhelm her in the deserted train station waiting room. She glanced out of the window and was relieved to see it had stopped snowing.

She made a decision – she had to allow Harry and Olivia to rush to George’s bedside without feeling guilty about leaving the pub at such a critical time. She would step into the breach with a beaming smile and a confident tilt of her chin just like she did every day when she faced the FMTV cameras. She would make the Dancing Duck’s last Christmas under the Harrison name the best one ever, and make her sister, and her parents as they looked down on her, the proudest they had been. It was her turn, after all.

‘No problem, Livie. Go to Ireland and tell George to get well soon from me. Don’t worry about the pub. Emma is the best barmaid ever, so together I’m sure we will manage to deliver the village of Cranbury the absolute ultimate in Christmas celebrations, one that everyone will remember for years to come. I won’t let you down.’

‘Thank you, Kirstie. I knew you would do it. Oh, and by the way, you’ll have the benefit of an extra pair of hands to help you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I haven’t had chance to tell you yet, but I’ve taken on a new bar manager to help out when I’m busy with Ethan.’

‘You did? Well, that’s a great …’

‘It’s Josh. Josh Turner.’

‘Oh, no, Livie, I …

‘Sorry, Kirstie, got to go. The taxi’s arrived to take us to the airport. If you make your way to the station car park Josh will be waiting to give you a lift home.’

‘Livie …’

But her sister had disconnected. Kirstie stood there, her phone still clamped to her ear, as memories ricocheted around her brain before crystallizing into a clear image of Josh Turner. Heat rushed through her veins and her heart hammered against her ribcage to the tune of ‘Last Christmas’.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_d5fccd4d-3cf4-5c36-a58e-dd2bb63c5d1e)

Kirstie inhaled a deep, steadying breath, grabbed the handles of her bag, and stalked out of the waiting room. She had no intention of accepting a lift from Josh Turner so she could be interrogated once more about the choices she had made. She remembered the last time she had seen Josh, disappearing into the distance without a backwards glance. Anxiety gnawed at her stomach, swiftly followed by an invasion of guilt.

She made her way to the taxi rank but was dismayed to see that she would be seventh in line for a ride to Cranbury. It had only been an hour, but she missed London already, with its proliferation of black cabs and Uber cars. There was no way she could stand in the queue without a coat to protect her from the biting wind, so she let out a sigh, gritted her teeth, and made her way to the car park.

She couldn’t fail to spot the vehicle that belonged to Josh. He had always been totally predictable when it came to his choice of transport – the flashier, the better. An old, lipstick-red Alfa Romeo Spider purred softly in the third bay from the entrance, reggae music rippling from within.

She rapped on the window and was gratified to see his initial reaction was a wide welcoming smile: a smile she had dreamed of every night for months after he had screeched away from the car park of the Dancing Duck that dreadful night over eighteen months ago. She should have been at his side; after all they had been planning the trip together for months. She could still recall the jagged pain of those first few weeks after his departure. She had craved some kind of contact, but there had been no email or text or even a postcard, and Josh had never been a fan of social media. It had been like starting the grieving process all over again.

‘Hi, Kirstie!’ That familiar grin with the cute dimples curling like brackets to frame his lips – lips she had kissed so often that they were as familiar as her own.

‘Hi, Josh. I’m sorry Livie sent you to collect me. I had no idea you were working at the Dancing Duck.’

‘Well, someone had to help the poor girl out. And if you had come home more often you would have known I’ve been managing the bar for the last three months.’

Josh’s mouth tightened at the corners, his mahogany eyes boring into hers as he leapt from the driver’s seat to stow her suitcase in the back seat. Kirstie groaned – this was going to be an even more uncomfortable experience than standing in the taxi queue freezing her butt off. She glanced over her shoulder to see that only two people remained in line and she contemplated making a run for it. However, the car was warm and Kirstie was starting to get the feeling back in her fingers. Maybe if she feigned sleep, the ride wouldn’t be so uncomfortable? She was the Queen of Wishful Thinking!

‘Look, Josh, can we just …’

‘Forget what happened? Take the easy option? Nothing new there then, is there, Miss Harrison?’

Josh fired the ignition and the engine thrummed into life with a powerful surge. Through the windscreen, twilight had morphed into dusk and ripples of indigo and violet streaked across the sky like an artist’s palette. She decided to try again, this time with a smile and a conciliatory tone.

‘I’ve promised Livie that I’d make sure this was the best Christmas ever at the Dancing Duck before it’s sold. If we’re going to work together over the next two weeks, we should try to put our differences aside and …’

‘So you’re happy about the pub being sold, are you?’

‘Well, not happy as such, but it’s probably for the best.’

‘The best for who?’ Josh asked, rubbing his palm over the dark stubble on his chin as he took a bend in the road at speed. ‘Livie and Harry have been working their socks off to keep the pub afloat after what happened to Don and Sue. Every spare penny has been ploughed back into the business. Livie might not have said anything to you but she’s devastated about losing it. And all you have to say is that it’s for the best? One more thing you can erase from your past, eh?’

‘Josh, that’s not fair …’

‘It might not be fair, but it’s true. Your sister loves the village and everyone in Cranbury loves the Dancing Duck. However, for Livie and Harry it’s more than just a place to have a few drinks or enjoy a summer fayre or the Big Christmas Baking Bash. It’s Olivia and Harry’s home and they hoped to make it Ethan’s home too.’

‘But Livie and Harry aren’t planning on leaving the village. They’re buying Bramble Cottage. Ethan will have a garden to play in and …’

‘Livie’s just trying to emulate her younger sister, trying to move on and forget the past, but unlike you, she doesn’t really want to. Her heart is breaking to see the pub being sold. Did she tell you about the guy who’s buying it?’

‘Yes. Miles Morgan …’

‘Did she tell you what he has planned for the pub and the Old Barn?’

‘Yes, but …’