Page 14 of Home This Christmas

ELEVEN

I dreamt of the library last night.

I saw my younger self, spending hours poring over books, then carrying them to the librarian, who stamped the ones I had selected to take home.

As I was an only child, the characters in the books became like friends to me, and I would even have conversations with them in my bedroom.

My mother would laugh, but Dad would tell me that friends did not have to be real, and didn’t Mum feel she knew all the characters from her favourite soaps? He always got me.

The smell of the library came back to me in my dream, along with the faces of some of the locals asking me questions about my college course – a time when I would sit for hours poring over books and studying.

After waking, I had a strong desire to try and help in the fight to save the library. Surely future generations cannot be denied the opportunity to fall in love with books from an early age, or have a place to study for their future?

Bleary-eyed, I head down to breakfast.

‘Morning, honey, I hope you slept well!’ June beams. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Just coffee please.’

‘So, you are not going for our famous full English breakfast this morning?’ she asks cheerfully.

I am almost tempted to decline, in favour of a giant croissant from the bakery across the road, but I feel suddenly ravenous.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I say after getting a sniff of the breakfast just delivered to a nearby table.

‘It’s been the talk of the village, you know, you coming to judge the gingerbread competition,’ June tells me excitedly. ‘I watch you all the time on Britain’s Best Cook.’

‘You do? I hope you enjoy it.’

‘Oh, I do. It has given me lots of inspiration for the dining room menu. Although it’s my husband who does most of the cooking, which is why you never really see him out here. I am more of the ideas person.’ She chuckles. ’Anyway, here I am, blathering on; I had better go and get you that coffee.’

‘So, I believe you grew up here.’ June places a fresh pot of coffee in front of me.

‘I did. I Left for London when I was eighteen.’ I pour some coffee from the chrome pot. It smells delicious. ‘So how long have you been the proprietor here?’

‘Just over five years. We had a pub in Leeds for years, before this came up. Very different I can tell you, but I love it here. I like how everyone knows each other.’ Brindleford always has been a special, tight-knit community.

‘And hubby is pleased to have found someone to play Dungeons and Dragons with, on our board games evenings.’

I love that they still encourage board games and have an actual games evening here. It feels good to know that they have not broken with tradition and installed some huge television to blare out across the pub.

‘Are the games evenings popular, then?’

‘They are. Admittedly, not too many young people are interested. I blame mobile phones,’ she says with a shake of her head. ‘But we have some games aimed at younger kids who play with their families, so you never know, we may be nurturing a new generation,’ she says hopefully.

She disappears then, to welcome a young couple into the breakfast room, humming as she goes.

Glancing around the dining room, I observe the different types of people, from families who are possibly visiting people in the area or just taking a Christmas break in in the countryside, to young couples, gazing lovingly at each other over their morning coffee.

I never imagined I would be single over Christmas, and I feel a small pang of regret. At least being away from London is distracting me from thinking about it too much.

I thank June, who places the delicious-looking cooked breakfast in front of me, on a blue willow pattern plate, before she dashes off, quietly singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’.

Fully set up for the day with the hearty breakfast, I wrap myself up and decide to take a walk.

Even though the snow has stopped falling, it is a little slippy underfoot after the rainfall last night. I take a left turn at the library and cross the road until I come to a row of brick cottages that date back almost two hundred years.

I take in the row of sandstone houses, their small front gardens covered in the almost melted snow.

I stand for a few minutes, just staring at our old house, number twenty-four Daffodil Grove, and I am immediately transported back in time.

I can picture the house at Christmas, the tree with the multicoloured lights in the window, and me playing with the kids next door, as if it were yesterday.

During the spring, clumps of daffodils would pop up in front gardens and alongside the river that runs through the village.

I find myself wondering if my old childhood friends have moved on, or if they still live nearby?

My mind drifts back to New Year’s Eve in days gone by, where Dad always insisted on hosting a huge party and inviting the whole neighbourhood, that would include my friends.

It would go on until the early hours, and I would discover Dad sleeping in the armchair and wearing a paper party hat when I came downstairs the following morning, my mum bustling about around him tidying up.

I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and move on, lost in my thoughts.

I wonder what Dad would make of my swish apartment in London?

I like to think he would be proud of me.

I know Mum is – although it took a long time for her to tell me so.

Well, kind of tell me. One evening when we were having drinks together at my apartment, she glanced around and told me that I had done very well for myself. It was enough.

Back in my hotel room, I change and before I know it, it’s time to head off across the road to the bakery.

It is a little before one when I arrive, suppressing a feeling of nerves, to find a small crowd clutching phones and maybe hoping for a selfie.

I duly pose for a couple of photos and sign some autograph books for older people before heading inside.

It still feels strange doing such things, and I am not sure I will ever get used to it.

I admit to a good feeling inside, though, at the sight of the happy faces who have turned out to greet me.

As soon as I step into the bakery, a group of people burst into applause under a banner bearing the words Welcome Back Ruby Holmes in bright colours. I’m so overwhelmed that ‘Oh wow’ is all I manage to mutter.

I take in the long trestle table at the rear of the bakery, laden with gingerbread offerings that I will taste very soon and declare a winner.

More recently, it was decided that anything made from gingerbread could be entered, and I am impressed with the highly imaginative offerings, from traditional houses to a flower garden, and a whole gingerbread family.

I suddenly feel a level of responsibility more than anything I have experienced in the dizzy heights of television, as I prepare to judge the baked goods.

The bakers have put their hearts and souls into their creations after all.

Someone local will also assist in the judging, which makes me feel a bit better. Surely no one would have a problem with a pillar of the community choosing a winner?

‘Hi, Ruby, lovely to see you again!’ Marilyn is dressed in a brightly coloured, floral blouse and jeans. Her glasses of choice today are pink rimmed and match her hair. She is nothing like how you would imagine a vicar’s wife to look, but then maybe times really have changed.

‘I hope you like the banner; the children made it.’ She smiles proudly, pointing to the children’s handiwork draped behind the counter.

‘I love it! I feel very honoured.’

It is lovely to see Marilyn happy and settled; she certainly deserves to be.

Along with the Sunday school, I remember her quietly assisting at the village hall and selling crafts at local markets.

She also ran a vintage clothes shop for a short while on the high street, which I noticed is now closed, the bookshop café now in its place.

‘The rents were getting a bit much,’ she tells me when I ask her about it. ‘The town council should be encouraging new business, but I guess it’s the same across high streets up and down the country.’

‘I think maybe you are right, hence the growth in online businesses. And retail parks.’

‘Such soulless places,’ she replies with a shake of her head. ‘So how is your mum doing?’

‘She’s okay, currently in Kenya volunteering at an animal sanctuary.’

‘I can imagine her doing that – she loved her job as a veterinary nurse back in the day.’

Mum and Marilyn were friends and would go into Skipton together to do some shopping or visit the cinema.

She had other friends in the village too but chose to cut herself off from a lot of people after Dad died.

When Mum moved away, she and Marilyn kept in touch for a while, but the friendship is nowhere near the way it once was, despite Marilyn’s attempt to keep it rekindled, I suspect.

‘It really is good to know that you have done so well for yourself. Do you enjoy your work?’ Marilyn asks with genuine curiosity.

‘Most of the time, yes, I love it, although it can involve long hours and play havoc with your private life,’ I find myself telling her.

‘So, no boyfriend then?’

‘Not currently, no,’ I admit. ‘And I have no intention of looking for one – I am far too busy with my job.’

‘Well, you don’t necessarily have to go looking for a partner.

Someone usually comes along when you are least expecting it.

I never imagined marrying again after my one disastrous relationship as a young woman,’ Marilyn reveals.

‘But Gerard is just such a lovely man.’ She smiles warmly at the mention of his name.

‘They say the right one for you is often right under your nose the whole time.’