The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

T he final days before the festival opening were a whirlwind of bunting and lights, logistics and measurements, worries about too-soft grass and dramas with people signing up for then dropping out of the open mic; questions about whether the Rudolph Hoopla would be too loud, concerns over the visit from Santa Claus.

‘It has a hole in the leg, look.’ Harry held up the Santa suit, which was made of thick red wool and had a musty scent that made Sophie wrinkle her nose.

‘That’s what you get for going to the hire shop on the twentieth of December.’ But she got up to examine it with him. It was unusual to see Harry panic: he was normally so steadfast, so certain about everything. ‘Harry,’ she said with a laugh, ‘this hole is tiny. You sewed about ten miles of bunting not long ago.’

‘I can fix it,’ Harry said, ‘that’s not the point.’

‘What is the point?’ She looked up at him, her breath catching as it seemed to do every time their gazes held.

‘The point is that the shop shouldn’t rent something out in this condition, and it’s the first night of the festival tomorrow, and we have a hundred other things to do. Plus—’ he flung his arm at the study window, and the wind flung sleet back against the pane ‘—we didn’t get a grotto.’

‘We can rig something up in the village hall if we need to. There’s already a tree and fancy lights in there.’ Sophie slid her hand down his arm, hoping it would soothe him.

‘And your Decoration Station, and the bridge tournament, and space for the pot-luck dishes people are going to bring. There won’t be room for Santa Claus and his presents.’ He threw the trousers in the direction of his desk, and they knocked the leather pen pot onto the floor. Darkness, Terror, Clifton and Felix looked up from the rug in front of the fire, but it was only the goat that stayed interested, the others going back to their snoozing.

‘Harry, come on.’ Sophie dragged him over to the armchairs and pushed him gently into one. He went without resistance, and she climbed onto his lap, then tipped his chin up so he couldn’t help but look at her.

‘You’re going to tell me I’m being melodramatic,’ he grumbled. ‘I have never been accused of being melodramatic in my life.’

‘I’m going to tell you it will all be OK. We have mulled wine, Jason’s baked Alaska, Simon’s fish and chips and mince pies from Dex – not to mention the pot-luck dishes. So the refreshments are sorted, and when you’ve got food and alcohol, that’s half the battle won.

‘The oak tree is looking twinkly and festive, and we have the outdoor games from Annie and Jim, the open mic, which has been a lot more popular than I anticipated, and the activities in the hall. Also, Birdie wants to do a candlelight blessing around the oak on Christmas Eve.’

‘What?’ Harry tensed, and Sophie put a hand on his chest.

‘I think it’ll be beautiful. It’s completely non-religious, and it ties in perfectly with our wish and gratitude decorations. The candles will be tiny, and it’s far too damp for the tree to be at risk, anyway.’

‘That’s one good thing about this shit weather,’ Harry said.

‘ Exactly .’ She kissed the tip of his nose. ‘It’ll be a wonderful way to end four incredible days. Everyone in the village is coming every evening from what I can tell—’

‘They are?’

‘Of course they are,’ Sophie said. ‘This is the Oak Fest. Hasn’t it always been the biggest Christmas tradition in Mistingham?’

‘It has,’ Harry agreed.

‘And, what?’ Sophie laughed gently. ‘You thought, because we’ve organized it, that nobody would come?’

‘It’s more that, because I vetoed the green and the oak last year, people might …’

‘Veto you?’ she finished.

He nodded.

‘Not a chance, Harry Anderly. Everyone loves you now, and this year’s going to be the best one ever.’

‘Even if Frank Carsdale recites The Odyssey on the open-mic stage and nobody else gets a look-in?’

Sophie grinned. ‘Now he’s got the bridge tournament to oversee, I’ve convinced him to pick a couple of his favourite verses. I told him the tournament is crucial to the community spirit of the event – which it is – and that he can’t let us down. He likes being important.’

Harry laughed and squeezed her hips. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘ We’re geniuses,’ she corrected. ‘Genii? Anyway. As long as we’re together, we’ll be fine.’ She leant towards him, until her face was inches from his.

‘Together,’ he whispered it, almost as if it was a new word and he wanted to see how it sounded.

Something shifted in Sophie’s heart. She still hadn’t told him that she’d decided to stay, and so far Jazz had kept her secret. There was a tiny part of her that was worried the moment she declared it, the whole thing – her growing happiness, everything with Harry – would dissolve in a puff of smoke, as if it had been a temporary Christmas spell, transient and ethereal, not set to last.

‘Penny for them?’ Harry said quietly.

‘All three games are working fine,’ Sophie confirmed. ‘Annie’s been testing them regularly, and I know she won’t let us down.’

‘No,’ Harry pushed a strand of hair off her forehead, ‘I mean, a penny for your thoughts. What’s going on back there? Behind those eyes I can’t stop staring at?’

‘Oh.’ Sophie’s heart squeezed harder. ‘I was just thinking about how much has changed.’

‘Do you know what that means?’ He sounded hesitant, so unlike him. ‘For … for after Christmas?’

At that moment, with their pets gathered around the crackling fire like an approximation of a nativity scene, and with this man who had let her into his life, who had opened up to her even when it wasn’t easy for him, Sophie wondered why she was finding it so hard to admit it: to say that one, simple sentence.

‘I … I think so,’ she said cautiously. ‘I think … that I’m going to stay.’ She could hardly hear herself over the beating of her heart.

Harry froze, his lips parted in surprise. Then he ran his warm palm up her jean-clad thigh. ‘You are?’ He said it lightly, as if he didn’t want to startle her.

‘I would like to stay,’ she said, trying the words out for size. ‘But could we … let’s get the festival out of the way, then we can talk about it properly. Would that be OK?’

The tenderness in his expression made it hard for her to breathe. ‘Of course, Soph,’ he said. ‘Of course. You know how much I want you to stay – I hope you’ve realized that by now. But let’s talk about it then. And, actually, there’s been something I’ve been meaning to say to you too, because I saw … Fuck!’ He jolted, grabbing Sophie’s hips to stop her falling off his lap as they were joined by a small, fluffy goat, who had jumped up and somehow managed to land in between them, on a very sensitive area.

When Sophie was steady, Harry let go of her and lifted Felix up, so he was dangling, bleating happily, revelling in his Lion King moment.

Harry glared at him, his breathing slightly elevated. ‘Felix,’ he said seriously, ‘that is not on, OK? We men, we have to stick together, and jumping on a man’s … intimate parts is tantamount to betrayal.’

Felix bleated, and Sophie lost it, dissolving into laughter at Harry’s stern tone.

‘OK, Felix?’ he repeated.

‘Didn’t Felix get castrated?’ Sophie asked. ‘Male goats who aren’t smelly or aggressive have usually had their bits snipped, and Felix might be a lot of things, but he isn’t either of those.’

‘I got him castrated when I rescued him,’ Harry said. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘It isn’t?’

Harry leaned over and, very gently, put Felix on the floor. ‘I don’t know why you’re finding this so amusing,’ he said to her. ‘The state of what’s in my boxers affects you too.’ He raised an eyebrow, and Sophie’s laughter faded. She found herself dissolving for an entirely different reason, and had to go and get her notebook from Harry’s desk – the sleet and wind still battering against the window – so they could run through what they had to do before kick-off without getting waylaid by other things.

The next day, Saturday the twenty-first of December, was the opening night of the festival. The sky was grey and the wind was whipping the sea into a fervour, sending herds of white horses galloping towards the shore and shaking the bare branches of the trees. But the lights had stayed put, and the green was relatively sheltered, both by the oak tree and the village hall, and at least the rain and sleet had stayed away – so far, anyway.

‘Yes!’ Sophie fist-bumped the air.

‘What is it?’ Harry stood in the doorway of her bedroom, wearing the – now mended – Santa trousers, and a slim-fitting white T-shirt that hugged his torso.

Sophie got lost for a moment, enjoying the sight of him looking so good in her flat. They’d decided to get ready here, as it was so much closer to the green, and if it did start raining, they wouldn’t get too soaked before they arrived.

‘Um.’ She blinked herself back to the present. ‘Mary and Winnie are going to kick off the open mic with “Santa Baby” and “Fairytale of New York”. They wanted to do “Carol of the Bells”, but as it’s just the two of them I was worried it would sound a bit sad – haunting, rather than uplifting. Winnie’s message says they’re prepared to compromise on this occasion.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘As if singing some fun Christmas songs is a compromise. Mistingham’s not Norwich Cathedral, for God’s sake! I’m going to set up my own choir next year.’

‘Oh you are, are you?’ Sophie walked towards him. ‘You’ve finally caught the community bug, after spending all your time up until now as the Dark Demon Lord of Mistingham?’

He stared her down. ‘I take it back. And I wouldn’t be doing any of this if it wasn’t for you.’

Sophie laughed. ‘Don’t you mean May?’

‘No, I mean you. I hope we can do it together next year, too. Build on our success.’

She busied herself finding Harry’s hat and beard. ‘We have to see if this year is a success first.’

He didn’t reply, and when she finally looked up, he was watching her intently from the doorway.

‘Golly, it looks magical!’ Fiona said when she, Ermin, Jazz and Poppet stepped onto the green. The bar had just opened, and Sophie was helping Jason with the awning of his hired food truck. He was selling miniature baked Alaskas to be eaten then and there, and some full-sized ones for customers to take home for Christmas Day.

Relief shot through her like a lightning bolt, because Fiona was right.

It did look magical, with all Harry’s bunting up around the edge of the green, flapping gaily in the strong wind. The stalls were bright and enticing, the Hook the Duck and Christmas Tree Carnival Toss glossy and bright, the Rudolph Hoopla drawing attention with its flashing lights and blaring soundtrack. They’d put that in the corner farthest from the oak tree, which had the open mic stage beneath it, so that everyone who had bravely agreed to perform wouldn’t be drowned out.

‘I’m so glad you think so,’ she said.

‘The tree looks wonderful.’ Ermin laughed and rocked back on his heels. ‘The little goat!’

‘A homage to Felix,’ Sophie explained, as Jason grunted and yanked the awning so that it finally slid up, revealing his neat counter. ‘And we’ll be hanging the homemade decorations, with wishes and gratitude notes, throughout the evening.’

‘Where’s Harry?’ Fiona asked.

‘He’s in the hall, getting all set up for Santa Claus.’ Sophie mouthed the last two words, realizing there were a few families here already and not wanting to ruin anyone’s Christmas before it had even started. ‘We’ve set his grotto up behind the village hall, a little bit out of the way, but if the weather gets too bad we can move him inside.’

‘I helped May make the grotto last minute,’ Jazz said proudly. She was wearing a pair of holly deely boppers, her soft silver jumper and warm-looking coat clearly from Hartley Country Apparel. ‘It’s a tent and some paper chains, but – even if I do say so myself – it is totally banging.’

‘Banging what?’ Ermin looked alarmed.

Jazz laughed and pulled him over to the Carnival Toss, saying something about a wager.

Then it was just Fiona and Sophie, and Jason setting up his display of peaked desserts that looked like mini snow-covered mountains.

‘You’ve done a wonderful job, Sophie,’ Fiona said.

Sophie smiled even as her spirits sank, because her friend still sounded frosty, which was appropriate for the time of year but so unlike her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said in a rush. ‘I’m sorry I accused you of lying to me. I was just desperate to—’ She stopped herself. ‘No excuses. It was wrong of me.’

Fiona smiled. ‘I know you’re sorry, and it’s OK. I understand why you thought I might be behind the books. Any luck finding the culprit?’

She shook her head. She could hear Natasha calling her, knew she needed to go.

‘What about Cornwall?’ Fiona asked. ‘What about everyone here? The old sweet shop? Harry?’

‘I …’ Sophie didn’t want to tell her now. Fiona had been so kind to her, she deserved more than a hurried explanation in the middle of the festival. ‘Can we talk about it later?’

Fiona nodded, but there was a barrier between them that hadn’t been there before. Sophie hoped that, once she told her she was staying, they would be able to knock it down. ‘I hope you make the right decision for you , Sophie,’ she said. ‘Natasha’s calling you, I think.’

‘She is.’ Sophie hurried over to the bar truck, leaving her friend behind.

Soon the green was teeming with people young and old, strolling and running, laughing and chatting. A queue was forming in front of Christmas Hook the Duck, proving that traditions were hard to break, but there was also a steady stream of people going into the village hall, coming out with handmade decorations and paper plates heaped with pot-luck lasagne and mini turkey pies, salads and pigs in blankets. Mary and Winnie were first in a long list of people preparing for their open-mic performances, and Sophie was triumphant – their blend of new and old was working perfectly.

So far, she had been a one-woman whirlwind; troubleshooting problems, directing Vea, Birdie and Dexter to their stalls, showing children how to play Rudolph Hoopla and helping them hang their felt Christmas puddings, tiny leather bells and glittering cardboard candy canes on the lower branches of the oak tree.

She got a thrill seeing the villagers enjoying themselves, wandering the craft stalls, eating fish and chips, squealing as they got a foam ball in a hole in the Christmas Tree Carnival Toss. Birdie beamed from behind her gleaming jars of jam and chutney – Sophie had checked there were no little packets of mushrooms – and Vea was selling friendship bracelets and homemade stocking kits, gift sets for embroidery, crochet and jewellery making. Sophie made sure that when anyone complimented the bunting, she referred them to Vea’s stall, while also crediting Harry’s hard work.

And that was the only problem with tonight: Harry was round the back of the hall, in the camping tent grotto, being Mistingham’s Santa Claus. It was an important role, of course, but it meant he wasn’t outside, sneaking sips of mulled wine or challenging Lucy to a game of Rudolph Hoopla. But he was doing a good job, judging by the squealing and happy grins as families came out of the tent, with prettily wrapped gifts clutched to their chests. And Sophie had heard the compliments, too:

‘Such a stern-looking Santa, but he was so sweet to my Amy.’

‘That deep voice, the ho ho ho set something off inside me, I swear!’

‘Did you see his eyes? That is one hot Santa under the curly white beard.’

OK, so most of the compliments had come from mums, but Sophie couldn’t blame them, and Harry would be glad he’d been well received (though probably uncomfortable with being lusted after, so she might not tell him everything she’d overheard). She did think he needed to see the rest of it, though, so when Ermin sidled over to her, a half-eaten baked Alaska in his hand, and said, ‘You and Harry need to do a speech,’ she didn’t recoil at the idea.

‘We’ll have to get Harry to change,’ she said. ‘He can’t come out dressed as Santa and spoil it for the children.’

‘Leave it to me.’ Ermin tapped his nose. ‘Meet us at the stage in ten.’

‘Sure.’ Sophie was confident that Harry would take the reins, and that all she would have to do would be to stand next to him and smile.

True to his word, Ermin appeared a few minutes later with Harry, who was dressed in jeans, a green jumper with gold Christmas trees around the collar, and a black jacket that he needed because the wind was ramping up. The oak tree created its own melody as globe, book and acorn lights jangled in the branches.

‘Hey.’ Sophie rubbed the red line along Harry’s jaw, where the Santa beard elastic had clearly dug in. ‘How are you doing, Sexy Santa?’

‘Please don’t call me that,’ Harry murmured. ‘I’m better now I’m in the fresh air. That tent is on the stifling side.’

‘Out in the winter chill, you mean.’

‘You’d find it refreshing if you’d spent hours in an itchy wig.’

‘The mums loved you,’ Sophie said, deciding a little bit of teasing was OK. ‘I heard them pining. Desperate to know what you’d got in your sack.’

Harry’s eyes danced with amusement. ‘ Sophie .’

‘They were telling each other how much they wanted you up their chimneys.’

‘Santa goes down chimneys.’

‘Going down ?’ Sophie tapped her lips. ‘I think I heard one of them say—’

‘Good evening, everyone!’ Ermin’s voice boomed across the green, the mic squealing with feedback.

Visitors turned towards the stage, their chatter and laughter dying down, leaving only the glitzy soundtrack of the Rudolph Hoopla. But it was in the furthest corner from the tree, and Sophie had almost managed to tune it out.

‘Good evening everyone,’ Ermin said again. ‘I trust you’re all having a wonderful evening?’

There were whoops and cheers and someone shouted ‘Baked Alaska!’ followed by lots of tittering. Sophie thought the mulled wine must be flowing well.

‘I’m going to hand you over to the organizers of tonight’s festival, who I think we can all agree have done a marvellous job. This is the first of four nights of fun and festivities, put on seamlessly by our much-loved villagers, Harry Anderly and Sophie Stevens!’ He gestured towards them as the applause got louder.

Much-loved? Harry mouthed with a frown, but Ermin was thrusting a microphone into his hand, pushing him forward on the stage.

‘Hello,’ he said, as a huge gust of wind tinkled the lights above him. ‘Thank you all for coming.’

There were more whoops and cheers.

‘I think Ermin’s said it all, if I’m honest. We have taken over the reins from Winnie, who had done a lot of the groundwork for us.’ He cleared his throat and shot Sophie a glance. She could tell he was nervous, but he sounded – and looked – great, fitting the lord of the manor role perfectly.

‘I also wanted to say,’ he went on, ‘that I owe you all an apology.’ His cheeks reddened, and there was a moment’s pause, when it seemed that the crowd, even the wind, held their collective breath. Then something new kindled in his gaze.

‘Last year I stopped the festival from taking place here, on Mistingham Green. I was over-protective of the oak, and I was … basically, I was being selfish – wallowing in the past. A Christmas Day Grinch.’ He was louder now, more confident, and a few people laughed. ‘Someone told me I needed to let it go, let the green be enjoyed, used as it was meant to be, by the whole village.

‘And now, standing here, seeing you all tonight, and knowing the effort that’s been put in by Simon and Jason, Annie and Jim and their Christmas Hook the Duck, Vea and Birdie and Dexter, Natasha and Indigo, May, who volunteered me for this role, together with Fiona and Ermin, of course, and everyone brave enough to perform as part of the open mic … Now I can say, with complete confidence, that I’m glad I was persuaded, and that I’ve been a small part of the festivities we’re bringing you over the next four nights.’

There was more applause.

‘I won’t take up too much more of your time,’ Harry said with a smile. ‘There’s just one, final thing, one more person I need to mention: the person who changed my mind about the oak tree, who has been my partner – who has led the way, really.’ His eyes dropped to his feet, then he looked up again. ‘I have been back in Mistingham a while, as most of you know, but I haven’t really been … back , if you see what I mean. But for the first time in years, I feel a real part of this village: I know I’m where I’m supposed to be, and that’s down to Sophie Stevens. She, more than anyone, has made tonight what it is, and she’s made it …’ He glanced at her, then turned back to the crowd. ‘She’s made this all worthwhile, for me. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it without her.’

As cheers filled the air, he stepped back and handed her the microphone, in the one moment she couldn’t have said anything even if she’d wanted to. Harry Anderly was a private person, he didn’t like airing his clean – let alone his dirty – laundry in public, so what was that? What had he just done? Sophie took the mic, took a step forward, and tried to remember how to breathe, and then how to speak.