Wish Upon a Star. Trisha Ashley
the aisles and a near-fight erupted over the last family-sized deluxe Christmas pudding.
There was no sign of anyone at the cottage when I got back so I put away all the shopping in Ma’s almost empty fridge, freezer and cupboards – though she was big on packets of coffee, Laphroaig whisky, Plymouth gin and frozen microwave dinners – and then went up to the studio, where I found Stella and Ma painting at adjacent easels. Hal was sitting in an old wooden chair reading the Sunday paper, which in her painting Ma had origamied into a newsprint winged creature trying to escape from his hands.
Stella’s painting seemed to be an angel of a more traditional sort. ‘Look, Mummy – this is a dead person’s angel from the graveyard. Me and Grandma went there to draw and there are lots more.’
‘I hope you fastened your coat up, because there’s a cold wind out,’ I said, admiring the picture.
‘They went in the car and she was wrapped up warm. They were only out half an hour or so,’ Hal assured me. ‘They both had a hot cup of tea when they came back, too, and a couple of garibaldi biscuits.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said gratefully. It was certainly warm enough in the studio, where an electric stove in the corner radiated fake flames and heat.
I went off to get lunch ready, but Toto jumped onto Hal’s knee, so I left him there. He’d probably be immortalised in oils too, winged or otherwise.
Stella’s health usually seemed better in Sticklepond and, as always on our visits, we soon settled into a pleasant routine. I pushed Stella in her buggy to the village most days, sometimes with Toto when he would deign to come with us, since he always ungratefully attached himself to Ma. We would do a little shopping and feed the ducks on the pond by the village green, or go on a longer walk up towards the Winter’s End estate and back round the right of way used only by locals.
It was all very familiar from previous visits, though it had changed a lot in the last few years since the discovery at Winter’s End of a manuscript purporting to have been written by Shakespeare. The village had flourished and turned into a thriving tourist destination and now there was an almost cosmopolitan hum about the place. Several long-empty shop fronts had suddenly sported new signs and opened their doors for business.
I’d been visiting the village for so long that many of the inhabitants were also familiar and it suddenly occurred to me that Sticklepond now felt more like home than London ever did, what with everyone so friendly when I was out and about with Stella.
Ma might keep to herself, but of course she knew who everyone in the village was, and they knew who she was before she married. And I couldn’t hide who I was even if I wanted to, because just like Ma I have inherited the typical Almond looks: very fair curling hair and slightly wide-apart clear blue eyes, with a tiny gap between my front teeth.
Occasionally some elderly villager would look at me closely and then tell me I was an Almond and, when I told them yes, my mother was Martha Almond before she married, he would nod and walk away; but though I knew that my distant cousin Esau had blotted his copybook, no one ever told me how, and my mild curiosity remained unsatisfied.
Stella still needed a long nap every afternoon, she got tired so easily, but once awake again we had a lovely time preparing for Christmas: sticking together paper-chain garlands, setting up the Nativity crib, decorating a quick chocolate Yule log, and baking star-shaped spiced biscuits, which we threaded with red ribbon and hung on the modest Christmas tree we’d carried home from the Spar in the village, partly wedged down the side of the buggy.
Later, I wrote up the Yule log for my ‘Tea & Cake’ page.
To whip up a quick and easy Yule log, cut out the fiddly task of making your own Swiss roll and instead buy a large one – the brown kind with a white creamy filling looks best. Cover with a thick coat of chocolate butter cream, roughly spread with a knife to give the effect of bark. Decorate with a robin and some holly, or whatever takes your fancy and keep in the fridge until you need it.
While we were back in the Spar buying the hundreds and thousands and little edible silver balls to decorate the trifle with, Stella told the friendly middle-aged shop assistant that we’d just been to visit the angels in the graveyard again (which was unfortunately becoming a habit, though at least it didn’t seem to be a morbid interest). The assistant asked if we’d been into the church to see the Nativity scene, which was apparently well worth viewing.
Stella remembered this later, and badgered Ma into agreeing to go and see it with us next morning. I hoped Stella wouldn’t be disappointed, because I was expecting no more from the Nativity than the usual dustily thatched crib and battered plaster or plastic figures, but they turned out to be the most beautifully carved wooden ones. Stella was enthralled by every tiny detail.
‘The Winter family brought them from Oberammagau before the war. It’s where they have that there Passion Play,’ said a voice behind us, and when I turned round I saw a small, wrinkled, lively-looking woman regarding us with sparrow-bright eyes full of curiosity.
‘This is Florrie Snowball, who has the Falling Star at the other end of the village,’ Ma introduced us. ‘She was at school with your grandfather.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve seen you about,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t know who you were.’
‘And I’ve seen you – and I’d have recognised you for an Almond, with that hair and those eyes, even if I hadn’t already known you were Martha’s girl.’
‘Yes, everyone says that.’
Her eyes rested on Stella who, ignoring us, was still rapt with enchantment by the Nativity. ‘And your little girl, too – the Almond blood is clear in her veins.’
‘Well, we’re not trying to hide that we’re related to the Almonds,’ Ma said slightly snappishly.
‘And why should you?’ Florrie demanded. ‘I said to that old fool Pete Ormerod that what’s past is past and it’s only us ancient relics that remember what happened. And in any case, it was nowt to do with you, was it?’
Ma looked at her. ‘I suppose you’re right and no one cares much about the old stories now.’
‘You should come to the pub,’ she invited me. ‘We have a coffee machine what makes any kind you fancy, and my son, Clive, will show the little ’un the meteorite.’
‘The meteorite?’ I repeated.
‘That’s how the pub got its name,’ Ma said.
‘What’s a meatyright?’ Stella put in suddenly, having finally torn her gaze away from the Nativity scene.
‘It’s a big rock that fell out of the heavens,’ Florrie explained.
‘God threw a rock at you?’ Stella gasped, impressed. ‘You must have been really naughty.’
Florrie gave a wheezy laugh. ‘Not me, lovey – this was last century … or maybe the one before that. But there it sits in the courtyard now, right in the way, but bad luck to move it.’
‘I’d like to see it,’ breathed Stella, and I had to promise to take her next day.
‘Good. I’ll make you a charm, poppet, too,’ Florrie promised obscurely.
On the way home, I asked Ma what old stories Florrie knew about the Almonds. ‘Is this Granddad’s cousin Esau that you never want to talk about? Did he do something very bad?’
‘Nothing that matters now,’ she said, and wouldn’t be drawn. I’m not sure if she even knew exactly what it was.
‘And what did Florrie mean when she said she was going to make a charm for Stella?’
‘Rumour has it that she’s a witch, one of Gregory Lyon’s coven that has the witchcraft museum opposite the Falling Star.’
‘Really? How do you know?’
She shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Hal tells me stuff, and