The Christmas Spirit (2 page)

2nd December - MEREDITH

Meredith Storm finished signing the papers her PA had placed
in front of her and barked, ‘Anything else?’

Sophie shook her head and retreated.

Meredith didn’t
see
Sophie, nor did she acknowledge all of
the extra tasks Sophie completed for her at a moment’s notice. Sophie was a cog
in the wheel. She did what was asked of her, that was what her role was, as far
as Meredith was concerned. She would never ask of anyone something she wouldn’t
be prepared to do herself. That left little, as Meredith was a workaholic. She
never took days off, had to be forced almost at gunpoint to go on holiday,
never called in sick, nor had time off for dental or hospital appointments. She
was a machine. She started at six in the morning and finished at eleven at
night, five days a week. On the weekends she went easy on herself, working from
home for a great part of the two days. She saw nothing wrong with calling
Sophie up on a Saturday night and asking her to run off a report on the
percentage increase and/or decrease of monthly sales over the past year in
Ghana, and have it across to her within half an hour. She wasn’t like the rest
of us. Sleep appeared to be an alien concept to her; she could often be found
in the park at five o’clock in the morning doing yoga, or depending on her mood
or her need for adrenalin, running or cycling through Loch Lomond and the
Trossachs National Park. Her food shopping was delivered - one of those ‘fresh
food to the door’ mob. She didn’t cook, but she did eat out at the weekends, or
ordered in to the office when she worked late. But a lifetime of takeaways,
albeit healthy ones, hadn’t given Meredith a lardy physique.
Au contraire
, she had the silhouette of a catwalk model.
She couldn’t care less; she wasn’t out to impress anyone. She used men as and
when she needed them, and women could bitch all they liked about her; it made
no difference. Ambition was her drug of choice and she thrived on achievement.

CEO of her own telecommunications company at the age of
twenty-five, Meredith made sure everyone knew about it. She delegated when
essential, but she didn’t really trust anyone to do as good a job as she could
do herself. Her staff tolerated her, all twenty-nine of them. She had a fear of
flying which she wouldn’t admit to anyone, and had undergone hypnotherapy as
well as other measures to get her on a plane. She still needed to pop a few
pills, now and then, before boarding. She was the epitome of a workaholic and
never let anyone get close. She had been married once and that had been her at
her lowest ebb. Never again would she let someone get inside her head like
that. Theo had broken her heart, typical Frenchman; lying, cheating scumbag.
Didn’t she know it was OK for Frenchmen to have mistresses? he’d asked her. Of
course, her being English, how could she understand? he had said.

She hadn’t known there was anything wrong. They had a
fantastic sex life, they got on well, they shared many interests. Theo would
buy her flowers, jewellery, sexy lingerie. Outwardly he had the aspect of a man
in love. Why would he stray? Sure she worked a lot, but so did he, as sales
director at a leading food retailer. Had he felt emasculated by her and her
success? Now, at forty, she didn’t care what anyone thought. She had never let
anyone else
in
and had a preference for men who
couldn’t get too attached to her. Married men were perfect as a distraction,
usually eager to indulge in clandestine sexual encounters, no strings attached.
Perfect. And they left her alone on the big occasions, Christmas topping the
list, Valentine’s Day - the Hallmark holiday as she had nicknamed it - what a
waste of time, and their birthdays; saved her splurging on them.

Although generous with her money, Meredith couldn’t
understand the concept of generosity of time. Her family were forever inviting
her to social occasions; she had a large extended family who met often at her
parents’ sprawling house in the country. Meredith rarely attended, preferring
instead to pore over spreadsheets, participate in conference calls with Japan
and Brazil, and keep an eye on the competition. Christmas was just one such
occasion where she neglected her family. This year, twenty-one of them would
gather at her sister Amelia’s house, filling it until it almost burst at the
seams. They would be pouring out of the kitchen, the dining room, and the
living room, and the kids would probably take over the bedrooms to play the
latest computer games. She knew this only because she had been told it all
before. She’d only been once. The rest of the time she spent Christmas at her
house, watching whatever American crime drama she was into that year on box
set, sipping Pinot Noir and preparing a Waitrose meal for herself.  It would be
safe to say she wasn’t a Christmas person. No tree, no decorations, no turkey,
no carols, no Queen’s Speech. The only Christmas-related tradition she
respected was giving presents. She was great at choosing gifts. She enjoyed
picking out presents, although she did most of it online these days. Snippets
were garnered from her family on the few occasions when she saw or spoke to
them, about other family members’ interests, and she always managed to select
the perfect gift. She had a knack for wrapping them and always gave an
elaborately wrapped box, with bows, stars, and flowers stuck to it, so out of
character with everyone’s opinion of her; hard and stern. She was a
contradiction all right, an enigma.

2nd December - JACOB

Jacob hated signing on. It was so degrading. Even as a
twenty-two year old, he could feel the shame. He knew that for people in their
fifties who had worked all their days, then found themselves out of work due to
this damned recession, that it galled them to have to ask for help from the
state. But they needed to, and so did he. It wasn’t much, but it helped.

No matter how many interviews he was invited to, and there
weren’t that many in comparison with how many applications he had made, he had
never been offered a job. Four years of university and no job. He had struggled
through university, working in bars and even as a bingo caller at one point,
but he couldn’t even find that kind of work now. And for what, he had a 2:1
degree in Politics and Sociology. What use was it to him? He couldn’t even get
a second interview at a call centre. What kind of failure did that make him? He
was well turned-out, had a nice manner, and he thought he was relatively
charming, yet the job offers were unforthcoming. To top it all, there was the
not so small matter of twenty thousand pounds of student loans to pay back in
the future.

Jacob’s family were rich, not just well off, but properly,
stinking rich. You would think that would mean money wouldn’t worry him, but
his parents were of the belief that you had to earn everything in life. So, no,
they hadn’t paid his way through university. When he’d asked for help, they’d
reminded him that they’d parted with enough money in the years when he had
attended Gordonstoun. If they told him one more time that not everyone was
lucky enough to go to the famous school attended by Prince Charles and Prince
Philip, he’d do them a serious injury. So, Jacob had found himself jobs whilst
at university and paid his own way. Why he ever thought his family would help
him, was beyond him. Hadn’t they shipped him off to Scotland at the first
possible opportunity? His parents lived in rural Bedfordshire, with apartments
in London, Hong Kong, New York and Dublin, as well as condos in North Carolina
and Santa Monica. His father had worked for the diplomatic service and his
mother, although a trained lawyer, had chosen to travel around the world with
her husband, doing some freelance work when she got bored, but mainly playing
the part of diplomat’s wife, hosting dinner parties and attending tennis club
events. A pity, then, that they didn’t see fit to include their son in their
plans.

In the beginning Jacob had loathed boarding school. He hated
being away from home, but over time he had felt more at home at Gordonstoun and
when on holiday at his friends’ houses than he did in his own house. When he
had then gone on to study at the University of Glasgow, some of those alliances
had been broken, or perhaps not upheld as well as they had all expected. Life
sent them in different directions.  Many of his peers had parents who employed
them in their firms; some owned their own companies at the forefront of
technology, were inventors, or had made canny investment choices long ago.
Others came from old money, so had no need to work, enabling them to pick and
choose their role.

Jacob was an exception. His father could have put a word in for
him at the civil service, although Jacob wasn’t sure he was cut out for
officialdom, it was too stuffy for him, but he didn’t. Jacob was to carve his
own path and his own luck. His father had worked for everything all his life
and he expected his son to do the same. Nothing would be handed to him on a
plate. Jacob didn’t expect that. He wanted to make his own mark. What he hadn’t
foreseen was his father’s coldness, or rather indifference. He had presumed he
would review his decision not to help him get ahead, due to the current
difficulties in finding a job, as a result of the recession. Surely it was
better for him to have a job, than for his father to be embarrassed by his son
being on the dole? Being jobless was another reason Jacob didn’t keep in touch
with many of his fellow alumni. He was ashamed. He knew it wasn’t his fault. He
was doing everything humanly possible to get a job, but he just wasn’t having
any luck. Even working for free hadn’t earned him a job. Employers had just
taken the free time he’d given them and when he’d enquired about some paid
work, even if temporary, he had been met with a resounding
no
.
It was seriously demoralising.

At least he had his flat. His parents paid for that, an
investment of course, Jacob thought bitterly. His father probably wrote it off
against tax. He was so sick of having no money, not being able to go out with
the friends he had who lived in the area, not having a girlfriend, as how would
he take her out on a date with no cash? The utilities were paid, as well as the
council tax and the flat itself, but apart from that, he was on his own. His
father was a proponent of tough love. Sometimes Jacob wondered why his mother
didn’t intervene on his behalf, but then, his mother was weak. She followed his
father blindly like a puppy. Maybe he didn’t want to be in love after all, if
it turned you into someone who asked no questions.

Jacob felt his failure to gain employment all the more
keenly as his sister, Tabitha, ran her own digital communications agency. Only
two years older than him, she was very successful. She had excelled at St
George’s School for Girls in Edinburgh and gone on to set up her own company.
It would have been handy if she could have gone to St Margaret’s in Aberdeen,
to be close to her brother, but they didn’t accept boarders. Likewise the
top-rated school, for that’s where their father wanted to send her, Wellington
School in Ayr, accepted only day pupils; not a possibility when your father was
a diplomat in Qatar. Again, Jacob wondered for the
nth
time why his parents had bothered having children at all. He and Tabitha had
been reared by nannies since they were babies. His parents had never had time
to care for them.

Until they reached secondary school age they had travelled
to wherever their father was posted. Jacob’s formative years had seen him at
English schools in Hong Kong, Yemen, Peru and Zimbabwe. He had enjoyed his
education, in more than one sense of the word. He had experienced so much and
was a better person for having lived the life he had, but when he was eleven he
had been sent to Gordonstoun and saw his parents only a few times a year; hard
for a young boy about to go through puberty. Initially he had been scared, then
apprehensive, and finally accepting. Since he had gone to boarding school he
had only spent Christmas with his parents twice. The Caribbean or the Indian
Ocean had always held more appeal for them at that time of year, and a teenage
boy or girl would only get in the way. The few times per year he did see his
parents were invariably when they were in the UK for business and took it upon
themselves to visit their children.
How noble of them
,
he thought. Jacob vowed either never to have children, or if his partner
(should he be lucky enough ever to have one, and present times weren’t
indicative of a positive outcome in that respect), absolutely wanted them, then
he would be the best father there had ever been. There would be no boarding
school for his children.

‘Mr Carruthers?’

Glancing up, Jacob saw a middle-aged, balding man with his
tie askew and his sleeves rolled up, checking to see if he was in the waiting
area. Jacob made his way over to the desk to sign on.

2nd December - NATALIE

Next morning dawned bright and clear, the previous night’s
rain dried up, so you would never have known it had been torrential less than
twelve hours previously. Birds chirping in the trees outside her bedroom woke
Natalie. She checked her watch and saw it was already nine o’clock. Goodness,
she really had been tired. Well, she had better get up, as she had an awful lot
to do. It was by sheer chance that the appointment she had with the bakery
owner wasn’t until eleven o’clock, so Natalie availed herself of the wet room,
ate one of the delicious croissants her landlady had left for her, and drank
some coffee. She took her To Do list out of her bag and double-checked it. Yep,
she thought she could get through all of that today, but first to open up shop.

Natalie stood and admired the shop front before going in. The
Sugar and Spice sign was made up of pink iced cakes, on a cream background,
with a cherry on the top of the i of Spice. The writing sloped to the right as
if italicised. Natalie had a good feeling about this year’s secondment. She
admired the sign one more time and then opened the door, causing the bell to
jangle. Before her were a few mismatched wooden tables and chairs which lent
the bakery a homely feel. She could imagine the townspeople enjoying a scone
with clotted cream and a good pot of Scottish Breakfast or Earl Grey here. At
the back of the shop stood the cash register and glass fronted cases showcasing
the day’s wares. Natalie had barely time to glance round at the sugar pink
décor and pictures adorning the walls of speciality cakes which the bakery had
made in the past, before a woman entered from the back of the shop carrying a
tray of pastries.

‘Good morning, dear. Let me just put these down and I’ll be
right with you.’

The woman laid the cakes on the counter and then turned to
Natalie. ‘Right, dear, what can I get you?’

‘Are you Mrs Williams?’

‘That’s right, dear.’

‘I’m Natalie Hope, Mrs Williams, pleased to meet you.’ She
extended her hand to the wizened old lady in front of her, who now untied her
apron with a sense of finality.

‘Lovely to meet you, dear. Welcome to Sugar and Spice. I’m
sure you’ll do a grand job.’

‘Thanks, I’ll try to keep it up to your high standards and
not disappoint any of your regulars.’

‘I don’t think that will be a problem. You came highly
recommended and have such a lot of experience. I’m honoured you want to work in
my little bakery. I’m just surprised you don’t have one or a chain of your
own.’

‘Oh, I’m between premises right now.’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Williams, seemingly happy with that answer. 
‘Anyway, let me show you the ropes.’

Mrs Williams then spent a good half hour showing Natalie the
ins and outs of the bakery: how to work the ovens, where the water turned off,
the alarm system, as well as information on contacting the suppliers. She had
no computer. Everything was written down by hand and archived in lever arch
folders.

‘So do you have any questions?’ Mrs Williams asked, wringing
her hands.

Natalie reassured Mrs Williams by telling her everything
seemed straightforward, and invited her to stay and observe how she handled the
customers for an hour or so, just to give her peace of mind.

Mrs Williams was convinced by Natalie handing her a cup of
tea and a scone with clotted cream.

Sugar and Spice didn’t have the newfangled pieces of kit some
other bakeries had, but Mrs Williams had something special which many of them
didn’t have - knowledge and years of experience. She knew what tasted good and
what her customers wanted. For her part, she couldn’t help but be a tad worried
about handing over her business, albeit temporarily, to someone she barely
knew, no matter how great their credentials. It was such a shame she had to go
into hospital; pesky gall bladder. But she knew she’d already put it off
enough, too long in fact. Now her recovery period would be longer. The doctor
had said she should be OK to go back to work in January, if she behaved.
Six weeks rest
, he had said firmly. The operation was
planned for nine o’clock the following morning.

First to arrive after Mrs Williams had seated herself at one
of the few tables the bakery boasted was Mr Green, who worked at the post
office opposite. As she sat there, she knew he would be in for his usual
custard slice and a mug of coffee. She watched as Natalie greeted him warmly,
prepared his coffee and popped his cake onto a plate, before telling him that
would be two pounds ninety-five. Mr Green then took himself off to one of the
unoccupied tables and sat down to read his newspaper. Engrossed in his reading,
he didn’t notice the flaky pastry landing on his jumper, as he bit into it.
Men
, thought Mrs Williams.
So messy
.
But she was pleased. Mr Green always ate her cakes with such relish.

Miss Leather, a retired schoolteacher, was next to arrive.
She said hello to Mrs Williams and introduced herself to Natalie. She’d heard
all about her in the run-up to Mrs Williams’ operation. She’d be fine, though.
Nothing to worry about; just routine. Miss Leather ordered two chocolate
éclairs for her and her elder sister, who lived with her now;
better than her being put in a nursing home
, she said. Poor
dear didn’t get out much, but how she enjoyed her chocolate éclairs. Oh, and a
couple of Empire biscuits for teatime.

Miss Leather was just relating to Mrs Williams how a friend
of hers had recently had her gall bladder removed and was back to normal in a
month, when Stanley arrived. Stanley had been coming to Sugar and Spice for two
decades. Edie had loved their Eccles cake, whilst macaroon was Stanley’s
favourite.  He didn’t know what Mrs Williams put in it, but it was delicious,
far superior to those shop-bought ones. 

There was nothing physically wrong with Stanley, he just
didn’t see the point of doing much anymore, without Edie. But even he had to
venture out from time to time and when he did, he liked to retain the habits he
had shared with Edie when she was alive. A weekly visit to the bakery had been
part of that ritual.

‘Good morning, how are you today?’ Natalie asked.

‘Not bad, dear. How are you? New, are you? Taking over
whilst Jessie’s in hospital?’ said Stanley, nodding hello to Mrs Williams,
before extracting a handkerchief and blowing his nose. ‘Sorry, dear, it’s this
weather. Thank goodness we’re getting a break from it today.’

‘Yes, it has been pretty cold and wet recently, hasn’t it?
Nice to see a bit of sun for a change,’ Natalie agreed. ‘So what can I get
you?’

‘A macaroon, please.’ Stanley inclined his head to the
coconut-covered treat.

‘Coming right up. So any plans for the day?’

Caught off guard, Stanley stammered, then surprised himself
by saying, ‘I might go for a walk in the park, since it’s so nice.’

‘Sounds lovely. That’s exactly what I would do if I wasn’t
working today. Where’s the park, then?’

‘Oh,’ Stanley said, thinking,
unaccustomed to being asked much these days. Edie was forever asking him
questions, sometimes more than he would have liked, but what he wouldn’t give
now to have her back, bombarding him with questions. ‘If you turn left when you
go out of here and walk along to the stone bridge, turn right and the park is
in front of you.’

‘Excellent. I’ll check it out.’

‘Where are you staying?’ asked Stanley, enjoying passing on
some information to this pleasant young woman. She would be a good stand-in for
Jessie.

‘I’m at Rose Cottage,’ Natalie informed him, as she put his
cake in a bag.

‘Lovely place. Used to visit it as a boy. It belonged to my
grandfather originally.’

‘Oh, is that so? Well, you must tell me some stories about
it sometime.’

‘I’ll do that, hen. I’ll do that. Well, nice to meet you,’
he said, as Natalie put the exact money he had left on the counter in the till.
‘I hope you enjoy working here.’

‘I’m sure I will. Enjoy your walk.’

‘Thanks,’ and Stanley left, the door chiming his departure.

Mrs Williams continued to watch Natalie’s interaction with a
few other customers. The hour was soon up and Mrs Williams told Natalie she was
more than happy to leave her business in her capable hands.

‘Why don’t you stay to sample some of my cakes?’ Natalie
asked. ‘I was just about to make a batch of Empire biscuits. We’re already
running low. Is Tuesday Empire biscuit day or something?’ she joked.

‘No, I don’t know what it is today. I don’t need to stick
around, though, to taste your cakes, dear. I’m sure they’ll be lovely. I’m just
glad to see that you have the right personality to run the bakery. You have
good manners and a nice way with the customers. You show an interest in them.’

‘Well, I do love spending time with people. I find them
fascinating. I love nothing better than sitting in a pavement café watching the
world go by with a latte and a
pain au chocolat
.’

‘Well, if that’s all, dear, I think I’ll head home, get some
rest before tomorrow. I’m so sorry about leaving you in the lurch working
alone, what with Nuala breaking her foot. The agency did say they would ensure
they got someone to cover by the end of the week.’ Mrs Williams couldn’t
apologise enough.

‘Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll be fine.’

The early part of the afternoon saw the café full of
schoolchildren and young mothers who came in with their prams and buggies,
picking up a treat either for themselves to devour before their other children
got home, or for the children to have after dinner. Around two thirty, the door
opened and a boy and a girl came in. The girl was well-dressed, city chic, with
a purple and pink scarf around her neck, effortlessly glam. The boy, by
contrast, wore jeans which were hanging off him and Natalie didn’t think he was
trying to be fashionable. He could do with putting on a bit of weight.

‘I can’t believe you’ve never brought me here,’ the girl
said to her companion.

‘I don’t exactly have the cash for extras at the moment,
sis,’ the boy said, turning red.

‘No problem, my treat. Did I tell you I just signed another
contract? UK-wide retailer, sixty stores, can’t tell you the name yet. It’s all
under non-disclosure agreement,’ said the girl, whilst she eyed up the
mouth-watering array of cakes.

Meanwhile the boy was scanning the busy café. A queue had
formed behind them and he saw that only one person appeared to be working. Dare
he ask?

The girl turned around just then and said, ‘Jacob, what
would you like? I’m having some Rocky Road, caramel shortcake for later, and
chocolate fudge cake for tomorrow.’ With that list, it would be easy to imagine
that the girl was the size of a house but she, unfairly, resembled a rake.

Without turning around, the boy said, ‘Fudge doughnut for
me, Tabs, if they have them.’

It was soon ascertained that fudge doughnuts were available
and his sister, Tabitha, paid for them.

As Tabitha turned to leave, Jacob addressed the woman behind
the counter.

‘Excuse me, I can’t help noticing you’re on your own. Are
there any openings for staff, by any chance?’

Natalie smiled at him and said, ‘I’m just filling in for the
owner for a month, but we are a little short-staffed as her assistant has just
broken her leg. I can’t make any promises, but why don’t I give her a call and
see if she’d give you a trial? Do you have any experience?’

‘Not in a bakery, but I’ve worked in pubs, if that helps,
and I’m good with the public.’

‘Let me see what I can do,’ said Natalie, as she lifted a
tray of cakes out of the oven behind her.

‘Would it be paid work?’ Jacob squirmed at asking, but he
was fed up working for nothing.

‘I can’t answer that, but I’ll suggest that if you pass
muster after a few hours, that she hire you and then you’d be paid.’

‘That would be great. When will you know?’

‘Why don’t you come back tomorrow morning?’ Natalie advised
him.

‘Thanks ever so much,’ said Jacob politely.

It was clear to Natalie that it had cost him a lot to ask.

Tabitha had looked on bemused whilst this exchange took
place. She beamed at her brother, and then mouthed
thanks
to Natalie as they left the bakery.

Two down, two to go
, Natalie
thought.

There was no-one in the shop, so Natalie called Mrs Williams,
apologised for bothering her, but explained about Jacob. Mrs Williams told her
she must trust her judgement and they settled on an hourly rate, should Jacob
prove to be up to the task. She stipulated that Natalie should obtain
references for him, whether personal or work it didn’t matter, but she wanted
references to be sure he wasn’t a serial killer and Natalie wasn’t putting
herself at risk by working alongside him. Natalie assured Mrs Williams she
would take care of everything and hung up, silently hugging herself and chuckling
at Mrs Williams’ overactive imagination.