Wish Upon a Star (7 page)

Stella was having her afternoon nap when the vicar arrived so we were able to have a good talk. He knew about her problems, of course, because Ma had told him.

‘Martha says you’ve sold your flat and moved in here, in an effort to raise enough money to take your little girl to America for a life-saving operation,’ he said, when I’d made coffee and fetched in a plate of macaroons (I was still experimenting with flavours).

‘Yes,’ I said, and told him all about the operation and Stella’s medical condition – I really opened up and poured it all out, but he was the
kindest
man.

‘I still need about another twenty thousand pounds, I think, because all kinds of extra expenses keep cropping up. Someone advised me to take a qualified nurse on the plane there with me, for instance. And insurance – well, that’s difficult too.’

‘How long have you got to raise the money?’

‘The surgeon in Boston has pencilled her in for the start of November so we need to be there by the end of October. I ought to start booking the plane tickets and the hotel and so on … I’ve just waited to see how far off the target I was after selling the flat. My best friend, Celia, and her husband, Will, have been a huge help, setting up the Stella’s Stars fundraising site, which is getting lots of small donations, too.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make it – and I and the rest of Sticklepond will help you,’ he promised.

‘That’s kind of you, but I’m really a stranger here. I mean, we’ve only visited before, we aren’t really part of the community …’

‘Oh, that won’t matter,’ he said, and assured me that the villagers would all unite to support a good cause.

Ma, who’d wandered in at that moment still holding a fully loaded paintbrush, taken a macaroon and begun to leave again without seeming to notice the vicar, stopped and focused at that.

‘They may not for this one, because my family were never well liked in the village: I told you,’ she said to Raffy, taking the jade cigarette holder from her mouth and gesturing with it. A half-smoked red Sobranie dropped out of the end and Toto, who’d followed her in, sniffed at it before making friendly overtures to Raffy. I’d have warned him about getting white dog hairs on his black jeans if he hadn’t already got a liberal sprinkling there from his own little white dog, which I’d seen him out with sometimes.

‘I’ve heard the odd rumour about the Almonds,’ he admitted, ‘but it was something that happened so long ago that I think only the most elderly parishioners know the details. But when it comes to helping a child, I can’t see any of them thinking twice about it.’

‘Why
exactly
aren’t the Almonds well liked? You’ve never actually told me,’ I said, emboldened to press Ma by the presence of the vicar.

She straightened with the Sobranie in her hand, shoved it back in the holder, and then shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘It’s as the vicar says, an old story, and I don’t know all the details. Let’s let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘The important thing is to raise the money,’ Raffy agreed, ‘and we’ll soon do that – so trust in the Lord and make all the bookings. There’s nothing the village likes so much as uniting to fight for a good cause – only look how we saw off those property developers in the village itself, and then managed to have planning permission for turning the Hemlock Mill site into a retail park overturned.’

‘True,’ Ma said, and then she suddenly seemed to become aware of the loaded brush in her hand and, without another word, went out again.

‘I wish she’d put a coat on, because that wind is cold, even if it is May,’ I said, watching her through the window as she started back up the garden towards the studio. Then Hal suddenly loomed up next to her from behind a clump of Fatsia japonica, draped his tweedy, shapeless jacket over her shoulders, and they turned and went up the steps together.

‘Hmm … I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hal smile before,’ Raffy said thoughtfully. ‘He usually looks like Indiana Jones on a bad day, crossed with just a hint of the Grim Reaper.’

‘They do seem to be good friends,’ I said noncommittally, ‘and he’s here quite a bit … though weekends and evenings, mostly. Perhaps today is his half-day from the Hall.’

‘I don’t think it is, actually,’ Raffy said, ‘but with the estate coming right up to his cottage on the other side of the lane, I expect he just popped back for something.’

He smiled at me. ‘Chloe said she’d had a nice chat with you before Christmas in the shop. She loves your “Cake Diaries” in the newspaper and says that you also write about cake in a magazine – I don’t know where you find the time,’ he said, taking another macaroon.

‘To be honest, sometimes I’m not too sure myself,’ I confessed. ‘Things have been slightly easier as Stella’s got older and stabilised, though she’s prone to infections and then we have to get her treatment straight away. Each bout seems to sap what energy she has …’

‘Yes, I don’t suppose she has a lot of resistance to things and it must be a huge worry to you.’

‘It is, and I really don’t want any more complications till we leave for Boston. She needs to put a little weight on before the surgery too. You’d think with all the cakes around she’d quickly do that anyway, but she’s the pickiest eater in the world.’

‘Unlike me,’ he said, ruefully eyeing the macaroon plate, now almost empty.

I asked suddenly, ‘You
do
think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you? Only the operation is experimental and although Dr Beems has been very successful with it, there are no guarantees …’

‘Of course you are. You’ve had to make the decision with your head, not your heart, because logically there’s no other course of action you can take, is there? If she doesn’t have it, you’ve been told that she doesn’t have a long-term future, it’s as simple as that.’

I felt better for hearing him spell it out. Then Stella woke up sounding a little fractious and I fetched her in to meet Raffy. She seemed to like the look of him – and who wouldn’t?

‘I nearly forgot,’ he said, digging out a Cellophane-wrapped chocolate figure from his pocket. ‘Chloe sent you a gift. Are you allowed chocolate now, before tea?’

‘I don’t see why not,’ I said, ‘it’s very good chocolate.’

‘An
angel
,’ breathed Stella raptly, taking it.

‘Stella’s very into angels at the moment,’ I told Raffy. ‘I think it’s Ma’s fault for pointing out all the angels in the graveyard.’

‘And the funny little men with horns and tails in the window,’ Stella said.

‘Oh, yes, the Heaven and Hell window is great,’ he agreed.

‘Grandma paints angels in her pictures,’ Stella confided. ‘Flying ones with bird faces. Moses and Toto are flying round in her new one and Hal is holding on to the angel’s leg to stop it flying right off.’

‘I’d like to see that!’

‘I thought I saw an angel when I was having Stella,’ I told him, ‘and though Ma said it was a nun going by in a white habit, it seems to have stuck in her head. The oddest things do.’

‘You saw an angel? I must tell Chloe,’ he said, interested. ‘We’re both great believers in guardian angels. Get her to tell you about the time she saw one when she was a little girl.’

Stella announced that she was going to show the chocolate angel to her Sylvanian Families and vanished off back into her bedroom.

‘Transylvanian?’ Raffy asked, looking mildly surprised.

‘No,
Sylvanian.
They’re collectable toys, little fuzzy animals.’

‘Oh, right.’ He passed on an invite from Chloe to take Stella to her Mother and Toddler group, which met on Monday mornings up at the old vicarage.

‘If she’s well enough, it would be nice to go and meet other local mothers and children,’ I said, ‘though so far I’ve tended to avoid that kind of thing in case coughs and colds are going round.’

‘I’ll ask Chloe to warn you if there are,’ he promised. ‘But if not, I should give it a try and if Stella finds it too tiring, you needn’t stay long.’

‘You’re right, and it would get us out of Ma’s way for a bit too … Though actually, she doesn’t seem to mind Stella hanging around her, because in many ways they’re kindred spirits. Ma’s already said that she’d much prefer to keep an eye on Stella while I go into Ormskirk on Saturdays and do the big weekly supermarket shop than do it herself.’

‘Let me think about fundraising for the rest of the money, and I’ll get back to you with some ideas as soon as I can,’ Raffy said, getting up and shrugging into a long black leather coat. ‘We need an organised push to raise it quickly, but it will come,’ he assured me, and with a smile left me feeling hopeful, comforted and cheered.

When I got back after seeing him out, the last two macaroons had vanished from the plate and Toto and Moses were lying innocently before the stove.

‘You have crumbs in your whiskers,’ I told them coldly, before going to see what Stella was up to.

On Thursday morning it was Stella’s first check-up at Ormskirk Hospital and although she is amazingly stoical about these things, I could gauge how stressed she was by the rate of the thumb-sucking.

But actually, when we got there it was not too bad. She was seen very quickly by a friendly consultant who was already up to speed on her condition and the projected operation in America.

She was quite pleased with Stella, but said she’d like to see her gain more weight – and so would I, though of course not
too
much, since that would also add strain to her heart and other organs … it’s a fine balance.

Afterwards, since Thursday was a market day, I drove into town and parked, so we could have a walk around. It was an ancient market and very good, though the part selling fruit, eggs, cheese and foodstuffs had vanished a few years back, which was a pity.

Ormskirk now had a huge and increasing student population, since the university on the edge seemed to be expanding like a mushroom every night, but it did give the place a new buzz.

I knew Stella was tired, but she still insisted on getting out of her buggy as soon as we’d got to the top of the hill from the car park. Ma had given her some money to buy a treat with, which I suspect was going to become a habit, and she’d also asked us to get her a new tube of yellow ochre oil paint from the art shop up a side street, so we went and did that first. Stella spent most of her money in there on a new watercolour paint box and a Hello Kitty pencil case, which reminded her of the mummy cat from one of her toy families.

After that we had a look in the bookshop and I was pleased to see they had both my cookbooks, though I didn’t tell them who I was since, as usual, I looked like a bagwoman down on her luck and I didn’t think they’d believe me. Then Stella climbed back into her buggy and we went to find the macaroon shop.

It was called the Happy Macaroon, according to the smart deep red and gold signboard and about fifteen different colours of macaroons were on display in the window, laid out in trays like so many rows of giant gaming counters. It looked upmarket and expensive, like a smart London shop in one of the arcades where I’d occasionally pressed my nose to the glass and stared at the culinary perfection within. I did much the same now: if Ma hadn’t already told me about the place, I’d have thought I was imagining it.

On one side of the window was a large cone with pink and white macaroons stuck all over it, the sort of thing I’ve seen before at parties. On the other, to my amazement, was a tall pyramid of caramel-dipped choux buns, the wonderful French wedding cake called the croquembouche or
pièce montée
. Of course, like the macaroon pyramid, it was a model, but they were both very realistic.

‘Cakes,’ Stella said, admiring the macaroons.

‘They’re special macaroon biscuits really, darling, like the ones I made the other day.’

‘I didn’t like those,’ she said, my own little food critic. ‘These look prettier.’

She had a point: the colours were certainly a lot brighter. ‘See that big pyramid of buns?’ I said, pointing to the croquembouche. ‘It’s a French wedding cake.’

‘And there are gingerbread piggies.’

‘No, I don’t think there are—’ I began, then broke off, following the line of her pointing finger, and found she was quite right, there
was
a tray of gingerbread pigs at one side of the window, with raisin eyes and curly iced tails.

Then something made me look up and my eyes met and locked with those of a man standing behind the window display. My first thought was that he looked like Johnny Depp in
Pirates of the Caribbean
, since he had the same angular sort of face and he’d tied a black scarf pirate-style over his hair, presumably instead of one of those little white hats bakers usually wear. The second thought was that his eyes were of a very unusual soft, light caramel brown, fringed with long black lashes … and impossible to remove my gaze from …

Then suddenly we both smiled simultaneously and the trance was broken.

Stella had clambered out of her pushchair and now tugged at my hand and asked if she could have a gingerbread pig and when I looked up again a moment later, he’d vanished.

‘Of course you can, darling,’ I told her, so pleased she’d shown an interest in something to eat that I would happily have bought her a hundred gingerbread pigs … and anyway, I wanted to ask the pirate baker a few questions to add to my ‘Cake Diaries’ article.

He was standing behind the counter as if waiting for us, his smile warm. ‘Hello,’ he said, his voice as caramel as his eyes. ‘Has our window display lured you in?’

‘We
were
admiring the croquembouche,’ I told him. ‘Or at least,
I
was. I’m afraid Stella only had eyes for the gingerbread pigs.’

‘Piggies with raisin eyes and curly-wurly tails,’ agreed Stella.

‘It’s not everyone who recognises a croquembouche; they’re still a bit of a novelty, especially up here,’ the man said.

‘I’m a cookery writer, specialising in cake – I have a page in
Sweet Home
magazine and a Sunday supplement,’ I explained. ‘I
love
cake.’

‘Mummy made me a pink princess cake for my birthday,’ Stella piped up.