Christmas at the Little Waffle Shack - Helen J. Rolfe Page 0,1

neither attractive nor comfortable. When Lucy had split up with Julian they’d divided the furniture between them and she’d taken this combo because although it was a gift, it was less valuable than either the rosewood dining table that had been in his family for generations or the early-nineteenth-century bookcase Julian had found at an antiques fair in Surrey and brought home thinking she’d fall in love with it. She hadn’t. And their finances hadn’t either. But it had been typical of Julian to go off and act impulsively without considering the consequences. She’d been glad to walk away from the house they’d shared with all her personal belongings, the spare bed, most of the kitchenware, the vintage storage chest she’d bought on holiday in Scotland, and the sofa and armchair. And although the soft furnishings weren’t very attractive or comfortable, at least they fitted in the flat once they were up here. The removal men had had a terrible job getting the sofa through the door though. They’d used the wide staircase that came up from the workshop but the door wasn’t the biggest. Still, it was a better option than using the official entrance to the flat, which was at the top of an incredibly narrow flight of concrete steps leading up from the end of the path that went out to The Street. They’d taken one look at that on moving-in day and shaken their heads.

‘I hope you’re going to behave yourself when my tree arrives later,’ Lucy told Shadow, still fussing over him. He was a distraction when she needed to get on with her working day. She’d never been one to sleep in and because her business was right downstairs without a commute, early starts were easy. It also meant she got to finish up at a decent time and have the evenings to herself. ‘No playing with the ornaments,’ she warned him, already wondering how it was going to go with a Christmas tree and a cat in such a tight space. Her mum had already sent her several GIFs of cats wreaking havoc with Christmas trees, using their paws to swipe anything within reach.

With a final fuss between the ears for Shadow, Lucy turned the heating dial down a little now the flat had warmed up – the decor might be old-school but the heating and water system were not, something she was very grateful for now it was December. She pulled on her Blundstones – hardy footwear was a must when you were working with metals, heat and tools all day long. Her dungarees were a key feature of her blacksmith wardrobe too and she had enough pairs in khaki to last a whole week. It was usually a pair a day, they got so mucky and dusty.

She opened the back door to the flat ready to go down to her workshop. Her Workshop. It had a good ring to it. She put the lights on from upstairs and, pulling the door closed behind her, went down to start work.

In the run-up to Christmas her list of bespoke requests had grown with people wanting gifts made and ready to wrap in time. Today she’d get to work on a trivet commissioned by Barney, a local man who was everyone’s favourite. He’d had his fair share of ups and downs and now, at seventy-one years to her thirty, he was the one with another half to buy a gift for this year. The trivet was for Lois, the love of his life, who had a passion for cooking. He’d thought it would be perfect, something hand-crafted by a local, and Lucy had got a little thrill at his use of the word local. She was beginning to feel part of the tapestry of Heritage Cove, the little village on a mostly forgotten stretch of the Suffolk coast.

Lucy had first come here to work as a temporary blacksmith for Fred Gilbertson, who’d been taking leave from his job. Her remit was to work on any existing orders for customers and keep the business ticking over. But when she and Fred had danced at the Wedding Dress Ball in the summer – an annual event that was as much a part of the Cove as were the pub, the tea rooms and bakery, the chapel and the little track that led down to the water’s edge – he’d told her he was ready to retire for good. It was time someone else took over, he’d