relatively easy. A sole trader was simply ceasing to trade, and never mind her aching heart.
The afternoon wore on and it was dark by the time Hannah heard the sound of the back door opening. ‘Thanks, Gabe,’ she heard Nan say. ‘Just put the bag in there.’ Nan’s rusty voice rose. ‘Hannah, I’ve been Christmas shopping and you’re not to look in the cupboard in the hall.’
Hannah felt her spirits lift at these homely, loving words. ‘OK, Nan,’ she called, as if she were a child. ‘Can I come out now? I didn’t realise the time. It’s nearly seven and I’ve done nothing about dinner.’ She shut her laptop and went into the old-fashioned kitchen to chat to kindly Gabe and invite him to stay for supper. ‘I could do us a mixed grill because it will be quick,’ she said, turning to take Nan’s coat. ‘New hat, Nan?’
The old lady beamed, the lenses in her glasses flashing under the kitchen light as she carefully lifted a plum-coloured fleece hat from her silvery white curls, giving a little pat to her new purchase. ‘Closing-down sale. Honestly, half of Bettsbrough High Street’s closing down and the other half’s charity shops and coffee shops.’
‘And we went in both,’ Gabe supplied, eyes twinkling, silver eyebrows beetling. ‘Supper would be wonderful, thank you.’
Hannah grilled sausages, bacon and tomatoes and scrambled eggs. Gabe stationed himself at the toaster and produced golden buttery toast.
‘I should break my arm more often if it means a meal with lovely people and someone else to cook,’ Nan said, as Gabe cut up her food. ‘Bettsbrough looked beautifully Christmassy, Hannah. There’s a huge tree at the edge of the square and lights strung over the main roads.’ She munched on a piece of sausage before adding, ‘Are you busy tomorrow, dear? Only it’s the day to decorate the village hall ready for the old folks’ party.’
Smothering a snort of laughter at ninety-year-old Nan referring to ‘old folk’, Hannah took the hint. ‘I don’t mind being an extra pair of hands. I’m not sure what you can do, though, with your arm.’
Nan beamed. ‘I can enjoy the Christmasness.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Hannah said, ‘shall we write your Christmas cards? I’ve made stickers to say “Written by Heather’s granddaughter while Heather’s arm is out of action”. I printed them at Mum and Dad’s when I went round to water the plants.’
‘After supper,’ Nan declared with relish. ‘I like to get them done nice and early.’
When Sunday came around, Hannah had to admit that a dose of ‘Christmasness’ was welcome. They strolled through the village, waving at Melanie at Booze & News, passing the closed doors of Ratty’s garage. Nan leaned on her stick while Hannah detoured up crazy paving paths to push jolly red envelopes through letterboxes.
Nan took a child-like joy in every cottage garden where frost rimed leaf and twig, twinkling in pale winter sunlight. ‘Look how pretty those red berries are amongst the frosty spider webs. Everything feels quiet and peaceful.’
‘It does.’ Hannah was content to amble at Nan’s pace, enjoying the still, spun-glass world of frozen fronds and icy bird baths.
The village hall was, in contrast, a hive of industry. Carola was in the middle of everything, directing people up stepladders or to the machine that blew up balloons. Children held paper chains, a small black dog clicked his claws excitedly on the wooden floor as if happy to be involved and the Christmas tree twinkled like a star shower. People called for scissors or tape and provided critical feedback: ‘That angel’s wonky!’ or ‘The holly leaves are the wrong green.’
Every single person wore a smile.
Hannah was back in the ‘unimportant little village’ where she belonged. She made cups of tea amidst the banter and laughter and got all glittery from hanging decorations. The day sped by.
It was as they wandered home through the darkened village, past the pub festooned with lights, that Hannah realised Nan was subdued. ‘Have you tired yourself out?’ she asked, concerned.
Nan just grumbled, ‘This wind that’s got up is sharp enough to shave a gooseberry,’ and huddled into her coat.
Hannah waited till they were home, warming up over a cuppa before she asked again. ‘Tired after your busy day?’ She got out the biscuits in the old Quality Street tin with the pictures that reminded her of the buildings of Stortorget, Gamla Stan, in the hope Nan would eat one or two. Age was shrinking her too quickly.
‘Thinking,’ said Nan, blowing her tea. ‘Last year