Chocolate Wishes (10 page)

Poppy had to come into Sticklepond again on the Thursday for the regular Parish Council meeting and she seemed to be developing the habit of calling by on her way home so she could tell me all about them. This time Felix came too and immediately started dropping hints about hot chocolate, until I gave in and started grating cacao.

Personally, I think adding anything else other than a bit of honey or raw cane sugar to it ruins the whole, delicious experience, but Jake loved his loaded with whipped cream and even marshmallows (yuk!) and both Felix and Poppy liked hot, frothed milk with theirs.

‘The meeting wasn’t very exciting tonight,’ Poppy said, taking a cautious sip and emerging from her mug with a white moustache. ‘Probably because we’d already discussed everything at the emergency session!’

‘Is it ever?’

‘Well,
I
think it is, what with all the discussions about the witchcraft museum and speculating about the new vicar,’ she said, and then suddenly got a belated attack of conscience.
‘You know, I suppose we really shouldn’t be discussing Parish Council business with other people, Felix!’

‘Isn’t it a bit too late for that now? And I’m
not
“other people”,’ I said indignantly. ‘Haven’t we always told each other everything…or
almost
everything, because I suspect we all have one or two deep, dark secrets.’

‘I haven’t,’ Felix said. ‘I’m an open book.’

‘You’re a nice if slightly time-worn edition, attractively foxed,’ I said kindly. ‘And you both know I wouldn’t discuss Parish Council business with anyone else, though I’ll swear silence, if that helps?’

‘Of course we know you wouldn’t tell anyone else, don’t we, Felix? I was being silly,’ said Poppy. ‘Go on, tell Chloe what happened.’

‘OK, but not a lot
did
happen that I recall, except that Hebe Winter told poor Mr Merryman that he was a weak vessel who’d failed to avert a threat to all our mortal souls, or something like that.’

‘I thought he was going to cry!’ Poppy put in. ‘So I told her your grandfather wasn’t so bad, but then she said yes he was, he was the
Antichrist
!’

‘I think that might be going a little too far,’ I said. ‘I mean, Aleister Crowley he is
not
! And even if his magic practices do stray across the line sometimes, it’s never even bordering on satanic.’

Or I hoped not, anyway…No, on reflection, my guardian angel would definitely have had something to say about that!

‘Oh, no, I’m sure he’s not,’ Poppy agreed. ‘I think Miss Winter is now pinning her hopes on the new vicar taking a stronger line about it, when he finally arrives. Apparently, he intends moving into the kitchen wing of the vicarage
where Mr Harris lived after he found the stairs too much, while the rest of the repairs are finished. That’s what the Minchins say, anyway. He’s keeping them on, which they’re very relieved about.’

‘Who are the Minchins?’ I asked.

‘They’re a brother and sister in their fifties, who looked after the vicarage for Mr Harris, and they have a sort of flat over the kitchen, with its own back stairs,’ she explained. ‘Salford Minchin has served time in prison for murder, so they were worried they might be out of a job.’

‘Yes, I imagine they might!’

‘It was more of an accident really, I think – Salford found his wife with another man and things got out of hand. Don’t they call that a
crime passionnel
in France?’

‘Yes, and I suppose if he doesn’t remarry, it’s unlikely he’ll do it again,’ I agreed.

‘Miss Winter found out that the vicar had paid a flying visit to Sticklepond last week to see how renovations were progressing, but he didn’t tell anyone except the Minchins that he was coming, so she was furious about that,’ said Felix.

‘When Effie Yatton asked Maria Minchin what he was like, all she could say was that he was younger than Mr Harris and not anything like any vicar
she’d
ever known,’ Poppy said, with a giggle.

‘Apart from Methuselah, it would be difficult to be
older
than Mr Harris,’ Felix said. ‘He looked transparent the last few years, as if he was already half gone, but he was so absent-minded towards the end that I think he just forgot to die.’

‘Maybe God finally tied a knot in his handkerchief to remind him?’ Poppy suggested. ‘He should certainly have retired years ago, but I expect it slipped the bishop’s mind.’

‘On purpose, because it was probably more convenient to forget about him and Sticklepond altogether, while he could,’ Felix agreed. ‘The new vicar must be stinking rich, because there’s a positive army of workmen all over the vicarage.’

‘And he must be kind,’ Poppy said, ‘because he’s having the Minchins’ flat repaired and redecorated first.’

‘But you still have no idea who he is?’ I asked her, because the mystery was finally starting to pique my curiosity.

‘No, the bishop hasn’t replied to any of Hebe’s letters and when she rang his secretary, she said he’d gone on holiday.’

‘I think he’s just avoiding her,’ Felix said, with his attractively lopsided grin. ‘There must be something odd about the new vicar that the bishop doesn’t want her to find out, until it’s too late.’

‘Well, whatever it is, I expect she’ll beat him into shape, just like she has with Mr Merryman, don’t you, Felix?’ Poppy asked.

‘Probably, and I feel sorry for the poor man already. Since she cornered him after his first service to make her views clear about the happy-clappy guitar-playing stuff, she’s got poor Merryman so cowed that she only has to say, “That’s the way we have
always
done things in Sticklepond,” and he shuts up, even if he’s proposing something totally innocuous, like taking the Sunday school children on a nature ramble round the churchyard, instead of colouring in pictures from the Bible in the vestry.’

‘But it’s Effie who runs the Sunday school, and she thought it was way too chilly for that kind of thing,’ Poppy pointed out fair-mindedly. ‘And if the new vicar is someone
famous
, like Cliff Richard, Miss Winter won’t really be able
to browbeat him, will she? I mean, I don’t suppose he’s used to being told what to do.’

‘Poppy,’ I said patiently, ‘it isn’t going to
be
Cliff Richard, so don’t get your hopes up! Believe me, it’ll be some sixties one-hit-wonder pop star that no one remembers.’

Jake, having for once in his life followed my advice, had become friendly with the girl he liked at college to the point where he now picked her up in Grumps’ car every day and brought her home again.

She lived on the other side of Sticklepond in a converted barn, just next to the start of the track to Badger’s Bolt. I thought this might not turn out to be the most salubrious of addresses, if Mr Drake was who we suspected he was.

Her parents phoned me up before they would let Jake drive her anywhere, and I had to assure them that not only was he a very careful driver (which he is, really, it’s just me fussing), but also that Grumps’ ancient Saab was incapable of breaking any speed limits, except downhill with the wind behind it.

Presumably at that point they had not yet set eyes on Goth Boy, or heard all the gossip about Jake’s grandfather and the museum, because they gave their permission.

Anyway, Jake now seemed much happier, so far as I could tell through all that black hair, though I wished his taste in music would lighten up a bit. And he’d brought the girl back on the way home twice, so I could have the honour of making her real hot chocolate. Her name is Katherine, though she told me she is always called Kat, and seemed like a nice girl, so far as I could tell – she chatted away, though unfortunately very quietly and without moving her
lips, so I had no idea what she was saying. I just smiled and nodded a lot.

We were by then all unpacked and more or less settled, and Chocolate Wishes was fully functioning again, which was more than could be said for the little village post office when I tried to send off my first lot of orders. I expect they will get used to it, though, and surely they
want
lots of business?

My pots of geraniums lined every deep windowsill, their fragrant leaves scenting the air and making the cottage feel like home, and now I could at last make a start on the garden. Felix helpfully blasted the slime off the herringbone brick paths with his power hose, revealing the lovely colours, and then insisted on helping me put up the little greenhouse, though I only really let him pass me the tools and prop things. When I could afford a proper, bigger greenhouse, I decided, I would get it delivered and erected without telling him first!

I started to clear out any obvious weeds and pruned everything that would take it, but for the rest I’d have to wait and see what came up in spring. One of the half-moon-shaped beds seemed pretty empty, apart from a climbing rose and a quince up the back wall, so I’ll make it a herb garden, dividing it up like the spokes of a wheel and using as edging some of the small stack of old bricks I found under a hummock of ivy in the corner.

Another bed was earmarked for my baby Brown Turkey fig tree and I hoped the plum tree in the middle – if it was a plum – would burst into leaf and fruit eventually. It was all very exciting – to me, at any rate! And all the exercise was good for me too, because I had to go and soak the aches away in the bath afterwards, lying like a slightly strange
Ophelia among a scattering of dried attar of roses-scented geranium leaves.

The nicest thing about living in Sticklepond was that Poppy could drop in much more often, after meetings or whenever she had to call into the village for anything, and Felix sometimes locked up his shop and walked round for a cup of coffee or chocolate and a chat in the afternoon.

By now I’d started popping into Marked Pages on the way back from the post office every morning. Felix had installed a comfortable leather sofa and coffee machine in the front room – I even found Grumps in there one day. The lure of a bookshop practically on his doorstep must simply have been too much for him.

Then there was the Falling Star – it was much easier to meet my friends there now than when I had to drive all the way from Merchester, and back again afterwards.

My life was not exactly a social whirl all of a sudden, but it was very companionable and
much
more fun.

Poppy had been a bit inclined to be gloomy about birthdays ever since she turned thirty and saw the signpost pointing in the direction of forty, so I made her a special iced fruitcake decorated with a plastic horse the same shade of conker brown as Honeybun, her beloved steed, and took it up to Stirrups as soon as I’d sorted out the Wishes orders that morning.

I’d got her to shuffle the Angel cards last time she visited, so I could do her one of my special, big chocolate Fortune Angels with a personalised reading inside it, which I gave her as my present.

That and the cake cheered her up no end, especially
since the fortune was an extremely encouraging one, all about new persons coming into her life and doors opening, though that’s never a good portent when it comes up for me.

But at least my bad news was broken gently through the Angel cards (unless I succumbed and got Zillah to read the Tarot or leaves), and while they might still
infer
that I was doomed, they also assured me that they meant doomed in a
good
way and I wasn’t to worry about a thing.

Janey had given Poppy a lipstick in the same vibrant red that she used herself, screwed up in a striped paper bag that smelled of Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, so I think she may have forgotten it was Poppy’s birthday until our cards had arrived that morning, and a spare lipstick was all she had by her. Poppy hardly ever bothers with makeup at all, but had put some on to show willing, though it was definitely wearing her and not the other way around.

‘Give the lipstick a miss this evening,’ I said, because we were to meet up with Felix at the Falling Star for more celebrations, ‘unless you wear a lot more makeup with it.’

‘I don’t really think it’s me, do you? Anyway, makeup is wasted on the horses – they don’t care what I look like!’

‘Well,
we
do,’ I said, because I was always trying to persuade her to have her light-coloured eyelashes dyed and at least wear a bit of tinted moisturiser, since even if she did spend most of the day with her four-legged friends, there was no reason why she shouldn’t look pretty while doing it. When the sun bleached gold streaks into her sandy hair in summer it looked really pretty, and a good hairdresser could keep it like that all the year round.

Jake had gone to dinner at Kat’s house, so it looked as though her parents had got used to him and this was a seal of approval!

Felix, Poppy and I pushed the boat out and had a birthday feast of scampi and chips in a basket at the Falling Star, though actually the two of them bickered throughout about her next lonely hearts column date, the following evening.

It sounded like the scenario would just be a repeat of the last one, with Felix glowering over the top of his newspaper in the pub corner, like a jealous dog over a bone – though I thought maybe I would go with him this time out of sheer curiosity and we could peer over the paper together.

They made up their quarrel when he gave her her present, which was a tiny oil painting of a horse in the primitive style, and then after that she got tiddly and extremely giggly on gin and tonic.

We went back to the cottage for hot chocolate, the smell of which got Jake, who had by then returned, down from his room for long enough to wish his Auntie Pops a happy birthday and let her kiss him, in that terribly resigned way teenage boys have. You’d think it was an endurance test. Is there a Duke of Edinburgh’s Award for that?

The hot chocolate didn’t have a noticeably sobering effect on Poppy so we finally sent her home in a taxi, singing something about a galloping major. Goodness knows where she got
that
from. Janey would have to drive her down next morning to pick up the Land Rover.

‘You know,’ I said to Felix as the tail-lights of the taxi vanished round the bend, ‘if her mum hadn’t decided to work her way through all the eligible young farmers in the area and the local hunt, Poppy might have found Mr Right somewhere among their ranks.’