Page 88 of Christmas at Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

‘Happy Christmas, Grandad,’ chanted Maisy, which touched Rachel’s heart.

He wasn’t ever going to see her little girl grow up …

Rachel had taken a bunch of red carnations, gathered from the posies in the Pantry, and now she laid them down on her father’s grave. Maisy then stepped forward to place her Christingle ribbon-decorated orange, that she’d kept from the last day at school, by the headstone, asking her mum to light the little candle on it. There were also three white roses, tied in a green satin ribbon, laid there on the grave. Had Mum already been, or Granny Ruth?

‘I want Grandad to have a special light, so he doesn’t feel lonely,’ Maisy added seriously.

Rachel suddenly found it hard to breathe. How had all this happened to them? How could life, that was at times so beautiful, be so damned cruel? She was conscious of Tom, standing back by the church gates, giving them their time.

It was cold there in the churchyard. Rachel liked to pay her respects every now and again and to mark his resting place, but to her, Dad … well, he was everywhere as memories within her mind – on the farm, in the hills around them, in the lambing shed, in the places he had been so many times, in the things he had touched, not just here in the churchyard.

The starting notes of ‘Silent Night’ rang out on the slightly cranky organ, filling Kirkton church. The congregation stood up to sing, with Maisy, Rachel, Tom, Granny Ruth and Jill, lined up in their pew. It was chilly in there; you could even see your breath as you sang, but being local they were familiar with the cold interior of the centuries old stone church and knew all about wearing two pairs of thick socks, stamping your feet a bit, and layering up with thick jumpers and warm woollen coats. They were all primed and dressed for the occasion.

The church was important to the local community, a place to celebrate and a place to grieve. And everyone was gathered here tonight, on Christmas Eve, a night of tradition and of celebration. There were farmers and friends, there were young and old. Eve, Ben and Amelia were there, and some members from the Pudding Club, including newcomer Alice and her family – Rachel had made a point of saying hello to them as they found their seats. Just across from them was Jim, the taxi driver, Brenda from the deli and her husband – blimey, there was even Vanessa Palmer-Pilkington. Rachel drew a truce, for tonight only, and even managed a small smile at the old bat.

The congregation sang together and said their prayers, with everyone looking forward to a day of rest and celebration tomorrow. Rachel found herself feeling grounded, a sense of peace settling on her. The service came to a close with a blessing from the priest, and a ‘Merry Christmas’ to all. Friends and acquaintances wished each other ‘Happy Christmas’ as they milled out of the church into the cold, frosty air.

Back at Primrose Farm, Rachel nipped upstairs to take off one of the extra layers needed for church. On her way back to the hubbub of the kitchen she was drawn by the glinting coloured lights of the Christmas tree in the sitting room and decided to take a few moments out.

She picked up a stray bauble from the floor where it had dropped and placed it carefully back on a branch, trying not to let the needles drop. The fire was on in the hearth and the lounge looked just the place to curl up with a sneaky tipple of Baileys Irish Cream, but there was work still afoot. Maybe tomorrow.

Christmas Day was almost here; another year almost over. Dad’s photo smiled at her from the mantlepiece, the pull of emotions ebbed and flowed within her. Memories rose, Christmas traditions, the past and the present … the future. Maisy, Mum, Granny, the farm and the Pantry. There was Tom, too, in this new equation.

She knew that life could never be the same again without Dad, but tonight she had a feeling it could be a happy place again once more. And, with a lot of hard work and a little luck, the future for them would be right here at Primrose Farm.

After a chaotic hour of food prepping for the big day and getting Maisy ready for bed, Rachel and Tom found themselves alone – miracle of miracles – in the kitchen. Rachel had really enjoyed this evening with Tom by her side. It was Christmas Eve, a special, magical time. She realised that she didn’t want him to go.

‘Can you stay tonight?’ Rachel asked, almost shyly. She realised the significance behind her suggestion – Tom had only stayed at Primrose Farm, her family home, a handful of times.

‘Here?’ Tom clarified, with a small yet hopeful smile.

‘Yes … I’d like that.’

‘And what about, Maisy? You were always a bit anxious …’

‘Well, maybe it’s time. And, she’ll be so excited tomorrow that it’s Christmas morning and that Father Christmas has been, you probably won’t get a look in, anyhow.’ Rachel grinned, imagining the likely scenario. She moved in closer. ‘And I’d so like to wake up with you on Christmas morning. And,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘I’d rather like to make love with you on Christmas Eve.’

‘Right, I see.’ Tom gave a daft grin back.

She sensed the frisson of anticipation run through him.

‘Well, in that case …’ Tom started.

‘It’d be rude not to,’ finished Rachel with a wide smile.

‘Exactly.’

And they closed the conversation with a very gorgeous, leading kiss.

‘Where are the carrots, Mummy? We need them for Rudolph and his friends.’

Maisy was out of the bath and prancing about in her new festive pyjamas, that had a cute red-nosed reindeer print. It was well past her usual bedtime, but excitement for the big day tomorrow had given her second wind, and there were of course certain routines and traditions yet to be fulfilled … after all it was ‘The Night Before Christmas’.

‘Yes, and Father Christmas likes a drink of whisky,’ the little girl stated.

Oh, she’d remembered. There was a tug inside Rachel’s heart just as Jill looked up catching Rachel’s eye. Yes, that had always been the way. A mince pie, a nip of whisky and carrots for the reindeer, all set out on a little wooden tray on the table by the fire. Of course, it was Rachel’s dad who had enjoyed the whisky and the mince pie.

‘Of course, petal, I’ll go find the whisky bottle,’ Rachel responded, setting off for the kitchen, where she knew there was a little left over from the mammoth Christmas Pudding making session of last week. A head and heart full of her own childhood memories suddenly appeared – she could picture her dad coming in after a hard day on the farm, sitting there by the Aga in the chair that Granny Ruth liked, mug of tea in hand, toes warming by the stove. Hah, she used to hold her nose sometimes and complain about the whiffy, cheesy smell of his damp woollen socks. Boy, she’d give anything to have him back here, smelly feet and all. To climb on to his lap for a cuddle like the good old days. For him to be there with them all tomorrow carving the turkey for Christmas Dinner, with Maisy running about showing him all her new gifts. A lump lodged in her throat.