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Chapter One
‘Dim uchelwydd, dim lwc.’
AN OLD WELSH PROVERB – NO MISTLETOE, NO LUCK
‘Now, the most important topic on tonight’s agenda – a date for my daughter to the Mistletoe Dance.’
I shrink in my seat at the side of the stage. There are some benefits to your mum being leader of the town’s resident committee, but this is not one of them.
‘Mum,’ I hiss. ‘That is not the most important thing, tonight or any night.’
Before I’ve finished, Mr Arkins, a pensioner who runs a dinosaur shop and remains permanently in character by wearing a dinosaur costume at all times, has raised his hand.
‘Thank you, Mr Arkins,’ my mum says smoothly. ‘I was hoping for someone a tad younger, but we’ll keep you in mind, seeing as Essie is determined to go alone this year. It’s nice of you to volunteer. Again.’
I cover my face with my hands. Just when I think things can’t get any worse, an old gent dressed as a dinosaur takes pity on me. I begged my mum not to do anything embarrassing tonight, but no parent ever listens when they can embarrass their offspring in public, do they?
‘Well, you know where to find us if you’re at a loose end on the twenty-third of December and want to take Essie to the Mistletoe Dance. I promise she scrubs up nicely and doesn’t always have flour on her face.’
‘Mum!’ I wonder if anyone ever has, actually, died of embarrassment? If not, I feel it’s a distinct possibility tonight, and I rub a hand over my cheek self-consciously. I’m almost positive I checked myself in the mirror before leaving the bakery, but flour on faces is a regular occurrence. See also: sprinkles in hair, chocolate on clothes, icing on forehead.
‘Right then, the next topic of tonight’s meeting – there is no mistletoe in Mistletoe Gardens.’
‘Mum,’ I hiss again. ‘There’s plenty of mistletoe. There’s just nothing else.’
‘Oh, yes, I know, but it sounded delightfully theatrical, didn’t it? Got to engage the crowd.’ She titters and turns back to said crowd. ‘Usually the local council would’ve begun the makeover of Mistletoe Gardens by now, but it’s already late November and they haven’t started yet. Tonight we’re joined by Mervyn Prichard, leader of Folkhornton council, who has come to offer an explanation for their tardiness this year.’
Mervyn Prichard is sitting next to me at the stage edge, and he audibly gulps as Mum invites him to her podium at the front of the town hall. He’s wearing a hard hat and a neon safety vest and looking like he wishes they were both bulletproof armour. I have a bad feeling about what he’s going to say. Surely the only reason to wear a hard hat indoors is if he’s expecting people to throw things at him.
Mistletoe Gardens is the best thing about Folkhornton. Throughout the year, it’s just a park, a Victorian-era green space at the edge of town, but every December, it’s transformed into a winter wonderland. Once the leaves have fallen from the trees, the only thing that remains in the bare boughs are the masses of mistletoe that give the park its name. The council workers string fairy lights around tree branches, and there’s a circular walkway that passes underneath every tree, illuminated with glittering Christmas lights. The gates open after dark and blissfully happy couples come to walk beneath the mistletoe, sharing kisses at the base of every tree. There’s an old legend that says anyone who kisses under the mistletoe on a December night is guaranteed another year of love and happiness in their relationship.
And that’s certainly true in my family. It was my great-great-grandmother who sowed the first mistletoe back in 1848, and every generation since has a romantic story of sharing kisses with a significant other in Mistletoe Gardens every Christmas. Except for me. I’m thirty-six and still the only member of my family who’s never had anyone to kiss under it. A fact that my mum never lets me forget.
Mervyn Prichard’s knees look like they’re shaking as he approaches the podium and looks out at the gathered Folkhornton residents. As a council leader, he must be used to addressing large crowds, although maybe there’s not always a bloke dressed as a dinosaur sitting in the front row. That’s enough to make anyone nervous.
‘Now the thing is…’ He swallows and if I didn’t think he was about to tell us something horrible, I’d take pity on him and offer a glass of water. ‘Unfortunately, due to financial constraints, Mistletoe Gardens is no more.’
A gasp of shock floods through the crowd.
‘There will be no winter wonderland this year. The council have taken the decision to flatten Mistletoe Gardens completely in January, and then construction will begin on a new apartment complex, which will provide many jobs, bring new people to the area, and reinvigorate our town. I’m sure you’ll all agree this is a much more sensible use of the space.’
Even though I had a feeling something bad was coming, I didn’t think it would be this bad. This is awful. I can’t imagine our little town without Mistletoe Gardens. On those magical December nights, it becomes a Christmas market too. Local shopkeepers set up stalls to sell a selection of handmade goods, crafts, and food and drink. Mum and I have a stall for the bakery, and I love spending December evenings there, serving loved-up couples with heart-shaped spiced shortbread, gingerbread iced with a mistletoe pattern, and mince pies topped with fondant holly leaves, sipping hot chocolate, and vicariously experiencing the romance of Mistletoe Gardens.
The anger in the room is palpable. I was joking when I thought people might start throwing things, but some residents are definitely looking around for projectiles.
Mervyn Prichard is obviously getting worried too. ‘Mistletoe Gardens no longer earns its keep. It’s costing an increasing amount to maintain, and the winter wonderland isn’t as popular as it was in years gone by. Tourists simply aren’t interested these days. And the silly myth about a kiss under the mistletoe granting couples another year of health and happiness… No one really believes that. People don’t believe in magic any more. No one will miss Mistletoe Gardens.’
‘I’ll miss it,’ someone says near the back of the hall and it starts a chorus through the residents.
‘Well, I’m sorry, Mr Prichard, but that simply won’t do.’ My mum approaches the other side of the microphone. ‘The resident committee will not allow you to destroy the only green space this town has. Where will we go to eat our lunch on summer days? The only place we can walk our dogs, or have picnics, or that children can kick a ball around. Where will we have outdoor yoga classes with our friends?’
‘Where will I hold my Wild Crochet Club?’ Beryl, who owns a knitting shop, asks. ‘Wild’ suggests an outdoor crochet group, and while that’s exactly what it is, ‘wild’ can also be applied to some of their more interesting creations. She’s sitting at the front, merrily crocheting a zombie version of Santa.
‘The only things who have any lingering attachment to it are the pigeons who attack anyone daring to walk through with a cone of chips,’ Mervyn continues. ‘It’s dead space sitting at the edge of our town – space that can be well used in other ways.’
‘There has to be something we can do,’ Mr Arkins pipes up, his words muffled behind the dino suit.
‘You can’t wipe out such a huge part of our town’s history without letting us have a say!’ Lynette from the chemist shouts. ‘That park has stood there since Victorian times. Queen Victoria once kissed Prince Albert underneath our mistletoe! That must give it heritage status! Who of us here hasn’t kissed someone we love under that magical mistletoe on a cold December night?’
Well, I haven’t, but now isn’t the time to mention it, or my mum will be asking for volunteers to kiss me, not just to be my date for the Mistletoe Dance.
‘Folkhornton council makes decisions for the good of the town, and I am confident you’ll all come round in the next few months, even if you can’t see the benefits now.’ Mervyn Prichard sounds anything but confident.
‘Condescending wazzock!’ Mum gives him a look capable of turning a cow into a hamburger at ten paces.
Similar shouts erupt from the others, although few of them stick to descriptions as polite as ‘wazzock’.
‘Let’s talk about this like civilised people, from one leader to another.’ Mum gestures for Mervyn Prichard to step behind the stage curtain with her and then flaps a hand at me. ‘Essie, take over!’
Take over? Me? There’s angry murmuring throughout the residents and I have no idea how to calm them down. I approach the podium on shaking legs, listening out for a yelp in case she wallops him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
What am I doing here? I was supposed to be leading a round of brainstorming for Santa’s replacement grotto, not getting to grips with a room that’s been left reeling, and trying to referee a fight between my mum and a man who’s been her rival since secondary school. From friendly competition to a love-hate relationship to full-on loathing.
