Wish Upon a Star (38 page)

Ma was standing in the doorway looking slightly startled. ‘Good heavens, it’s the Babes in the Wood … or the Babes on the Sofa, at any rate,’ she said, as we scrambled stiffly to our feet.

‘We fell asleep,’ I explained. ‘We were almost as tired out by all the excitement as Stella!’

‘It was a pity I disturbed you really, but I didn’t realise you were here.’

‘It’s probably just as well. I’d better get back to the pub before they shut me out for the night,’ Jago said, stretching the kinks out of his tall frame, but I gave him a bit of the leftover party food to take with him before he left, since we’d never got round to any kind of supper.

The weather was a bit iffy for the first week of August but we all crossed our fingers and hoped for a fine day on Sunday for the fête. Apart from the book signing at Marked Pages in September, this would be the last fundraising event and I was now sure we’d greatly exceed, if not double, the ten thousand pounds I’d originally needed. The proceeds of the other smaller events kept trickling in too, in a small but steady stream.

Stella had a bit of a temperature at the check-up on the Thursday before the fête, though I thought it was probably because she was excited about it. She’d taken her cottage hospital and the doctor rabbit and patient with her to show them and re-enacted her favourite scenario.

‘You’re going to go to sleep now, little mouse,’ she said, doing the doctor bunny’s voice in a low, gruff tone. ‘And when you wake up again, your heart will be all mended and you can go home.’

Then she looked up at the real consultant and nurse and said chattily, ‘In America, they don’t stick big needles in your arm.’

‘I think they do if they have to, Stella,’ I said, ‘but with the magic cream on first so it doesn’t hurt.’

Stella gave me a look that expressed what she thought of this remark, but I didn’t want to lie to her … though on the other hand, I didn’t want to frighten her, either. I shivered suddenly, realising how close October seemed now, when we would be leaving for Boston. It seemed only days ago that I was worried I’d never manage to get her there, and now it was hurtling towards us like a train.

I’d arranged for Jenny to come round early to baby-sit on the Saturday morning, so I could get to Ormskirk in time to see Jago put a croquembouche together. It didn’t matter that he’d already made the choux buns before I arrived, because I’ve made those myself several times.

When I got there he was neatly piping patisserie cream into each one through a small hole he’d made at one end, while David was also working away, since the couple who’d ordered the croquembouche wanted two macaroon cones to flank it.

I sat down quietly with my notebook and watched as Jago began to form the base of the croquembouche around a huge special cone. The choux buns were dipped in melted caramel to stick them together and each layer built up until he reached the top.

Then he began expertly flicking long sugar strands over the cake, using two forks held back to back and dipped in the liquid caramel. He made it look terribly easy but I was quite sure it wasn’t!

When it was finished it looked stunning, and Jago made us all a cup of coffee while I wrote up my notes. I’d taken a couple of pictures, too, but I hoped before the article appeared in ‘The Cake Diaries’ they’d send a photographer to Honey’s, which should be up and running by then.

Dorrie arrived to open up the shop and Jago walked out with me to my car for a bit of fresh air. Because I’d arrived so early I’d managed to get into the tiny car park right behind the main street, but I needed to go down to the supermarket before I went home.

‘I’ll be off to deliver the cakes in a bit,’ he said, ‘or the ones for the wedding, anyway. I think David has another macaroon cone to make for this afternoon, but he’ll probably take that himself.’

‘It was great watching you making the croquembouche,’ I told him. ‘I’m going to have a go, on a smaller scale, but I’m very sure it’s a lot harder than you made it look.’

‘Oh, it’s not so bad. Getting the sugar strands round it is probably the only dicey bit and that’s just practice,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m really looking forward to the fête tomorrow.’

‘Yes, me too. I told you Adam wanted to come up this weekend, but I hoped I’d put him off, didn’t I?’ I paused and then went for a full confession. ‘He was a bit persistent, actually, so I’m afraid I’ve told him we’re in a relationship so I’d be going to the fête with you.’

‘You did?’ He looked down at me and grinned. ‘Well, funnily enough, I’d already told Aimee the same thing to put
her
off, though I don’t think she believed me.’

I laughed. ‘Great minds think alike! And let’s hope that finally does the trick, because neither of them seems very good at taking no for an answer.’

Driving back through Sticklepond later I saw that bunting was already strung up everywhere ready for the fête and was in time to glimpse a bride and groom coming out of All Angels in a cloud of pink rose petals.

That could have been me and Adam … but how glad I was now that we
hadn’t
married, because it would have been the mistake of my life.

I woke up very early on the day of the fête, though when I went into the kitchen already a few weak rays of sunshine were fingering the plant pots on the windowsill like a doubtful shopper.

I hadn’t noticed Hal passing the window again early in the morning, so I was starting to think I’d jumped to conclusions and he’d merely been taking an early stroll, or perhaps fetching something from his shed …

There was no sign of Toto or Moses in the kitchen, but when I opened the back door to admire the cloudless pale azure sky, there they were, sitting side by side staring at me.

I’ve no idea why, because if they could get out of the catflap, then there was nothing to stop them coming back in again.

I’d already baked a cake for another prinsesstårta, which was to be sold by the slice at the fête, so now I set to work and created the domed shape of the top, then covered the whole thing in traditional pale green marzipan, finished off with the usual little crown.

Once it was in the cake box I went to get Stella up, and by the time we got back to the kitchen Ma was also down and toasting slices of the fruit loaf that had baked overnight and made the kitchen smell wonderful, so we all had some of that.

Stella was excited, but I made sure she had a quiet morning and then Jago came to collect us after an early lunch and we pushed Stella down to the fête in the buggy. Ma and Hal said they would follow us down, because there were to be one or two plant stalls, not to mention candyfloss, another of Ma’s not-so-secret passions.

Already cars had overflowed the car park and were lining the streets, and people were making their way towards the green where all kinds of booths had been set up – hoop-la stands and coconut shies, roll-a-penny stalls and one where you tossed a coin into a ring. They all looked ancient and sun faded, as if they came out every year, but the acres of bunting festooned everywhere was bright and fresh, and fluttered in the warm breeze.

The village hall, which was on the edge of the green, had the big double doors at the front and the side door open to show more stalls inside. I left Jago with Stella for a moment while I popped over and handed my prinsesstårta to Effie Yatton.

I got back just in time to watch Hebe Winter, who was dressed entirely in white, which was, I’d been told, her usual garb on Sundays, graciously remind everyone why they were there, exhort them to spend lots of money and declare the fête open. With a cut-glass voice that could carry for miles, she didn’t need a megaphone.

There was polite applause and then her place was taken by a sort of folk-rock group from a nearby village that, going by the banner across the front of the stage, was called the Mummers of Invention. They were quite good.

‘Chloe’s in the hall, running a chocolate stall,’ Raffy said. ‘Her grandfather’s got Grace – they’re over at the pony petting.’ He pointed to the corner of the field near the church wall.

‘Pony?’ echoed Stella, clambering out of the buggy and seizing my hand, which she tugged imperatively.

‘Now you’ve done it,’ I said, and we all headed across to where Poppy from Stirrups riding stables had created a My Little Pony experience in an enclosure made of hay bales. There, for a pound, children could groom, brush and generally play with the small golden-brown pony we’d seen up at the stables when we visited.

‘It’s Butterball,’ Stella said.

As we neared I heard Poppy say to a worried parent, ‘Oh, no, Butterball’s totally safe,’ as the pony’s tail was plaited for probably the tenth time. ‘He’s about as intelligent as a cushion and his idea of bliss is to be stroked, petted and brushed – he can take any amount of it. In fact, I’ll have to keep an eye on him, because he can sometimes get so chilled out from being groomed that he falls asleep and starts to topple over.’

I was glad to hear this, since Stella was now demanding to be allowed to go and play with him and my mother was already getting out her purse to pay Poppy.

‘You let her,’ advised Jago. ‘Poppy’s obviously keeping a close watch and she’ll enjoy it.’

‘Grace seems happy enough,’ Raffy commented. Gregory Lyon, tall and with his long white hair and blue cloak blowing in the breeze, was holding his great- granddaughter on Butterball’s back. The pony’s eyes seemed to be half-closing …

Poppy gave his fat round butterscotch-coloured rump a little slap and he opened his eyes and looked at her reproachfully.

I wondered how you made butterscotch flavouring …

‘Cally?’ Ma said, recalling my wandering attention. ‘I’ll stay here until our Stella’s had enough. Leave me the buggy and we’ll come and find you.’

So Jago and I made our way round the field, trying our hand at all the stalls, which was a lot of fun, even if my aim was terrible. Jago was a bit better and won a rainbow-coloured teddy bear and a bag of pink candyfloss, which he said he was going to give to Ma. Then, just as we were about to make for the hall, something made me look across the field to the entrance.

I clutched Jago’s arm. ‘Oh God, it’s Adam!’

‘
And
Aimee – and they’ve seen
us
, too,’ he said as the two horribly familiar figures headed determinedly in our direction. Aimee was hanging onto Adam’s arm and had to stop to wrench one of her stiletto heels out of the soft grass.

We turned to each other. ‘Too late to hide,’ he said ruefully.

‘I know, there’s only one thing to be done: quick,
kiss
me!’ I ordered.

‘
Kiss
you?’

‘Yes, and let’s make this look convincing,’ I said, winding my arms around his neck. He looked faintly startled but gathered me close and obliged. I shut my eyes and … blissed out. The kiss went on and on … and on. In fact, I’d entirely forgotten where I was until someone jostled us in passing and our lips finally parted. I stared up at Jago dazedly.

‘That was realistic,’ I murmured weakly.

‘I did my best,’ he said modestly, though he looked slightly shaken: probably because I’d fallen on him like a desperate woman after a kiss famine. He kept his arm around my waist holding me close to his side as we scanned the crowd for Aimee and Adam.

‘Can you see them?’ I asked.

‘No … or is that them, right over there, heading away?’

‘Yes, it is. Well, that worked.’

‘I don’t mind doing it again, if you like,’ he offered with a grin, ‘but we seem to have attracted a small audience already.’

We had indeed and, my cheeks glowing slightly, I suggested we make for the hall, though he didn’t remove his arm from my waist in case, he explained, Aimee and Adam came back.

‘I don’t think they will; we seem to have fooled them,’ I told him, but unfortunately we also seemed to have fooled everyone else, because we were on the receiving end of a lot of knowing looks and kind smiles.

We joined the flow of people round the hall after buying raffle tickets, past a booth with a sign saying, ‘Visit Gypsy Zillah Smith at the end of the pier’, Chloe’s chocolate stall and trestle tables laden with plants and home-made goods of all kinds, including some donated by Celia and her Crafty Knitters. She and Will hadn’t been able to make it today, but I was pretty sure I’d recognised one or two of the people who’d been at the Knitathon. Mrs Snowball was doing a roaring trade selling Jago’s gingerbread stars.

Stella must have exhausted her small reserves of energy, because Ma brought her back to us before wandering over to examine the plant stall. It was so crowded in the hall that we folded up the buggy and I parked it in a corner behind a screen while Jago carried Stella.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘Raffy told me that when he announces the tea and coffee are ready, he’s also going to tell them they can buy my cake by the slice and I can see the urns have been brought out.’

My cake was on a table to itself next to the refreshments, along with a stack of paper plates and napkins. I took up my place behind it and one of the ladies at the next stall handed me a cake knife.

‘Wow,’ Jago said. ‘That one’s even better than the last – it could have been professionally made.’

I blushed with pleasure. ‘Thank you – and I took your advice and wrote it up for “The Cake Diaries”.’

‘You know, a prinsesstårta would make an excellent alternative wedding cake, alongside my croquembouche,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘If you ever want a job, I’ll take you onto the payroll.’

‘Actually, I’d love that, because I think I enjoy making them as much as you do the croquembouche. Perhaps one day, when Stella’s well enough to start school, I’ll take you up on it …’

I looked at my now-sleeping daughter, whose arms were linked in a fond stranglehold around Jago’s neck. ‘If all goes well, that is,’ I added, a lump suddenly forming in my throat.

‘Of course it will, but I do wish you’d change your mind and let me go to America with you,’ he said, continuing an argument we’d been having off and on for a few days. ‘I’d pay my own way, and come back as soon as Stella was starting to recover after the operation.’