Chapter Nine #2
I’m glad to be summoned from my reverie, which is veering towards macabre and slightly cannibalistic, by Keith, waving a bag at me and shouting, ‘Ossobuco!’ I’m not a hundred per cent sure what that is, being more of a purchaser of fine ready meals than an actual cook, but call ‘delicious!’ in reply, and let Keith keep me company and talk me through the risotto recipe he has planned while I edge further towards the counter.
He offers me a lift home and as, according to the Met Office website, it ‘feels like’ –5°C, I gratefully accept.
Ten minutes later, turkey crown ordered, I’m in the front seat of Keith’s electric Volvo, Classic FM belting out ‘Carol of the Bells’, which reminds me of Carol, then Taylor Swift, and I cringe so much I squeeze the Ossobuco in my lap and hope that the risotto recipe doesn’t require whatever it is to be in one piece.
‘I have to make a quick stop on the way, girly-pop,’ says Keith.
‘Okay. Where?’
‘I’ve got some things to drop off for the Christmas Fair.’
‘The Christmas Fair?’
‘Yes, the Christmas Fair. The one they have every year in this town. That everyone goes to. Except you, clearly.’ He laughs. ‘You should though. It’s actually rather fun.’
‘It doesn’t sound it.’
‘Mulled wine at eleven a.m.? Wilma Godwin’s homemade stollen? Criminally under-priced soy candles? Honestly, what’s not to love?’
This appears to be rhetorical, so I don’t say anything, although it does sound quite appealing, especially the wine at eleven a.m. Keith is however side-eyeing me while he drives, as though he wants a reply.
‘If you ever came out from behind your LED face mask and actually left the house you would know about these things,’ he says.
‘I’ll have you know I’ve got a boyfriend. Well, maybe. Kind of.’
‘The Wiltshire Eight from The Perch?’
‘The very one. Shame I’m a Swindon Seven. Or a Salisbury Six.’ I’m on a roll. ‘Or a Froxfield…’
‘I get it, Erica. And I wish you’d stop putting yourself down. But I’m delighted to hear about the ham smuggler.’
We pull up outside what appears to be a church hall. I get my phone out to read an article about the ￡8 SPF Tess Daly swears by, which has been burning a hole in my inbox all morning, but Keith, who’s already opening the boot, yells, ‘Come on Erica, chop chop! Give me a hand with these.’
I’m mildly curious as to what ‘these’ are, so I put the squashed Ossobuco on the dashboard before getting out and walking round to the back of the car, where I stare, bemused, at the contents of the boot.
It’s full of what look like tiny model buildings, each one different, and some with open roofs so you can see inside.
The level of detail is incredible: a miniature newspaper and pint glasses on the bar of what must be a pub, a teapot and plate of cakes on a kitchen table, a figure of a man looking somewhat precarious on a miniature ladder.
‘What the hell are these?’
‘Dioramas.’
‘Of what?’
‘Iconic scenes from The Archers. That’s The Bull, and that’s Grey Gables, oh and Pat and Tony Archer at the Bridge Farm kitchen table. And look, that’s Nigel Pargetter on the roof. Poor soul.’
‘And you made them?’
‘I did indeed duckie. I love it. I figure it’s better than watching Netflix all the time. And it’s not like you have me round to yours much anymore when Stephen’s away. What happened to our cheeseboard soirées?’
‘I’ve got… things to do in the evening.’
‘Mainline Malbec and watch David Attenborough?’
He’s laughing, but this stings a bit.
‘I know, I know. I’ve been a hermit. I think I’ve lost my confidence. I’m working on getting it back though. And the Gabe thing helps.’
I’m almost tempted to explain what else might be about to help, when a man and a woman come out of the hall and greet Keith excitedly.
They’re in their sixties I suppose, maybe older, wearing handknits that remind me of Simon’s Norwegian jumper.
Keith kisses the woman on the cheek and does that hand-shake-meets-arm-slap greeting to the man.
‘Erica, this is Frankie… and Douglas.’ He turns back to them. ‘This is my friend Erica. I’m trying to persuade her to come to her first Christmas Fair.’
They make noises that suggest disbelief that I have never been to one before, so I smile politely and start unloading the boot.
I wonder how Keith knows them? I listen to their conversation for clues, but I can’t really follow as there seem to be a lot of in-jokes, and Frankie has an exceptionally loud laugh.
Inside the hall, a woman in her fifties with rosacea wearing an ill-advised red fleece directs me to a table, then spots the diorama I’m carrying and squeaks ‘Is Keith here?’.
Grabbing a man, who could be 100 judging by his mottled complexion, they rush (as much as possible given one of them has a Zimmer frame) outside, followed by an almost spherical woman who is writing ‘stollen!’ in gold on a cardboard sign and could indeed be Wilma herself.
I haven’t seen such excitement since Charlie Dimmock came to WH Smith on the high street to sign her book about ponds.
The dioramas safely stowed in the church hall, Keith takes me back home. ‘There are other people in this town apart from me and Josie you know,’ he says, as though reading my thoughts. ‘You should get out more. It might make you happier.’
‘I’m not really at a diorama-making point in my life. Or one where I’m ready to hang out with pensioners, for that matter. I get enough of that visiting my mum.’
‘They’re not all pensioners! Some of them are our age. Anyway, it’s your loss, girly-pop. Oldies are brilliant fun. I’ve always thought, if life is a party, then the people who stay till the end of the night are the ones with the best stories.’
I shrug again, hand Keith his Squashobuco, and get out of the car.