As she straightened up, the realisation came to her with a jolt that slammed straight to her heart. Her aunt and Delia had run this compendium of yarns and ribbons over the years, not as a business, but as a social enterprise. A note of dread rang in the back of her mind for what she would discover in the accounts when she marketed the business. It was blatantly obvious from the noticeable voids on the shelves behind the gargantuan meeting table that very little had been spent on the shop’s maintenance. There was no point thinking about that, though, now the building and the business were going to be sold.
Delia appeared at the bottom of the stairs carrying a tray. ‘Here we are, love, one steaming cup of your favourite Earl Grey tea. Warms the cockles of your heart, it does.’
Unlikely, thought Callie. Anxiety and grief had lodged a tight knot in her chest that no amount of alcohol-free beverage could dislodge. Only in the welcoming arms of Jack and Daniel could Callie feel the suffocating weight begin to ease and that was only a temporary reprieve.
‘I’ve made a pot for when Iris and Marcia arrive. They usually pop in after collecting Iris’s pension on a Tuesday morning, after a compulsory visit to old Mr Wallington’s bakery. Oh, I shouldn’t continue calling it that now, I suppose. Did you know he’s moved into Heppleton Residential Care Home? Ah, everything is changing in Allthorpe. The passage of time favours no one, I’m afraid.’
As Delia busied herself dusting the shelves with a long feather duster, accompanied by a running commentary of complaints about how quickly the dust settles when not kept on top of, Callie swung her contemplation and analytical eye onto her aunt’s best friend of over forty years.
Her hair, the colour of Yorkshire mist, had been cut in a surprisingly modern style – spiky fringe, tufted at the back, and finished off with the suspicion of gel! In fact, Delia carried her sixty years well. In spite of her ample hips and bosom, Callie’s expert eye told her that she modelled her wardrobe on the latest trends; hand-knit apricot cashmere sweater, embellished with tiny shimmering beads around the neckline and a pair of flatteringly cut trousers. She had a suspicion – no, a certainty – that Delia had designed and hand-sewn them herself to flatter her figure perfectly. Delia had completed her day’s attire with the largest pearl earrings Callie had seen and a long silver chain from which her bejewelled glasses swung like an optical pendulum as she swished away the offending dust.
But there was a tightness at the corners of Delia’s thinning lips and pronounced creases between her eyes. With a jolt of guilt, Callie realised how anxious the older woman must be about what would become of Gingerberry Yarns and, therefore, her own future. Delia would never have admitted it to Callie, but Callie knew she had relished the role of the shop’s co-chatelaine over the years. It was what she had lived for.
‘Delia, let’s sit down.’
Callie strode over to the gigantic table and folded her six-foot frame into one of the uncomfortable chairs. Its wooden spindles dug sharply into the small of her back. Silence extended through the room. It felt weird because the whole place was usually suffused with chatter and the aroma of her aunt’s favourite coffee brewing in the corner for customers to help themselves.
Best just launch in, she thought. Natives of Yorkshire were renowned for their straight-talking. ‘Delia, Aunt Hannah left me Gingerberry Yarns in her will.’
‘Oh, that’s marvellous, my dear. Your aunt truly loved this place, you know. She spent more time here than she did over at her house in Harrogate. She adored the yarns, the cottons, the silks, the mohairs. Oh, the way she used to run her fingers through those spools of ribbons and laces. But, most of all it was the people she loved, Callie, the regulars. Her “posse”, she would call them, “Hannah’s haberdashery posse”.’
Delia stared out of the window, lost in her memories. Her trendy haircut made her look like she was wearing a pewter helmet, but her face reflected the kindness that oozed from her pores. She twisted her rings around her fingers as she reminisced. Her tear-blotched face was pale and drawn, the red spidery veins bleeding across the whites of her eyes evidence of the copious weeping the trauma of the previous eight days had caused.
‘I know mere words can’t erase your sorrow, Callie. William and I were never fortunate enough to be blessed with children of our own, nor as an only child from a single mother do I have any nephews or nieces or other relatives, but you, Seb and Dominic are as good as family to me.’ Delia drew in a deep breath as she prepared to deliver her next sentence. ‘We need to open the shop back up. It’s been closed for more than a week now and people are asking. I’m happy to stay on, but if you don’t want me to… I’ll understand.’ Her crooked fingers, gnarled by years of gripping knitting needles and the onset of arthritis, continued to twist at her wedding ring, fearful of the response.
‘Stay on?’
‘Well, just if you wanted to run it yourself, that’s all? Or, heaven forbid, sell up. It seems to be what’s happening around here in the village.’ Delia closed her eyes against the potential heartbreak of not only losing her best friend, but also her reason for getting out of bed every morning.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look at the butcher’s shop across the road, its frontage clad in a cage of scaffolding. A so-called property developer is renovating the building into ‘a desirable country dwelling, boasting wood-burning stoves and a sleek, stainless-steel kitchen; a stylish weekend retreat for a rich city banker’. That’s what the sales particulars say – they’re not even attempting to market the place as a home to local residents who will become part of the community. I shudder to think what the village of Allthorpe will become if yet another shop loses the fight to stay open. And there’s no point in objecting to the planners. We tried that.’
As Callie met Delia’s eyes a barrage of guilt tumbled through her veins. In that instant her aunt’s oldest friend had understood that Callie would indeed be selling up.
‘Sorry, Callie, please don’t pay any heed to me. I’m a sentimental old woman. You have to be free to make your own decision, unburdened by any feelings of loyalty or, heaven forbid, pity. You have your own life and future to think of.’
‘Delia, I’m so sorry. I’m going back to London tonight. I need to get back to work and resume some sort of normality. I want to be at the salon just in case… well… just in case our design wins. Only the winner is going to be informed, to keep things as private as possible for Lilac, so if we don’t hear anything tomorrow it means our design hasn’t been chosen. Do you think we might have a chance, Delia? It’d be such a fabulous opportunity for everyone at Callie-Louise.’
‘I don’t know, Callie dear, but I’m sure your design was the most adorable. Your aunt was so proud of all your achievements, you know, not just these star-studded creations. Every day we’d sit at this very table and chat about you and Seb and Dominic; about your fantastic designs, about Seb and Dominic’s promotions at work, about Theo’s success with his band. It made her happy just to know you were all following your dreams – wherever their paths took you.
‘She was just so excited when we closed the shop last Friday. Lots of our customers and friends had called by during the day to wish you luck, before she… before she…’ Delia withdrew a lace-trimmed, cotton handkerchief embroidered with a large blue ‘D’ and dabbed the falling tears away from her papery cheeks.
‘I miss her so much. Every day of the last fifteen years since your Uncle John died we’ve been running Gingerberry Yarns together. Then, after my William passed away, it was just the two of us. This isn’t simply a shop to us, Callie, a means of making a living. Gingerberry Yarns is an integral part of this community. Oh, I know you youngsters think Allthorpe is a dull, parochial village, and it may be, compared to the pull of the bright lights of the metropolis, but your aunt’s shop provides an escape, offers solace from the lonely daily routine that we older people find our lives becoming when our children and spouses have moved on.’
‘I’m sorry, Delia. I can’t run Gingerberry from London, I just can’t. Even if my design doesn’t win,