Page 92 of Christmas at Rachel’s Pudding Pantry

‘What about my presents?’ Maisy shouted, folding her arms across her chest and sounding most disgruntled.

‘They’ll still be here when we get back, Maisy,’ Rachel appeased, feeling irritated about the delay herself. ‘Macduff and his ladies will be making all kinds of trouble if we leave them to it.’

‘Don’t care.’

Oh dear, this really wasn’t the best start to Christmas Day.

Suddenly Jill came up with, ‘I think it was Father Christmas, you know. Well, it’s been snowing … have you seen? Look. So, I bet the reindeer were cold and hungry and he had to stop to feed them, taking some hay from the cattle shed. He must have been in such a rush he didn’t quite click the gate shut properly.’

This was sheer genius. Rachel was impressed.

‘Oh, for Rudolph, then?’

‘Yes, they’d never make it around the world to all those other children otherwise.’

‘Oh, come on then, Grandma. Let’s go.’

Jill gave a wink to Rachel over her shoulder, as Maisy was ushered out.

The real explanation, they were soon to find out, was that the straw bed in the cattle shed had layered thickly near to the gate, and given the cows just the height they needed to rub up against and loosen the bolt. It wasn’t unheard of, but on Christmas Day? Really! It could only happen on a farm!

So, Macduff and his ladies and their now big calves were soon rounded up, with plenty of gentle but firm encouragement and arm waving, by a strange looking army of helpers dressed in pyjamas, dressing gowns and green wellies, plus Tom in his boxer shorts with a borrowed bright-red boiler suit over them. Fifteen minutes later, with all the animals safely back in the cattle shed, and a further helping of hay loaded in for luck, Rachel double-checked the bolt and they headed back to the house to begin Christmas Day anew.

While still in the yard, Rachel spotted a slightly snowy Tom, dressed head to toe in red, looking like a very sexy and slimmer version of Santa. She burst out laughing.

‘What’s up with you?’ Tom asked, slowing to walk beside her.

They stayed back behind the others, who were already pulling off boots at the farmhouse porch.

‘Mummy, come on! It’s present time.’ Maisy was waving her in, impatiently.

‘Won’t be a minute, petal.’

‘Come on, spill. Or I’ll have to snowball you?’ Tom whispered at her ear.

‘It’s just … you look like a Skinny Santa in that suit!’

‘Well, thanks. I’ve been called worse. And, of course, I might just have to make all your wishes come true later on,’ he added with a rather naughty wink.

‘Mum-mee!’

‘Let’s go, Santa. We can’t keep this little girl waiting any longer.’

They strode in to join the others.

‘Well then, that was fun and games to start the day, but all’s well that ends well, hey? I think this calls for a warming cup of tea and a nice hot chocolate for you, little Maisy.’ Jill welcomed them back to the kitchen. ‘And then we’ll all go and open our Christmas stockings. See if Father Christmas has been good to us?’

‘Yay! But hurry, Grandma. I’m ready already.’

They were soon taking their hot drinks through to the living room and the stockings were handed out to all the ladies.

‘But where’s Tom’s?’ Maisy suddenly looked concerned.

‘Oh, I think Father Christmas has probably left mine at my house. That’s where I sent my wishes from.’ Tom was thinking quickly, suddenly adding, ‘But ah … yes, of course, I’ve got my wish right here, come to think of it. But he couldn’t fit Mummy in a stocking, could he?’

‘Ah, okay.’ With that, Maisy was delving an arm eagerly into her stocking, pulling out sweets, a new book, coloured pens, and her own cooking set with sugar sprinkles, sugar-paste unicorns and polka-dot muffin cases to make her own cupcakes with. Then out came the Santa soft toy mouse that Eve had made which drew a little gasp and an, ‘Oh, he’s so cute!’.

Rachel found a lovely bottle of perfume in her stocking, that she could never have afforded herself, and some gorgeous chocolate truffles, along with a lottery scratch card. ‘Perfect,’ she gave Granny Ruth and Jill a warm smile. ‘Thank you, Father Christmas.’