It Started With A Kiss. Miranda Dickinson

wandered over to the pile of old Roses tins hap hazardly stacked on the benches and compact table in what Uncle Dudley refers to as ‘The Grand Dining Room’, and began to search through them, lifting lids and discarding tins until she located the one she was looking for.

      ‘Ah! Here we are.’ Brandishing the tin, she thrust it under my nose. ‘Coffee and walnut. That’s what you need.’

      And, like countless times before, she was right.

      Maybe it’s because she bakes so often – or maybe (as I secretly suspect) she actually has some mystical culinary-based second sight – but Auntie Mags’ ability to prescribe exactly the right sweet treat to meet your need is practically legendary. Broken heart? ‘Lemon drizzle, pure and simple.’ Anxious about something? ‘Bakewell tart. It’s the only thing that will work.’ Tired? ‘Triple-layer cappuccino cake – that’ll perk you up, chick!’

      ‘You’re a genius, Auntie M,’ I smiled, as Uncle Dudley poured the tea and Auntie Mags cut an enormous wedge of cake with an ancient, yellow bone-handled butter knife that could only have come from one of my uncle’s many car boot sale visits.

      ‘Nonsense. Everybody knows that coffee and walnut cake is vital for making important decisions. Isn’t it, Dudley?’

      Uncle Dudley nodded sagely. ‘Absolutely.’

      Dubious as their reasoning may have been, I found myself grinning like a loon. ‘And what important decisions do you think I have to make?’

      ‘Cake can’t tell you everything,’ my aunt replied, wagging the butter knife at me. ‘Enlighten us, darling niece.’

      I feigned a protest, but inside I was delighted she had asked. The fact was, I needed their advice – and my aunt and uncle were quite possibly the only people I knew who had the ability (and inclination) to fully understand.

      They listened intently as I relayed the events of the fateful day, stopping me every now and again to ask questions.

      ‘Why were you running through the Christmas Market?’

      ‘Because I’d just told Charlie I loved him.’

      They exchanged raised-eyebrowed glances. ‘Oh.’

      ‘But that doesn’t matter because it was a mistake. The point is, the guy who kissed me changed everything.’

      ‘He kissed you?’

      ‘Yes. It was only for a moment, but …’ I stopped, suddenly unsure whether this was appropriate territory for a niece to approach with her aunt and uncle. But their mirrored expectant expressions – instantly reminding me of the two china Staffordshire dogs that guard each end of Mum’s mock-alabaster mantelpiece – urged me to continue. ‘It took my breath away.’

      Uncle Dudley patted his wife’s hand excitedly. ‘Magic! It’s just like me and you, love!’

      Rolling her eyes, Auntie Mags gave a loud tut. ‘Ignore him, Romily, he’s deluded. Carry on.’

      ‘That’s all, really. I know I should just chalk it up to experience – one of those heart-stopping, fleeting moments that will always give you a thrill. But I keep thinking …’

      ‘The attraction of possibility,’ Uncle Dudley chipped in. ‘No matter how unlikely, you can’t shake the feeling it might happen.’

      My heart skipped a beat. ‘That’s it exactly!’

      ‘And you want to find him again,’ Auntie Mags nodded. ‘But you don’t know where to start.’

      ‘I love you guys. So what do I do?’

      Uncle Dudley rose to refill the kettle. ‘I reckon you should go for it. What’s the worst that could happen, eh?’

      ‘Humiliation, disappointment and an unwanted reputation as a desperate woman?’ I ate a forkful of cake and stared at my aunt, who was deep in thought.

      ‘Pah, that’s nothing,’ Uncle Dudley said. ‘I’ve had worse than that in my life and I’m still smiling, aren’t I?’

      ‘You were called a desperate woman?’

      ‘Eh? Oh, good one. Our Romily’s sharp as a needle, eh, Magsie?’

      ‘Quiet, Dudley, I’m thinking.’ She placed her elbows on the table, folded her hands and rested her chin on them.

      My uncle clapped his hands in delight. ‘Ooh, I know that look, Romily. You’re in for a proper treat now if your auntie’s got that face on her.’

      We waited in silence, the only sounds the lapping of the canal waters against the side of the boat and the distant chug of a slowly approaching narrowboat, until the shrill ascending whistle of the kettle broke through.

      ‘If you’re going to do this, you need to think about how best to let people know you’re looking,’ Auntie Mags said, finally. ‘The more people you can involve in your search, the greater your chances of finding him.’

      Uncle Dudley clapped his hands. ‘Brilliant, our Mags!’

      ‘That’s what I’ll do then. But how do I begin?’

      Uncle Dudley tapped the side of his nose. ‘Now don’t you fret about that, bab. You just leave it to your Uncle Dudley.’

      Just as I was about to leave home for the band’s annual Christmas party, Mum rang.

      ‘I just wanted to check you’re still coming for Christmas Day,’ she said. I could hear the theme music of The Great Escape drifting into the background where Dad was no doubt glued to the television for its umpteenth showing. Rather apt, I thought, given the topic of conversation.

      ‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it,’ I lied, putting on my heels as I held the phone against my ear with my shoulder.

      ‘Good. I thought you were going out with your musician friends this evening?’

      ‘I am,’ I replied, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

      ‘You’re leaving it awfully late, aren’t you? It’s seven fifteen already.’

      I smiled to myself. Mum clearly doesn’t know that many musicians.

      There are many wonderful skills that my musician friends possess, but accurate timekeeping is not one of them. I can’t tell you how many band rehearsals have started with two or three of us waiting for over an hour for the others to roll up. Jack and I are usually there pretty much on time, but Charlie, Wren and Soph can be anything from twenty minutes to well over an hour late. And we almost always start without Tom, who has been known to turn up with only three-quarters of an hour of the rehearsal session remaining.

      Every year, the band and their partners meet for a Christmas meal, usually at The Old Gate, a pub and restaurant near Jack and Sophie’s house that sells excellent food and locally-brewed ales. This year, however, Jack had left booking the meal to the last minute and, unsurprisingly, discovered that the pub was fully booked. To rescue a few scraps of credibility (although you could lay money on the fact that he wouldn’t be allowed to forget this indiscretion ever), he and Sophie hastily arranged a meal at their house, begging dining room chairs from family and friends and bringing in the white plastic picnic table from their garden to extend the dinner table in order to accommodate us all. In response to their valiant efforts (and because, despite the constant mocking, we love them both to bits), the rest of the band had divided responsibility for bringing food and drink, each agreeing to bring a component course of the meal. Thankfully, I’d been nominated to provide dessert, which was easy as my mother’s beloved Waitrose was only a short drive away from their house.

      I picked up two large New York baked cheesecakes and a tub of raspberry compote, remembering to bring a couple of bowls of ready-prepared fruit salad for Sophie, who seems to be permanently on a diet.

      True to form, even though I arrived just past nine pm, I was still the first guest at Jack and Sophie’s.