Wish Upon a Star. Trisha Ashley

If you give people a positive way of helping, I’m sure they’ll do it.’

      ‘Yes, everyone loves to support a good cause, especially where a child is involved,’ Will agreed.

      ‘I’ll organise a couple of events too. My knitting circle can have a sponsored knitathon, perhaps, and in the spring we could have a Crafty Celia garden party. I’m having lots of ideas,’ Celia said enthusiastically. ‘Will could put one of his sculptures in if we had a selling exhibition, too.’

      He nodded, ‘Good idea. And maybe Martha can get some fundraising going in the village?’

      ‘She isn’t really tuned in to village life,’ I told him. ‘She’s been to one or two sessions of the Musical Appreciation Society and she goes to the monthly Gardening Club, and to the library, but that’s about it. She did suggest mortgaging this house and giving me the money, but I wouldn’t let her: she isn’t that well off.’

      We tossed ideas around a little more, while eating warm mince pies, then Ma came down from the studio and Stella woke up, so we all had an expedition to the gatehouse at Winter’s End to buy bunches of the mistletoe they grow there, a local tradition.

      Later, I asked Ma the important question.

      ‘I mean, I really hope that Stella stays well and it won’t come to it, but I wanted to ask you now, just in case …’

      ‘I see what you mean,’ she said, ‘but I hadn’t thought of that possibility.’

      ‘Well, do, but don’t answer me now, have a think about it, because I know you like your own space and so it would be a big ask.’

      ‘It’s not so much that, but I think you’d find it very difficult getting back on the property ladder in London when you moved back.’

      ‘I know – impossible, in fact; we’d have to rent. But at least Stella would be well again …’

      ‘Let me sleep on it,’ Ma said.

      Ma wasn’t much of a churchgoer, except to admire the architecture, monuments and windows, but she’d attended every Midnight Carol Service at All Angels since moving back to the village. I think it was the music: her tastes were very eclectic and she often said that Mr Lees, who was the organist there, had to be heard to be believed.

      And actually, I had heard him, because he often played the organ at the strangest times, and a fugue distantly haunting you in the dead of night when the wind was in the right direction certainly got the hairs standing up on the back of your neck.

      I’d never been to the services with her, because taking Stella out in the freezing cold night hadn’t seemed like a good idea, so that evening Ma went off with Hal, who called for her. While she fetched her voluminous black cape, which made her look like a smaller and more rotund version of the woman in that Scottish Widows advertisement, I asked Hal why he didn’t fly out to New Zealand and spend Christmas with his daughter and her family and he said he wouldn’t go in an aeroplane ever again for love nor money, but he’d be off up to his sister’s in Scotland for Hogmanay instead.

      ‘I couldn’t miss the Winter’s End Christmas party,’ he added. ‘I’m the Lord of Misrule and we have a grand time.’

      ‘I don’t know about Lord of Misrule, but you’re an old fool, getting dressed up and prancing about at your time of life,’ Ma said, reappearing.

      ‘There’s nowt about my time of life to stop me prancing, and anyway, you never come to the party so you don’t know what goes on.’

      ‘I’ve heard things, though.’

      ‘I’d love to go, and Ottie invited us, but it would be a bit much for Stella,’ I said.

      Stella was already overexcited by the thought of Father Christmas arriving during the night and it had taken me ages to get her settled down that evening. Still, finally she’d gone to sleep and later I’d tiptoed in and hung her stocking on the bedpost, then arranged the presents beneath the little pine tree, before eating the gingerbread and carrot left out for the great man and his trusty reindeer.

      Ma had already put her presents under the tree, roughly wrapped in brown paper and tied up with green garden twine, so they looked strangely trendy.

      When she came back from the service she looked cold and the tip of her nose was scarlet. Once she’d divested herself of her woolly cape, I handed her a warm mince pie and a glass of Laphroaig, her favourite whisky.

      ‘How was the service?’

      ‘Very good – all the old favourite carols and hymns, sung to the right tunes, although Mr Lees played us out with “Nearer, My God, to Thee”, which was a slightly odd choice. It was worth going, just for that.’

      She put her feet up on a red Moroccan leather pouffe, sipped her whisky and said, ‘Well, our Cally, I had a good think about things while Raffy was doing his sermon, all about the Nativity. And, of course, there’s always room at this inn.’

      ‘You mean … we can come and stay, if I have to sell the flat?’

      ‘Of course you can, you daft lump. I was hardly going to turn you down, was I?’

      I got up and went to give her a hug. ‘If it happens, I promise we’ll keep out of your hair as much as we can, and then as soon as Stella’s well again, leave you in peace.’

      ‘You can have too much peace,’ she said surprisingly.

      Ma’s reply was not unexpected but it was a weight off my mind.

      Of course, part of me still hoped for a miracle to happen before the operation became necessary – or at least that some new treatment would become available over here. But logically, I knew that it was unlikely that the cavalry would come riding to my rescue over the brow of the hill, and the most I could hope for was that Stella’s condition didn’t worsen over the coming year.

      Since she was born I’d learned to live in the present, but nothing could stop me dreaming of a future.

       Chapter 6: Hasty Pudding

      After a magical Christmas, when Stella seemed to be eating well and growing stronger, as she always did in Sticklepond, it had been quite a shock when she became ill with breathing difficulties and a rocketing temperature right after we got home, and was rushed into hospital.

      What would be a minor sniffle cured by a dose of Calpol in a normal child became a near-miss with pneumonia for Stella, and though luckily they quickly got her stabilised and her temperature down, it was a week before she could come home, clingy, pale and exhausted by the least exertion.

      It was another setback but – more than that – I’d seen the writing on the wall. Even before the consultant suggested contacting Dr Rufford Beems in Boston about bringing forward the date of the operation, I’d told Ma I was putting the flat on the market.

      The operation had been booked for the coming autumn. All I had to do was raise a vast amount of money, and keep my darling child from catching any more infections between now and October, when we were to leave …

      To say I was stressed out was an understatement, and after comfort-eating four microwave-in-a-mug chocolate cakes in quick succession, when it got to the fifth I started thinking of ways to jazz them up a bit and came up with Black Forest gateau variation.

      I sent the recipe off to Sweet Home magazine with some others I’d stockpiled, and the editor liked it so much she slipped it into the April edition (which of course, as is the way with magazines, came out in March) instead of a raisin roll one.

      In the same April issue, Celia was showing the readers how to create friendship bracelets from old buttons, and Will had an article about making found-object pictures using an old frame he found in a skip, bits of driftwood, sea-washed fragments