The Christmas Calendar Girls: a gripping and emotive feel-good romance perfect for Christmas reading

By Samantha Tonge

'Warm, cosy and perfect to curl up with' Mandy Baggot, author of One Last Greek Summer.

'A charming story about second chances, redemption, and the magic of Christmas. Five festive stars!' Lucy Coleman, author of Snowflakes Over Holly Cove.

'A must-read Christmas story of love, loss, friendship and community' Sandy Barker, author of One Summer in Santorini.
This Christmas fall in love with the town of Chesterwood...
Christmas is meant to be a time of giving, so with Chesterwood food bank under risk of closure Fern knows just what to do to save it. She's going to get the town to create a living advent calendar.

Fern, and her best friends, call for help from the local community to bring this calendar to life. When Kit, the new man in town, offers his assistance Fern's heart can't help but skip a beat (or two).

As they grow ever closer, Fern must admit that Kit's breaking down the barriers she built after the death of her husband. But his past is holding him back and Fern doesn't know how to reach him. No matter how hard she tries.

In this town, Kit's not the only one with secrets. Domestic goddess Cara is behaving oddly, burning meals in the oven and clothes whilst ironing, and Davina's perfect children are causing trouble at school leaving her son, Jasper, desperately unhappy.

Can the Christmas Calendar Girls find a way to bring the community together in time to save the food bank, while still supporting their families and each other? Can Fern find love again with Kit?

This is a story about kindness and letting go of the past. It's about looking out for your neighbours and about making every day feel like Christmas.
Praise for Samantha Tonge:
'A story of love, friendship and community sprinkled with magical festive moments. Full of warmth, this is a real treat' Maggie Conway, author of Winter at West Sands Guest House.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781838930769

Samantha Tonge

Samantha lives in Cheshire, England, with her lovely family and two cats who think they are dogs. A love of reading developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. Having first followed other careers, such as as a fun stint working at Disneyland Paris, Samantha began writing and has sold around 100 short stories to women's magazines. Formally trained as a linguist, she has a passion for writing romantic comedy novels.

Book preview

1

‘You’ve got to be joking.’ I pulled a face at Davina and Cara, my two best friends.

The cream sofa creaked as I shuffled backwards. Tea slopped over the side of my china cup and trickled onto the saucer. My curly hair and Cara’s bright clothes always seemed out of place in Davina’s orderly, elegant living room.

‘There’s just over a month to do it.’ Davina shrugged. ‘I think it’s one of the Parents’ Association’s best ideas yet.’

‘You would say that.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘You came up with it.’

She gave me a flash of pretend offence. ‘I’ve spoken to the Head and she agrees that a homemade advent calendar is a super challenge for Year Three.’

I groaned.

‘And that it will develop the children’s imaginative and motor skills.’

‘Or rather those of the parents. Remember the paint-an-egg competition last Easter?’

Cara yawned. ‘That Fabergé egg by little Tommy looked so authentic.’

‘Mia probably used real jewels.’ Tommy had only joined the class in September, with his lunchbox salmon bagels and tales of clay pigeon shooting with Daddy. And who could ignore his divorced mother, Mia, with her pewter Puffa jacket and pink jeep bearing her beauty salon’s logo?

‘This is to raise money for a worthy cause, remember,’ said Davina. ‘A reasonable entry fee will be charged and the winner gets a small prize.’

‘Which charity?’ asked Cara. She knelt on the laminate floor, stroking Prada, a Persian cat. ‘I’ve not kept up to speed lately.’

Cara not up to speed? That was like saying Lewis Hamilton had been cautioned for driving too slowly.

‘Cancer Research,’ said Davina. In memory of…’

We all looked at each other. One month, Polly had been there. The next she hadn’t. It must have been terrible for her husband. Indeed, I knew how that felt. And I’d tried to protect Lily but the school secretary’s death was always going to make her think of her dad.

At the start, moving away from the centre of London – away from our memories of Adam – had diverted me. I envisaged cul-de-sacs where Lily would make friends and neat squares of garden to play on and Alderston village was just like that. The timing was perfect, as she was five years old and had just left nursery and started primary school. A new home. A fresh start. That’s when I met Davina and Cara.

But three years later and the hurt still unexpectedly surfaced. Not as frequently as it used to but I’d never get used to that punch to the stomach. Like last week when Adam’s favourite rugby team were on the television and won their match. Or yesterday when Lily laughed – blissfully unaffected by the fact she’d given the loudest, daddy-like snort.

I should have got used to it by now: the bedroom floor minus discarded socks; the bathroom cabinet missing shaving gel; the absence of off-tune whistling. Before his diagnosis Adam used to whistle a lot.

Our new home was very different to the London pad Adam and I had excitedly bought two years after we’d first met. Mum and Dad had given us a lump sum and said we could use it to spend on a honeymoon or a deposit for a house. We’d not even had to discuss which option to choose. Our relationship was like that. We agreed on the small and big things – like cream going on scones first and London being an exciting, vibrant place to bring up children. However, since his death, I wanted the quiet life. Somewhere to heal my wounds and provide a gentle upbringing for Lily.

Yes, things had changed. As Lily had grown, I enjoyed her arms round me instead of his. They were just strong enough to push me forwards in time when, now and again, I longed to jump back.

‘But all those little doors – twenty-four!’ I said brightly. ‘Even Cara will struggle with that, and we know there’s nothing she can’t make out of a toilet roll and a cereal box.’

‘Apart from a car that doesn’t cut out in weather this cold. Now if I could create one of those…’

Playfully I pushed her shoulder. Dear Cara was ever modest. She’d warmly introduced her eldest daughter, Hannah, that first day in the playground, then beckoned over Davina with her twins, Jasper and Arlo. I was dressed up for a meeting to interview someone about the latest feature I was writing. Davina was dressed up just because. In jeans and trainers, Cara made some comment about herself never being a yummy mummy. I told her she looked great but said being a chummy mummy counted for much more. We’d had to explain to the children that the word chum meant friend. Appropriately, Cara meant friend in Irish. Her great-grandparents had come over from Belfast and she’d often told stories of their legendary hospitality. She must have inherited it.

‘I’m just a little worried for those of us who aren’t so artsy,’ I said. ‘And what with me working full-time and Lily being more of an outdoors sort…’

‘We’ve thought about that.’ Davina put the coffee pot down onto the low gilt table.

‘That’s what worries me.’

Cara chuckled.

It would have been easy to write off the Parents’ Association at Birchfield Primary as a bunch of people who had too much time on their hands. But it wasn’t. Tease as we did, Davina did a lot of charity work and, having been an accountant, still did the books for her husband’s building firm. The other members were either single like me and held down jobs, or, like Cara, they were busy stay-at-home parents.

And then there was redundancy, illness, divorce, caring for elderly relatives…

Everyone had a story.

Simply navigating the day to day was tough enough. Limiting screen time. Encouraging reading. Trying to make fruits and vegetables sound as appealing as chicken nuggets…

Davina proceeded to explain how she would design and provide everyone with a template made out of cardboard, her sleek, naturally blonde ponytail waving cheerily from side to side as she spoke.

‘Just don’t tell John’s mum.’ Cara undid her hand-knitted cardigan, its swirling pattern mimicking her wavy bob. ‘Audrey has always bemoaned the fact that Christmas starts too early and is so commercial.’ She’d lowered her voice as if her mother-in-law’s hearing aids could pick up far-off conversations.

I studied the dark rims under her eyes, accentuated against the pale, freckled skin characteristic of redheads. Life for Cara had been hard since her widowed mother-in-law had moved in two months ago following a fall. Although, now she was getting better, Audrey seemed like such a help. She was always playing with the children and kept Cara company, what with my friend’s husband, John, working all hours.

‘Maybe she’s got a point,’ said Davina. She slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet under her bottom. ‘Being involved with the food bank has really made me grateful for the life I have with Max, Jasper and Arlo.’

That’s where I first met him. Kit. For just a few seconds I’d seen nothing but those warm chestnut eyes. The way they’d crinkled at the corners and made me feel like the only person in the room.

‘Volunteering there has made me think about all the money we waste without even realising it,’ continued Davina. ‘One man was telling me that sometimes he has to choose between buying toothpaste or deodorant.’

‘Imagine that,’ said Cara and shook her head.

‘So this Christmas I’ve told relatives we are to limit how much we spend on each other. Fifty pounds each should do it.’

Cara and I both looked affectionately at Davina. Her attempts at budgeting were like born chef Cara deigning to buy ready-to-bake cake mix – one of Davina and my staples. Or like me complaining about aeroplanes flying over my semi, which was probably one of the quietest on the small estate, compared to Cara’s terrace next to a drummer and Davina’s detached house serenaded by a nearby cockerel.

Davina untucked her legs and rubbed her forehead. ‘To be honest I’ve been worrying all week. Have you heard about it being under threat?’

I frowned. In the spring I’d grown to know Chesterwood’s food bank well whilst researching a story on local unemployment. I’d met Kit’s eyes across a stack of tinned tuna and was immediately hooked. The wild mocha hair. Tall toned frame. The surprisingly shy smile that caught me off-guard. I hadn’t looked at another man like that since Adam, yet all this while I’d felt nothing but friendship for Kit – until our recent cinema visit.

‘Up until now the warehouse it’s based in has been charging minimal rent just to cover the rates. As you know, Fern, it’s only small. The landlord inherited it and hasn’t previously wanted the bother of doing much with it. But a developer has shown interest and made him realise he’s missing out on some serious money.’

This didn’t sound good.

‘He had no idea the property had such potential and wanted to sell up straightaway but Ron who runs it talked him round.’

‘So what’s the problem exactly?’ I asked.

‘The landlord has said unless they can start paying a competitive level of rent he’ll have to evict them.’ Davina shook her head. ‘It’s an astronomical amount. Not outlandish in terms of the market – in fact modest, by all accounts – but for a strapped organisation that previously has hardly had to pay a penny…’

‘The news must have been such a shock,’ said Cara. She sat a little straighter. ‘The community should do something about this.’

I exchanged glances with Davina. It was nice to see a glimpse of the old Cara who always roped Davina and me into supporting her latest cause. Like the animal rescue centre last year that the council had stopped funding. She’d baked cookies with cat faces on to feed the demonstrators standing outside in the rain. However, she’d just not been herself lately.

‘Yes. Ron looks even more tired than usual. With more wintry weather approaching volunteers can hardly cope with demand, as it is, and he’s working all hours,’ said Davina. ‘The food bank’s account can just cover rent until the end of December, but after that who knows what will happen. He’s going to approach as many charities as possible in the hope that the place will be able to operate under their umbrella, and gain support and funding that way. Initial talks have made him feel optimistic that might happen but setting it up will take time. Max and I gave a donation—’

‘That was good of you,’ said Cara. ‘I wish John and I were in a position to do the same but I account for every penny that we spend, and there’s never much left over after the essentials each month.’

‘Same here,’ I said. Adam’s death had paid off the mortgage but there were still living costs. Much-needed holidays to save for, along with university funds for Lily one day – and my old age. I never used to think much about things like that but Adam’s death had brought my finances sharply into focus. I was now very aware of the fact that Lily was dependent on me alone, and that I needed to be completely self-sufficient.

Davina shrugged. ‘There was only so much we could give, especially as our earnings haven’t been as high this year. Ron really needs to cover January’s rent, as well, to tide the food bank over properly until a more permanent rescue plan is in place – and to give the landlord the reassurance he wants that they are committed to paying long-term.’

The food bank couldn’t close down. I’d seen first-hand how it changed people’s lives, offering hope to those who didn’t know where their next meal was coming from. And it benefited the community in so many other ways, bringing people together and reducing food waste. Local supermarkets, restaurants and hotels all donated goods they’d otherwise have to pay to store or throw away.

Not that I’d known any of this until researching my article. And I doubted many people in the community did. A food bank was one of those essential, highly important places that nevertheless existed away from sight, in the background.

She sighed. ‘Anyway, enough about my concerns – Cara, has Hannah got over that nasty bug yet? Did little Lex catch it?’

I listened to Cara reply, relishing the relaxation. It was the autumn half-term holiday and the three of us had been keen to meet. I tried to plan my work so that I could free up days whenever the schools broke up. There was never enough time to chat in the playground. The children were currently upstairs in Arlo’s bedroom practising a play they’d made up, about dragons, that they wanted to perform to us before lunch.

‘So, Fern – what are you wearing on tomorrow’s date?’ said Davina briskly. ‘I meant to ask yesterday, at the indoor play area.’

Cara stopped stroking the cat. ‘Date? How come I’m the last to know?’

‘Because it’s not a date,’ I said firmly and glared at Davina who had a gleam in her eye.

‘Oh please. This Oliver guy has asked you out to dinner. And quite right too. You are giving his mindfulness venture a plug in your column.’

‘It’s business. And there’s been nothing remotely flirtatious about our emails,’ I said, thinking the sleet outside must be nice and cooling. The colder weather had come early this year.

‘Gosh… this is your first, isn’t it? Since…’ Cara’s voice softened.

Since Adam? It was. And my lack of enthusiasm towards Oliver didn’t mean I wouldn’t be ready to meet someone else if the right person came along. My thoughts flicked to Kit.

Last night we’d gone on one of our cinema trips. We both loved science fiction. The only seats left were in the back row. Kit had winked and I’d laughed. We sat down next to a young couple with their arms around each other.

‘I’ve only got eyes for ice cream at the movies,’ Kit had whispered, holding up two Cornettos.

Playfully I’d snatched one from him. It fell. As the lights dimmed, we’d both bent down to retrieve it. On straightening up our faces came the closest they’d ever been. I wasn’t sure why but I couldn’t help thinking about it now.

‘She doesn’t even know what this Oliver looks like,’ said Davina.

‘Actually, I did a bit of research.’

‘You mean you’ve stalked him on social media,’ she said comfortably. ‘Perfectly understandable. Let’s see what he looks like, then.’

I took out my phone and went into Facebook. ‘Great blonde hair. Doting eyes. Could be a keeper, don’t you think?’

Cara reached for my phone. A smile crossed her face. ‘Perhaps you should be wary of a man who puts a photo of his dog up as his profile picture – although I do love terriers. Have you got a babysitter?’

‘Young Megan, next door.’

‘First things first, Fern,’ said Davina. ‘What are you wearing?’

I opened my mouth then shut it again.

‘As I thought. Come with me. I’ve got a new green dress that will match your eyes perfectly.’

‘It’s really not nec—’

Davina stood up and gave me a piercing stare that only a mother of twins could master. She and Cara came over and waited for me to get to my feet. Then they linked arms with me, one either side.

Grumbling, I acquiesced, despite feeling sick. But it wasn’t the thought of the date giving me nausea. It was the idea of the food bank disappearing. Cara was right. Something had to be done. The weeks I’d spent interviewing the unemployed made me realise any one of us could end up sleeping on the streets. When Adam died, I’d started drinking a bottle of wine every night – until the time Lily was ill. I couldn’t drive her to hospital and had to book a taxi instead.

That was the wake-up call I’d needed. But what if I hadn’t woken up? I could have lost my job. My home. Lost Lily. The sympathy of family and friends. Ended up as a rough sleeper, dependent on the kindness of others.

Keen to troubleshoot, my mind started racing. That came with the job. A journalist was used to working out speedy ways to find witnesses to corroborate stories or evidence to provide proof. I needed to come up with a plan to save the place that had saved so many people from going hungry.

As we walked up the stairs, an idea stormed into my head and demanded attention, inspired by Davina’s talk of the Parents’ Association and a foreign news article I’d read last year.

My heart thumped so loudly my friends could probably hear it.

It was certainly ambitious.

Some might say crazy.

Did I even have time to organise it?

2

A young woman wearing a bobble hat and torn anorak sat in the supermarket’s doorway, on a sheet of cardboard, legs curled in a grubby sleeping bag. I took out my purse and dropped in a handful of change. She nodded and wished me a good evening. Most people walked past. But I wasn’t anything special. It was getting to know the food bank, through the feature I’d written, that had made me seen the story behind the person and stop to think about how that homeless person had got there. And Davina had told me stories about her volunteering. But without this personal connection would the rest of the community care enough about the food bank to spare time to help it out?

It was ages since I’d been out on a Friday night, let alone to a posh French restaurant. Usually Lily and I watched a movie with fish and chips. And if I went out with the girls, or Kit, it would be midweek. Fridays were special to Lily because she could stay up a little later, with no school the next day. But sometimes work commitments got in the way of our end-of-week celebrations.

I smoothed down the green dress and took a deep breath as I entered the Normandy Snail. I’d brought my notepad and pen. This was work. Nothing more. Nothing less. Even though Oliver had suggested we meet here instead of doing the interview over the phone or via email. I was doing a piece for my weekly column in the Birchwood Express. The local stories were a far cry from the crime or fraud topics I covered in the capital before Adam died. But I’d been lucky to get a regular slot and combined it with my freelance work of writing health and wellbeing articles for magazines.

And this piece kind of combined both. It was about the benefits of mindfulness and Oliver worked locally, running courses for local entrepreneurs who needed stress relief. He’d been offering free sessions to the unemployed.

‘Bonsoir.’ The waiter bowed as I breathed in the smell of garlic. I gave my name and he led me to a table.

Like Lily’s school of the same name, Birchwood Estate was small and self-contained with a parade of shops right next to where I dropped her off every morning, featuring a supermarket, newsagent, hairdresser, chemist and Love in a Mug, a busy coffee shop. The hypermarket was a fifteen minute drive away and the park only ten. It wasn’t often Lily and I ventured into Chesterwood, a town five miles away from Alderston village where we’d moved to after losing Adam. Yet I’d noticed a subtle change over the last couple of months, with her displaying more of an interest in shopping and fancy milkshakes since turning eight.

Apparently our house and next door had been built on ground that used to belong to an eighteenth century apothecary. My neighbour had an extension built and the work revealed an underground hoard of old-fashioned glass medicine bottles. She’d set them out in a display cabinet. When Lily and I had first arrived in Alderston I’d liked the sense of history that news gave our new home. It felt as if we weren’t starting over from scratch, but instead were continuing where other families had left off.

I sat down at the rectangular table, with a candle and red rose in the middle. Decorative plates featuring the lavender fields of Provence brightened up the white walls. The waiter brought me a small glass of red. I took a sip.

Adam would have rolled his eyes at a place like this. Stodgy fare was more his thing, sausages and mash and shepherd’s pie being amongst his favourites. That was one of the things that first made me realise his illness really was serious. He went off food. He couldn’t face a burger. Preferred plain toast to pizza. I started to feel guilty about all the takeaways we’d enjoyed. Being in your thirties was young to get stomach cancer. Perhaps we should have done more home cooking and chosen healthier options.

At first, after his death I’d lie on my back, at night, hoping to see his face. The generous mouth. The frown lines caused by long nights at the lap top perfecting prose. And I used to talk to him when Lily was at school. But I hadn’t done that for a while. And for the most part I slept soundly now.

Would Adam want me to meet someone else?

‘Fern? Fern Fletcher?’

I put down my glass and looked up at the slicked back hair and charming smile. He ordered himself a beer before taking a seat.

‘Great to meet you, Fern. And what a name. Fresh. Natural. I can picture that plant right now.’ He winked.

It wasn’t often that I was lost for words.

Oliver had mussels to start, beef with several side dishes, and a slice of tarte tatin for dessert followed by smelly cheese and liquor. He ordered more beer. I switched from wine to sparkling water. Oliver ate mindfully which meant giving me a running commentary. At first it was fascinating. He was right. Mussels were just like fish made out of mushroom. But by the time he’d described every element of every course I felt as if I’d never be able to face a meal again.

Finally, he pushed away his cheese plate and tried to hide a burp with his hand.

‘That hit the spot,’ he said. ‘It was almost as good as the progressive dinner I took part in last week.’

I raised an eyebrow.

‘You do a different course at each participant’s house. My sister’s into that sort of thing. I plumped to do pudding.’ He smirked. ‘I almost forgot to hide the supermarket wrapping. Everyone was well impressed that I’d managed to bake a pavlova.’

I felt a strong desire to bring the evening to an end and I took out my notepad.

‘If I could just ask you a few more questions. What exactly do you find the unemployed gain from your sessions?’

‘They teach resilience and stress relief strategies. There’s usually a good reason for someone being out of work.’ He talked about mental health issues and physical illnesses.

‘You sound passionate about it.’

Oliver burped again, not bothering to hide it with his hand this time. ‘I’m interested in people’s stories. We’ve all got one. They should be shared. It’s only then that people can make sense of their lives and realise they aren’t alone.’

‘This piece is really going to interest the Express’s readers,’ I said. ‘So, it was your idea to offer your services to the local unemployed? You approached the job centre and not the other way around?’

Oliver grinned, put his fingers to his lips. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

A journalist’s five most favourite words.

‘I’m not stupid. Those people could be grateful, paying clients of mine in the future if they manage to turn their lives around. And it’s great for profile, plus