The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

hands up like a cornered bandit. ‘I’ll admit it. Sometimes I don’t wash jam jars up before I put them in the recycling.’ Oh, God. That’s got to be in the top five lamest things ever said in the history of spoken English.

‘No, that I could forgive. I’m thinking of the health crisis you’ve instigated. You won’t believe the number of terrible scones I’ve had to palm off on the Bible Studies group to get rid of those eggs you brought me. Glen nearly went into hyperglycaemic shock on Thursday. He was injecting insulin like a junkie. As humans, we are graced with free will, but some people can’t be trusted with theirs.’

‘Of course. Ted Bundy, Jefferey Dahmer, John Wayne Gasey … they took some real liberties.’

‘I was thinking more Glen and his lack of control when it comes to scones, but we’ll get to the serial killers at some point, I’m sure.’

A woman taps Ross on the shoulder, giving my pulsing heartbeat a chance to go down. For a moment, I thought he was going to ‘out’ me. If Ross has stumbled on the live stream, there’s a chance he’ll recognise me, even without the heavy make-up and startled expression.

‘Minister, will you be doing a service for All Saints’ Day? Only I’ve got a few thoughts based on last year. I know it wasn’t you, but that business with the effigy was very politically charged for a celebration. There wasn’t the need for so much lighter fuel,’ says the woman, clutching a canvas trolley so big I’m sure she could climb inside for a nap.

‘Quite right. I’m planning something far more … venerated.’ Ross looks solemn, which seems to appease the woman, who smiles broadly, her wrinkles pinched either side of her eyes and mouth. When she’s hoiked her trolley further up the road, he rolls his eyes. ‘Killjoy.’

I laugh and touch his forearm. Holy bejesus, I’m touching his forearm (through a thick woollen coat, but still).

‘Oh, Rev. How was the committee Come Dine With Me?’ says Moira.

‘Dr Singh sneaked into first place on the final night. It was a bit of a relief because the winner had to donate a thousand pounds to charity, and if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have tried so hard,’ he says, tucking his hands in his pockets.

‘Well, if you need anyone to sample new dishes, you’ve got a willing participant right here,’ says Moira, nudging me with her elbow.

‘Funny, that. One of the cricket club guys was supposed to be coming for dinner tonight, but he’s cried off. Severed his left thumb trying to unclog the lawnmower. Can’t hold a fork, apparently, so that’s a problem. Care to swap in?’ he says, looking from Moira to me.

‘Oh, I can’t. I’m helping Mum in the tearoom tonight. The Young Farmers are holding an AGM and want three different kinds of sausage rolls,’ says Moira.

‘Ah, I won’t try to take you off Jacqui,’ says Ross.

‘Hang on, Jacqui? Jacqui’s your mum?’ I say, momentarily distracted by this news.

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Shall we say seven?’ he asks.

‘Me? For dinner?’ I ask.

‘I was going to suggest we pray the rosary together, but we’ll start with food.’

‘Sure. Sounds good,’ I say, winding my smile in so I don’t look too overenthusiastic.

I look over Ross’s shoulder, to where Jacqui stands outside the tearoom. Her apron strings are pulled so tight, the over-all look is that of a sagging sofa cushion. Around her, the same two women I saw lingering behind Ross moments ago are talking behind their hands, unsubtle looks thrown in our direction.

‘Ah, I knew there was something else. Moira, your mum said that you know a good ceilidh caller. Can you see if they’re free for the church roof fundraiser? The lass I had lined up has pulled out and we’ve not got long to go.’

‘Oh, aye, no problem.’

‘See you tonight, Ava,’ says Ross, lifting a mittened hand to say goodbye. I wave back.

‘Do your cheeks hurt?’ says Moira when he’s out of earshot.

‘No. Why?’

‘Because you were gurning like an idiot the whole time he was talking.’

‘Was I?’ I say, poking my cheeks.

‘To be fair, he’s got a very good jawline for a Scotsman. As have you. Think of the babies! A walking chin with teeny little feet trying to keep the rest upright.’

‘Oi!’ I say, bumping her with my hip.

‘He’s never asked me to call him Ross,’ she says, imitating my accent. ‘He’s just been “Minister”. The last one was called that too. It’s like Doctor Who; one disappears and a younger version turns up with a slightly different coat.’

I look into the middle distance, thinking.

‘I’ve got an idea. If Ross is organising a ceilidh, why don’t you use it to make a move on Kian? You’ll have plenty of time to put in some groundwork before then. And if it’s a community event, there’ll be boxed wine, which has always helped me through awkward situations in the past.’

Moira looks up, thinking. ‘That could work. But what am I going to do there? I usually get roped into dancing with the widowers, so I might still get some action. They get a bit handsy during The Eightsome Reel.’

‘Put a good dress on. Swing about a bit. Strip the willow.’ I wink. Moira smacks me on the arm and buries her face in her hands, her fringe sticking up from the fine sea mist that’s only just retreated back into the harbour. She squats down to collapse the table legs, pausing to look up at me.

‘Here’s the deal,’ says Moira, tapping the pen against her teeth. ‘If I’m going to try something on with Kian, you’ve got to attempt a bit of casual flirting with The Rev. Even if it is to give them lot something to talk about.’ She nods towards the gaggle of pea-coat-clad women hovering by the tearoom who disperse when Moira waves at them, fingers fluttering. ‘But you have to report back to me after you go round for dinner.’

I pout to the side and