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specially, but so far she hasn’t had to swoop in and demand anyone wipe their hands.
    It’s so lovely watching the flames on the kindling wood, with no customers, and no small people needing any attention. It’s hard to believe you could see the sky through the holes in the roof after the fire, when everything was black and soaking wet. But with the new plaster and paint, you’d never know it happened. Downstairs is still pretty much how it was, only brighter and warmer, but upstairs is where there’s been the biggest transformation. The whole of the space above the shop is now the workroom, with the fireplace and the big table, and lots more shelves, and a new sofa and armchairs by the window where the old kitchen used to be. Above the café we’ve made a small office in the front and a large kitchen with the café dishwasher and huge fridge. We’ve managed to fit in a storeroom too, with floor-to-ceiling shelves for extra stock, which means we can order larger quantities and get better discounts. But almost best of all, we’ve actually got a parking space now, in the lane behind the café; the wool shop never had a back door because we’re right on the corner, but the café does, so now there’s somewhere for delivery vans, and I can leave the door open and nip into the shop for five minutes if Pearl is asleep in her car seat. Elsie keeps an eye on her, or Laura, so it’s not as dodgy as it sounds, and it made a real difference when she was tiny and waking her up led to so much squawking.
    I’m in serious danger of falling asleep when Mrs. Bullen comes up wanting to look at patterns for Fair Isle cardigans for her granddaughter. We’re back downstairs choosing colors when Mark arrives.
    “Afternoon, Jo. Connie said you were getting low on chocolate, and the pistachio, so I thought I’d bring some more stock over.”
    “Thanks, Mark.”
    He unloads the tubs of ice cream and puts them into the big glass-fronted display fridge in the café while Mrs. Bullen finally decides on purples and pinks to contrast with the grays and whites. The pattern has a lovely pale blue which we haven’t actually got in stock, but apparently it doesn’t matter, because her granddaughter is now insisting on pink and more pink since her new baby brother arrived. I find a pretty rose pink as a substitute, and a ball of pale lilac, which I let her have at half price since it’s the last one on the shelf.
    “I can’t wait to get home and get started.”
    “Well don’t forget, come back in if you need a hand with anything.”
    “I will, thank you, dear.”
    Mrs. Bullen often gets confused with patterns, and the last time she made a cardigan she ended up with two left fronts and no right, so now she tends to pop in and check she’s on the right track. We’re always happy to help, and Elsie loves it; she can give top tips and catch up on all the latest gossip at the same time.
    “Here, Jo, try this, would you?” Mark hands me a glass dish and a spoon, and Laura’s already started on hers. Great; I love it when we do tastings. The ice cream is still our best seller. I thought it might slow down in the winter, and it has a bit, but since Mark keeps to his mantra of seasonal food, and introduces new flavors every couple of weeks, demand has stayed fairly steady.
    “Not too sweet?”
    We both shake our heads; too busy enjoying it to waste time speaking.
    He smiles. “Good. The first batch I made was too sweet. Clementines can be tricky like that. I’m glad it’s okay.”
    “It’s so much more than okay, Mark.”
    Each time he brings in a new flavor I end up revising my Top Ten List. Damson, blackberry, salt caramel, the peach one he made in the summer, lemon meringue, hazelnut, and the chestnut one he made at Christmas. The raspberry ripple with old-fashioned vanilla. And the gooseberry fool was pretty epic too. Actually, maybe I’ll just have a Top Twenty, because the honeycomb is lovely too, and the black currant. I think