He’d checked out the noticeboard for other places, but they were either too expensive or too far away which would incur greater travel cost. There might be more, he was assured, after Christmas when a number of people dropped out of their courses. Also, he had shamefully to confess to himself that he wanted to stay within hailing distance of the TS’s. At least here he knew that Paradise was within easy reach, if not exactly on offer. Fliss had invited him over to Sunday lunch on one occasion but he’d turned it down, making up an excuse, because he knew he couldn’t face leaving there in the early evening and coming back to this shithole.
It wasn’t all terrible. Sean was an old friend, and a funny guy who’d always been able to make Bruno laugh. They still from time to time got pissed together and shared a few laughs. Bruno had to remind himself that it was pretty decent of Sean to put up with him in the living room. Sean was as tolerant with a spare body on the sofa as he was with the general grime and chaos. Once when Bruno had dropped off at two in the morning in spite of everything, he’d woken up to find the remains of a Big Mac resting on his belly where it had been absentmindedly left, as if he were a spare surface.
College was OK, the course wasn’t demanding and he’d made a few friends among his fellow students – he’d never had trouble with that. But he had to find somewhere else to live in the new year. The squalor made him homesick.
At the end of the month he spotted a familiar sparkle in the window of the local newsagent’s. Minutes later he emerged with a plastic carrier containing a naff Santa advent calendar. WTF.
Thirteen
Honor tried to like all her clients, because they were mostly in a bad way, or needed her, and getting to like them was part of the job. She’d found that understanding had to come first. Even the more challenging, impatient and rude ones had their reasons. Sometimes their behaviour was quite simply a symptom of Alzheimer’s, sometimes it had its roots in pain, or loneliness, or a long-felt sense of grievance. Just occasionally they were ‘miserable gits’ (a phrase she’d heard used at Lilac Tree House though she’d not have used it herself), but that was life, and everyone was different.
No, the problem as often as not was the relatives, if they were around. As often as not they weren’t, and were more than happy to let her take care of things. She didn’t work through an agency, and her rates were as modest as she could manage, but by definition those who employed her were reasonably well off, and throwing money at the problem. Very occasionally she was employed directly by the client (Avis was one such) and these people tended to be likeable, perhaps because they were realistic about their problems, and had taken charge of their own lives.
Mr Dawson – Honor always stuck to surnames unless invited to do otherwise – had a son, Graham, whom she didn’t care for. He lived on the new Park Grange development on the inland edge of town, with his wife Sandra. They didn’t have children because Sandra had never wanted any. It was unclear from Graham’s tone whether he shared his wife’s view or resented it. He was certainly not a man you would ever think of as having a secret sadness, being brisk, facetious and always a squeak louder than the situation called for. He was Mr Dawson’s only child.
Mr Dawson himself, a widower for twenty years, was a perfect gentleman, one of Honor’s ‘sweeties’. He had the kind of good manners that were based on thoughtfulness and not just show, which made everything so much easier. Not that it mattered, intimate personal care was an important part of the job and Honor was happy to do it, but when the person concerned was accepting and appreciative the tasks could invariably be managed more simply. He wasn’t as chatty as Avis, he had a natural reserve which Honor respected, but he did sometimes talk about his wife. This was a safe subject, which made him happy, and Honor would often prompt him with a gentle question when they were having a cuppa together. She knew for instance that Mrs Dawson – Pamela – had been a wonderful cook.
‘Did you used to do much entertaining?’
‘We used to have a little dinner party about once a month, for close friends. There were two couples we used to play bridge with. And then there was some business entertaining that went with my job.’ (Mr Dawson had been a bank manager.) ‘She was such an asset to me, in every way.’
Charity would have jumped on this as old-school sexism, but Honor completely understood. The Dawsons had been a team, with a happy and stable marriage based on mutual respect as well as true love. You could hear it in the old man’s voice, and see it in his eyes when he looked at his wife’s picture.
‘She was very elegant, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, yes, she was … She wasn’t in the least extravagant, but she knew what suited her. I took it for granted till we went out somewhere, and then I used to feel very proud. Extremely proud.’
There were no confidences, Mr Dawson was essentially private. He did occasionally mention Graham, saying that he was lucky to have such a kind son and daughter-in-law who lived not far away, and who were so good to him. Honor was glad to hear him say this, but reserved judgement on Graham, whom she encountered about once a fortnight. The moment he arrived, the front door banging behind him, a shout of ‘Hello, hello, hello, what’s going on then?’ all peace was destroyed and for the next half an hour or so the atmosphere in the room jangled with an artificial bonhomie. Under the hollow ‘banter’ (a word Graham was fond of) there lurked an undercurrent of something unpleasant that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Discontent? Resentment? It reminded her of the blank-faced grins of circus clowns she had seen as a child. They weren’t truly funny and were full of a boisterous violence that scared her.
She had never met Sandra, but on those rare occasions when they took Mr Dawson out for the day she found herself worrying about him. She was sure they ‘showed him a good time’ (another of Graham’s expressions), but were they attuned to the old man’s needs? Did they listen? Did they rush him, just a little? He was such a gent, and so appreciative, it was hard to imagine him speaking up for himself. She was always glad when she went in the next day and found him alright, if a little tired.
This was one of those days. Graham and Sandra had taken him shoe-shopping in Exeter, with a ‘slap-up lunch’ in a hotel in the Cathedral close. Mr Dawson looked worn out, but that she told herself was only natural. She waited till the morning’s rituals were out of the way before broaching the subject.
‘So how was your day out? Did you have a lovely time?’
‘Yes, thank you. They’re so good to me.’ He pointed at his feet in maroon leather slippers. ‘Did you notice?’
‘I did.’ She had provided an arm to lean on as he stepped into them. ‘Those are very smart.’
‘They’re less trouble than my funny old lace-ups,’ he said. Honor could hear Graham, or possibly Sandra, saying this. She knew Mr Dawson had been proud of his conker-coloured brogues, and liked to keep them polished. She occasionally gave him a hand with that, and he was fussy about how it was done. The slippers were nice, and certainly expensive, but she couldn’t help thinking that ‘less trouble’ was code for ‘old person’.
She held the sugar as he helped himself – ‘I should stop, but at least I’m down to one lump’ – and sat down in her usual chair with her mug of instant.
‘How was lunch? I hear The Mitre’s wonderful.’
‘Very swish. I was persuaded to go for something different, and it was surprisingly delicious.’
Honor wondered what the different thing was that Graham had insisted his father try, but decided not to ask. Talk of lunch reminded her of something.
‘Are you going to them as usual on Christmas Day?’
‘No, not this year.’ He raised a finger as if this was his idea. ‘I shall be doing for myself, with the assistance of the van ladies. I’ve booked already.’
Honor experienced one of her little heart-squeezes of sadness. Silly, but she couldn’t help herself. Avis, for instance, was often alone on Christmas Day, but Avis was different somehow – she deflected worry with her gossipy
independent cast of mind. Mr Dawson, in spite of the proximity of Graham and Sandra, seemed far more vulnerable.
‘And,’ he added, ‘I shall be able to watch the Queen.’
Honor sensed this was not the moment to express unhappiness. Positive reinforcement was the thing.
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘And their food is great, I bet they do a super Christmas dinner.’
But in the car on the way to her next stop she couldn’t shake the image of Mr Dawson sitting in his neat living room on Christmas morning, wearing his polished brogues in honor of the occasion, undoing his present from Graham – and a less lavish one from her – and waiting for the ladies in the van.
Shortly after that, an idea began to take shape in her head. Once there, it grew and settled, so that by the time she was home that night it was a fully-formed plan.
‘Of course not!’ said Marguerite, bright with relief. ‘Invite whoever you like!’
‘It won’t be a wild party,’ Honor assured her.
‘Go wild if you want to,’ said Marguerite. ‘Just let us know of any breakages.’
‘Of course—’ began Honor, before realising she was being teased. ‘But there won’t be.’
Hugh was a man of uncertain faith, but regular habits. He was of the opinion that unless one was a thorough-going atheist one might as well put in the hours, enjoy the peace, and quiet, and who knows? A chap might derive benefits in the form of unconditional approval and a place in the sunny uplands of the afterlife. Marguerite, who was far more emotionally attached to the Almighty, and especially to the New Testament, was at best a sporadic church-goer. Neither of them had passed on the habit to their offspring, but Honor quite often accompanied her father down the lane because she liked this short walk together.
This was stir-up Sunday – the first in Advent – and the service was well attended by current standards. About thirty people were there to see the first of the candles lit on the advent wreath. It was also one of those grey, raw days when it seemed colder inside the church than out. The ancient iron pipes that ran underneath the pews were hot enough to melt plastic (as more than one owner of an inexpensive handbag had discovered) but did little to improve the overall temperature, so Hugh was not inclined to hang about. The call of a pint of Devenish at his own fireside propelled him down to the lychgate before he realized his daughter wasn’t with him. When he spotted her in the clump by the porch, she waved with a ‘Go on!’ motion. He waved back and set off – knowing Honor as he did, she’d probably got stuck in conversation with some aged person whom she was too polite to leave, or the vicar, for whom she had a Thing.
Honor hovered until the last of the congregation had gone. Quite a few of them had chatted to her, but she’d been waiting to talk to the vicar, who came over at once.
‘I’m glad I caught you,’ he said, as if he hadn’t noticed she’d been waiting. ‘I wondered whether you’d found out any more about our friend the brigadier.’
She was so pleased he remembered the conversation. ‘A little, yes. Rather sad, actually – years after he died his widow took off with someone else, literally ran away, and then sold the house and was never seen again.’
‘I suppose,’ reflected the vicar, ‘that she was entitled to find happiness. But to disappear like that suggests something strange and dramatic, doesn’t it. And of course’ – he smiled quizzically at her – ‘it’s your house we’re talking about.’
‘Yes.’
‘If we were on television,’ he said, ‘my next question would be “How do you feel about that?” …’
‘It’s not at all a sad house, if that’s what you mean. Quite the opposite actually.’
‘Just as well, with a name like that.’
‘I know!’
They laughed. There seemed nothing else to say. Honor wondered why she had hung around like this to say, well, not very much.
‘Were you going to walk?’ he asked. ‘Because I could give you a lift.’
‘Oh no, no thank you, I’m fine thanks!’ And why was she so gushingly emphatic? ‘I’m with my father, we like the walk.’
She moved off so fast that she was out of breath by the time she’d turned into the lane, and had to rein in her hectic pace.
Oh dear, she thought, how tragic am I? I’ve got a crush on the vicar.
She knew her parents worried about her – not much, but in a mild way. They wished she had what they probably described as ‘a social life’. This didn’t have to include a man, but she was sure that was what they hoped. No one could believe that her work was her life, both social and otherwise. But that didn’t stop her recognising this heady sense of excitement. She’d experienced it at least once before, most notably when she was only fifteen, with a charming friend of her father’s. Of all the Blyth siblings she was the most teasable – Felicity seemed to have been born with the ability to flirt, Charity was protected by her cleverness, and Bruno, well – normal rules did not apply.
She had been infatuated with that friend of Hugh’s, and the whole family had known it, so the teasing, however affectionate, was relentless. There was no way she would let this latest crush be known. It occurred to her that they probably hoped her Christmas guest was someone quite different, evidence of the elusive social life. She wasn’t going to disabuse them.
Marguerite looked up from an article about yet another rising star from the seemingly inexhaustible supply of ‘un-actressy’ young actresses in the colour supplement. ‘What have you done with Honor?’
‘She was chatting, so I carried on.’ Hugh went to hang up his coat and scarf.
‘Many people?’
‘Not bad. But freezing.’ Coming back in, he picked up her hand, kissed it and laid it against his cheek. ‘Feel that.’
‘Ouch!’ She snatched it away. ‘Chatting to the rev?’
‘I couldn’t see, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Can I get you anything?’
‘The Worra-Worra’s in the fridge,’ said Marguerite, their word for the Australian sauvignon that was their current favourite. While Hugh went to the kitchen, Marguerite lowered the magazine and gazed thoughtfully into space. She did wish Honor had a bit more life. Her youngest daughter was in danger of turning into a Barbara Pym character, and she deserved so much more than that.
All Marguerite wanted was for her children to be completely happy, so she could stop worrying and do the same.
‘I can come and collect you,’ said Honor, ‘and bring you home afterwards, whenever it suits you. You don’t have to hang about.’
Mr Dawson’s cheeks showed faint pink patches, and his eyes were moist, but his voice was steady and urbane as ever.
‘That really is extraordinarily kind of you. Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I can’t help feeling that you must have better things to do on Christmas Day.’
‘Not at all. I have visits to make early morning and evening, but that’s all.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. All that was Pamela’s department.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Honor, ‘I shall keep everything easy.’
‘In that case,’ said Mr Dawson, ‘I shall let Graham and Sandra know I’m invited out. It will set their minds at rest.’
Honor was sure they’d be delighted. As, to be fair, she was.
Fourteen
The hospice’s carol service was always early in the season, because it was also a fundraiser, and they wanted to steal a march on all the others that were happening at this time of year. This year the calendar dictated that it fell on the first Friday in December, which was a bit too soon really. On the other hand, said the volunteers, the supermarkets had been a-jingle with seasonal goods for at least a fortnight, so why hold back?
Felicity was going to do a reading, and on this occasion sing, too, in the small choral group. Carols notwithstanding the service had a humanist flavour, so her reading was Betjeman’s ‘Advent’, and the choral pieces included ‘Winter Wonderland
’. Robin, whose last church attendance had been their wedding, nonetheless revealed a conservative streak in this regard.
‘I detect mission-creep. It’s either a carol service or it isn’t.’
‘Let’s call it a Christmas concert.’
‘I’ll bring the children along this time’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They’ll be bored to death. And remember it’s out of doors, so it’s quite cold too.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Robin.
Working for her charities at this time of year was rather like being a vicar – it was a busy period. There was always a big push to get donations while people were susceptible, softened up by Christmas music, sugary TV advertisements and the sly nudge of seasonal guilt. As soon as she received notification of the children’s Christmas events she realized that it was going to be tricky getting to the boys’ concert because it clashed with the big mainline stations’ collection day for Clean Water, to which she’d been committed for ages. They were that bit older, and wouldn’t mind she told herself – she would ask Robin if he could make it – and it did look as though she might be able to make Cissy’s nursery nativity.
She had done the right thing asking the parents this year – children and grandparents should see each other at Christmas. She experienced a warm, self-righteous glow as she ordered the organic bronze turkey, made a cake and pudding, and started her ‘Christmas cupboard’ with presents. So much of Christmas was about re-creating the past, making these preparations she felt like a good and dutiful child, looking forward to her parents’ happiness and approval. At Heart’s Ease arrangements had been very simple, but she remembered everything as wonderful – the excitement of the rustling, bumpy largesse of Hugh’s old rugby sock stuffed with small things, the cold walk to church, the enormous and delicious lunch which they wolfed down on a tide of excitement about the presents to come, with Hugh saying things like ‘This is a religious festival, not a bunfight’ to general jeers. After lunch there was the Queen to be sat through before Hugh, still wearing his paper cracker hat, distributed the presents from under the tree. Even then they had to wait till everyone had their pile before diving in. Marguerite, armed with a pencil and pad, would flit madly from child to child keeping track of who had what from whom so that that agonising thank-you letters could be written. Felicity could never understand how her mother, and her father (a fresh glass of port in his hand) could bear to wait so long to open their own presents.
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