With Love at Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Yes,’ Lisa said. ‘I could do that, couldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ And it hurt his chest to see the faint hope shining in her eyes.

  Chapter Ninteen

  The funeral cars pull up outside the house. It’s only three o’clock, but the sky is heavy with black clouds and night is already threatening to close in around us. There’s the bite of ice in the air, and the weathermen are predicting more snow later in the week.

  As I’m pulling on my coat, Mum comes downstairs in a brightly coloured, flouncy dress that I can’t even recall seeing in her wardrobe. It’s topped with a straw hat complete with blousy flower and worn at a jaunty angle, and white cotton gloves.

  ‘Mum.’ I’m aghast. ‘What are you wearing?’

  My troublesome parent gives me an indignant glare. ‘My best dress.’

  It was probably her best dress in 1975. ‘We’re going to a funeral,’ I remind her.

  ‘Are we?’ She looks genuinely surprised. ‘I thought you said it was a garden party.’

  ‘It’s Samuel’s funeral today.’

  ‘Who’s Samuel?’ She stares round at everyone, who have congregated in the kitchen – Rick, Chloe, Tom, Dad, Samuel’s parents. ‘I don’t know a Samuel.’

  I look over at Joshua and Kate Scott and mouth, ‘She’s not well.’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter with me,’ my mother snaps.

  Bat ears – as Rick likes to call her.

  Samuel’s mother and father are a gentle, retired couple. We’ve met them a couple of times before – mainly at Christmas – but not in terrible circumstances such as these. Joshua, like his son, is a gentle giant. Kate is petite and, today, looks even smaller than ever. It’s as if the life has been sucked out of her too at the untimely departure of their only son. I can barely imagine how awful she must feel. Some days I think I could gladly strangle Chloe or Tom, but the reality of it is that if anything happened to either of them I have no idea how life would continue. It’s the worst possible thing for a parent to go through. You never imagine that you will outlive your own children, do you? There’s just nothing right about it.

  Mr and Mrs Scott live on the east coast now, in Sheringham, which is a good three-hour drive away from here. They’ve travelled over for today and are staying at the Jury’s Inn in the city centre overnight with some other members of Samuel’s family from various corners of the UK, none of whom we know. I would have loved to have offered for them to stay here but we’re all out of beds. Dad, in his black coat, which suddenly looks ten sizes too big for him, is standing with them and it’s clear to see that Samuel’s parents are both several years younger than him.

  Samuel is to be cremated at Crownhill, and the thought of it makes me want to weep. He died of a pulmonary embolism – an errant piece of thickened blood meandering into his lung – at the grand old age of forty-four, and I don’t think anyone would argue if I said that’s far too young an age to be departing this planet. The worst thing is that there was no indication this might happen: no symptoms, no alarm bells. Apart from the cough that had dogged him for weeks, apparently unconnected to his death, Samuel was, by all accounts, in robust health for his age. He was on statins for his cholesterol and there was no doubt that he enjoyed his food and a glass or two of wine, but is that reason enough to cause his premature death? Idiopathic, the doctor called it. Just a random chance that his own body would turn on him without warning.

  ‘Thank you for having us,’ Kate says. ‘We do appreciate it.’

  ‘Oh, goodness me, don’t mention it,’ I say. All of the family are coming back here afterwards for something to eat. To coax Dad out of his despondency, I cajoled him into baking some of Samuel’s favourites from one of Jamie Oliver’s books, and we spent a pleasant couple of hours cooking together. ‘It’s the least we could do. We all loved Samuel.’

  ‘I still have no idea who this Samuel is!’ my mum announces at the top of her voice. ‘Why are we all talking about him as if he’s dead?’

  Kate flinches. I want the ground to open up and swallow me. No, what I actually want is for the ground to open up and swallow my mother.

  ‘Mum,’ I hiss. ‘You do know Samuel. He was Dad’s . . . ’ and then words fail me. Friend hardly encompasses it. What was he? He was more than Dad’s boyfriend or partner or whatever you want to call him. He was his life. In the few years that they’d been together, he had become Dad’s life. They were inseparable, like an old married couple but without the arguing. Samuel had shown my dad, late in life, what it was to be loved and to live for the moment. I look at Dad’s drawn features and my heart breaks. In death Samuel will be missed beyond belief.

  ‘If we don’t get a move on,’ my mother says in theatrical tones, ‘all the best cake will be gone.’

  ‘We are not going to a bloody garden party, Rita!’ Rick snaps.

  ‘I’ll stay at home with you, Gran,’ Tom suggests. ‘We can watch some rubbish telly.’

  ‘I want to go to the party,’ Mum shouts. ‘I don’t want to stay at home.’ She flails her arms, having a tantrum, the likes of which Jaden is just trying out for size.

  ‘Let’s lock her in the basement,’ my husband suggests under his breath.

  ‘We haven’t got a basement.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ Rick mutters darkly. ‘Remind me to dig one.’

  ‘I. Want. To. Go. To. The. Party!’ Now Mum is going purple in the face.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, get her in the car,’ Rick says.

  I take my mother by the arm and hustle her towards one of the waiting funeral cars, grabbing a coat for her from the rack in the hall as I leave. At least it will cover the worst of the flouncy dress.

  ‘Do you think we could get a two-for-one deal while we’re there?’ my husband mutters as he stomps down the path after me.

  ‘Rick!’

  ‘Just a thought. I’ll stay with Genghis Khan, you get your dad.’

  I usher Mum into the back of the car, glad to leave her in the tender loving care of my husband.

  ‘Budge up, Rita,’ I hear him say. ‘We’ve all got to get in here. You’re not the bloody Queen.’

  I return to the house and help Dad. As we walk along the path, I glance back at the house. Rick’s multiplicity of Christmas lights twinkle, flash and strobe on the front of the house. Damn it, I should have got him to turn them all off.

  ‘I’ll get Rick to take those down, Dad,’ I say. ‘I should have thought of it before now.’

  ‘You’ve had a lot going on, love. Thanks for doing everything. Don’t think I could have faced it.’ Now Dad turns round and a glimmer of a smile moves his mouth. ‘They look lovely. Samuel always liked your lights. He loved Christmas. It was his favourite time of the year too.’ Now he tries a weak laugh. ‘All that food!’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll get a new light in his honour.’

  ‘That would be nice. Something very sparkly. Perhaps a star.’

  ‘I’ll get Rick to take you to Homebase and you can choose one together.’

  ‘I will miss him.’ Dad’s lip trembles.

  I tuck my arm through his. ‘We all will.’

  ‘Come on, Frank,’ my mum shouts from the funeral car. As well as everything else, I sometimes think she forgets that she’s not actually married to my dad any more. ‘Don’t dilly-dally. It’s starting soon, and we’ll not get a good seat.’

  Dad rolls his eyes at me. ‘Is it wrong on the way to a funeral to be considering murdering someone?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘And don’t think you’re the only one.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I sit at the front of the chapel of rest with Dad. Chloe is like a limpet against him on the other side. She’s been very solicitous towards him this last week. Rick keeps my mother at the back, though quite why we think that will be any better is anyone’s guess.

  The service is a really lovely affair. Dad manages to read out one of Samuel’s favourite poems, and one of his cousins tells some storie
s of Samuel’s life, and, deep down, I wish that we had known him longer.

  The final song that Dad has chosen comes on. Andrea Bocelli’s ‘Time To Say Goodnight’, and there isn’t a dry eye among us.

  Just as I think all is about to pass off without incident, my mother shouts out from the back, ‘Can’t you put on something more cheerful? This is very dreary!’

  I turn to my husband and Rick gives me an exasperated look. To be honest, I’m glad he’s managed to keep her quiet for so long. She has always been ‘straight-talking’ throughout her life – a euphemism for downright rude, if you ask me. Now she seems to have lost her edit button entirely. Whatever she’s thinking seems to come straight out of her mouth without any concern for others.

  ‘How can we dance to this?’ she adds at full volume. But she’s totally oblivious when everyone turns to stare at her.

  She only disgraces herself once more when we all file out of the chapel at the crematorium and she snatches one of the beautiful red roses left by Samuel’s aunt from the top of the coffin, puts it between her teeth and dances out. This time, everyone pretends they haven’t seen her do it.

  In muted mood, we all come straight back to Chadwick Close after the funeral. As soon as I get the chance, I grab Samuel’s rose off my mother and now it’s in a bud vase in pride of place in the middle of the buffet table. My mother is, quite honestly, proving to be more trouble than Jaden.

  I settle Dad in an armchair next to Samuel’s parents and get them all tea. Rick is looking after the rest of the relatives who, thankfully, seem to be just as affable as Samuel was. Then my breath catches in my chest. I can’t believe that I’m referring to him so readily in the past tense.

  I’m biting back the tears when Tom comes over. ‘Nice spread, Mum,’ he says, slinging his arm round my shoulders. ‘You’ve done Samuel proud.’

  ‘Thanks. Keep an eye on Grandad for me.’

  ‘He’s doing fine.’ Tom helps himself from the sausage-roll mountain and wanders off.

  When I’ve seen that everyone else has had plenty to eat, I sit down with some sandwiches myself. My fear is always that food will run out so, as usual, I have catered for twice as many people as have turned up. We’re going to be eating sausage rolls from now until New Year. I was up and making quiche at six o’clock this morning. Needless to say, Rick pointed out that I was mad.

  I’ve managed to persuade Mum to go and have a lie-down so that she’s out of harm’s way at least for the moment. I’m not entirely sure, but I think Rick might have slipped a sleeping tablet into her tea. I saw him looking very furtive over the PG Tips. If he has, it was a jolly fine idea and I wish I’d thought of it. Hopefully, Samuel’s family will all have left by the time she graces us with her presence again. Jaden is playing on the floor with his Timbertown train set which we’ve set up in the corner. Mitch is kneeling next to him.

  I go over. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Thanks for asking me to stay, Juliet,’ he says.

  Mitch looked after his son while we were all at the funeral, and I persuaded him to come in for something to eat when he dropped Jaden back. ‘You’re family,’ I tell him. ‘I just wish it was a nicer occasion. I’ll look after Jaden for a few minutes while you have a chat with Chloe.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I beckon to Jaden. ‘Come and have something to eat with Nana.’

  Filling a plate from the buffet table, we find a spare chair. He climbs onto my lap and tucks into a ham sandwich and a couple of little sausages. I glance over to where Chloe and Mitch are sitting together, deep in conversation. Every now and then, my daughter throws back her head and lets out a raucous laugh. Not the best thing to do at a wake – do people still call them that? – but I’ll take the laughter if it means that things are going well between them.

  Oh, I do so hope that they can get their relationship back on track. They had a ‘date’ the other night which, by all accounts, was ‘OK’. It must have been wonderful as it’s like trying to get blood out of a stone, eliciting praise from my daughter.

  If one good thing could come out of today it would be that those two realise how silly they’re being. But then, I have to confess, I think it’s Chloe who’s being the silly one. From the outside, it looked to me that Mitch was trying his hardest to be a good father in difficult circumstances. Chloe was the one who was feeling ‘stifled’. Suddenly becoming a mother was, it seems, too much of a culture shock for her. Once she realised that the partying and the free-and-easy lifestyle couldn’t continue, I think she panicked. Now, with another baby on the way, I’m going to have to sit her down and make her reassess her priorities. Perhaps if we weren’t always here picking up the pieces for her then she’d have to face up to her responsibilities. But we can’t just turf her out on the street, can we?

  Rick sidles over to me. He’s looking uncomfortable in his one good dark suit. His tie has been loosened already. In his hand is a paper plate filled with mini-Scotch eggs, cheese twirls and crisps.

  ‘When I’ve finished this,’ he nods at his plate, ‘mind if I slip away to go and see what Merak’s up to? He should be finishing about now.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Sure you can manage?’

  ‘They’ll all be heading off soon.’

  ‘Leave the tidying up. I’ll give you a hand when I get back.’

  ‘Don’t be too late.’

  ‘No.’

  Rick turns to go.

  ‘Take Merak some food,’ I suggest. ‘There’s going to be heaps of it left, and he can probably make use of it. There’s plenty still in the kitchen. Take what you want. I’ll keep some of the sandwiches to pack up for you both tomorrow for your lunch.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Rick kisses me on the forehead. ‘You’ve done your dad and Samuel proud, love.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘No one could have asked for more.’

  I’m pleased to hear it.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye to Samuel’s folks and then make myself scarce.’

  A moment later, I see Rick slip quietly from the room. Soon life will be back to normal. But then I remember: we are the Joyces of Chadwick Close, and life in this house can very rarely be classed as normal.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Merak was just finishing up when Rick arrived at the job in Great Linford. As always, he’d done exemplary work, and was now running the vacuum cleaner round to clear up after himself. He could relax when Merak was around, as Rick knew his back was covered.

  ‘Nice job,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Merak smiled shyly with pride. ‘How did funeral go?’

  ‘As well as these things can.’ Rick punctuated the sentence with a sigh. ‘Come on. Let’s get this van loaded up and I’ll take you home.’

  They both threw the tools in the back of the van and set off towards Stony Stratford. He always dropped Merak in the centre of the town where he said he rented a room in a house within walking distance.

  The lad climbed out of the van. ‘There’s a carrier bag here for you,’ Rick said. ‘A doggy bag.’

  ‘I am begging your pardon?’

  ‘Food from the buffet. Juliet thought you might want some for your tea.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Merak said and peered into the bag. ‘That was very thoughtful of her. Please say thank you.’

  ‘It’s OK, lad. Don’t bring any sandwiches tomorrow, either. I’ll sort us out.’

  ‘I will see you in morning.’

  ‘Usual time,’ Rick said. Not that he ever had to remind him.

  Merak closed the van door and then, with a backward wave, walked off down the High Street. Rick looked after him. He couldn’t help feeling that sometimes Merak was lonely. He hoped that he had a good bunch of mates around him to have some laughs with. Whereas his own dear son was too much play and not enough work, he wondered whether Merak was the opposite.

  Rick tutted to himself. What was wrong with him at the moment? He seemed to want to take on the woes of the
world. As if he hadn’t got enough to worry about of his own!

  He glanced at his watch. A two-minute drive would see him safely back at home. Yet, in the back of the van, there was another carrier bag stacked with surplus food that he’d a mind to deliver. When he’d seen quite how much was likely to be left over from the buffet, he’d not only filled a bag for Merak, but he’d filled one for Lisa and Izzy too.

  It was getting late now, and he’d promised Juliet that he wouldn’t hang about. Still, it was hard to think of that girl and her little one and not want to help her out with a bit of dinner. There was nothing in her cupboards. This would be a nice treat for them. Surely?

  The sensible thing would be to head straight home. Rick sat in the van, unmoving. That would be the sensible thing to do.

  He put the van in gear and headed towards Cublington Parslow.

  Lisa looked surprised when she opened the door to him. But no more surprised than Rick was to find himself here again so soon, he’d guess.

  ‘Rick,’ she said, a smile lighting up her thin face.

  ‘I’m not intruding, am I?’

  ‘Well, Johnny Depp and I were about to get down to it on my new flooring,’ she said cheekily. ‘But I’m sure he won’t mind waiting a minute.’ She stood aside. ‘Come in.’

  He stepped over the threshold. It was still colder than the inside of a fridge in here. ‘Still no boiler?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I called the landlord again today. I’m sure he never picks up when he sees it’s my number. All I could do was leave a message. Another one.’

  ‘I’ll ring him again too.’ He needed to get his payment from the guy as well. This money was going to pay for the Bruges extravaganza.

  ‘That can’t be all you came out here for.’

  ‘No.’ Now he was embarrassed. He’d no good reason for being there, really. ‘I brought this.’ Rick held up his carrier bag. ‘My father-in-law recently lost his partner.’ He didn’t want to explain the complexities of Frank’s love life. Not when he felt himself choking up whenever he thought of Samuel. ‘It was his funeral today. Juliet, my wife, made far too much food. I just thought that you and Izzy might like some. Have a little party, the two of you.’