With Love at Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  It was over half an hour before he was back at the village. His face was raw and wet from the pelting snow. The light grey hoodie was now soaked to dark grey. When he was sat in front of that roaring log fire, he’d start to steam. The thought of it spurred him on, and Rick crossed to the pub with hope in his heart. It was only when he was inches away from the front door that he then noticed the small scrap of paper stuck to it with a ripped piece of parcel tape. In black marker pen, it read: Closed due to power cut.

  His heart sank. He felt like collapsing to his knees in the snow. Banging on the door. Pleading for sanctuary. Surely they would take pity on him. He peered in at the window. Deserted. He rapped at the knocker and waited, but no one came. If there was anyone at home, it was clear that they didn’t intend to offer comfort to stranded strangers. So much for all the tales in the newspapers of saintly publicans taking in distraught trapped motorists and housing them for days on end filled with jolly japes and drinking the place dry. Clearly the Christmas spirit hadn’t troubled the landlord of The Bird in the Whatever, Cublington Parslow. Now what? Only the thought of a good pub curry or some egg and chips had kept him going. Not only was a hot meal and a warm by the fire not on the cards, but it definitely looked like there was no chance of a bed either. He’d have to face that long walk back to the van for a night with nothing but a cheese sandwich for sustenance.

  Then his phone rang. He assumed it would be Juliet for an update on his progress but, instead, he saw that it was Lisa.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Just checking to see if you got back safely.’

  That made Rick laugh, when a minute ago he’d felt like kicking the pub door in. ‘Not exactly. I’m still at the end of your street.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t get out of the village. All the roads are blocked.’

  ‘I saw that it was bad on the news. Where exactly are you?’

  ‘I’m outside the pub.’ He looked up at the sign for the first time. ‘The Bird in the Hand. I was hoping to get a room for the night, but it’s all locked up. They’ve had a power cut.’

  ‘So have we,’ Lisa said. ‘Look, why don’t you come straight back here? I can make you something proper to eat. Luckily someone brought me a load of shopping earlier.’

  Rick laughed again. ‘I don’t want to impose.’

  ‘Don’t be a pillock,’ Lisa said. ‘Get yourself round here now. I’m not having you out on the roads in this. You can kip down with us.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’ How would he begin to explain this to Juliet? Surely it was much safer to risk freezing to death in the van. If Juliet found out that he was spending the night at another woman’s house, he’d have a near-death experience when he got home anyway.

  ‘You’ll stay here and I’ll have no arguments.’ Lisa’s voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Say you’ll come.’

  What else was he to do? With heavy heart, Rick said, ‘I’ll come.’

  He could hear the smile in her voice at his acquiescence.

  ‘Good. That’s what mates are for.’

  He hung up and trudged towards her house, wondering on the way if that’s what they really were – just mates.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  This Christmas, I will be channelling Delia. Nigella is too smug, Gordon too sweary, Jamie too much bish, bash, bosh. You know where you are with Delia. She is the one person I would like to emulate in the cooking department. If Delia says you need to make a tent with extra-wide foil within which to roast your turkey so that it comes out buttery and moist, then that’s exactly what you must do to ensure success. She’ll never let you down. And the one day of the year you don’t want dinner to be a trauma is Christmas Day.

  I have knocked out more Christmas dinners than I care to remember, but they still always seem fraught with danger. So much has to come together at once. One slight slip and it can all go to rack and ruin. I remember the time that, amid all the mayhem, I actually forgot to order the turkey, and had the devil’s own job to get one big enough in time. After a little too much festive cheer one year, I dropped all the roast potatoes and parsnips on the floor as I was about to serve. Everything had to go back in the oven for another hour while I peeled and cooked some more. Now I take the precaution of having an ‘emergency’ back-up Christmas dinner in the freezer – frozen roasties, frozen veggies and a Bernard Matthews turkey roll – just in case of tragedy.

  This year I want it all to be perfect. As the years pass, you never know when it could be the last one with your parents. Samuel’s untimely passing has only served to underline it. He will be sorely missed around the table this Christmas, and I can hardly bear to think of Mum or Dad not being here too.

  Speaking of which, I’ve come out into the kitchen to write my Christmas food-shopping list, version Twenty-two – in peace. All of my Delia cookery books are stacked on the table, so that I can flick through the recipes and make sure I’ve got everything I need.

  Coronation Street is blasting out in the living room at a decibel level suitable only for the stone deaf. It’s a good job we don’t live in a semi-detached house, otherwise there would be complaints. As it is, there are cracks appearing in the ceiling due to sound vibration.

  I have Delia’s Christmas open in front of me. The family like her Parmesan-baked parsnips and braised red cabbage with apples. None of us likes Brussels sprouts, but we have to have them because it’s Christmas, so I use Delia’s white-wine and bacon recipe, as that makes them taste a bit less sprouty. Normally the dog ends up finishing them off, and then no one will speak to him for three days. We make him stay well behind us when he goes for his walks. Every year I plan to make Delia’s classic Christmas pudding, and every year I fail. Shop-bought again. This year, though, I’m eschewing Mr Kipling and will definitely – come hell or high water – be baking Delia’s lattice mince pies for Christmas Day.

  Dad comes in. ‘No Rick yet, love?’

  ‘He’s stuck in the snow, Dad. Out in Cublington Parslow.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That’s not good.’ He’s opening and closing cupboard doors. ‘Have we got any biscuits, love? The tin seems to be empty again.’

  I have to stash my biscuits secretly now, as the family would get through ten packets a day if I let them.

  ‘What do you want, Dad? Bourbons or custard creams?’

  ‘Oh, both would be nice. They’re for your mother.’

  They’re not. Dad is the biggest biscuit-snaffler in the house. But if that’s his only vice, then I’m happy to indulge him. The kids like all the new-fangled ones, but Dad’s a traditionalist when it comes to his biscuits. Custard creams. Bourbons. He’ll go mad for a Tunnock’s caramel wafer or teacake.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  Dad shrugs. ‘Fine, love.’

  ‘I’ll bring you some biscuits through. Want a cup of tea?’

  ‘That’d be lovely. Though your mother’s on the wine again.’

  ‘She’s not good, is she, Dad?’

  ‘She’s just a little bit confused, I think. There’s no fun in getting old, love.’

  ‘No.’ Even at my age, I’ve worked that out. My body, that would once bounce back from anything, now takes days to get over the most insignificant setback. A pulled muscle that would ease overnight now needs nine months of physio and a truckload of Nurofen before it will even think about going. I have to get new glasses every couple of years, and I’ve long since given in to the hair dye. The title on every tub in the bathroom cabinet starts with the words ‘age-defying’. But none of them – not a single one – does anything to defy age.

  Dad shuffles out again and I notice that, despite saying he’s fine, his shoulders are in a permanently sagged position since Samuel’s been gone. I think it’s only the fact that he’s keeping an eye on Mum that’s helping him get through this.

  I put on the kettle and ring Rick. ‘Did you get sorted out at the pub?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘The snow’s even worse now. I’ll be back as soon as I can in the morni
ng. I’m hoping they’ll manage to get at least one of the roads open by then.’

  ‘OK. Keep warm. I love you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rick says. ‘Me too.’

  Gosh, it didn’t exactly sound like the pub is a jumping joint. There wasn’t a sound in the background. Mind you, I bet few people are risking going out in this. At least Rick is safe and warm.

  I take a pot of tea and a plate piled high with biscuits into the living room for Mum and Dad.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ Dad says. His eyes light up at the biscuits, and it makes my heart clench at how little it takes to keep him happy.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘I hope it’s not weak,’ is Mum’s contribution.

  ‘Leave it to brew for a minute, if you want it stronger.’

  Then, as my ears threaten to bleed from the volume of the television, I turn to leave. Out of the corner of my eye, from the living-room window, I catch sight of a shadow moving in the garden.

  ‘There’s someone out there,’ I say.

  ‘What?’ Mum wants to know.

  ‘There’s someone in my garden again!’

  Despite my limp, I put on a spurt and shoot out of the back door and into the garden in my slippers. Buster follows, barking happily and wagging his tail.

  Some guard dog he’s proving to be. I would have hoped that at the sight of an intruder on his patch, he’d have turned into an uncontrollable, snarling beast. No such luck. Buster looks as if he might want to lick our burglar to death.

  Heart pounding, I hobble down the garden as fast as I can shouting, ‘Hey, you! Stop! Stop!’

  Quite what I plan to do if he stops, I don’t know. I wish I’d have thought to grab my rolling pin or something to look threatening with. But, instead of stopping, the dark figure sprints across the snow and expertly scales the back fence. Looks like he’s done that a time or two before.

  I slow my pace, as I’m never going to catch him now, and stand puffing in the middle of the lawn. Buster takes the opportunity to sniff out a few plants and water them. Footprints come from Rick’s shed but, when I check the lock, it hasn’t been tampered with. Perhaps I caught him just in time. I peer through the windows, but nothing seems to be disturbed there. In fact, it’s looking tidier than ever.

  Why does this keep happening? What are they after in Rick’s shed? Has he got something valuable in there that he’s not telling me about? Or are they just chancers, looking for a bit of something to sell at a car boot sale in these straitened times?

  It worries me that there’s someone lurking in our garden while Rick is away. Maybe I should call the police, but it seems pointless as there’s no damage and nothing stolen, and they’re reluctant to come out at the best of times.

  I call Buster and turn back towards the house, shivering. I’ll make sure the doors and windows are double-locked tonight. I’m concerned, and I’d really love to call Rick but that would only worry him more. And he’s got enough to think about at the moment.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  ‘I’m not much of a cook,’ Lisa said. ‘Not like your wife. Will a couple of eggs and some oven chips do?’

  ‘That’d be fantastic,’ Rick answered. It was exactly what his tastebuds had geared up for. ‘I’m just grateful for anything. It was looking like a night in the van for me.’

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t ring me straight away,’ she tutted over her shoulder.

  ‘I didn’t think.’ The truth was, he wouldn’t have liked to impose himself on Lisa and Izzy anyway. Never mind what Juliet might have to say on the subject.

  ‘I don’t much like this gas cooker,’ Lisa said. ‘It’s a bit temperamental. But I’m glad I’ve got it now. I don’t know how we would have managed otherwise.’

  Due to the absence of electricity for the foreseeable future, the kitchen was lit by a dozen stubs of candles that were stuck in saucers round the room. Lisa, he’d noticed, had switched on one of the portable bottled gas heaters he’d lent her as soon as he’d arrived, but it was making little impression on the biting cold.

  ‘The heat from the oven will warm it up in here,’ she said as if reading his mind. ‘We’ll be toasty in minutes, won’t we, Izzy?’

  The little girl nodded. She was wearing pyjamas but had a jumper on top, thick socks and a knitted hat. Rick thought how talkative Jaden was compared to Izzy. Most of his chatter might be non-stop babble, but he was never quiet for a second. Izzy chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toast.

  ‘Is that nice?’ he asked, and received a solemn nod in return.

  ‘We tend to stay in here after our tea until it starts to get colder,’ Lisa continued. ‘Then we go through to the living room when it’s time for Izzy to go to bed.’

  This was terrible. Terrible. More than terrible.

  There was an old battery-operated radio on the windowsill above the sink, and Rick listened to the local weather forecast. It wasn’t heartening. There was chaos and carnage on every road. He would definitely be here until morning.

  Lisa put down the plate of egg and chips in front of him. ‘You’re not eating?’

  She shook her head. ‘Had something with Izzy earlier.’

  Rick wondered if she really had. There was nothing of her but skin and bones. He ate the meal she’d prepared, but felt as if every mouthful was taking food from her and Izzy. Was there something, anything, he could do for her to make her situation more comfortable? Her landlord had better ring him back and fast.

  When he’d eaten and the welcome heat from the oven had started to dissipate, Lisa said, ‘Shall we go into the other room now? I like to try and get it warmed up for the night.’

  She scooped up Izzy and carried her into the living room. Rick followed, bringing the candles on a plate. He went to the window and flicked the curtain aside. Outside, everywhere was still in pitch darkness. It didn’t look likely that the power was going to come on again any time soon. The snow was still falling, the cars in the road had a fresh couple of inches on the roofs. So would his van. If it continued at this rate, he’d have to dig himself out in the morning. He wondered if Lisa would have a spade – it seemed unlikely – or whether he could borrow one from a neighbour. Rick let the curtain drop and dotted the candles round the place: on a little side table, on the fireplace. Then he went back to the kitchen and wheeled in the heater. It was as much use as lighting a match in a freezer.

  He thought how different it was to his own living room at home. There were no Christmas decorations at all here, nothing to make it feel festive in the slightest. It was cold, bare, and it made him shiver just looking at the place. Juliet always went all out for it at Chadwick Close. Even though she’d got out their old tree again this year, it still seemed to take up half the room and it was hung with a million different baubles that she’d carefully collected over the years, and was draped with half a mile of tinsel. She was a great card-sender, too, so they always got dozens and dozens in return, which graced every free surface. He wasn’t a big fan of Christmas himself, but he was suddenly very glad that Juliet was.

  ‘Time for bed, young lady.’ Izzy climbed onto the sofa and snuggled down at one end. Lisa pulled a neatly folded duvet from behind the sofa and shook it out.

  ‘You sleep in here?’

  ‘It’s too cold to go upstairs,’ she told him. ‘Even if you want to go to the loo, you have to run up and down as quick as you can. There’s no way we could sleep up there. There’s ice on the inside of the windows.’

  Tenderly, she tucked the duvet round her daughter’s tiny frame. Rick felt choked. He hadn’t really thought that people might live so frugally in this day and age. There was no doubt that he saw some sights when he went into other people’s homes. Some folks clearly didn’t know what bleach was for, while others lived in mansions. But he didn’t know anyone who had to sleep in their living room because the rest of the house was too cold.

  ‘Won’t we keep her awake?’

  ‘Nah,’ Lisa said. ‘Izzy’s a good girl. She’l
l be off in minutes. Would you like to read her story to her?’

  ‘It’s one of the things I like doing for my grandson, Jaden.’

  ‘Want Rick to read your story?’

  The little girl, thumb already in mouth, nodded and her wide, unsmiling eyes fixed on him.

  ‘Just tell me which one.’

  Lisa handed him a book called Giraffes Can’t Dance and Rick sat at one end of the sofa while Izzy curled into the other. He picked up a candle and held it to the page and read as he often did to Jaden. As Lisa had predicted, the child was asleep minutes later.

  When he was sure she’d gone off soundly, he closed the book.

  Lisa was in one of the armchairs in the room and Rick took the other one. She tucked her knees into her and huddled into the chair.

  ‘So, where do you sleep?’ It sounded like a loaded, cheesy question, but it wasn’t.

  ‘More often than not on the sofa, too. Izzy doesn’t take up much room.’ She glanced across at him. ‘Will you be OK on an armchair? That one reclines. It’s not too bad.’

  It sounded like she’d spent more than one night on that, too.

  Rick felt despair wash over him. ‘Is there no one who can help you to get out of this place? No family, no friends?’

  Lisa shook her head. ‘No.’ She tried a laugh, but it came out thick. ‘If I’m honest, Rick, you’re the only friend we’ve got. I can’t think of anyone else who’s done so much for us.’

  ‘Izzy’s dad isn’t around?’

  ‘Nah. I should never have got involved with him. He was a bad boy, Rick. Stupid girls like a bad boy. We’d only been together for a few months when I found out I was pregnant with Izzy.’ She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked down at the floor. ‘I tried to stick it out with him. But he turned out to be handier with his fists than he was at pushing a pram.’