With Love at Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  Eventually, I decide on the latter. Putting the clothes back in the bag, I secrete it away again under the bed. At least Rick’s tried. That’s nice. I’ll just have to look suitably surprised on Christmas Day.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  It’s the day before Christmas Eve, my last day in the office for two weeks, and I don’t know where the time has gone. At Westcroft’s, we’re finishing at three o’clock and then having a glass of wine and some mince pies in the office. I meant to make the mince pies with my own fair hands, but I ran out of time and had to shoot to Budgens instead. But when I get home tonight, I’m definitely going to set to in the kitchen.

  Robin is doing the rounds of the staff, topping up glasses. I hand round the mince pies. Someone’s hooked up an iPod and Coldplay’s ‘Christmas Lights’ wafts into the office. It’s been a good year for Westcroft’s, and everyone can leave for the Christmas break safe in the knowledge that they have jobs to come back to next year. There’s a good atmosphere, and all the team laugh and joke together. I realise that I’m lucky to work in a place where everyone gets on so well. Spirits are high, and I suspect that the Christmas bonus, modest though it is, will still be burning a hole in most of the staff’s pockets. Wine drunk and mince pies eaten, gradually everyone drifts away and, by five o’clock, I’m left doing the washing-up in the little kitchen at the back of the office.

  Robin comes in and picks up a tea towel and rubs pensively at the glasses I’ve already put on the draining board.

  ‘I can manage,’ I tell him.

  ‘I quite like drying up,’ he says. ‘Very therapeutic.’

  ‘Come round to my house any time. You can have all the therapy you need.’

  He laughs at that. ‘Of course, I’m speaking as a person who doesn’t have to do it very often.’

  ‘I’d gathered that.’

  ‘All ready for Christmas, Juliet?’

  ‘Nowhere near.’

  ‘We’ve run out of time though, now.’

  ‘I’m going to have a frantic dash round tonight and tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Get all the little outstanding bits done.’ I stop washing up and glance at my boss. ‘What about you?’

  He shrugs, but doesn’t offer a reply.

  ‘Things at home any better?’

  Robin shakes his head. ‘Not a lot.’ He studies the glass he’s wiping, avoiding my eyes. ‘It’s just the two of us on Christmas Day. We normally go out for lunch with friends. I didn’t think I could stand the tension this year, so I volunteered to cook. I hope it works out all right.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  He takes the dish mop from me and puts it on the draining board. His hand goes to my face and he strokes it wistfully. Then, just as unexpectedly, he drops it to his side again. ‘Go home, Juliet. You have more than enough to do. I’ll finish off here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Go home to your family.’

  I strip off the rubber gloves and smooth down my skirt. ‘Have a lovely Christmas, Robin.’

  ‘Next time I see you, it will all be over.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  John Lennon sings ‘Happy Xmas (War is Over)’ as I shrug on my coat. I don’t really want to leave Robin here alone – he seems so melancholy, and no one should be feeling sad at Christmas. But I have things to do, family to organise, presents to wrap, mince pies to rustle up, and I must go.

  ‘You will be all right, Robin? Won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be just dandy.’

  ‘Call me,’ I say. ‘If you’re not, call me.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Juliet.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Robin.’

  Looking sadder than I’ve ever seen him, Robin raises a hand as I open the door and step out into the cold.

  At home, Mum and Dad are watching Midsomer Murders. It looks as if they may have been on the sofa since I left the house this morning, and it pains me to see that Dad’s world has grown so small again since Samuel has gone. I hope, in time, that he’ll find his zest for life again, that he’ll want to travel and eat at good restaurants and won’t while away the rest of his years watching terrible daytime television. I, on the other hand, am quite happy for my mother never to venture farther than the living room, so that I know exactly where she is at all times.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Dad says. ‘Busy day?’

  ‘So-so.’

  ‘Shall I come and make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘You stay where you are.’

  ‘Some exercise wouldn’t go amiss. Haven’t moved all day.’ Thought as much.

  ‘Go easy with the milk,’ Mum instructs. ‘You’re too heavyhanded. You make tea that tastes like rice pudding.’

  Dad and I roll our eyes, and then he follows me through to the kitchen.

  ‘Seen anything of Chloe and Jaden today, Dad?’

  ‘She’s gone out with a friend of hers,’ Dad says. ‘Said she wouldn’t be long.’

  I shouldn’t be anxious when she takes Jaden out by herself, but I am. I can’t help it. That girl has lost six mobile phones in the last year, and I do worry that she has the same casual attitude towards her child.

  Glancing at the clock, I wonder what we might have for dinner. ‘What do you fancy to eat?’

  ‘Oh, you know me, love. I’ll eat anything.’

  ‘I’ve got some ham, and we could have a jacket potato.’ It’s not very exciting, but I think of all the rich food we’ll eat over the coming days and decide that something simple would fit the bill.

  ‘Sounds good to me. I’ll set the table. Are we a full house?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Dad.’

  Rick should be home soon, and Chloe. Goodness knows where Tom is. I don’t even ask any more.

  ‘I’m going to make some mince pies later. Want to give me a hand?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Dad says. ‘My pastry’s as light as a feather.’

  ‘I’m thinking of doing Delia’s lattice-top ones.’

  ‘Haven’t tried those,’ Dad admits, ‘I’m a Michel Roux man myself. But I’m up for it if you are.’

  Suddenly tears spring to my eyes. ‘You are all right, Dad, aren’t you?’ I go and hold him tightly.

  ‘Me?’ Now his voice is choked too. ‘I’m champion, love. Don’t you worry about me.’

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘Rick and I are going to do up his shed tomorrow,’ Dad says. ‘All fancy. In Samuel’s memory. That’ll be nice.’

  ‘He’ll be with us this Christmas, you know that. We won’t forget Samuel.’

  ‘He’ll be livid if he doesn’t get Christmas pudding, wherever he is.’

  My mum’s shrill tones come from the living room. ‘There are people dying of thirst in here!’

  ‘If only,’ Dad quips.

  ‘Better get that kettle on,’ I say as I give him a last little squeeze.

  Rick arrives as it boils. He looks tired. I think the fact that it’s taking so long to get to and from his job due to the heavy snow is making it a long day.

  ‘No Merak?’

  ‘The lad’s working in the bar again tonight.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s going home for Christmas?’

  Rick shrugs. ‘That’s what he said. But I can’t say he’s mentioned it again. He hasn’t told me if he’s booked a flight or anything. I’d give him a run to the airport if he needs it.’

  ‘Oh, Rick. Why didn’t you ask him?’

  Another shrug from my husband.

  ‘I don’t want him to be alone over the holiday if he’s not.’

  ‘We’ve only got a couple of hours’ work to finish off in the morning. I’ll check with him then.’

  ‘You spend all day, every day together. Don’t you two ever talk to each other?’

  ‘Not really. We’re blokes.’

  ‘You never talk to me, either,’ I complain.

  ‘Hang on, Juliet,’ he says, wearily. ‘I’m hardly through the door. I’ve not even taken my coat off yet.’ Then h
e pauses, and a serious expression clouds his features. ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to discuss with you . . . ’

  But before he can continue, the front door bangs open, sounding like it’s coming off its hinges.

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ Chloe shouts.

  I hear the pushchair hit the frame. Rick is already complaining how many chunks are missing out of the paintwork. That’ll be another one gone. I dash out into the hall.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  My daughter is standing there pale-faced, shell-shocked. ‘It’s coming,’ she says. ‘The baby. This time it’s definitely coming.’

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  ‘Good job I haven’t taken my coat off,’ Rick says, and we both help Chloe out to the car.

  I go back and retrieve her overnight bag from her bedroom. After the last false alarm, I made sure that she’d got everything ready to take with her. This time I think she’s right. Judging by the time between her contractions, the baby is already on its way.

  By some miracle, Tom answered his mobile phone the first time I tried him, and he’s come straight home in order to take Jaden to stay overnight with Mitch. The logistics of moving everyone around in this family gets more complicated every day. Why is it that no two people ever need to go in the same direction at the same time?

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right while we’re out?’ I ask Dad.

  ‘Off you go, love. I’ll take care of everything here. You just concentrate on Chloe.’

  ‘I’ll ring you as soon as we know anything,’ I promise.

  ‘Good luck, love.’ He kisses Chloe.

  ‘Thanks, Grandad.’ She clutches at her belly. ‘Let’s get going. I’m not going to be able to hold this kid in for much longer.’

  If only labour were so easy.

  Dad waves us off. When I help Chloe to walk down the drive to the car, Rick is already in the driving seat, revving the engine. Chloe climbs into the back, moaning softly. I jump in too and off we go. My husband drives like the wind across the city. All the main roads have been cleared of snow, thank goodness. Though now night is falling and, along with it, the temperature, it is starting to ice up again. Despite that, less than half an hour later we’re turning into the car park at Milton Keynes General Hospital.

  Patiently, I help Chloe inside while Rick feeds the pay-and-display meter. Grabbing a wheelchair in Reception, I escort her up to the maternity ward, pushing her as briskly as I can.

  But when we get there, a shock awaits us. ‘Sorry,’ the harassed-looking nurse says. ‘We’re full.’

  ‘Full?’ I query. ‘You can’t be.’

  ‘It seems that a lot of our babies have decided to come in time for Christmas.’ She glances at us sympathetically and then looks at the clipboard she’s holding. ‘There’s room at Stoke Mandeville.’

  ‘That’s miles away.’

  ‘It’s the nearest hospital with free beds on the maternity ward,’ she assures me.

  ‘Mum!’ Chloe is looking panic-stricken.

  ‘Calm down, darling,’ I say. ‘Everything will be fine.’ But inside I’m pumping adrenalin.

  ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘Will you take her there by ambulance?’ I ask.

  ‘No ambulances either,’ the nurse admits. ‘They’re mostly out at traffic accidents because of the weather. It’d be quicker to drive over there. You could do it in forty minutes, easily.’ She tries to give us a comforting smile. ‘These babies never rush themselves. It’ll be plenty of time.’

  I think back to Chloe’s last labour, when she was pushing and shoving for the best part of twenty-four hours. My daughter might think she’s in a desperate hurry, but these things do take time. There’s probably hours and hours to wait yet.

  By this time, Rick has joined us from the car park. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘No beds,’ I explain. ‘We’re to take her to Stoke Mandeville.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Stoke Mandeville,’ Chloe complains.

  ‘It’s a lovely hospital,’ the nurse interjects. ‘I’ll phone to tell them you’re on your way.’

  ‘Bloody government cuts,’ Rick rages. ‘I pay my taxes!’

  ‘Not now,’ I sigh. ‘They can’t just magic beds out of thin air. Let’s just get going.’

  He tuts. A lot.

  We wheel Chloe back into the car park and load her into the car. It’s a bitter night, and the snow is developing a nice crust of ice.

  ‘I’m not taking the wheelchair back,’ Rick grumbles and, just to make a point, he dumps it in the car park.

  Slowly, we make our way through Milton Keynes and out towards the village of Stewkley and then on to Wing. The roads are becoming much more treacherous. Once we leave the edge of the city and the main roads, the snow-clearing has obviously been much more sporadic. Rick has his satnav on, and it’s speaking to us in measured tones. It must be the only thing in the car that’s not panicking. For the first time in my life, I’m hating snow.

  ‘How far?’ I want to know.

  ‘It’s not that far. About twenty-five miles in total,’ Rick says. His face bears a grim expression. ‘But it’s going to take a while tonight.’

  ‘Mum!’ Chloe wails.

  ‘Hang on, darling,’ I tell her. Reaching into the back seat, I grab her hand. She squeezes mine tightly. ‘We’re going as fast as we can.’

  ‘Fucking hospitals! They’re useless.’

  I have to agree with her. This is the kind of stress that no one needs when they’re about to have a baby.

  We’re heading out towards Aylesbury and then on to Stoke Mandeville. Due to the atrocious weather conditions, it’s nearly an hour later and we’re not yet halfway there. The car wheels slip and slide alarmingly. The snow has started again and splats against the glass, fat and wet. The windscreen wipers set up a steady battle to swish it away.

  Rick and I exchange a worried glance. This is much worse than I thought. In the back seat, Chloe has stopped complaining and is crying softly.

  ‘Nearly there,’ I say to her, even though I might be lying. I glance at Rick, and the returning shake of his head tells me that I am. ‘Not long now.’

  Chloe cries out in pain. ‘It’s coming,’ she pants. ‘I know it is.’

  ‘Just try to keep calm.’

  ‘I DON’T WANT TO KEEP CALM,’ she yells. ‘I WANT THIS FUCKING THING OUT!’

  ‘That’s not going to help, Chloe. Try to breathe deeply and relax.’

  ‘Fucking relax,’ she mutters to herself. ‘Fucking relax.’

  There’s not much traffic out in this weather, but that’s not what’s holding us up. It seems that most people have, quite sensibly, stayed off the roads. Only those – like us – with emergency journeys would venture out in this. We head out to Wing along the bypass, settling into two clear grooves in the snow. My stomach is tense with anxiety for Chloe. Childbirth should be a pleasant, uplifting experience. But, let’s face it, it never is. Doing it like this adds a whole other layer of stress and danger.

  ‘I thought this way would be quicker,’ Rick says anxiously. ‘It’s a shorter distance, but maybe I should have stuck to the main roads.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I say determinedly. ‘Just fine.’ Perhaps we should have had one of those paddling-pool births at home. But Chloe was never keen to go down the natural route. She likes to be knocked out at the start of it all and, I think, preferably be revived shortly after the child’s twenty-first birthday.

  Chloe cries out again. If these are contractions, then there’s not much time between them at all. ‘It’s coming. Really it is.’ She’s whimpering now. ‘Do something, Mum. I don’t want my baby to be born in the car.’

  Reaching back, I hold her hand. ‘Just hold on a bit longer, love. You’re doing really well. Not too far now.’ I still have no idea if that’s true. We don’t seem to be making very good headway at all. ‘Rick?’ I glance across at my husband.

  ‘A little while yet,’ he says somewhat crisply
.

  ‘It’s coming,’ Chloe insists and shouts out again. ‘It is. The head’s popping out.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She nods.

  ‘Take deep breaths,’ I say. ‘Relax. Relax.’ I make whooshing noises with my breath.

  ‘How can I fucking relax,’ she shouts. ‘I’m about to have my baby in the back of the fucking car!’

  Fair point. I’m trying to stay calm and think what to do. If only we had one of those ‘Beam me up, Scotty’ machines to speed us to Stoke Mandeville. If only Milton Keynes hospital could have had a bloody bed free.

  ‘I’ll turn down here,’ Rick says. ‘It’s a short cut through the back roads.’

  We turn off the main Aylesbury road and into the country lane that takes us through the tiny hamlet of Broughton. There’s not much here but a smattering of cottages.

  Soon the street lights disappear, the cottages thin out to a trickle and the black night envelops us. Thick, wet snow smacks persistently against the windscreen. There’s nothing around us but open fields. We go over a small humpback bridge that spans the Grand Union Canal, and Chloe cries out.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she says. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Pull over, Rick,’ I instruct. ‘I’ll get in the back with Chloe.’

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Chloe says. ‘Put your foot down!’ I fear it might be too late for that.

  ‘There’s a car park just up here beyond the bridge,’ Rick says. ‘We went for a walk along the canal from here last summer. I’ll swing in there.’

  He pulls in. The car park is dark, secluded and – Rick is right – borders the canal. At this time of night and in these conditions, there’s not another living soul around. Rick parks up over by the deserted picnic tables. I jump out of the car and nip into the back seat. Chloe is pale and sweating.

  ‘Slip off those leggings,’ I instruct, ‘and we’ll have a little look at what’s going on.’

  Chloe, for once, does as she’s told without protest. She’s breathing heavily now.