With Love at Christmas

by Carole Matthews

  I sit down next to Tom and take his beer can from him. ‘I don’t think that will help.’

  ‘It might do,’ he counters.

  ‘Drink is never the answer to anything.’ I take his hand. ‘Just because your young lady isn’t behaving very well, it doesn’t mean that you should do the same.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Young lady?’

  I dig him in the ribs. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Tom risks a smile. ‘The day hasn’t quite panned out as I’d expected.’

  ‘I got the impression that you might already have lost interest in her by the time you got here.’

  ‘Taking on someone else’s kids is never easy, is it?’

  ‘No.’ The two teenage boys who are the subject of our conversation are currently fast asleep on the rug in front of the fire. Or they could be passed out drunk. Whichever way, I could actually quite like them if they were always like this. I nod towards them. ‘These two do seem to be quite a handful. I’m not sure you’re ready for that.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Tom sighs. ‘Besides . . . ’ He turns to me with a shrug. ‘I did meet someone else last night.’ My son grins at me. ‘He’s a great bloke.’

  ‘Oh, Tom.’

  ‘He’s a lot nicer than Mali. I don’t know what I was thinking of there.’

  Ah. Here we go again. Perhaps it’s as well that Tom stays footloose and fancy-free until he can actually decide which team he wants to bat for.

  ‘You won’t let us find you with him in our bed, will you?’

  ‘God, no! I realise now what a traumatic experience it is. Next time I want sex, I’m going to a hotel.’

  ‘You should let Mali go,’ I advise. ‘If there is something between her and Robin, then why try to stop it if you’re not interested?’

  ‘You don’t think I should fight my love rival to the death for her?’

  ‘Does she really mean that much to you?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Then just move on.’

  My son leans over and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re far too nice, Mother?’

  ‘I’m just trying to be philosophical.’ I pat his hand. ‘I don’t want to spoil Christmas Day, either.’

  ‘Do you think it was the garlic crusher that did it?’

  ‘I think the present-buying model that your father uses isn’t one you should necessarily emulate.’

  He laughs at that. ‘All those years of wheelbarrows and frying pans hasn’t put you off him?’

  Looking over at Rick, I see that he’s chatting to Merak and Lisa, and is oblivious to our talking about him. ‘It was a closerun thing sometimes.’

  ‘I want what you’ve got,’ Tom says. ‘Just not yet. Not for about another ten years. Or maybe twenty.’

  I don’t point out that it’s taken us the best part of twenty-seven years to build up what we’ve got. I guess Tom will just have to find his own way in life.

  Patting his knee, I say, ‘I should go and find Mali. These boys look like they’re ready to go home.’ I could be charitable and say that perhaps they’ve either worn themselves out with all their fighting or the excitement of the day, and forget about the advocaat binge.

  ‘You’re the best, Mum,’ Tom says. ‘I know that I’m a crap son and I don’t say it very often, but I do love you.’

  ‘That’s made my Christmas Day,’ I tell him. ‘It’s better than any present.’

  ‘Ah,’ Tom says. ‘Sorry about the present. Or lack of it. I owe you one.’

  ‘I can live without another garlic crusher,’ I tease. Then I set off to track down the missing Mali and my boss.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  With much trepidation, I make a tour of the house, gingerly opening the bedroom doors. I knock and look in on Chloe, and she and Mitch are cuddled up together on the bed while she feeds Holly.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, a look of sleepy contentment on her face that’s equalled by the same expression from her child. ‘We’ll be down soon.’

  They’re a picture of happiness, and I wish that they could capture this moment for ever. I close the door on them again with a warm smile in my heart.

  Having checked all the bedrooms, I come to the conclusion that Mali and Robin must be outside. And there’s only one destination I can think of. Oh, dear. In the kitchen, my coat and wellies are pressed into service again. It’s dark outside now, and I notice that someone has switched on the Christmas lights that adorn Rick’s shed. The pink HO-HO-HO flashes out into the garden.

  I walk down the path, not sure that I want to be doing this, but they’ve been gone for far too long now. ‘Robin,’ I shout out, tentatively. ‘Mali! Are you out here?’

  I’m regretting coming out now. Perhaps I should just leave them alone until they’ve done what they’re doing and had their fun.

  As I get closer to Rick’s shed, I can hear much frantic rustling. That has to be them.

  ‘It’s probably time you came back to the house,’ I venture. They are, after all, both supposed to be guests in my home, not bonking in Rick’s beloved shed. He’d be furious if he found out. No one messes with the shed. ‘Mali, your boys look like they need to be taken home. I’ll leave you to it. I hope we’ll see you in a few minutes.’ Then I turn to make my way back to the house.

  As I do, the shed door bursts open and Robin staggers out. ‘Sorry, Juliet,’ he says. ‘So sorry.’

  His shirt is buttoned up all wrong and he’s only wearing one shoe. Inside the shed, I catch a glimpse of Mali rearranging her clothing.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say, averting my eyes. ‘No harm done. But it’s time you came back now.’

  ‘I must apologise to Tom,’ he continues. ‘We were simply overcome by passion.’

  Ordinarily, I’d view that as a good thing, but on Christmas Day it’s all a bit much for me to cope with. ‘There are mince pies and coffee,’ I tell them, as if that’s any consolation for my breaking up their private party.

  Then the back door bangs and Rick comes striding down the garden with Buster in his wake. ‘What’s going on here?’ he wants to know.

  ‘It’s fine, Rick,’ I say, and hold up my hands in a placatory manner.

  ‘Who’s been in my shed?’ I knew that he would be more concerned about the usage of his shed rather than the usage of Tom’s girlfriend.

  But Robin doesn’t realise which misdemeanour Rick is most concerned with and starts to back away. ‘I can explain,’ he says. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

  Rick advances, Buster barking excitedly. My husband’s face is black. No one, but no one switches on his HO-HO-HO but Rick.

  Robin moves away more quickly. He hits the cobbles at the edge of the pond and, owing to the fatal mixture of alcohol and ice, he topples. I lunge forward and try to catch hold of Robin’s shirt. Buster, eager to join in, bounds in front of me and jumps up at Robin’s legs. The dog is more successful than I am and hits Robin squarely in the thighs.

  ‘Buster, no!’ I shout. But it’s too late. The motion propels Robin backwards and onto the ice that covers the pond. The ice creaks alarmingly and I gasp. And the sad thing is, I think it might just have held his weight if Buster hadn’t then jumped right in on top of him.

  The ice cracks and Robin sinks through it into the freezing water. ‘Aaaggh!’ he shouts, flailing about.

  Buster, assuming that this is a marvellous game, keeps jumping on him.

  ‘Buster,’ I call out. ‘Come out, boy. Come out now!’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ Rick says. He stands at the edge of the pond, rubbing his hands through his hair until it’s all on end, trying to work out how to grab the dog or Robin without himself getting wet.

  ‘Do something, Rick,’ I urge.

  ‘Like what?’

  Mali is out of the shed now and dressed again. ‘Help, help!’ she cries, rushing up and down in the snow in her high heels. ‘Help! Help!’

  That brings eve
ryone else dashing out of the house and into the garden. Even Mum and Dad totter down the path. When Tom sees what’s going on he starts to laugh, and pretty soon is doubled up.

  Mali starts to smack him. ‘You no laugh,’ she says. ‘You no laugh. No funny!’

  ‘What’s that man doing in the pond in this weather?’ Mum asks. ‘Is he mad?’ For once, it’s a good question.

  Merak, Lisa and Mitch appear. They’ve dressed Jaden and Izzy in their coats and boots and the children run about the garden in the snow. Mali’s boys follow. Merak starts a snowball fight and pretty soon he, Lisa and Mitch and all of the kids are joining in, rolling around on the ground, shrieking and laughing. I can see that Chloe is watching from the livingroom window, safe in the warmth of the house, a smile on her face, Holly cradled in her arms.

  Fat snowflakes start to fall and Mum holds out her hands. ‘This is lovely,’ she says, and she twirls round and round.

  ‘Be careful, love,’ Dad says. ‘Mind you don’t slip.’

  ‘Dance with me, Frank,’ she instructs.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Can’t you hear the music?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Dad says. ‘It’s lovely.’ So my dad takes her in his arms and they waltz about in the falling snow. Mum, still wearing her red paper Christmas hat, throws her head back and laughs. She hums to a tune that no one else can hear and sounds happier than she’s done in years.

  ‘Help!’ Mali shouts. She stamps her foot. ‘Help!’ She’s clearly annoyed that the attention is drifting away from herself and Robin, who is still in the water, gasping and waving his arms. The dog is still enjoying himself too.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Rick mutters. ‘I live in a madhouse.’

  ‘We do need to do something,’ I suggest to my husband. ‘If we don’t get Robin out in a minute, he’s going to get hypothermia.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Rick takes a deep breath. ‘Robin, mate. Stand up.’

  Robin, spluttering and floundering, stops. ‘What?’

  ‘Stand up,’ Rick repeats. ‘It’s not even two feet deep.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Robin stands up, dripping water and weed. Buster, sensing that the game is over, paddles out and shakes himself off. All over Mali.

  ‘Nasty dog!’ she yells. ‘You nasty dog!’

  Buster takes this as an invitation to lick her.

  Robin wades out of the pond, looking sheepish. He’s starting to shiver.

  ‘I’ll run you a hot bath,’ I say. ‘Get you warmed up.’

  ‘Thank you, Juliet,’ he replies, sounding a lot more sober now. ‘That would be very kind of you.’

  So I lead a very soggy and shamefaced Robin back inside, Mali stomping after us in her short skirt and her low top and her high heels.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  The side gate swung open and Neil Harrison’s head poked round it. ‘Merry Christmas, Rick,’ he shouted out. ‘Mind if I come in?’

  ‘No, no,’ Rick said, waving him into the garden. ‘Merry Christmas to you.’

  ‘Heard a bit of a commotion,’ Neil told him. ‘All OK?’

  ‘Someone went into the pond,’ Rick explained. ‘Bit too much Christmas cheer.’

  ‘Ah. So easily done. I’m glad to get away for a breather.’ He flicked a thumb back towards his own home. ‘All my lot are rowing. It’s the same every year. The entire family descend on us. They all hate each other. We’re lucky if no one gets killed. But it’s Christmas.’ He shrugged. ‘What can you do?’

  They took in the kids building a snowman, Lisa and Merak mooning over each other, his mother-in-law dancing with her ex-husband, and Rick said, ‘Families, eh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Neil agreed. ‘Families.’ Then his neighbour stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the garden. ‘The lights look great here, Rick. Fine show.’

  ‘Can’t compete with yours,’ Rick said, hoping the bitterness didn’t show in his voice.

  ‘It’s not a competition, mate,’ Neil said. ‘Those lights are my only solace. Cathy is a complete Christmas nut, and it drives me mad.’

  ‘Same here, mate.’

  ‘The only pleasure I get is putting those decorations up.’

  ‘Really?’ Rick brightened. ‘That’s exactly how I feel.’

  ‘I saw you and Frank bringing stuff in and wanted to come over and have a look, lend a bit of a hand. But you can’t just barge in, can you? I didn’t know if you’d resent the intrusion.’

  ‘No, no,’ Rick said. ‘Come over any time. You’re more than welcome.’

  Neil moved down the garden, taking in Rick’s new lights and making appreciative noises. ‘Fine work. Fine work,’ he muttered to himself.

  Along with his neighbour, Rick admired the lights that he and Frank had bought – the pretty Christmas tree, the Santa and reindeer silhouettes gracing the shed; Samuel’s pink HO-HO-HO and the rope lights bordering the pond. He’d been so busy, he hadn’t had time for a proper look himself. Now that he did, he felt rather proud. It did look good. Even though Rick said so himself, he and his dear old father-in-law had done a great job together.

  ‘The shed looks excellent. Star on top is a touch of genius. I particularly like the arrangement of the pulsing light rope round the door.’ Neil nodded in approval. ‘Very classy.’

  ‘Want to crack a beer, Neil? I’ve got a fridge in there.’

  ‘A fridge? Now I am jealous. I’ve always wanted a shed of my own.’

  ‘Really?’ Rick felt a warm glow in his chest.

  ‘Very jealous,’ Neil reiterated.

  ‘Let me show you round it,’ Rick said.

  So the two of them left the rest of the family in the garden and retreated to the sanctuary of the shed. When they were comfortably settled on the sunloungers and Neil had expressed his effusive admiration, Rick opened them both cans of beer.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ they toasted together.

  ‘I like the flashing HO-HO-HO. Magnificent.’

  ‘B&Q’s finest.’

  ‘Get a lot of mine from the States,’ Neil told him. Rick had thought as much. ‘I worked over there until last year, and they really go to town. You should have seen what I used to do to the house out there. Drove Cathy mad. I’ll have to show you some photos. There’s even more stuff in the garage – boxes full – that I can’t use.’

  ‘Really?’

  Neil sipped his beer. ‘You know, we should get together next year. Do something mega. You could use some of my spare lights on your house.’

  Rick felt his heart soar. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Maybe we could do it for charity. Put a couple of little boxes outside for donations. People like that kind of thing.’

  ‘Sounds fantastic. As soon as Christmas is over, we should have regular planning meetings in my shed. It could be our headquarters.’

  Neil clinked his tin against Rick’s. ‘It could indeed.’ His neighbour sighed. ‘This is the life. I’m glad to get away for half an hour’s peace.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ Rick agreed. He felt that he’d found a new friend. Who knew that, behind those flashy Christmas decorations, his neighbour was such an affable chap?

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  I run Robin a bath while he perches, still fully clothed, on the loo seat. His teeth are chattering. I put in plenty of foam – lavender-scented. That skanky green pond water is going to take some scrubbing off. Then I bring him a towel, hot from the airing cupboard, a pair of Rick’s jeans, a shirt, some socks and a new packet of pants that I was going to give my husband for Christmas but forgot about. Fortunately for Robin.

  ‘There you are.’ I hand them all over.

  ‘Thank you, Juliet.’

  ‘Just come downstairs when you’re ready.’

  ‘I don’t know how I can face you all again,’ he admits.

  ‘We have very short memories in this house,’ I tell him.

  ‘Though you might offer an apology to Tom. It’s not exactly broken his heart, but you have pinched his gir
lfriend from under his nose. He’s probably feeling embarrassed.’

  ‘No more than me. Please don’t tell anyone in the office about this,’ he begs.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’re a good woman, Juliet, and I don’t like to think that I’ve abused your hospitality.’

  I have to laugh. ‘You did liven up Christmas Day somewhat.’

  He hangs his head and I go to kiss his cheek.

  ‘We’ll put it down to stress,’ I say. ‘You’ve had a lot to deal with.’

  ‘You’re very understanding.’

  ‘You need to get in the bath now. I don’t want you to catch your death of cold, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  Back downstairs, Mali and the boys are standing in the hall. She’s called a cab and is waiting for it.

  I brace myself to be polite. Very soon she will be out of our lives and, hopefully, that’s the last we’ll see of her. ‘It’s been very . . . interesting . . . meeting you, Mali.’

  ‘Likewise.’ She views me through narrowed eyes.

  I can’t say I’m disappointed that I’m not going to become Mali’s mother-in-law any time soon.

  ‘Robin? He OK?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  Headlights flick into the hallway and the noise of a car pulling up says that her taxi is here.

  ‘Boys,’ she says. ‘Come, come.’ Mali thrusts a business card at me. All it has on it is her name, mobile number and the image of a red stiletto shoe. I don’t think I want to know what kind of business Mali engages in. Perhaps I should have viewed those six-inch heels with more suspicion. ‘Give this Robin. Tell him call me.’

  She totters to the door and lets herself out. The overgrown boys lope after her.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mali,’ I say. But, as she gets into the taxi, there’s no reply.