The Difference a Day Makes

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Not really,’ I say. After all, our time here at Helmshill Grange is rapidly coming to an end.

  I’ve left lights on all over the house so that it would look warm and welcoming on our return. I have to say that the Grange looks lovely, very festive. The heating’s still pumping out too for all it’s worth so, for once, it will be like a sauna inside. This is one Christmas where I want to feel toasty and pampered and content.

  The kids start to throw snowballs at each other, shrieking as targets are hit.

  I nudge Serena. ‘Come on,’ I urge. ‘Let’s show them how this is done.’

  Giggling like schoolgirls, we both grab handfuls of snow and hurl them at the kids, who scream with delight. Then they round on us and give us a good pelting. Somehow Serena turns rogue and ends up on their side and all three of them chase me back to the house, showering me with snow while I shout and run, breathlessly. It’s a long time since I have felt so carefree. I look back at the kids, my sister, Helmshill Grange. This is a wonderful moment that I’ll always cherish.

  I reach the back door first and, still laughing and panting hard, push it open. Then I stop dead in my tracks. It takes a moment for the scene to register in my brain. The laughter stops in my throat and turns to a cry of, ‘Oh no!’

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  On the floor in the middle of the kitchen is the turkey. The tinfoil is shredded, as is the bird. Torn lumps of the meat litter the floor. Our Christmas lunch looks like it has been shaken to hell and back. I can feel my face darken and my blood boils. Hamish! Wait till I get my hands on that flaming animal. The chair wedged against the scullery door is lying toppled on its side and the door is open. That wretched dog is better than Houdini. How has he managed to get out again?

  It’s clear that it is not all Hamish’s work though. His accomplice is currently lying on the kitchen table languidly licking turkey grease from between her claws and from round her mouth. Milly Molly Mandy pauses in her ablutions and gives me a disdainful look.

  ‘Get off that bloody table before I skin you alive,’ I shriek, just as the kids and Serena come in behind me also laughing and panting with exertion. They too pull up short.

  Milly Molly Mandy thinks twice about acting cool and shoots off the table, scarpering through the living room at warp speed.

  ‘Oh no,’ Serena says behind me in a echo of my own sentiments.

  At that moment, I hear Hamish bark happily in the living room. I storm towards the noise, yanking the door open, the warm glow of Christmas spirit quickly evaporated. The sight that greets me is even worse than in the kitchen. My beautiful blue spruce tree that we all lavished such tender loving care on decorating is up-ended in the middle of the floor. Hamish is currently worrying the fairy from the top who’s clamped firmly in his jaws, silver crown and filigree wings askew. His low, rumbling growl is laced with joy.

  ‘Dear God.’ My hand goes to my mouth.

  All of the presents have received the Hamish treatment. Ripped wrapping paper is littered round the room, all over the carpet, on the sofas. Tom’s X-Box has been gnawed beyond recognition and Jessica’s Bratz paraphernalia has been chewed into a thousand slobber-covered pieces.

  The gaudy paper has been torn from Alan’s hand-crafted sled and there are Hamish-sized teethmarks all over the wood. And the little glittering bags of chocolate coins, ridiculously, irrationally, my very favourite thing, have all been dragged from the tree and lie half-chewed and spat out on the carpet, their golden wrappers shredded, the chocolate all but gone.

  ‘Oh,’ Jessica says in a small voice. ‘Naughty Hamish.’

  Suddenly, I’m mobilised from my paralysis. ‘Right! That’s it!’ I charge at Hamish and, to his surprise, grab him roughly by the collar. His eyes nearly pop out of his head. ‘Get out. Get out of here now.’ He starts to whine as I yank him to the door. Even a dog as small-brained as Hamish can’t mistake the fact that this time he’s in deep, deep shit. This time he has over-stepped the mark. ‘I want you out of my sight.’

  ‘Amy . . .’ Serena tries to still me, but I’m having none of it. I push past my sister, hauling the reluctant dog behind me.

  His feet scrabble on the floor as I drag him through the kitchen and he tries in vain to sit down. I round on him. ‘You have ruined my fucking Christmas,’ I scream. ‘All I’ve done, all I’ve worked for and you’ve ruined it, you stupid animal.’

  ‘Mummy,’ Jessica says, and I can tell that she’s crying.

  I turn and behind me the blanched faces of my children stare back at me. I don’t think they’ve ever heard me swear before, and certainly not like this. But a red rage has descended on me and I can’t help myself.

  ‘This dog is going,’ I tell them. ‘I have tried, but I’ve had enough of him. I can’t deal with him any longer.’

  Somehow, I manhandle him out of the kitchen door. There’s no way he’s getting back into the house this side of New Year. He’s done enough damn damage for one day. The snow is thicker now and Hamish howls as I push and shove and tug him towards one of the outhouses – the one with the biggest bolt across the door.

  Despite his protests, I somehow manage to get Hamish into the secure brick building. ‘You can damn well stay here until I decide what to do with you.’

  Hamish lowers his head, his doleful eyes pleading with me. Well, it’s a bit too bloody late now. ‘Don’t give me that crap,’ I shout at him, arms flailing. He backs away from me, cowering. ‘You weren’t just playing. You’re a destructive monster. I have six mouths to feed tomorrow. Did you think it was funny to eat my turkey? Did you enjoy it, you canine bastard? What am I going to do now, thanks to you? What are we going to eat?’

  It feels as if all that I’ve tried to hold together over the last few months has suddenly been swept away. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. Behind me I can hear Tom and Jessica crying softly as they stand shivering in the yard and let the snow fall on them.

  ‘We love him, Mummy,’ Jessica sobs. ‘He didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I can manage without an X-Box,’ Tom adds tearfully.

  I ignore their pleas. I think I’m justly berating a big, useless, slobbering shite of a dog. They think I’m laying into Helmshill’s answer to Scooby Doo. Well, I’m the grown up. I’m the one who’s right. Hamish tries one last, valiant wag of his tail.

  ‘It doesn’t work,’ I spit at him. ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself, you stupid mutt. It’s curtains for you now, mate. This is over and I’ve won.’ And I bang the door behind him, giving it a kick for good measure, and I make sure that the bolt is firmly secured.

  Now I’m going to have a drink, a double brandy, scrape the irretrievable turkey off the floor and think about what I’m going to give my guests for Christmas lunch and how I’m going to get rid of that accursed dog.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  When I wake up on Christmas morning, I’m a damn sight calmer. I cried and cried and cried last night, and now it’s as if all my emotion is spent and I have a clearer perspective on what happened. If it wasn’t so heartbreaking and so achingly expensive I might even be able to see the funny side of Hurricane Hamish’s destructive streak. Maybe in years to come. Okay, so there’s no turkey and no presents, but that at the end of the day is a minor hiccough. Worse things happen at sea. No one died.

  And that’s really what my outburst was about last night. It wasn’t entirely down to Hamish’s Christmas frenzy, it was more to do with the stress that had been piling up over my job, the move to London, the worry of looking after the children by myself, the fact that life is never going to be the same again. My dog’s dastardly behaviour was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. I had tried so hard to make it perfect and then . . . I’m not going to go there again. But, I have to admit, after a good rant and a good cry I feel so much better. Now I’m just feeling shamefaced and will have to set about a damage-limitation programme.

  The hens, thankfully, don’t realise it’s a special day so there’ll be plenty of egg
s. Omelettes for Christmas dinner could work. I’ll have several glasses of champagne with the others and we’ll all laugh heartily about it. There’s no way I’m going to let it spoil today.

  Milly Molly Mandy is curled up at the bottom of the bed fast asleep and drooling on my favourite duvet. Clearly the cat wasn’t overly rattled by my unusual outburst.

  ‘Morning, Mils,’ I say, and inch a foot out of the duvet to give her a rub. ‘Up for some more turkey today?’

  She opens one eye, regards me icily and then closes it again. Normal service resumed.

  This is the first time I’ve woken up alone on Christmas Day for many years, but you know, I feel all right about it. I stroke Will’s side of the bed even though it’s empty. He’s still here with us every day and always will be. I know that. Instead of grieving for what I’ve lost, I should count my blessings. I’ve got my health, I’m relatively happy and I’ve got two wonderful children who make my life worthwhile. I may not be the world’s best parent, but they’re growing up to be nice, responsible kids despite my inadequacies. They never give me a moment’s trouble.

  Glancing at the clock, I see that it’s nearly eight even though it’s still dark outside. Just goes to show that Tom and Jessica are growing up. Normally by now they’d be up and in our bed, demanding presents, dragging us from our sleep. Or perhaps they’ve stayed in bed because they know that this Christmas there are no presents.

  I feel terrible that I blew up like that. It was unacceptable and I must apologise to them at once. That bloody dog will be the death of me, I’ll swear. But it looks like I’m stuck with him as a permanent member of my family. I’m going to make sure that Hamish has plenty of time in the outhouse in which to consider the stupidity of his ways – even though it is Christmas Day and already I can feel my resolve weakening.

  Stretching and yawning, I heave myself out of bed preparing for the rigours of the day. While there’s still a modicum of peace and quiet, I sneak into the shower and let the hot water play over me, reviving my tired body. Hopefully, there’ll still be some hot water left for Serena when she gets up – which I realise is not entirely in the spirit of Christmas, but then my sister has plenty of hot water for the other 364 days of the year, whereas I do not.

  After showering and dressing I go down into the kitchen and start to make preparations for breakfast. Just something light as I don’t want anyone to spoil their lunch. And then I remember that lunch isn’t going quite according to plan. Only Hamish and Milly Molly Mandy are going to enjoy the remains of the turkey. Still, the croissants and pain au chocolat I bought should fill a hole until then. I just hope that the hens have been prolific in their egg production to make up for the shortcomings on the fowl front as I don’t want to be popping a couple of them in the Aga.

  The kettle whistles to let me know that it has boiled and I take Serena a cup of chamomile tea. She’s only just woken and is still luxuriating in her bed. ‘Don’t think that you can stay there for long,’ I warn. ‘The minute the kids get up your life will no longer be your own.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ she says. ‘Thank goodness I hadn’t had time to put my presents for them under the tree. At least a few things escaped Tornado Hamish. They’ll still have something to open.’

  It took us ages to clear up the mess in the living room last night, but we righted the blue spruce which didn’t seem too much the worse for wear after its ordeal. With a bit of solicitous titivation we even managed to get it fairly near to looking like its former glory – apart from the seriously chewed fairy. When the kids had gone to bed we sneaked Serena’s presents downstairs and placed them under the tree.

  ‘You’re an angel.’ I give my sister a warm hug. ‘Happy Christmas. Let’s have a lovely day together.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she says. ‘It will be wonderful. I’m not a big fan of turkey anyway.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I say with a laugh. ‘I’ve tried so hard to make everything perfect.’

  ‘Have a few drinks. Chill out. Don’t worry. All your guests should be grateful that they’re here whatever you serve up. I’m sure we’d have all been spending it on our own being maudlin otherwise.’

  ‘Think I should get the kids up yet? It’s not like them to lie in this long, although we did have quite a late night.’ And Jessica was still sobbing when she went to bed, I think guiltily. ‘I’ll give them a knock.’

  First I head to Jessica’s room. The morning is dark and gloomy, outside the snow is still falling and by now it’s getting quite deep. I nibble anxiously at my lip. Guy will be fine to get here as he can walk to our house, but I hope Alan doesn’t have any trouble getting through to Helmshill in his car. Surely the roads must be starting to become impassable by now. Maybe the people who live up here are more used to these conditions. From my point of view, I’m happy that we’re all going to be safely tucked up for the day with no need to venture out into the elements.

  ‘Come on, Sleepy Head,’ I call out as I enter Jessica’s bedroom. She’s completely buried in the duvet, burrowed down like a little dormouse. I sit down on the side of the bed and shake the mound. ‘Don’t you want to see if Santa’s been?’

  Then my blood runs cold and I whip back the duvet. Instead of Jessica, there is a pile of carefully arranged teddy bears and dolls beneath the cover. ‘Serena!’ I cry out and then fly across the hall and into Tom’s room, heart pounding erratically.

  I can already tell as I go through the door that the hump in the bed is not my child. Sure enough, that too is a pile of soft toys. ‘Oh, God,’ I say under my breath. ‘Where the hell are they?’

  I look out of Tom’s window into the yard and instantly see that the door of the outhouse that imprisoned Hamish is flung wide open and is swinging on its hinges. It seems that my children have launched a secret operation to liberate the damn dog.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Serena comes up behind me, pulling her dressing-gown around her and trying to smooth down her hair. She too stares out of the window, yawning. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  I turn to her, my eyes welling with tears and blurt out, ‘The kids are missing.’

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  I phoned Guy, who phoned Alan, and now they’re both here. ‘It looks like they’ve taken the dog and gone,’ I say, managing to control my tears.

  ‘They can’t have got far,’ Guy says in a reassuring tone. ‘The weather was terrible last night.’ And then I see the two men exchange a worried look and that sets me off weeping again. My babies could be out in that.

  Serena and I donned our boots and heavy coats the minute we found that Tom and Jessica had gone AWOL and made a thorough search of all the outhouses and barns just in case they were still in the vicinity of the house or tucked up safely behind a bale of straw somewhere. How often are kids that go missing found asleep behind the sofa or under their beds – right? It was worth a look, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

  Tom has left his mobile phone on the kitchen table. The one time I need it in an emergency and it’s lying here impotently. How sorry am I now that I didn’t give into Jessica’s demands for a phone, citing her unreasonable youth as an excuse? It would have been more than her street cred was worth for her to have left it behind.

  There’s been a lot of fresh snow so we can’t see any footprints leading away from the Grange to give us a hint as to where they might have gone. ‘This is all my fault,’ I explain tearfully to Guy. ‘When we got back from the church last night, Hamish had trashed the house.’

  ‘It seems to be his speciality,’ he says enigmatically.

  ‘This time he did a particularly good job,’ I sigh. ‘He’d devoured the turkey. Wrecked the Christmas tree. Half-ate most of the presents. I completely lost the plot, locked him in the outhouse and, effectively, told the kids that he had to go.’

  He purses his lips. ‘Seems as if they had other ideas.’

  ‘Where did they think they were going to go with him? Do they really think I’m so heartless?’ My eyes meet
Guy’s and I think back to the day when I begged him to put Hamish down. God, how could I do that? What a cow.

  ‘We’re wasting valuable time,’ Guy says. ‘Where do they go and play on the moors when they go out? Chances are they’ve headed there.’

  ‘They stay pretty close to the house usually.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve become disorientated in the snow. It’s easy to do.’ Guy runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Do you want us to do an initial sweep before we call the police, or do you want to ring them straight away?’

  ‘Police?’ This makes it seem so much more serious. ‘You don’t think anyone’s taken them?’

  ‘No, no,’ Guy says. ‘But I’m worried about how long they’ve been out there and whether they’re properly dressed.’

  ‘Their coats and boots have gone.’ At least they should have gloves and hats with them too as I always insist that they keep them in the pockets.

  ‘Have you any idea what time they might have left?’

  I shake my head. ‘Serena and I went to bed just after midnight. I checked on them then and they looked to be sound asleep. I’d had a few drinks.’ More than a few. How bad do I feel about that now? ‘I stayed awake for about another hour.’ Don’t need to tell Guy that I was crying into my pillow. ‘Then I was out for the count.’ Not exactly the sleep of the just, more the sleep of the pissed.

  ‘They could have been out most of the night.’

  I chew anxiously at my fingernails. ‘That’s not good, is it?’

  Guy’s face is grim. ‘The sooner we find them, the better.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say. ‘I’ll never forgive myself if anything has happened to them.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he tells me. ‘We’ll bring them back safely.’

  I can only hope and pray that he’s right.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  The sky is lightening now as I set off across the moors with Guy, Alan and Serena. We are all grim faced and unappreciative of the beautiful pink and peach wash that the sunrise is bringing to the grey sky.