by Rosie Green
We told ourselves Janice was an excellent sailor. She knew what she was doing . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘So . . . you’re engaged! When did it happen?’
I smile brightly across at Isla, who’s slumped in the passenger seat, arms folded, staring out of the side window. We’re on our way to Mum’s in the nearby village of Hazelcroft, just a short drive away.
‘Isla?’
She turns, her glum expression lingering. ‘What?’
‘When did Jamie propose? Was it really romantic?’
‘Um . . . yeah. Very romantic.’ She makes an effort to rally herself, but it’s obvious she’s a bit down. Even her clothes today look a bit sad. She’s normally impeccably turned out and wouldn’t be seen dead in baggy blue jeans and a sweatshirt.
‘So, come on. Details.’
‘Oh. Well . . .’ She straightens up in her seat. ‘We were out for a meal and he just . . . asked me to marry him.’
‘Did he get down on one knee?’
‘Yes, he did actually.’
‘Did he have the ring at the ready?’
She glances down at it thoughtfully, moving her hand so the diamond catches the light. ‘No. We went out and bought it the next day.’
‘Well, it’s gorgeous. You must be so excited.’ Actually, the ring’s a bit showy for me. But a diamond is a diamond!
She flashes me a smile. ‘Yeah. I am.’
‘Have you set a date? I presume you’ll be getting married over here? In the village church?’
‘Oh.’ She waves her hand dismissively. ‘We haven’t sorted anything like that out yet.’
I nod. ‘You’re just enjoying being engaged.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you coming over for Christmas, both of you?’
I really hope she’ll say yes. I’m not relishing the thought of Christmas lunch, just me and Mum. Then joining Martin’s family later.
She shakes her head. ‘Too much on. So how’s your love life, anyway?’
The abrupt change of subject takes me by surprise. I shrug. It’s not exactly a topic I want to linger on.
‘Last time we spoke, you were going on a date with that motorbike guy but you didn’t like the smell of his leathers.’
‘Ha! That was ages ago.’ Actually, we never made it on a date. I got cold feet and cancelled. But if I tell Isla that, I’ll get another lecture on how I need to shake up my life.
‘It didn’t work out, then?’
I shake my head.
‘Speed-dating?’
I make a face.
‘Dating on-line? Everyone’s doing it these days.’
‘It’s not for me,’ I mutter.
‘Hm.’
I swallow, aware my sister is contemplating me with kindly frustration.
‘Oh, look, an art exhibition!’ Now I’m the one changing the subject. Anything to get Isla off my back.
‘It’s watercolours,’ says Isla, looking out at the village hall venue as we pass. ‘We should take Mum along. She’d love it. And it might inspire her to start painting again. What do you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You sound doubtful. Do you think she’ll already have seen it?’
I shake my head. ‘Mum doesn’t go out much these days. It’s all I can do to persuade her to meet me for coffee.’
‘She’s okay, isn’t she?’ Isla frowns.
‘Not really. She’s . . . well, she’s taken to talking about Dad in the present tense, as if he’s just nipped to the shops and he’ll be back soon. And she keeps seeing him everywhere – although obviously it’s never actually Dad. It’s all a bit worrying, to be honest.’
Isla falls silent, thinking about this, while I relive the anguish of coping with Mum’s ‘sightings.’
The first time Mum thought she saw Dad was in Lower Luckworth High Street about six months ago. We were coming out of The Tulip Café in Hazelcroft when she spotted him, and we chased after him into the post office, before stopping dead on the threshold when we realised it wasn’t Dad at all. That episode really shook me. It was the first time it had happened and for a heart-stopping few minutes, I’d really believed it might be him. I felt sick and shaky for a long time afterwards.
I told myself it was just a symptom of Mum’s distress - wishful thinking – and it wouldn’t happen again.
Then a few weeks ago, she thought she saw Dad walking over the village green. I was driving her home from lunch at mine when she suddenly shouted at me to stop. Before I even had a chance to lock the car, she was racing across the road, completely oblivious of the traffic, then running across the green after the mystery man. Her shocked dismay when she realised it wasn’t Dad was horrible to see. I put my arm round her and she leaned heavily on me on the way back to the car. I had a feeling that if I let go, she would crumple to the ground.
Isla turns to me. ‘I suppose everyone reacts differently to loss. It’s probably just Mum’s coping mechanism, pretending to herself that Dad’s still with us. I think a lot of people imagine they’ve seen loved ones they’ve lost. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
I nod. Maybe she’s right and I should stop fretting.
Mum welcomes us with a smile and thankfully seems delighted to see Isla, admiring the ring and congratulating her on the engagement. Knowing the mood Isla is in, I’m dreading Mum asking loads of questions about how and when Jamie proposed. But thankfully, she doesn’t.
‘Lovely smell, Mum. What cooking?’ Isla asks. We’ve been speculating on the way over whether it might be roast chicken with Mum’s perfect roasties or maybe her lamb tagine, which she makes regularly. Mum’s always been a great cook.
‘We’re having beef stew followed by trifle,’ she says. ‘Your dad’s favourites. Now sit down and I’ll serve up.’
‘She seems okay,’ whispers Isla to me when Mum goes off to the kitchen. ‘I don’t know what you’re worried about.’
I shrug. Mum does look well. Her once red hair is pure white now but she wears it in an elfin cut that suits her dainty features, and her skin has always been good. She’s nearly sixty but she looks young for her age.
‘How do you fancy going to the watercolour exhibition along the road?’ I ask as we’re eating dessert. ‘It should be right up your street.’
Mum shrugs. ‘I don’t mind. If you want to go, I’m happy to come along.’
‘We thought you’d like it,’ says Isla. ‘You always used to love going to exhibitions.’
‘Oh, I don’t go out much these days, I’m afraid,’ she says with a smile, and starts gathering up the dishes.
I look at Isla. ‘Right, well, how about we just pop in for ten minutes, Mum? Quick look around then home for hot chocolate?’
‘She doesn’t seem keen,’ I whisper to Isla as Mum’s getting her coat. ‘But it might motivate her to start painting so it’s probably worth it.’
It’s clear, however, when we arrive at the village hall, that Mum isn’t really interested at all. She only looks at the paintings we point out to her. Apart from that she seems singularly unimpressed.
‘Shall we go?’ mutters Isla. ‘The paintings aren’t that good anyway. No wonder Mum looks bored to death.’
I nod, and I’m just about to suggest it to mum when she suddenly clutches my arm and stares over my shoulder.
‘What?’ I spin round. ‘What is it?’
Her hand flies to her chest. ‘It’s Max. It’s your dad, Jess. I’m certain of it. But he’s leaving.’
An urgency has taken over her previously calm features. She dumps her glass on a nearby table and starts winding her way through the throng of people. My heart is beating fast as I follow her, Isla close behind.
Not again!
We catch up with her outside the gallery. A car has drawn up and a man is getting inside, into the passenger seat.
‘Hello there,’ Mum calls.
The man turns and his face is illuminated in the street lamp.
‘Oh . .
. sorry.’ She falters. ‘Sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘No problem.’ The stranger smiles. ‘Just so long as it was someone handsome.’
Mum is staring at him in horror, so I laugh at his quip to fill the awkward moment. He gets in the car and it drives off.
I let out my breath wearily, looking at Isla. ‘Are you okay, Mum?’
‘I really thought it was him,’ she says, staring dazedly after the car.
Isla makes a face at me. ‘Mum, Dad’s gone. And no amount of wishful thinking is going to bring him back.’
Mum smiles as if she didn’t hear her. ‘I’m going to the Ladies.’
As soon as she’s out of earshot, I turn to Isla. ‘See! She’s not herself, is she?’
Isla frowns. ‘Remember Martin said she wasn’t sleeping properly? That can’t be good for her. Maybe she just needs some tablets from the doctor.’
I look at her doubtfully. It would be lovely it were that simple.
‘Honestly, Jess, lack of sleep is enough to make anyone behave weirdly.’
I sigh. ‘Okay, I’ll try to persuade her to see a doctor, although I’m not holding out much hope. She’s convinced she’s perfectly all right.’
‘Here she comes.’
We put on bright smiles as we get in the car, and once home, I switch on her TV and flick through the channels. ‘Oh, look, Mum, this is Dad’s favourite.’
It’s a nature programme he loved.
Isla frowns at me, presumably because I’m talking about Dad in the present tense. But I know what I’m doing – and sure enough, Mum seems to relax.
‘I’m painting again, you know,’ she says suddenly.
‘You are? Oh, that’s fantastic, Mum!’ I’m genuinely over the moon at this news. If she’s getting back to the art she used to love, it’s sure to be good therapy.
I exchange a look with Isla and it’s clear by her happy expression that she thinks so, too.
I smile at Mum. ‘I can’t wait to see what you’re working on.’
Her eyes light up. ‘And I can’t wait to show you, Jess. I’m loving painting again.’ She smiles and wags her finger at me. ‘But you have to wait till it’s finished.’
‘It’s a deal, Mum.’ Relief washes through me. Everything’s going to be okay, after all.
‘You couldn’t get my glasses, could you, love?’ Mum asks me. ‘They’re on my bedside table.’
‘Of course. Back in a sec.’ I run up the stairs and walk into her bedroom. The glasses aren’t where she said they’d be, so I open her bedside drawer, thinking they’ll probably be there. Sure enough, they are. And as I pick them up, I notice a photograph underneath. It’s a picture of Dad when he was much younger and my heart squeezes.
She still loves him. That’s what all this is about. She was married to Dad for a long time and she just can’t face up to the fact that she’ll never see him again.
Isla comes up the stairs to the bathroom and pops her head in.
‘Photo of Dad,’ I whisper, showing her, and we exchange a sad look.
Isla goes off to the bathroom and I’m about to head downstairs when I can’t resist having a peek in Mum’s studio. I walk in, expecting to see lots of floral watercolours and country scenes. What I actually see makes me freeze with shock.
I’m still standing in the same spot, staring around me, when Isla come out of the bathroom.
‘Isla,’ I whisper, and she comes in.
Her eye is immediately drawn to the largest canvas, which dominates the wall opposite the door. Her mouth drops open. ‘What the hell is that? It looks like a can of baked beans with the lid open.’
I give a nervous laugh. It does actually bear some resemblance to 57 Varieties. Probably because of the fat green rectangle. ‘I think it’s modern art. And I’d guess it’s supposed to be Dad.’
‘Dad?’ She laughs. ‘How the hell did you arrive at that conclusion?’
I shrug sadly. ‘Have a look around you.’
She does as I ask and her expression slowly changes from merriment to one of horrified disbelief.
Every single painting on the studio walls is of Dad . . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Don’t tell her we’ve been in her studio,’ I hiss. ‘We weren’t supposed to look.’
Isla shakes her head and we go downstairs to make the promised hot chocolate. Mum joins us in the kitchen as I’m pouring hot milk into the mugs.
‘What’s this?’ Isla is reading an article Mum’s cut out and stuck to her cork board.
‘Oh, Christmas Manor. Gosh, I’d forgotten about that.’ She looks at me. ‘It must be about to start soon.’
‘The first day in November,’ says Mum. ‘Every year.’
I nod. ‘That’s right. And it runs until midnight on Christmas Eve.’
‘We took you two girls the year they had the chocolate fountain, remember?’ says Mum, a dreamy smile on her face.
Isla laughs. ‘Oh, yes. In the Santa’s Grotto shop. We’d never seen one before.’
‘I’ve still got the photos.’ She disappears upstairs, and I turn to Isla.
‘She’s cut that feature about Christmas Manor out of The Week.’
Isla frowns. ‘Does she read The Week now? I thought that was Dad’s thing? He used to read it obsessively. But Mum always used to say she couldn’t get further than page two because it sent her to sleep.’
I get up and go over to the work surface by the fridge that’s stacked with magazines and run my finger up the pile. ‘They’re all The Week. She has it delivered now and she keeps every single one. Just like Dad used to.’
Isla looks stunned but she hasn’t a chance to comment as Mum is coming back with the photographs.
We pore over them, commenting on how young we all look. It was our last Christmas outing as a family, before Mum left.
‘We should go this year,’ says Mum eagerly. ‘Make an afternoon of it.’
‘I’m up for that,’ says Isla, and I nod.
‘When shall we go?’ Mum wants to know. ‘At the weekend?’
I nod. Maybe that’s what we all need – a fun day out to bring us closer. And Christmas Manor is guaranteed to get even the most Scrooge-like person in the mood for the festive season!
A decade ago, a family called the Holbrooks bought nearby Remmington Hall, a run-down Victorian mansion, and spent millions refurbishing it. They ran it as a conference venue for a while, and then rumours began circulating that they planned to stage a Christmas market there.
Over the past seven years, their original Christmas market – which opens each year, as Mum said, on the first day of November – has expanded into a fabulous celebration of the festive season that attracts people from all over the UK. Now, along with the usual food and drink stalls, visitors can ice-skate with Disney characters and wander through a magical woodland, strung with fairy lights, following a path that leads to a treehouse right out of a story book. The reward for walking up the wooden ramp is a magical, glittering room with Santa sitting on a plush red velvet throne and elves dressed in green with little bells on their hats.
The cutting from The Week reports that this year, they’re introducing virtual trips to Lapland, where you can see the Northern Lights and ride in Santa’s sleigh with Rudolph leading the way – all from the grounds of Christmas Manor.
Talking about Christmas Manor is the most enthusiastic I’ve seen Mum for a while. If a trip there will make her happy, we should definitely go . . .
*****
The last time I saw Dad was at Falmouth Harbour.
There were sunny skies, a light breeze and a flat, calm sea that June day, more than three years ago. Ideal conditions for sailing.
Nonetheless, my heart was in my mouth as I stood with Isla, watching The Escape sail away from its mooring. Dad was on deck, waving and blowing kisses, and holding aloft the St Christopher medallion around his neck, which we’d given him as a parting gift.
I remember keeping the smile fixed firmly t
o my face, waving back madly and telling myself everything would be all right. He and Janice would enjoy their adventure but they’d be back safe on solid ground by November at the latest.
Also waving them off was Janice’s friend, Marion Merry, and her husband, Jim. Appropriately named, Marion was a friendly woman, very chatty, with long, wispy red hair and dimples. She kept saying, ‘They’ll be fine. Janice is a brilliant sailor. They’ll be fine.’ But there was a certain tension about her smile that told a different story. She was worried about her friend and I couldn’t blame her. Already, the boat looked so tiny and vulnerable, riding the swell of the sea, sailing into the distance.
Their plan was to sail from Falmouth to a little place called Camaret on the coast of France, and put in to harbour there for a few days.
Marion told us that she and Jim were planning to surprise them by turning up at Camaret harbour to welcome them. They were off on a tour of Europe anyway, so had decided to make a detour specially. I thought that was a lovely thing to do, and I wished Isla and I could do the same, but we both had work commitments we couldn’t get out of. It was reassuring, though, to think of Marion and Jim meeting up with them.
We watched until the little craft rounded a headland and disappeared from view. Then Isla and I turned to each other, with a little simultaneous sigh.
‘That’s it, then.’ Isla smiled nervously.
‘You sound as if they’re gone for good.’ I laughed more loudly than I meant to, and Isla joined in.
‘He’s got to be back before Christmas,’ she pointed out with a shrug.
‘Baubles for The Treasure Box.’
Isla nodded. ‘There’s no way he’d miss out on that.’
‘True. Come on. I need a drink.’
‘Good idea.’
As we walked away, we kept looking back, our eyes drawn to the horizon even though The Escape had vanished from view.
I was already focusing on their return in November; me and Dad in the shed, working side by side to create the gleaming baubles for Jonathan’s Christmas tree. We’d already talked about the colours we wanted. They were going to be more dazzling and eye-catching than ever. I could hardly wait.