Christmas Cakes and Mistletoe Nights

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Lija says that the doctor’s coming again this evening?’

  ‘I don’t like to bother him,’ Stan says. ‘They’re under so much pressure these days. I’ll be fine. Just a bit of a cold.’

  My guess is that it’s a damn sight more than that. ‘Lija’s given me some homemade chicken soup in a flask. Do you think you could manage a small bowl?’ She tells me that he’s hardly been eating at all.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I’ll heat it up for you and make a bit of toast too.’ I’ve come prepared with half a loaf. ‘You might fancy it when it’s done.’

  ‘I don’t want you to go to any trouble.’

  I plant a gentle kiss on his bristly cheek. ‘It’s no bother, Stan. I’m glad that I could come. Looks like you need a bit of Fay Merryweather’s TLC to me.’

  He tries a tired smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes which are rheumy and dull. ‘I don’t suppose it would go amiss.’

  He coughs and it sounds like he’s about to lose a lung. The doctor can’t get here soon enough for my liking. I pass him some tissues and, embarrassed, he wipes his mouth.

  ‘You sit there while I make this for you.’ I go through to the kitchen, another tiny room that’s cramped despite just having a small cooker, sink and under-counter fridge. I struggle to find somewhere to put the flask down. I find a battered old pan and tip in the soup. It’s still quite hot so it won’t take a minute. I turn on the grill and there’s so little heat coming out that I could probably toast this bread quicker with my breath.

  While the toast is taking an age to brown, I prepare a tray that I find tucked down by the cooker. No wonder Stan used to prefer to come into the café every day for his meals. This is definitely not a cook’s kitchen. I put out the bowl of chicken soup and a small slice of lightly browned toast and take it through to my patient. Pulling a little table towards him, I set the tray down.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Stan says. ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Eat what you can.’

  But as Stan lifts the spoon, his hand shakes and he spills most of it.

  ‘This has really taken it out of you,’ I note. ‘Here, let me help.’

  I tuck the napkin into the neck of his top to save his pyjamas and slowly spoon-feed him the soup.

  ‘Lovely,’ he says. ‘You are kind, Fay.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’d do the same for me.’

  Slowly, slowly, he manages to eat all the soup and half of the toast.

  ‘Good job,’ I tell him and take the tray away.

  Stan sits back on the sofa, exhausted by the effort. ‘How’s that young man of yours?’ he asks.

  ‘Danny’s great.’ I have a moment where I go all dreamy and get a pang of longing for him. ‘He’ll be following me in a few weeks, I hope. He’s bringing The Dreamcatcher back along the canal when his current job is finished. We were planning to head back this way, anyway. We thought it would be nice to spend Christmas here with you and Lija.’

  ‘Ah, Christmas,’ Stan says. ‘It seems to come round quicker each year.’

  ‘I’m quite excited,’ I admit. ‘My first Christmas with Danny.’

  ‘You deserve to be happy,’ Stan says with a weary smile. ‘I’m so glad to see it.’

  ‘Why don’t I get you settled in bed upstairs? You can’t stay here on the sofa. I’m here now. It would be better if you rested properly.’

  ‘I don’t like to be a bother.’

  ‘It’s no bother, Stan. Are there clean sheets on your bed?’

  ‘No, but there are some in the airing cupboard.’

  ‘You sit here for a bit longer then while I sort the bedroom out.’ So I go upstairs and realise that I’ve never been up here before. It goes without saying that it’s as compact as downstairs. There’s one small double bedroom off a little square of landing and another box room that houses an ancient desk and chair and a bookcase bowing under the weight of hardback tomes. The bathroom is functional, but in need of an update. He could probably do with a bath with handles to help him get in and out or a walk-in shower. I open the only cupboard door and find the sheets. In Stan’s room, I strip the bed and remake it so that it’s nice and fresh. His clothes might sometimes lack a little laundry action, but his sheets are spotless. I open the window while I do it to allow the cold night air to freshen the room. There’s a small window in here but it has a lovely view over the garden and the canal beyond. Back in the cupboard, I find clean pyjamas too.

  When it’s ready, I close the window and flick a small fan heater on to warm the room again. Can’t have my patient getting chilly. With one last look round to check that I’ve done all I need to, I go downstairs to Stan and help to move him upstairs. The bathroom’s up here, so he won’t have far to go if he needs it.

  ‘Can you manage to put these on?’ I give him the pyjamas.

  He nods. ‘Might take me a while, but I’ll get there.’

  ‘I’ll stand out on the landing, but shout if you need me.’

  I can hear the bed squeaking and a bit of huffing and puffing as he struggles them on. I resist the urge to go and help him.

  ‘Ready, Nurse Ratched,’ Stan shouts.

  ‘Cheeky! You’ve not lost your spark,’ I laugh as I go back into the room. Stan’s already swung himself into the bed so I tuck him in properly and tidy up the bedspread. ‘That’s better.’

  Stan puts his hand on mine. ‘Thank you, Fay. Lija’s been a Trojan, but she’s got a lot on her plate. She won’t tell you, but I think she’s having a hard time of it without you.’

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to talk to her properly yet, but we’ll sit down later with a glass of wine.’

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ Stan says, his eyes filling with tears. ‘What would we do without you?’

  Then the doorbell rings. ‘I bet that’s the doctor.’

  Sure enough, it is. Our local GP, Dr Ahmed, is a treasure. He came out frequently – probably too often – to see my malingering mother. In fact, when he arrives, I get a moment of déjà vu. I’ve somehow slipped seamlessly back into my role of carer as if I’ve never been away.

  ‘Hello, Fay,’ he says. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘Yes.’ Despite the circumstances.

  ‘I’d heard that you’d moved on,’ he remarks as we climb the stairs together.

  ‘I’ve been travelling,’ I tell him. ‘On the canal. But I’m back to look after Stan.’

  ‘Then he’s a very lucky man,’ Dr Ahmed says as we go into Stan’s room. ‘You’ve got the best nurse in the business, Mr Whitwell.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Stan says. ‘I only hope I can afford her.’

  ‘My home care package is very expensive,’ I tease.

  ‘Now,’ Dr Ahmed says. ‘Let’s see what I can do for you.’

  I step out onto the landing while he examines Stan and I hear them talking in low tones. When he’s finished his examination, Dr Ahmed calls me to join them.

  He puts his stethoscope away and turns to Stan. ‘I’m afraid that it’s a bit more than a cold, Mr Whitwell. Seems to me as if you’ve got pneumonia.’

  ‘Oh.’ A look of fear crosses Stan’s face and I take his hand. It’s a terrible blow, but I can’t say that I’m totally surprised. He’s so poorly that I knew it must be something more serious than a heavy cold.

  ‘I’d really like to get you admitted to hospital.’ Dr Ahmed adjusts his glasses. ‘Then we can monitor you properly.’

  ‘I don’t want to go into hospital,’ Stan says, obviously shocked by the doctor’s diagnosis. ‘I don’t like to be a bother.’

  But I can see how scared Stan is and know that it’s much more than that.

  ‘Is it critical that he goes to hospital?’ I ask the doctor. ‘What if I were to stay here and nurse him?’

  ‘Well, I’ve prescribed some stronger antibiotics,’ Dr Ahmed says. ‘I’ll give him a dose now and, if you can get the rest of those tomorrow, they should make him feel more comfortable. I can come back and see how he’s getti
ng on in a day or two.’

  ‘Would you be happier with that, Stan?’

  ‘I would,’ he says, relief washing over him.

  ‘Then that’s settled. You can stay where you are and I’ll look after you.’

  I show the doctor to the door. ‘He’s not a well man, Fay,’ he says when Stan is safely out of earshot. ‘If there’s any deterioration at all, you must call an ambulance immediately and get him to hospital.’

  ‘I will. Thank you.’

  When he’s gone, I tidy the living room and throw open the back door to air downstairs. I take Stan’s sheets from the sofa and bundle them ready to take to the house for washing.

  When I go upstairs to see Stan, his wracking cough has subsided somewhat and he’s dozing.

  ‘I’m going to leave you for a bit, but you must call me if you need anything.’ I put his mobile phone within reach. ‘I’ll be back in a short while.’ I’m planning to sleep on the sofa tonight, so that I can be here for him.

  ‘You’re very kind, Fay,’ he says, sleepily. ‘I didn’t want to go to hospital. Once you get in those places, you never come out again.’

  ‘I’ll do my best for you,’ I reassure him.

  ‘I know it’s very selfish of me, old fool that I am, but it’s good to have you back.’

  I pat his papery, mottled hand. ‘If I’m honest, it’s good to be back.’

  Stan’s eyes droop and I gently kiss his forehead. ‘See you later.’

  Chapter Six

  Back at the house, there’s no sign of Lija in the kitchen. I drop the laundry in the utility room and remember to ask her if it’s OK before I put a load of washing on. This no longer being my home will take some getting used to.

  I hear a heartfelt expletive coming from the dining room and make my way in there. Lija is standing in front of an enormous real Christmas tree looking very cross and muttering ‘Shitshitshit’ to herself.

  ‘Goodness me,’ I say. ‘That’s one hell of a tree.’

  ‘Fucking Christmas,’ she complains. ‘How did I know how big this would be? Huh? I went to forest and picked it out. It looked much smaller.’

  ‘Perspective,’ I say, helpfully. What may have looked tiny in the vast expanse of a wood is now, indeed, a giant even in this rather large dining room.

  Lija glares at me.

  ‘It looks amazing though,’ I add quickly. ‘Why are you putting it up so soon?’

  ‘So café looking fucking festive.’

  ‘Ah. Of course. Excellent idea.’

  ‘Do not stand there like idiot.’ Lija gestures at the boxes and boxes of baubles on the floor. ‘Put balls on.’

  I can see from Lija’s initial attempts that tree-dressing is not high in her skill set. ‘I’ll do it for you, if you like. I’ve always loved putting the Christmas tree up.’

  ‘You do it. I will learn.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Was Stinky Stan OK?’ she asks.

  ‘He’s not so good,’ I tell her. ‘Dr Ahmed thinks it’s pneumonia. I’m going to sleep on his sofa tonight so I can keep my eye on him. The doctor wanted him to go into hospital, but I could tell it was the last thing Stan wanted.’

  ‘I asked him to move in here, but he would not. He could have Edie’s old room. Maybe he will for you.’

  ‘I’ll ask. You wouldn’t mind?’

  She shrugs. ‘No. He is nice old man. I like him around. Despite smell.’

  Praise indeed coming from Lija. ‘Can I put some laundry on later? I stripped his bed.’

  ‘Yes. No need to ask.’

  ‘It’s your home now, Lija, and I’m a guest. It’s only polite.’

  ‘Guest? Pah!’ she says.

  I turn my attention to the monster Christmas tree. ‘How on earth did you get this home?’

  ‘Man in van.’

  ‘Oh, that was kind.’

  ‘Cost me twenty quids extra,’ she grumbles. ‘Not kind. Merry Christmas and all that.’

  ‘Ah. Perhaps the whole festive spirit thing hasn’t quite kicked in yet.’ Now probably isn’t the time to mention that there’s a perfectly serviceable Christmas tree in the depths of the loft somewhere. That was always Anthony’s department. Still, this looks an awful lot better than a fake one and the lovely pine scent filling the room is quite divine. There are more decorations up in the roof too, I’m sure. Perhaps I’ll make it my mission to hunt them out. We could do up the living room and the hall as well, though Lija might have a small heart attack if I suggest it. Perhaps I’ll see if I can find the decorations first.

  I have a good root through the baubles that are to hand and decide on my scheme.

  ‘Why so long?’ Lija taps her foot impatiently.

  ‘You can’t just rush at it,’ I explain. ‘I’m thinking about what will go where and making a little plan in my head.’

  ‘Make it quicker,’ she instructs. ‘I have things to do.’

  ‘Relax, enjoy it,’ I say. ‘You only get to do this once a year. We should get in the mood. Have a glass of wine, a mince pie, put some Christmas songs on the iPod.’

  ‘I have all of these things,’ Lija says, loftily. ‘Is this tradition?’

  ‘In this house, yes.’

  ‘OK.’ She shrugs and disappears into the kitchen. While she’s not looking, I quickly take off the ornaments that she has thrown at the tree in a haphazard manner. I’m sure we can do a little better than that.

  I lift out some sparkly baubles in silver and white. It makes me smile. Not a jot of colour here at all. Lija’s style is very much along the Goth lines. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear anything other than black. If she could, I’m sure that Lija would have an entirely black Christmas tree too. Still, this will look very pretty. Monotone can be very stylish. Also, what it lacks in colour, it makes up for in sparkles. Something I never thought I’d credit Lija with. Perhaps there’s an inner princess lurking in there somewhere after all.

  A few minutes later, I’m draping the tree with the fairy lights when she stomps back in and slams a tray down. ‘Mince pies. Wine. Music.’

  ‘Great.’

  She puts on the iPod. Michael Bublé croons away, strains of ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas’ fill the room. Lija looks at me and grimaces.

  ‘Go with it,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll make you feel all Christmassy and mellow.’

  ‘He makes me feel like puking,’ she counters.

  I laugh and finish putting the baubles in my hand on the tree, then help myself to a mince pie. I wondered whether being the proprietor of the business now would have softened Lija’s approach to life and customer service in particular. It seems as if she’s just as tetchy as ever.

  ‘Am doing very well with Christmas afternoon tea bookings,’ she says a little smugly, picking up some of the baubles and following my lead in placement, though not taking quite as much care as I am, I have to say.

  ‘Your idea?’

  She frowns. ‘Of course. I am boss. Mince pies. Christmas cake. Crappy crackers. Paper hats. All of the shit.’

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ I tell her.

  ‘We are very busy. I have had one or two supper club evenings on Friday and Saturday. Big hit. Menus from round world.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘I have plans. For future,’ Lija says. ‘Maybe I will move sofa and telly upstairs. Will be more cosy for one. I will buy more chairs and tables for living room. I can have another twelve covers for café. You like?’

  ‘I love.’ Though, for some reason, I feel a bit piqued. I should be happy that Lija is moving on without me. But there’s the rub – Lija is moving on without me.

  ‘I suppose you would like to work while you are here?’ she asks with feigned nonchalance. If she’s as busy as she sounds, I bet she’s desperate for help.

  ‘You suppose correctly.’ I don’t think Lija realises quite how strapped I am for money. Or maybe she does. ‘I’ll help in any way that I can. Instead of paying you bed and board, what if I work
to earn my keep?’

  ‘OK.’ She lifts her wine glass and offers it up to me. I take mine and we clink them together. I’m graced with one of Lija’s rare smiles. ‘I am glad you are back, Fay.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘To Christmas,’ Lija says. ‘May my till ring like crazy Christmas bells.’

  ‘To Christmas,’ I echo. Though my message behind it may be a little different. We seal the toast with a swig of wine which hits the spot. I return to decorating the tree. It’s starting to take shape now and is looking all sparkly and festive. ‘I thought it would be nice to have our Christmas here, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘Sure.’ If I’m not mistaken, I see Lija’s face brighten, though it’s hard to tell. Perhaps she’s lonelier here than she lets on. I know that feeling only too well.

  ‘And Danny?’ she asks.

  ‘He’s coming back on The Dreamcatcher. It’s going to take him a few weeks at least. You can’t exactly put your foot to the floor on the canal. The water and the locks dictate the pace.’

  ‘You put very funny look on your face when you speak of him.’ She mimics my ‘funny’ face.

  ‘I’m in love,’ I tell her. ‘What can I say? It’s the most amazing feeling in the world.’

  She tuts at me.

  ‘Don’t be cross with me. You know what Anthony was like.’ The first love of Anthony’s life was his golf club membership rather than me. ‘It’s taken me so long to find love that I’m going to enjoy every minute. The best thing I ever did was run away with Danny. So mock all you like, Ms Vilks. I hope, one day, that you’ll find someone to light up your world.’

  Lija looks as if I’ve slapped her.

  ‘What? What have I said?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She puts down the Christmas tree baubles. ‘You finish this. You are better than me. I have cake to bake.’

  And, before I can say anything else, she stamps out.

  Chapter Seven

  I finish the tree and it looks fabulous. I make Lija come back into the room to admire it and I press another glass of wine on her as a peace offering. She seems less frosty than earlier and I don’t like to spoil the mood by asking what had upset her.