‘I just want people to love what we’ve done to the place.’ She looked around her, admiring for the millionth time the timber framed walls, the wing-backed leather chairs in front of the humidor, and the vintage oak barrels that doubled as tables, just waiting for the first customers to stand around them and chat.
She walked over to the long, chrome bar and double-checked that the slate platters of cheese and cold meats were still looking fridge-fresh. Then she buried her nose in one of the flower arrangements that filled the vast concrete urns dotted about the room. She’d decided on large blue hydrangeas and huge bowers of foliage. It had taken a lot of research to find hydrangeas with a scent, but these ones really did look and smell wonderful. And this was only stage one! Later in the month she’d be opening her very own florist’s in the orangery at the back of the vintner’s.
‘Mum!’
Tina whipped round and there he was – her boy. The same but different, as was always the case, however recently they’d last seen each other. It was a pleasure to observe him growing into the confident man she knew he would become.
‘There you are!’ She reached up and hugged him. ‘God, I love you and I miss you!’
‘You only saw me two weeks ago.’
‘I know, but if I had my way, I’d see you every day.’ An image of the two of them lolling on the sofa together in front of The Jeremy Kyle Show, back in their Hammersmith days, flashed through her head.
Marley rolled his eyes at Ian, who reached out, shook the boy’s hand and then pulled him in for a hug. ‘How are we doing?’
‘Struggling a bit with pharmacology and excitable tissues.’ He pulled a face.
‘Ah, don’t worry, we can go over that this weekend.’
‘What we goin’ over this weekend?’ Digsy yelled as he waltzed in with his large suitcase.
‘Pharmacology and excitable tissues,’ Ian recited.
‘I’m in!’ Digsy shouted as he crushed Tina to him in a hug.
‘How’s your mum?’
‘She’s good, Teen. You won’t believe who she’s dating!’
Marley and his mum shook their heads, wondering who the latest in her long line of beaus might be.
‘Who?’ Marley barked.
‘Fat Barry from the chippy! It’s wicked, I’m getting all the free food I can eat, and so is the whole family! My mum, her sister!’
Marley caught his mum’s eye and they both laughed until they cried silent tears.
‘What you laughin’ at?’ Digsy looked puzzled.
*
After everyone had enjoyed a glass of wine and the boys had been settled into their rooms in the spacious chalets at the back of the new premises, Tina and Ian stood on the large terrace at the back of the building, drinking in the stunning view of the sea and welcoming their opening-night guests. It had taken them months to find the right place, rejecting some for not feeling quite right, others for lacking the magic they sought, but the moment they had set foot on this plot, with the galleried Dutch Barn, wooden floors and the apron of land teetering only feet from the cliff edge, they had looked at each other and smiled. This was what they had been waiting for.
They greeted their new neighbours and schmoozed the various dignitaries and members of the local press, explaining the concept of the new business and handing out cards, wine, dainty canapés and sweet posies for the ladies. The two of them kept catching each other’s eye and beaming. They were both happier than they had ever thought possible.
The sound of Helen’s voice carried on the wind and sent a shiver down Ian’s back. She was accompanied by Julio, Minty and Mr Chinless.
‘Welcome to our new venture!’ He smiled, spreading his arms wide in greeting.
‘Good God, Ian, it’s miles from bloody anywhere!’ This was Helen’s opener, as she kissed him on both cheeks. The expression on her face could surely have curdled milk, he thought with a wry smile to himself and a nod to the memory of his late mother.
‘Hello, Julio, thank you so much for coming!’ Ian shook the man’s hand and couldn’t help but notice that he had lost most of his tan and a lot of his sparkle, the poor sod.
Minty and her man made straight for the wine and grub. Helen, meanwhile, was staring with lips pursed at the venerable old house on the cliff top. ‘Aren’t you worried about soil erosion?’
Ian noticed for the first time how her voice had a particularly annoying nasal twang. ‘Well, as I’ve said to Tina, if we change our minds or it tumbles into the sea, we shall simply sail off and have a grand old adventure.’
‘Honestly, Ian, you sound like a hippy. What next, tofu and tattoos?’ She looked at her Spaniard and laughed.
‘Here she is!’ Ian beamed.
They all turned to watch the smiling Tina as she walked down the steps towards the terrace, bearing a fresh bottle of rather pricey Valpolicella in her hands. Her dark hair hung around her pretty face and her slight frame looked beautiful wrapped inside her Vine and Bloom apron. Ian noted Julio’s eyes widening.
‘Hello, Helen. You made it then!’
‘Only just – this place is in the middle of nowhere.’
‘That’s why we chose it.’ Tina laughed. ‘And as Ian said, if we get fed up, we can just sail off into the sunset.’ She laughed again.
‘You have a boat?’ This had clearly piqued Julio’s interest.
‘Yes.’ Ian took him by the elbow and steered him to the edge of the cliff. ‘There she is.’ He pointed to the dock below them, where a luxurious sixty-five-foot pilot cutter was moored.
‘She is beautiful.’ Julio looked at the yacht enviously.
‘Yes, she is. And I love her. She represents a whole new chapter in my life.’ Ian beamed down at the boat as she bobbed on the water. The early evening sun glinted like diamonds on the water and her name, written in pale gold paint, sparkled: The Cordelia Potterton.
Ian was sure she would have liked that.
He looked down and noticed that Julio had exceptionally small feet – tiny, in fact. He placed his arm around Julio’s shoulders and walked him back to the terrace, smiling. He might not be practising medicine any more, but he still knew the truth about men with very small feet…
A CHRISTMAS WISH
Amanda Prowse
Poppy is trying to make sure her children have the perfect Christmas. The fields are sparkling with snow, the turkey is roasting, and the tree is groaning with presents. But Poppy’s beloved husband is fighting in Afghanistan, and the kids are missing their Dad.
Can all their wishes come true without him? Or will they have the perfect Christmas after all?
Start Reading
Table of Contents
Contents
Cover
Welcome Page
A Christmas Wish
A Christmas Wish
Amanda Prowse
Poppy raised her hands behind her head and slipped her shoulder-length hair into a pink scrunchie she had found nestling at the bottom of her handbag. She squeezed out a blob of fluorescent cleaning fluid and wiped down the work surface in the kitchen. Her tongue poked from the side of her mouth, as it always did when she was concentrating. Flipping over the sponge, she used the scourer to shift a little bump of spinach that had dried hard after making a break for freedom from the colander. What had Peg said? ‘Don’t eat it, Maxy, it’s not real food, it’s like grass!’
She cast her eye over the sitting room, torn between enjoying the festive decorations and bits of tat that the kids had adorned her usually clutter-free surfaces with and the desire to put them away and give everything a good dust. They were going away but had as always put up a small Christmas tree in the window, a concession that the kids loved. Poppy pretended not to notice that the foil-wrapped chocolate decorations that hung from every branch were deflated and slightly crumpled, having been niftily emptied of their melting bounty. Peg must have engineered the heist, no doubt with Max roped in to spread the blame. She would find the right time to reveal her shock and horro
r that they had been robbed of the twelve sugary gifts. She smiled.
Poppy took pride in keeping her little house neat and clean. A strict routine meant that clothes were washed, dried, ironed and returned neatly to drawers just in time for when they were needed next. A daily whizz with the Hoover, swish of the mop and flick of a duster meant their home rarely lapsed below show-house standard. The order in which she lived was proof of her success, having achieved all that she had dreamed of for her and Martin. She never wanted her children to experience the gut-wrenching embarrassment of wearing dirty clothes to school, going to class with the wrong PE kit and not being able to invite anyone home as the house was cluttered and filthy.
The tiny kitchen in the flat she had grown up in encapsulated all that had been wrong with her grubby life: cupboard doors bloated with damp and hanging off their hinges, and sticky shelves bare of food but stacked with pill bottles containing cures and suppressants for everything from constipation to hallucinations. The dull metal sink full of dirty, tea-stained cups and old fish and chip wrappers; and the blackened, encrusted grill sitting in its base amid a thick layer of soft, opaque bacon fat. Poppy could still smell the kitchen of her youth, even now. It was the sour odour of frying, grime and mould.
Standing back, she smiled at her sparkling work surfaces and gleaming cooker. ‘You could eat your bleedin’ dinner off that floor, girl!’ She heard her nan’s words, even now, after all these years, making her laugh, giving advice.
‘Mum?’ Peg shouted and banged her palm on the table. Making sure she was heard the second time.
‘Sorry, love, I was miles away. What?’ Poppy leant on the back of the chair at the square pine table in the kitchen where Peg was toiling over her homework. A task, as Poppy had pointed out on numerous occasions that would take half as long if Peg would only speak less and write more.
‘What’s the difference between a wish and a prayer?’ Peg asked. Her head cocked to one side as she twisted a pencil inside her dark blonde locks, her feet in their white socks kicking against the table leg.
‘Is this your homework?’ Poppy asked, thinking it a tad deep for primary year three.
‘No!’ Peg sighed. ‘My homework is writing a page about why you mustn’t punch someone, even if they are a boy and even if they are bigger than you.’ Peg kept her eyes downcast.
‘Let me think. A wish and a prayer? That’s a very good question.’ Poppy pulled out the chair and sat opposite her daughter. This required some thinking. She hitched up the long sleeves of her T-shirt and placed her freckly forearms flat along the surface. ‘I guess the main difference is that a prayer is specifically aimed at God, meaning you believe there is a God and that he or she is powerful enough to answer your prayers. Whereas a wish is more general, like throwing what you want out into the universe and hoping that something good might come back.’
Peg considered this, tapping the pencil on her teeth. ‘I’m not sure I believe in God.’
‘Well, you are only eight, you have a lot of time to figure that stuff out.’ Poppy smiled. ‘Plus you could always hedge your bets and do both.’
‘Am I allowed to do that?’ Peg sat forward, wide-eyed. This sounded like a plan.
‘Absolutely! I think that if there is a God, they wouldn’t mind you sending out a wish along with a prayer; and if there isn’t, then you are safe, aren’t you?’ Poppy thought about the times in her life when she had done exactly that, though she couldn’t be sure that either had been answered.
‘Mum, you are a genius!’
‘Yes I am. And I need you to put your books away, gather all your bits and bobs into your rucksack ready for tomorrow and clear the table. Aunty Jo is coming round to babysit soon and I want the house tidy.’ Poppy winked, stood from the table and went to plump the cushions in the adjoining open-plan sitting room.
Peg rolled her eyes, reminding Poppy of herself. ‘I will in a minute. But I’ve got to do my wish and prayer first!’
‘Oh I see. You are doing that right now?’
‘Ye-s!’ Peg managed to give the word two syllables, showing her disdain.
‘Can’t you do it in your head while you do your chores?’ Poppy asked casually.
‘No, Mum, I can’t! This is important and I would actually like you to leave the room.’
‘Oh right, okay.’ Poppy nipped into the hallway that ran from the front door to the kitchen and listened at the door as Peg placed her elbows on the table and her forehead against her clasped hands.
‘Hello, God and universe, it’s Peg Cricket here. I shouldn’t have punched Elliot in the face, I’m sorry about that, but he said I loved Jake and I don’t love Jake, I love Noah. Anyway, I just wanted to ask you for one thing.’ Peg took a deep breath. ‘Can you send my daddy home?’
Poppy laid her head against the doorframe and swallowed the tears that threatened. She only allowed herself to cry in the bath or shower and never in front of the kids.
Peg wasn’t done. ‘It’s just that I really miss him. He’s a soldier and he’s working away, fixing all the cars and tanks for people that do the fighting and stuff, and I haven’t seen him for a long time. Please don’t tell my mummy, but I can’t quite remember what he looks like, not in real life. I’ve got photos of him, but it’s not the same. Anyway, that’s it, I don’t want anything else, I just want him to come home, please. Thank you.’ She was silent for a second. ‘Although if having two things isn’t against the rules, I’d like One Direction to come and sing at my school and pick me to go on the stage with them, but that really is it. Unless I can have three and if that is possible, I would like a pet guinea pig called Toffee. Oh and amen, just in case, thanks. Bye.’
Poppy watched as her little girl placed her books, pencil case and woolly gloves into her multi-coloured school backpack.
‘You can come in now, Mum!’ she shouted.
Poppy sloped into the kitchen and reached for the cloth to give the table a onceover.
‘How quickly do prayers and wishes get answered?’ Peg looked her mum squarely in the eyes. Her tone matter of fact, certain, as if she was asking how long the post might take to arrive or what time the next bus was due.
‘Ooh, I don’t know. I think it depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
‘Well…’ Poppy considered this. ‘How many other prayers and wishes need answering. It’s probably like Argos: at quiet times, the man out the back brings your stuff through very quickly, but at Christmas when he’s flat out and people are going crazy trying to get all their shopping done, it can take ages!’
‘Are you getting any of our presents from Argos this year?’
‘Ah, it’s not me that gets your presents, is it, silly billy! It’s Father Christmas!’
Peg stopped in the hallway, hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and turned to her mum. ‘Purr-lease! Who do you think you are talking to – Max?’ Peg screwed her face up. ‘I know there is no Santa Claus. Jade McKeever told me. Her older sister told her and she’s thirteen and has got four bras. I know that it’s mummies and daddies that get all the presents. But don’t worry, I won’t tell Max until he’s at least five.’
Poppy nodded, grateful that she wasn’t going to give her baby brother the devastating facts just yet. At two, he deserved to enjoy the magic a little longer than his streetwise sister. Poppy pondered the fact that Peg had received this information from a freshly minted teen that owned one bra more than she did.
‘Will my wish and prayer work, Mum?’
‘I hope so, little darlin’.’
Jo knocked as she entered the narrow porch, her gold earrings and bangles jangling as she did so. Poppy let her in and tried to hide her slight irritation as her friend and next-door neighbour dumped her cardigan and slumped down on the newly plumped and brushed sofa without acknowledging the perfect state of the furnishings. Jo flicked her dark hair extensions over the back of the sofa and dabbed at her lower lip, checking her lip liner hadn’t bled into the gloss. It hadn’t and still
sat in a perfect line that matched the ones drawn over the space where her eyebrows used to reside. Jo was pretty, but her rather elaborate make-up masked her natural beauty, meaning you only saw the harsh lines and bright colours of artifice and not what lurked beneath. It fascinated Poppy, who only owned three items of make-up and was uncertain what to do with them.
‘All right, Poppy? Blimey, what a day.’ Jo was a Londoner like her. ‘I went into Salisbury and it was absolutely heaving. I was elbow to elbow in Marks and Sparks, trying to buy socks and pants for Danny’s stocking. I know he’s going to be away, but I’m going to do the house up anyway. I’ll fling up a bit of tinsel and watch any old crap on the telly. We’ll have fake Christmas day when he gets back in January. People were going crazy today, shoving stuff into baskets, barging their way through. I wanted to get on the tannoy and remind them it’s just a couple of days of Christmas holidays and not the end of the bloody world. Honestly, the way they were going mad for food made me feel a bit sick. They’re only shut for a day or so, no one is going to go hungry, are they?’
Poppy shook her head and sighed. It was always this way with Jo. Until she had vented her spleen and aired the backlog of all that she had encountered since they’d last met, there was no room for Poppy to comment. To try and interject meant a jarring of sentences and a clash of words, with no one getting heard.
‘Anyway, when I got back, I’d only gone and missed a call from him. I couldn’t believe it, bloody typical! He left a message saying he’d call back so I sat waiting for over an hour, you know what it’s like, you don’t want them to miss their slot. I was dying for the loo, but I didn’t go. I thought knowing my luck I’d be on the bog when he called and I’d miss it. When he finally got through, it was patchy and there were people mucking about in the background, which really got my goat. They clearly didn’t give a shite, larking around, but it was my chance to speak to him and I don’t know when he’ll call again, you know what it’s like. It was a rubbish line. He sounded like his head was underwater and not just in Afbloodyghanistan.’
Stories From The Heart Page 31