The inn was an oasis of contentment. Charlie was happily acting as Mary’s assistant, Robin was tidying up around the fireplace and Bridge was making her chain. Radio Brian was playing Doris Day singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’. It could have been a scene ripped from the pages of a 1940s magazine.
Jack and Luke emptied two of the sacks, arranged some of the wetter logs on the hearth to dry out, banked up the hungry fire, which started tucking into the woody fodder with the zeal of Charlie tucking into the mince pies. Doris finished crooning and Radio Brian commenced talking in his best toothless tones.
‘Anyway, I’m going to have some snap now,’ he said. ‘It’s well past lunchtime isn’t it? I think Mrs Brian Bernard Cosgrove has got something meaty in store for me.’
‘I hope he puts his teeth in if he’s having a steak,’ tittered Bridge.
‘…Maybe a glass of mulled wine and why not,’ Brian went on. ‘So I’ll leave you with a little-known radio show that always makes me chortle even though it’s quite a few years old now: Sir Colin of Castle Street, and this is the Christmas 1952 special. I’ll be back later, everyone. Don’t go anywhere.’
‘Fat chance of that,’ said Bridge to Mary. ‘Never heard of Sir Colin of Clifton Street or whatever he said.’
But Mary was smiling with recognition. ‘Then sit and listen to it. My dad used to love radio plays; he’d split his sides at Sir Colin – it’s very funny. People have fallen away from radio shows but I think they’ll have a renaissance. Audio books are big business these days, I gather, so I reckon it’s only a matter of time. I don’t think we ever lose the childish joy of listening really, it just gets buried under adult stuff.’
‘Jackanory,’ said Robin with fond remembrance. ‘How I loved that as a boy.’ As if a lock had been sprung on a box, his head suddenly flooded with images of June Whitfield, Spike Milligan, Richard Briers, Thora Hird. People from a yesteryear that was stable and solid, one flavoured with jam sandwiches and Vimto. When he was a little boy who had no idea of what was lying in wait for him, around the corner.
‘Sir Colin of Castle Street was recorded in front of a live studio audience,’ announced a plummy male radio voice as a vintage tinkly tune revved up to cheers and voracious clapping from the audience’s hands.
Bridge, who was preparing herself to audibly block out a load of unfunny old duffers performing stuff about the war, found herself pleasantly surprised at the antics of Sir Colin, a pensioner who ‘had it on good authority’ he was descended from royalty and acted as such. He was also tight as the proverbial duck’s arse and got his words horribly muddled up. On paper, it was about as humorous as an anal abscess but the actors breathed magic into the script and the audience were in fits. Mary’s bubbling brook of laughter as she tarted up the tree infected the others. Tears started to roll down Charlie’s and Robin’s faces as Sir Colin was mistaken for the vicar at a children’s church nativity service. Luke, warming himself by the fire with Jack and Robin, secretly watched Bridge chuckling away to herself as she looped the strips one around the other. She looked like a different woman when she laughed and didn’t scowl. They’d laughed so much in the early days. Laughed at their empty pockets, laughed at their attempts to make meals out of the barest ingredients in their food cupboard. They’d laughed out of bed and in it. When had they stopped?
At the end of that half hour of hilarity, the six of them all broke into applause along with the live studio audience who were probably not very live any more, their laughter preserved, pinpointing a moment in their personal history when they were squeezing every drop of enjoyment from the here and now like the big juicy orange of time that it was.
‘What a tonic,’ said Robin, his cheeks aching.
‘Did someone say gin and tonic?’ asked Charlie.
‘No they didn’t,’ said Robin, shutting him straight down.
‘Or one of Radio Brian’s mulled wines, maybe?’ Charlie suggested. ‘Ever since he mentioned it, I’ve been fancying one.’
‘I make a cracking mulled wine,’ said Mary. ‘It’s laced with port. Shall I go and make some? We can all sit around the fire and listen to carols and fill ourselves with Christmas.’ She draped the last snake of tinsel around the bottom branches of the tree, nudging it into shape.
‘I’ll come and help you,’ said Robin, pressing his hand towards Charlie as if he had offered instead. ‘You have a rest, love. You must be exhausted sitting in that chair and passing decorations to Mary.’ Then he winked at him.
‘Mind if I make some of that chain with you after we’ve had the mulled wine?’ Luke threw across to Bridge.
He expected her to tell him to bugger off. Was pleasantly surprised when she said:
‘If you want.’
Chapter 15
Robin took three bottles of red wine and one of port from behind the bar and he and Mary went into the kitchen. He looked around for some spices and found some in a well-stocked rack. Mary put a large stewing pan on the stove and poured the wine in and a generous slug of port, adding some brown sugar, cinnamon sticks and cloves, while Robin, at her request, was zesting an orange.
That done, Robin checked his watch, started talking to himself in a low voice.
‘Just making sure I know where I am with Charlie’s tablets,’ he explained, picking up a wooden spoon and beginning to stir the slowly warming wine. ‘Good job he has me.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Mary, her voice soft, thoughtful.
‘This rich food will do nothing for his indigestion. Or his wind. And it’s me that has to suffer during the night if he overdoes it.’
Mary reached behind her, pushed the door shut to give them privacy.
‘The tablets in the green bottle,’ she began. ‘The ones I gave Charlie when you were outside at the car. The Oxycophine.’
‘Yes, love. What about them?’ said Robin.
‘I know what they are.’
‘Charlie has dreadful heartbur—’
‘My dad had the same ones,’ Mary cut him off. ‘He was one of the first people to get them. They’d just rolled them out after successful trials.’
Robin stopped stirring, turned his head towards the wall shelves. ‘Now I’m sure I saw a jar of maraschino cherries somewhere. Charlie loves those.’
‘I know what those tablets do, Robin. I know why people take them. I know when people take them.’
A palliative drug. The name of it stamped on a part of her brain that wouldn’t ever forget it.
Mary placed a hand on Robin’s arm and that simple, small touch knocked down walls within him. Walls he had kept erected, dam walls holding a lake back. He dropped the wooden spoon on the floor, his hands shot to his eyes, his shoulders began to judder. Then as quickly, he recalibrated, forced himself to rebuild, dashed away the shiny drops of tears from his face for the irritations they were.
‘Look at me, what a fool,’ he said, bending to pick up the spoon then rinsing it under the tap.
‘I didn’t know whether I should say anything or not,’ said Mary. ‘I’m so sorry if I upset you.’
‘Don’t you apologise, love,’ said Robin, giving himself a shake as he tried to steady his ship. ‘To be honest, it’s a blessed relief to let go, even for a few seconds, take myself off the boil. I feel sometimes as if I’m ready to burst.’
Mary’s arms wrapped around him and Robin lowered his head against her shoulder; she felt the wetness of his tears on her own cheek.
‘Oh look, I’m getting you all soggy,’ he said, pulling himself sharply away, striving once again for control. Kindness was a pin in his balloon of decorum. ‘I’m okay. I always said that I’d fold afterwards, when it’s over, not before. I don’t want Charlie to ever see me upset.’
Mary knew how hard it was to keep up that façade, to pretend that everything was ‘normal’ when your stress levels were constantly off the charts.
‘How long has he been given?’ asked Mary gently, taking an apple from a fruit bowl, chopping it into
quarters. She knew the finishing line was in sight when Oxycophine was prescribed.
‘Not long,’ said Robin. ‘This will be our last Christmas together, we know that, hence why I pushed the boat out and booked the hotel in Aviemore with all the bells and whistles. Charlie can’t fly now or we would have gone to Austria, he loves it there.’
‘The Oxycophine really helped my dad.’
‘Did it?’ Hope thick in Robin’s voice.
‘Very much,’ said Mary. ‘Dad didn’t want to carry on going to hospitals any more. He was sick of them, so he made the decision to enjoy what time he had left, which would be shorter but the quality would be much better. And it was. He didn’t have to avoid this or that, so long as he didn’t overdo things. He looked forward to his big brandy every night. It made him feel as if he was living a full life, a normal life rather than one filled with lots of restrictions.’
‘How… how long was he on it for?’ asked Robin, his voice wavery with emotion.
‘Three months. He felt good on it – really well, like… old Dad. He slept properly, he had the appetite of a horse too. We knew it was the drug masking the symptoms but that was okay. The hard part was trying to accept the fact that he wasn’t getting better, even though he looked as if he was. The Oxycophine propped him up all the way until the end.’
‘Charlie’s accepted it more than I have,’ said Robin, stirring the wine, hanging on tightly to the spoon as if it was giving him some form of comfort. ‘I can’t think about it. He wants to talk to me about what’s happening and I won’t. I can’t. “Just sit with me for half an hour, Robin” he keeps asking and I know it’s only half an hour but I don’t want to hear what… Oh fucking hell.’ He shooed away a fresh flurry of tears, sniffed back the rest that were forming inside him before they made a show.
‘Will you take a little advice from someone who knows,’ said Mary. ‘Let Charlie talk to you.’
A dull echo of a similar scene played in her head.
Mary, can I talk to you about what’s going to happen?
No, Dad, I can’t. I really can’t.
‘No, Mary, that’s one ask too far,’ said Robin, defiantly.
‘My dad wanted to talk to us,’ said Mary. ‘He wanted to make sure that everything was in place for when he’d gone. It would have given him some peace that he could go with all his ends tied up, all his wishes known. And we didn’t because none of us could face it. And we were wrong to deny him that, we saw that… when it was too late.’ Her own voice broke then, she coughed to clear tears clogging up her throat. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for being a wimp. So if Charlie wants to have that conversation, don’t deny him, please. It’s only half an hour of your time and then you can forget about it but it’s important to him and it will make his passing more peaceful. Believe me.’
‘I can’t,’ said Robin. ‘I really can’t. I would if I could. I’m not good with words, putting feelings into sentences… Charlie is, he’s so emotionally intelligent, so eloquent, but I’m not. I can’t.’
‘Yes you really can,’ said Mary firmly. ‘Because you would be doing it for Charlie.’
‘I love him too much to even think about losing him, never mind talking to him about it, Mary,’ said Robin, his voice dissolving into his sadness. Mary tore off a piece of kitchen roll, handed it to Robin to mop up tears as they fell.
‘It’s just our way of coping when we try to pretend that things are carrying on as normal. Those pills are very good at masking the real truth too, making us believe that they’re doing more than they are. It’s time to work with the Oxycophine, Robin. They’re giving Charlie a new lease of life, so let him live the best version of it with all his loose ends tied up. Please.’
* * *
‘Ah here they are,’ said Charlie as Robin walked into the room with the large stewing pot and a ladle stuffed in his back jeans pocket. Mary went behind the bar for glasses; she found some ideal ones with glass handles on the stems.
‘Well doesn’t that smell Christmassy,’ said Luke as Robin lifted the lid and the aroma of warm wine and spices drifted out into the air.
‘I think we overdid the apples,’ said Robin. ‘There’s half an orchard in there.’
Mary began to ladle out the wine. ‘It’s always better when it’s left for a while, but who wants to wait?’
‘Not me,’ said Charlie. ‘Robin, go and get the chocolates from my suitcase. You can’t have mulled wine and no chocolate.’
‘Yes you can,’ rebutted Robin. ‘Your cholesterol levels will be through the roof, Charles Glaser.’
‘Mary has to have first pick as promised after she thrashed me at draughts,’ Charlie nodded towards her. ‘I haven’t forgotten.’
‘I shan’t argue with you, Charlie,’ she returned.
‘Oh go on then.’ Robin relented and went to fetch them.
Radio Brian was now back from his lunch and sounded as if he’d had a couple of glasses of mulled wine himself as he was slurring his words. He’d just introduced that famous carol, ‘While Leopards Washed their Clocks by Night’.
Everyone sat absorbing the music, clustered around the crackling log fire, and sipped, feeling the warmth of the spicy wine spreading through them.
‘This is bloody strong, Mary,’ said Luke. ‘Well done.’
Mary stuck a thumb up by way of an answer as she had just bitten into a chocolate cherry. A burst of cherry brandy flooded into her mouth and out through her lips.
‘Oh yes, I meant to warn you about those,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re like little bombs. I buy them from a chocolatier in Lincoln. They’re called Cherry Grenades.’
‘They’re gorgeous,’ said Mary, when she had swallowed enough of it to talk. She had a small blob of chocolate on the side of her lip that made her look totally endearing. Bridge wished that Jack would reach over and wipe it away with a tender thumb, or better still kiss it off. He did neither.
‘I wish it could be Christmas every day,’ said Charlie with a yearning sigh. ‘I love it. We haven’t had snow like this at Christmas for so long, have we? I prayed for it this year it and it seems I’ve been answered.’
‘Stop praying, Charlie,’ said Jack. ‘You’re obviously too magic for your own good.’
‘Or at least pray that I’ll win the lottery,’ said Luke with a snort.
‘The wind’s dropped,’ said Robin, pointing to the window. ‘The snow is falling straight down instead of blowing all over the place. It looks a little calmer out there.’
‘All is calm, all is bright,’ trilled Charlie. ‘We should go carol singing.’
Five heads turned to him.
‘I think you’ve had too much of that wine,’ said Robin.
‘No, I mean it. We’ll pair up and sing at the door and the most tuneful wins a prize.’
‘I’m not going out there for anything. Not even to rescue a naked Hugh Jackman standing by my car,’ said Bridge, resolutely.
‘My friend and I used to go carol singing,’ said Robin. ‘We’d earn a small fortune, by kids’ standards anyway. We stood by the Jolly Butchers and tapped into the stream of benevolent drunks coming out of it.’
‘I’m not surprised, you have a beautiful voice,’ said Charlie.
‘I don’t, I sound like a goose having a seizure,’ he replied and swung a pair of twinkling hands around to his partner. ‘Now Charlie here, he’s hiding his singing light under a bushel.’
‘Well if we do go carol singing, I’ll volunteer to join up with Charlie,’ said Jack. ‘There, you heard it here first.’ He smiled and Mary thought that she’d seen him smile more in the past twenty-four hours than she had in the last six and a half years.
‘My, it’s weathery out there,’ said a half-sloshed Radio Brian. ‘The other BBC met office has announced that it’s minus twelve out there at the moment but the wind factor will make it feel like minus twelvety-two… I mean twenty-two. Oops.’
‘Did he just fart?’ asked Bridge. They all heard it. Brian’s ‘oops’ both
highlighted and confirmed it.
‘Wind factor,’ said Luke. ‘It’s like the X factor only smellier.’
Which wasn’t the best joke in the world but somehow they all started laughing, feeding each other’s hilarity until their sides began to ache.
‘What I can’t understand,’ said Robin, wiping his eyes, ‘dear me, is if you went outside and it was minus twelve, which is bloody cold isn’t it, how much colder can it feel? I mean what’s the difference between minus twelve and minus twenty-two?’
No one could answer, no one even wanted to think about it. They were all too mellow, too comfortable and in Jack’s case, too content to even check his phone for any messages.
Chapter 16
Charlie and Robin fell asleep in the armchairs, lulled by the soft feathery voice of Radio Brian and his melodious Christmas tunes. Jack banked up the fire and then helped Mary carry the glasses into the kitchen to be washed. As usual she felt as if the surface of her skin buzzed with electricity when he was near to her. Someone, one day, would invent some spectacles and when people who were in love were viewed through them, they would be lit up with an orange glow, as if they’d eaten up five whole boxes of Ready Brek like the old TV advert used to show.
‘Can’t believe a pub hasn’t got a dishwasher,’ said Jack. Tiny as the kitchen was, it surely would be a standard piece of equipment. ‘I mean why would the owner invest in that huge German coffee machine that takes up half of the available work surface but rely on this minuscule sink to cope with all the washing up? Makes absolutely no commercial sense.’
Jack might not have looked at his phone for a little while, but his head continued to spin on the logistics of business.
It was certainly a kitchen not conducive to more than one person working in it at a time, or two who wanted to become better acquainted. Three could possibly lead to impregnation.
‘You wash, I’ll dry,’ said Jack.
‘Okay,’ said Mary, trying to sound a lot more at ease than she felt. Her brain knew she had less than no chance of a romantic liaison with Jack. He had done nothing other than keep her at his very long arms’ length for years and yet here was her stupid heart quivering in her chest at being so physically close to him. Her brother’s gently taunting voice singing ‘The Boy from Ipanema’ drifted into her mind. Jack really was him, long and lovely and about as attainable as Brad Pitt. Probably less so. Plus she could quite happily appraise Brad without her nerve endings doing weird things.
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day Page 12