‘Can I just say, a big thank you,’ said Charlie, before he bit into his mince pie. ‘If I can take something with me and keep it forever, I’d take my memories, and these past few days would be right at the top of the pile with the best ones.’ He raised his mug in a toast. ‘May all of us around this table enjoy every minute of what we have left,’ he said. Five other mugs crashed into it.
A noise from above, as if something had fallen heavily.
‘This place is dropping to bits around us,’ said Robin, surveying the lounge. Funny, but he couldn’t remember it looking as worn out as this. He hadn’t noticed the holes in the plaster before, the general unkempt dullness of the place. He was sure the tables had shone with polish when they arrived. Relief at finding the place must have added the sparkle, he thought.
‘How long will it take you to get back home, Robin?’ asked Bridge.
‘Too long. We were going to take the scenic route, but Charlie’s a bit tired so it’s the motorway for us. Safer anyway, I’m sure.’
After a few moments, finishing up his second coffee, Luke put his mug down on the table. ‘I think I’m going to head off. I want to get back to Carmen and I’ve got a bit of a stretch to my car, unless anyone is going to offer me a lift to it.’
He was inundated with offers, but accepted Jack’s. He had plans to make with him.
As Jack nipped upstairs to get his bag, the others stood to say their goodbyes. Luke embraced Robin, then Charlie – a little harder and tighter as if he was trying to press some strength into his bones. He didn’t want to say the ‘goodbye’ word to him, he left him as if it was adieu. Then he kissed Mary on the cheek and gave her a rocking hug full of affection.
‘Come and walk me out,’ he said to Bridge.
Outside the thaw was continuing at speed: the colours of the grass and parked cars looked too bright, as if they had been painted.
‘I’ll courier Sabrina’s ashes to you,’ said Bridge. ‘Put them somewhere nice in your garden.’
‘I’ve changed my mind on that. There was a wood I used to take her to, she liked to jump into the water there. Her favourite place.’
Bridge smiled. ‘That sounds perfect.’
‘I wish you and Ben all the luck in the world,’ said Luke, ‘I really do.’
She nearly told him, pulled it back at the last second.
‘I’m not sure he’s my Mr Right, if I’m honest.’
‘There isn’t just one Mr Right in the world, Bridge. Or Mrs Right. If he isn’t for you, kick him to the kerb. Don’t settle for second best, ever.’
‘Carmen sounds like she’s definitely Mrs Right.’
‘So were you,’ said Luke. ‘I just met you at the wrong time.’
Their arms opened together, wrapped around each other tightly.
‘Be happy, Bridge. Find someone who makes your heart want to keep beating forever.’ Luke pulled away, smiled. She saw again the young teenage boy still hovering in that smile. ‘Goodbye Mrs Palfreyman.’
‘Goodbye Mr Palfreyman.’
* * *
‘Well, thank you for a mad few days,’ said Jack. He shook Robin’s hand, was pulled into an embrace before Robin passed him over to Charlie.
‘Keep reading that book I made you, Jack,’ said Charlie, trying his best to look stern.
‘I promise I will.’
Jack didn’t want to make a big thing about his goodbye to Charlie, but he gave him a second hug that said everything he needed to.
‘Good luck, Mary,’ said Jack. ‘There will always be a job for you at Butterly’s if you change your mind.’
This is your very last chance to stop her leaving you, screamed a voice inside him.
‘Thank you, Jack. Good luck.’ She stood rigid, missiling vibes that their business was done. Jack could even hear it in her voice, that she didn’t want him to stop her.
He turned, picked up his bag, opened the door. Left.
* * *
Bridge and Mary washed up the breakfast dishes, leaving the kitchen as spick and span as they found it, minus a lot of food. Robin and Charlie waited for them so they could walk out to their cars together. Mary was silent as she dried and Bridge let her be. You couldn’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, she’d tell her later, and Mary was a zillion-dollar lobster frittata in the making.
‘I hope the place will be all right,’ said Bridge, picking up her own luggage in one hand and a suitcase full of Robin and Charlie’s boots in the other. ‘My breaking-in skills don’t extend to repairing locks.’
‘I’m sure the landlord will be back today,’ said Robin. ‘Nothing we can do about it if he isn’t. We had our own emergency to contend with.’
Charlie turned to look fondly at the inn, issued a silent thank you to it, for the homely Yorkshire welcome, for Radio Brian, for the Figgy Hollow Six.
Robin turned to the inn, issued a silent thank you to it for giving Charlie the perfect Christmas. A priceless gift.
‘Goodbye, Figgy Hollow,’ said Bridge, when they reached their cars. It was odd but she felt changed somehow by the events of the past few days. Recharged and yet more at peace with herself.
‘And goodbye Bridge.’ Charlie embraced her, held her. ‘What a wonderful woman you are. Like a fire, I can feel your fabulous energy,’ he said. ‘I wish you joy and love and lots of great sex.’ Bridge hooted, tried to rein in the sob threatening to break out of her. She couldn’t return the word ‘goodbye’, had to substitute it with ‘take good care’.
‘My darling Mary,’ said Charlie, beaming at her. ‘I hope you get your Chanel handbag and carry it like the lady you are. You are a prize, to be earned. Don’t you ever forget that. You hold out for your Captain Wentworth, Miss Elliot. Nothing less, you promise me.’
‘I promise I will.’ She hugged Charlie with all her strength and thought how frail he felt, so much more fragile than he looked.
‘I’ll keep in touch,’ said Robin. They both knew what he meant.
* * *
Jack hung around until Luke had switched on the ignition, made sure he wasn’t stranded with a dead engine.
‘Good to go,’ said Luke, ‘thanks for the lift. We’ll be in touch about those vegan scones after New Year.’
‘Great stuff, I’ll ask Mary to—’ Jack pulled up his words. ‘I’ll get someone to ring you about them. It won’t be Mary, seeing as Bridge stole her from me.’
‘She wouldn’t have let herself be stolen, Jack, if you’d fought even a little for her to stay,’ Luke said before pipping his horn perkily and hitting the road.
* * *
Robin had luckily only driven half a mile before he realised he’d left his orange jacket hanging in the wardrobe. He cursed his memory.
‘I’m sure I’m going through the bloody menopause,’ he said to Charlie. ‘I’ll have to go back for it.’
‘Okay, dear,’ said Charlie, half-asleep.
‘I blame you,’ said Robin, making an about-turn in the deserted road. ‘You distracted me talking about the meaning of life this morning when I was in the middle of checking that I’d packed everything.’
Charlie’s response was a baby snore. Leaping around like a lunatic in the snow yesterday had taken it out of him and even a full night’s sleep hadn’t been enough.
The inn was in the near distance. Robin could see that a few of the tiles were missing from the roof. Those noises they heard last night from above must have been clumps of snow dropping through. Something else the poor landlord would have to deal with. He hoped his insurer wouldn’t try and fob him off with that old ‘act of God’ clause. At the other side of the road, the cottages stood in a crumbling row. The snow had given them roofs where there weren’t any, disguising their age and wear, the rafters visible now like ribs. The church was a ruin, with part of the back of its stone tower missing. Funny how snow could deceive the eye. Nature’s Touche Éclat, he thought to himself with a mini chuckle.
‘Shan’t be a tick, love,’ said Robin, pulling the car
up in front of the inn door. He walked inside; how cold it felt without the cheer of fire in the hearth now that the insulating snow had melted from the roof. He rushed upstairs, pulled his orange jacket out of the wardrobe and did a quick double-check for anything else he might have missed, but the coat had been a single oversight.
Their room had a morning-after air; it too had lost its festive spirit. The carpet seemed more threadbare and the wallpaper more distressed than he remembered. He left quickly, before the magic of the last few days dissolved any further.
He hurried back to the car, threw the coat on the back seat before belting himself in, starting the engine, setting off again.
‘That didn’t take long did it? Now, how’s this for a plan: we get on the M1 and then stop at the first services we come to. You can have anything you like; buns, full English, cherries if we can find ’em. How’s that suit?’ He didn’t expect an answer because Charlie was out for the count. ‘You know, you’ve always been such marvellous company when we’re travelling, Charlie Glaser. It’s a good job I don’t get lulled to sleep by the hum of an engi—’ He glanced to his side, and again, then stepped hard on the brake; something wasn’t right. Fingers of cold dread brushed past Robin’s nerve endings.
‘Charlie?… Charlie, love?’ Robin reached over, shook his shoulder gently.
But this time Charlie wasn’t in a deep sleep, contemplating the meaning of life.
Chapter 34
The paramedics were there within fifteen minutes, but it was too late. It had been too late before Robin had even rung them. Charlie had slipped away quickly and silently. He had fallen out of this world and into another, as easily as he had fallen into the snow the previous day to make his angels.
One of the paramedics sat with Robin, taking details, comforting him, poor fellow. He hadn’t been up in this neck of the woods for years. There was no reason to, the road only led to a small place called Figgy Hollow, long deserted. To his shame, he’d been one of the gang who passed an entertaining morning throwing stones at the windows of the old derelict inn there trying to break the glass, until they were chased off by the old bloke who lived in one of the cottages opposite. Ancient, with no teeth and a long, straggling combover, he always wore jumpers knitted for someone twice his size and he broadcast his own radio station, called something daft like Radio Kenneth or Bert or… Radio Brian, that was it. Hardly anyone listened to it. He died not long afterwards and his wife had to go into a home and that was the last of the people who lived in Figgy Hollow. Must have been twenty-five years ago: just after Yorkshire had the shock of that severe winter spell that was every bit as bad as this one had been.
He switched his attention back to the gentleman here. Never a good time to lose someone, but it always seemed worse at Christmas.
10 January
Ships are safe in harbours
but that’s not why ships are built
Chapter 35
‘So, what did you think about your first week working at Bridge Holdings?’ asked Bridge, a hopeful smile on her face.
‘It’s great,’ Mary answered. ‘What’s not to like?’
There was nothing not to like. Her office was next to Bridge’s, it was light and airy and had a countryside view. There was a small café in the building that sold really nice sandwiches, soup and a hot meal of the day (vegetarian option also). The people were so friendly; Sonia, Bridge’s pregnant PA who was showing her the ropes, was a peach. Even the toilets at Bridge Holdings were swish with touch-sensitive taps and the sort of glittery tiles suited to a nightclub. Bridge was a boss who said things like, ‘Mary, you’re a find’ and made her feel as if she was actually a visible and worthy entity. Everything pointed to this being a great career move. Except… how Mary missed the chaos of Butterly’s. She missed the banter of the packing department. She missed Edna’s grumpily delivered excellent tea and the scones that she buttered with a heavy hand. And she missed Jack. Not that she’d admit this to Bridge, who’d done everything possible to make her move as easy as it could be. Mary didn’t even want to admit it to herself, never mind anyone else.
She’d moved in with Bridge on the second of January because Mary’s family had arranged for them all to bring in the new year together. Her brother was back from Australia and her mum was home from the Canaries. Mrs Padgett was convinced that Mary’s dad had been watching over her as a guardian angel and helped her find the inn. Sean was more interested in the details of what had happened between her and Jack, holed up for days. He was mightily impressed that his little sister had told the Boy from Ipanema to jog on.
Bridge’s house was not as Mary had imagined it: cavernous, huge windows, neutral, minimalist, it oozed expense, good taste, wealth; it was gorgeous – but it was a house, not a home. She suspected it mirrored an emptiness that Bridge felt within herself. Mary wondered if this would be her destiny one day, because she was determined to be successful and if riches came with that, then she too would buy herself a big house. But she hoped it would reflect a full and satisfied heart, have toys around the place, a dog basket, sticky fingerprints, a room just for handbags.
Ben was waiting for them on the doorstep when they got home that night. Since Mary had moved in, Bridge hadn’t been staying in the office for hours after everyone else had gone. She intended to make sure her life/work balance sat on the scales a little more evenly this new year.
‘You’ve had parcels delivered,’ he called, rushing out to meet them. He was tallish but looked taller than he was, being built like a solid oak wardrobe; completely bald, always smiling, always looked happy to see them, like the human version of an overgrown Boxer dog with a permanently wagging friendly tail. He was the antithesis of drab in what he customarily wore and today he had on a yolk-yellow woollen jumper, a colour that suited him perfectly, Mary thought. She’d taken to him from the off, felt she had known him months, not days. He was sunshine in human form, like a younger, hairless version of Charlie running on super-charged batteries.
‘Thanks, Ben,’ said Bridge, taking the two parcels from him. A large one for Mary, a smaller one for herself. The address appeared to be written by the same hand. ‘You coming in for a Friday wine?’
‘I will have to pass, alas,’ Ben replied, with an audible sigh of regret. ‘I’m going to the pantomime. My niece is a dancing flower and it’s the last night. I’ll take a raincheck of course.’
‘I wish you’d been my uncle,’ Bridge said to him, meaning it. ‘And of course. You can have the wine with added interest the next time you’re free.’
‘I’m free tomorrow. Chinese banquet at mine. I’m paying,’ he threw over his shoulder.
‘It’s a date,’ said Bridge, on Mary’s behalf too.
Wherever he went, he seemed to leave a smile imprinted on the air behind him like the Cheshire Cat, thought Mary. How blessed he was not to miss the sensation of falling in love with someone, not to have the complication of yearning for the soulmate to spend his life with.
‘I wonder who these are from,’ Bridge said, unlocking the front door.
‘I have no idea,’ Mary answered. Hers had been redirected from her old address.
They took them through to the kitchen, sat at the long island and began to unwrap them.
Bridge’s contained a black box. As she peeled off the paper, the name CHANEL was revealed in white capitals.
‘What the hell? Who’s sent me this?’
Mary’s much larger box was white, trimmed black at the edges, the name CHANEL written in black across the middle. She looked at Bridge with the same look of confusion as Bridge had for her.
Bridge eased the lid off the box; inside wrapped in tissue was a Chanel scarf she recognised, and a folded note. She read it aloud.
My Dear Bridge
I am sorry to have to tell you that my darling Charlie has left us. He died on the day we all left Figgy Hollow, just fell asleep and didn’t wake up. There has been a lot to do, as you can imagine. His funeral is at Tuckwitt Church, w
here we got married, 25th Jan, 11am and I hope you can join us. We were a family for a while, the Figgy Hollow Six of us, weren’t we? What a happy Christmas we had. The best.
Charlie was insistent that I give this scarf to you. He said you would look lovely in it, like the true queen you are. He was such an excellent judge of character. I have washed it, but sprayed a little of his cologne on it for you.
It will be bitter-sweet to see you again on the 25th. I do hope you can come. Dress code: black and fabulous.
Love to you
Robin (and Charlie) xx
Bridge lifted the scarf reverently to her nose. The base notes of cedar and lavender transported her back to the inn, sitting around the fire sipping mulled cider, nibbling on mince pies, Radio Brian’s witterings in the background. She folded it, replaced it in the box, not wanting to wet it with teardrops.
‘He died then,’ said Mary with a long drawn-out sigh. ‘I was hoping he would have had so much longer.’ She wiped at her eyes with a piece of snatched kitchen roll.
‘I’m glad it was peaceful though,’ said Bridge. ‘I really am. And of course I’ll go to the funeral. I’ll drive us.’ Dear lovely Charlie. ‘Open your parcel, Mary.’
A sea of tissue paper, and sitting in it, a rectangular black bag, double Cs on the turnstile lock. Mary’s jaw dropped and stayed dropped.
‘That is gorgeous,’ said Bridge. ‘What a sweetheart he was.’
Mary opened the accompanying note, her fingers fluttering with emotion.
My Dear Mary
My darling Charlie has left us now, but he was insistent that you have this to remember him by. He bought it for his mother who never used it but perched it on her dressing table and looked at it a lot as if it were a treasure. And so it seems fitting that this treasure goes to yet another treasure. But it does come with a stipulation: that you must always carry it with all the chutzpah you can muster, Charlie was most insistent about that. He became so fond of you in the time he knew you, as did I.
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day Page 29