by June Gadsby
I was sitting in the Andrews’ lounge. Hilary Andrews was at my side passing over letters that Callum had written to her, inviting me to read them. I was putting on a great pretence of being reluctant, but once they were in my hands I devoured every word. His handwriting was strong and sloping. He wrote with such vivacity that I felt I was there with him, witnessing and experiencing everything he described. He was having an enjoyable and successful tour, but he was looking forward to coming home for Christmas.
“Here. This is the last one he sent,” Hilary flattened out the pages on her ample lap, smiled lovingly at it, then pushed it into my hands. “He has a few words about you in this one. See how he never forgets anyone. He’s terribly fond of you, Megan…we both are, my dear.”
Wishing she would stop saying that, I stared at the now familiar handwriting and for an instant my throat tightened, and my vision blurred. It was one thing reading about Callum’s adventures in Australia and his thoughts about the approaching festive season, but to see my own name mentioned…
‘Have you seen much of Megan?’ Callum was demanding. ‘How is she? Nice girl. Tell her I’m asking after her next time you meet. We must all dine together again soon.’ He went on to describe how well the book was selling and… ‘Of course, I’m sure a lot of its success is down to Megan’s beautiful illustrations. I’ve even had one or two people wanting to buy the original portrait used for the front cover…,’
My eyes automatically slid to the pastel portrait I had done so carefully and lovingly, which was now encased in an ornate gilt frame and hung over the mantelpiece.
‘…but I tell them all that they must bargain with my wife for that.”
“Would you ever sell it?” I asked Hilary, whose gaze had followed mine.
“No. She shook her head. “Never! Apart from the fact that we don’t need the money and it was done by a friend…we do consider you to be a friend now, you know, Megan…well, it’s such a beautiful portrait. I want to pass it on to my grandchildren when they’re old enough to appreciate it. Right now, they look at it and laugh, because it’s just a picture of their grandpa, but one day they’ll see it quite differently, I’m sure.”
I swallowed the lump that had arisen in my throat. Somehow, I simply couldn’t think of Callum as being a grandfather. Any more than I could think of him being married to this very nice, but older and rather frumpish lady who seemed as if she belonged to an entirely different world. And yet they seemed to love one another. That’s what hurt. The love I saw shining in her eyes, the fondness I heard in his voice every time he spoke of her. I was so envious of that love.
“So, tell me, my dear,” Hilary was gathering together Callum’s letters and placing them in a draw in the sideboard, so she didn’t notice the stray tear that I quickly swiped away when her back was turned. “What are you and Greg doing for Christmas?”
That was a good question. What were we going to do? Christmas had become less of a pleasure and more of an occasion to dread over recent years. Greg’s job always seemed to get in the way of any plans I might want to make. When he wasn’t working, he attended staff parties and invariably got drunk and disorderly. I stopped going with him after the first couple of years. He didn’t seem to mind. As a matter of fact, I think he preferred not to have his wife tag along, spoiling his fun.
Normally, I would plan all the usual Christmas fayre, turkey and trimmings, do all the things normal people do around the festive season. Then I would wait and see if Greg was going to be there to help me celebrate. Sometimes he was, sometimes he wasn’t. His parents had been dead for some years and my parents didn’t get on with him, so I gave up inviting them after the first disastrous family Christmas celebration.
I looked at Hilary Andrews and realised that she was waiting for an answer to a question I hadn’t even heard.
“Goodness, Hilary, I’m sorry. I must have been dreaming.”
“Are you all right, dear? You are looking rather thin these days. Not worrying about anything, are you? I don’t want to interfere, of course, but if you want to talk about it I’m always available to listen. You know that, don’t you?”
I assured her that my loss of weight was due mainly to pre-Christmas dieting and that there was nothing at all wrong. Nothing at all, except I’m in love with your husband and I don’t know what to do about it.
Looking at my watch, I hurriedly invented an appointment at the hairdressers to cut my visit short on this occasion. Hilary showed genuine disappointment. We had been seeing one another on a regular basis ever since Callum’s departure for Australia. We got on surprisingly well and if I could keep Callum out of the forefront of my thoughts, I could enjoy my visits with this very warm, understanding woman who liked to ‘mother’ me.
Selfish on my part? Perhaps, just a little. At first, I accepted her invitations because I saw it as a link with Callum. Which it was, and it never stopped being that. Then I found that we gravitated together into a real friendship, which I saw no reason to terminate as long as I could keep my emotions under control. I was surprised to find how good I was at doing just that.
* * *
Christmas Eve dawned and, not unexpectedly, Greg was somewhere else. He had rushed off in the early hours claiming an urgent assignment, muttering something about a late office party, which didn’t surprise me. At that time of year there was always an epidemic of office parties and Greg didn’t like to miss out on any of them. He asked me if I wanted to go, but the invitation was half-hearted. What he did say was: ‘You don’t really want to come, do you?’ I think he was playing safe and would have been utterly crushed had I said yes.
After an early breakfast, I phoned my parents, wished them Merry Christmas and declined an invitation to join them for lunch with friends at their favourite restaurant. My mother was a little put out and immediately suspicious.
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?” she demanded in her high-pitched, querulous voice that she always used when she suspected I hadn’t told her everything she felt she ought, by maternal right, to know.
“No, of course not,” I assured her, my knuckles showing white as I gripped the telephone too tightly. “It’s just that Greg isn’t here…he’s had to go in to work…and I have some illustrations to finish before New Year. I’m already late meeting the deadline.”
“But you and Greg will be together for Christmas Day, won’t you? Things are all right between you two, aren’t they?”
“Absolutely no problem, Mum. Stop worrying.” I wish you’d mind your own bloody business, Mum.
“I can’t help worrying about you, Megan, after all the problems you’ve brought home with you in the past…”
“Mum.” I yelled down the phone at her before she could go on about my motley collection of boyfriends and my weakness for ‘married men’. The motley boyfriends I could let her get away with. However, I have yet to figure out which married man or men I had been involved with, apart from one divorcee with whom I had gone out on a couple of dates, and a college professor who had given me a lift home on occasion. All very innocent stuff, but not, apparently, by my mother’s standards. “Don’t let’s get into that, huh. It’s Christmas, okay? Have a lovely time and Greg and I will think of you as we open our presents. Thanks, in advance, for everything.”
I rang off before she could gird her loins for a second try. The house drew a chilly blanket around me. I went to turn up the central heating and made myself a cup of coffee. As I sat drinking it, my eyes skimmed the small scattering of gaily-wrapped gifts stacked beneath an artificial Christmas tree. I had spent hours last night decorating the thing, wrapping the presents I had bought for Greg. And the one he had bought for me. Or, should I say, the present I bought with the cheque he’d hurriedly scribbled out a couple of days ago when he remembered that he hadn’t bought me anything yet. It was a gold watch. Nothing extravagant. Just plain, good quality gold that would look nicer than my old one, which was a man’s anyway and I’d got it free with some catalogue
purchase or other.
I told Greg what he had bought me, but I doubt if he would remember. Last Christmas he had been away somewhere but had remembered to buy me a large bunch of red roses. Unfortunately, on his way home he had been side-tracked by one of the many inevitable press room celebrations. When he arrived, drunk and dishevelled, the roses were in the same state as he was. Greg had thrown the roses into my lap and followed them with a fistful of notes, telling me to ‘buy something for yourself with that, sweetheart’.
It’s just not the same buying and wrapping one’s own presents. The fun of the surprise isn’t there, any more than the loving thoughts of the person giving it.
I stared some more at my pathetic Christmas tree, regretting not having a real one with the smell of pine wafting through the house. Each year I talked of buying one, but for some reason Greg was dead set against it. His own mother would never have one in the house, he told me, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t elaborate on her reasons or his own.
Of course, I couldn’t help my mind straying to Callum, home from Australia and enjoying a family Christmas with Hilary. I wondered what present or presents he had bought her, knowing almost instinctively that whatever he had bought would be in good taste, to her liking and beautifully wrapped.
I sighed heavily, picked up the phone and punched in Ros’s number.
“Hi, Ros.” I said as soon as I heard her voice. “Are you alone and if you are would you like to come around for a drink?”
“Love to! Just give me a few minutes to get some clothes on.”
“Goodness, Ros, I’m not…well, interrupting things, am I?” I felt a sudden rush of heat to my cheeks, imagining her being caught in the middle of some hot, pre-Christmas nostalgic trip with one of her ex-clients. I did know that one ‘john’ remained what Ros described as a ‘good friend’.
“What?” She gave a scream of laughter in my ear. “Come off it, luv. It’s Christmas Eve. The night when all good girls stay up late and bad girls go early to bed. I’m in me nightie, propped up in bed watching the tele with a box of me favourite chocolates and a glass of cheer.”
“Oh Well, in that case, maybe you’d rather not…”
“I’m coming, Megan. You try and stop me.”
I went out to the kitchen and turned up the heat under the pan of spiced rum punch I had made earlier in the day when I thought Greg and I would be celebrating the evening together. As it warmed I poured in another generous measure of rum and started sorting out a platter of nibbles for us.
When the doorbell rang, it startled me. Firstly, because Ros always rapped on the door with her knuckles and secondly because I didn’t think she had had time to get dressed. I hurried to open it, thinking of her perhaps standing there in the cold in nothing more than her dressing gown and slippers. It had started snowing earlier and looked set for the night and a White Christmas.
“Hang on, Ros, I’m coming.” I called out as I left the kitchen and crossed the hall.
I pulled open the door seconds later and a flurry of fluffy white snowflakes puffed in at me, touching my face like tiny iced feathers. I jumped back with a gasp, but the laugh that arose in my throat was swallowed immediately on realising that the figure standing on my doorstep was not my next-door neighbour.
“Good evening, Megan.”
“Callum.” His name came out like a hoarse whisper. I stared at him, blinked as the snow landed on my eyelashes, melted at my throat. He was dressed in a thick camel overcoat but wore no hat and his dark head was covered with a fine white layer, as were his shoulders.
“I know it’s late and I apologise for dropping in on you out of the blue like this, but as it was almost on my way I….”
“Oh, goodness, I’m sorry.” I pulled the door wide open and stepped back, colliding with the wall behind me. “I’m keeping you standing there and it’s freezing. Come in, please!”
“Thank you. I will come in, but only for a minute.” He stepped in beside me with a quick glance over his shoulder and I saw the glowing white roof-light of a waiting taxi. Callum’s face cracked into a boyish grin. “It’s all right. He’s a fan and he knows he’ll get a good tip, so he won’t mind waiting.”
I showed him into the living-room, feeling awkward and embarrassed. He had never been in my home before. It must have seemed rather small and humble after what he was used to.
“Where’s Greg?”
“Oh, he’s working, as usual.”
“Hmm. Something smells good.” He sniffed at the air, which by now was filled with the spicy rum aroma of the hot punch. “It reminds me of Christmases spent with my grandmother up in Scotland. She had a secret recipe which unfortunately died with her.”
“That’s a pity. Would you like to try a glass?” I didn’t think he would accept, but he gave me a strange little smile and nodded his head, so I rushed off to the kitchen to pour out two measures of punch. And told myself to stop rushing about like a nervous schoolgirl trying to impress a visiting teacher in the absence of her parents. In this case, it was in the absence of my husband…and Callum’s wife.
“Ah, this is wonderful! You must give Hilary the recipe.”
“Yes, of course…with pleasure…” I wished he hadn’t mentioned Hilary. Stop acting like an absolute idiot!
“Well, this is nice.”
“Won’t you sit down…while you have your drink?”
“Thank you.”
“So…you’ve just got back?”
“Mmm. It was a long trip. I hope I don’t look as tired as I feel, because I feel about ninety right now.”
“Nonsense.” He looked marvellous and because those incredibly dark, sparkling eyes of his never left my face, I felt my stomach flutter with butterflies right up into my throat.
“It was a good tour. The audiences were surprisingly appreciative. They liked ‘Portrait in Pastel’. Pulled the house down. I lost count of the number of times I was asked to play it – and always for an encore. It made me feel….”
“Yes?” I was hanging onto his every word and he seemed to falter slightly, looking down at the tawny liquid in his glass and swirling it thoughtfully.
“It made me feel as if part of you were with me every time I played it.” His eyes flashed up and caught me with my own eyes widening and my mouth half open in anticipation.
“Oh.”
He put his glass down and brought out from his inside coat pocket two small packages festively wrapped in gold paper, one with a red bow, the other with a simple green tie.
“Happy Christmas, Megan,” he said softly, his eyes not leaving mine as he placed the package with the red bow in my lap and put the other one on the coffee table.
“Oh, but you shouldn’t…I mean…I never expected…”
“Now don’t start getting all embarrassed. I know you didn’t expect anything, but I wanted to get you something…call it a small thank-you for everything you’ve done for me. It’s nothing much. I hope you like it.”
Words were failing me. My fingers were trembling as I carefully removed the wrapping from around the small square jewellers’ box and lifted out the silver locket from its blue velvet cushion. “Oh, Callum, it…it’s so beautiful, but I really can’t accept…”
“Yes, you can, and you will,” He took the locket out of my hands and fastened it around my neck. Even through my sweater it felt heavy and warm between my breasts. “Besides, it’s got your name on it, so I can’t possibly give it to anyone else.”
“Oh!” My fingers touched the satin smoothness of the silver. I bit my lips to stop them quivering with emotion, then I did something quite spontaneous, something I will never regret. I leaned forward and planted a kiss at the corner of Callum’s mouth. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Callum. You’ll never know how much this means to me.”
I thought he was shocked at first, then I realised that my unprecedented action had surprised and embarrassed us both. I swallowed hard and looked away. He stood up and stared at his unfinished drink on the coffee tab
le. His every movement was suddenly awkward. He seemed so terribly undecided as to what he should do next.
“Your punch is delicious,” he said finally, a small crack creeping into his voice. “Sorry I don’t have time to finish it, but Hilary will no doubt be waiting up for me. I called her from the airport.”
“Yes…yes, of course.”
We walked together to the front door. He reached out, his hand already turning the latch, then he hesitated, turned back to me. His face was serious, his forehead creased.
“Have a lovely day tomorrow,” he said, then in a voice so low it was almost a whisper: “I’ll be thinking of you.”
I saw the look in his eyes as his hand dropped from the door and he took me gently in his arms, hugging me tightly to his chest. My heart thudded and tumbled about in a crazy rhythm and I’m sure he must have felt it through the thickness of his coat. I felt his lips pressed against the top of my head, then he put a cool hand under my chin, tilting my face up to his. His eyes shone like live coals, burning into me. He gave his head a small shake as if not believing his own thoughts. I took a deep breath and told myself I should draw tactfully away, but I couldn’t. I stood there, continuing to enjoy the proximity of our bodies, paralysed by the beauty of the moment, not caring about anything or anyone else.
He gave a little groan, this his lips brushed mine so gently and so swiftly that later I wondered if I had only imagined his kiss. Almost immediately he straightened up, standing stiffly before me, his eyes dark and brooding with what seemed like pent up anger.
“Goodnight, Megan. Happy Christmas, my dar….” He broke off abruptly, not allowing the word ‘darling’ to escape. I wondered if the slip of the tongue was merely because of his travel-weary state. I told myself that I had to believe that. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Callum.” My voice came out in a shaky croak.
I watched him walk down the garden path to the waiting taxi, saw how straight and rigid his back was. He got into the taxi and it drove off immediately. Callum never once looked back at me. If he had he would have seen me crying.