Christmas at the Falling-Down Guesthouse
Lilly Bartlett
Copyright ©Lilly Bartlett
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Also by Lilly Bartlett
The Big Dreams Beach Hotel
The Big Little Wedding in Carlton Square (Book 1)
The Second Chance Café in Carlton Square (Book 2)
Michele Gorman
Love is a Four-Legged Word
Match Me If You Can
The Curvy Girls Club
The Curvy Girls Baby Club
Perfect Girl
Life Change
Christmas Carol
Single in the City (The Expat Diaries I)
Misfortune Cookie (The Expat Diaries II)
Twelve Days to Christmas (The Expat Diaries III)
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A note on this edition
This novel was written and edited in British English, including all spelling, grammar, punctuation and figures of speech.
Chapter One
I know I’m dreaming by the way the gorgeous bloke grasps my hand and gazes into my eyes. A real man hasn’t stared at me with such devotion since the time I reprogrammed my friend’s husband’s PlayStation.
Just as the dreamy bloke leads me from the pub table into his bedroom next door – what the hell, it’s my dream, right? – and I start wondering if I’ve dream-shaved my legs, his mobile starts ringing.
‘Are you going to get that?’
‘Get what?’ he murmurs into my neck as pieces of clothing fall to the floor. ‘I don’t hear anything.’
‘Your phone is ringing.’
Aggravation starts nibbling at my ardour as his flippin’ phone keeps at it.
‘I don’t hear it.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, it’s right there on the table!’ I can’t even get any peace and quiet in my own imagination. Angrily, I reach for his phone.
But there is no dreamy bloke and his phone isn’t ringing.
My landline is.
Blearily, I glance at the bedside alarm clock. 1.36am. It’s the hour of emergencies and booty calls. But my booty hadn’t been called since Tony Blair was Prime Minister. So it must be panic, not passion that’s quickening my pulse.
‘Hello?’ My voice comes out porridge-thick.
‘Is this Lottie Crisp?’
‘Yes.’ The panic blooms in my chest. Mabel. Is it Mabel? No. She’s sound asleep in the other room. At least I hope she is.
‘This is Doctor Lonergan at Glan Clwyd hospital in Bodelwyddan.’
I sprint with the phone to my daughter’s door and push it open. Her little body hardly makes a bump under her Spiderman duvet. One socked foot sticks out bravely over the edge. Mabel’s not afraid of monsters, under her bed or anywhere else. I could learn a thing or two from my seven-year-old.
Of course I want to pounce on her and hug her till my heart stops thumping. But sleeping dogs and children should never be disturbed.
‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident involving your Aunt Kate,’ Dr Lonergan is saying. ‘Her car went off the road the day before yesterday. We’ve been trying to reach her family and just now got your details.’
‘I’m her only family.’ The rushing in my ears is drowning out the doctor’s voice. ‘Is she… dead?’
‘No, she’s alive, but she’s in Critical Care. Can you come?’
‘Not until morning. The next train to Wales won’t be until morning.’
‘Come as soon as you can,’ she says. ‘We’ve induced a coma to help her body recover.’
I can’t believe this is happening again.
Aunt Kate is the liveliest person I’ve ever known. Though I’d have said that about my parents too, and look how they ended up.
It’s still dark when I creep into Mabel’s room early the next morning.
She’s going to hate me for this. ‘Sugarpea?’ I rub her duvet-warm back and listen for her breathing to change. ‘Mabel? Wake up.’
She inhales one long breath. ‘Not yet, Mummy.’
‘I’m sorry, but we have to get up extra-early this morning. We get to go to Wales today.’
I’m trying to make this sound like a great adventure instead of a panicky dash to my auntie’s bedside.
At least Celine packed Mabel’s bag before she flew to the Philippines for her own Christmas holiday. She knows I’d probably have brought Mabel to Wales with fifteen jumpers, her favourite blue tutu and no socks.
‘But we’re not leaving for two days,’ says Mabel, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘We’ve got to go early.’
She sits up. ‘I can’t, Mummy. I have other plans.’
‘I know Theresa’s birthday is tomorrow.’ She’s been looking forward to her best friend’s party for nearly a month. ‘But this is important. You can still ring her to wish her happy birthday.’
My daughter’s jaw sets. Whenever she does that, I see her father.
That’s the only time I ever see him.
‘Please, Mabel, don’t make this difficult. Now get up and clean your teeth. We’ve got to leave in twenty minutes to make our train.’
‘I’m not going!’ She throws the duvet over her head. ‘I told you, I have other plans.’
‘And I told you that you are going, young lady. So please get up and clean your teeth. I’ll pack us some breakfast for the train. Come on. Now!’
‘You’re a terrible Mummy!’ she cries. ‘And I hope that one day a big hairy monster comes and flushes you down the loo.’
Don’t you dare smile, Lottie Crisp. Everyone knows that’s the first lesson in child-rearing. I just wish I knew what lesson numbers two through infinity were.
‘Well, until that monster gets here, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. Sorry about that.’ Gently, I pull the duvet down and kiss her soft blonde hair. ‘Teeth cleaned please, and I’ll explain everything when we’re on the train.’
I need a bit of time to think. There must be a good way to admit that what I promised her three years ago might be a lie.
We board the train at Euston Station with just a few other sleep-deprived passengers. It’s still four days before Christmas and most people will have to work tomorrow to wrap up before they go off for the holidays.
Which I should be doing too. My boss won’t be thrilled that I’ve had to leave early. It’s no use playing on his sympathy either. Real, live feelings give him a rash. He’s a software developer like me, and loves his binary code, also like me. I didn’t have time to write a programme that said Sorry-I’m-leaving-my-project-unfinished-but-I’m-terrified-my-auntie-will-die-and-my-family-is-more-important-than-the-latest-war-game-for-children. Maybe animated with a dancing paperclip.
Mabel is a little less grumpy by the t
ime we find our seats on the train. ‘I can’t wait to see Aunt Kate!’ she says. ‘Do you think she’ll have Welsh cakes for us when we arrive? I could just murder a Welsh cake.’
That child sponges up everything I say. I really do have to watch myself.
‘We’re going early because we need to see Aunt Kate in the hospital,’ I tell her.
‘Is she there getting her nose refreshed?’
When I went for moral support to my friend’s nose job surgery last year, I told Mabel she was going in to freshen up her nose.
‘No, Aunt Kate’s nose is just fine the way it is.’ I hope that’s still true. ‘She’s in the hospital because she’s had an accident.’
‘Well, she shouldn’t be in that big house all by herself. She’s not young anymore.’
I cringe at my words parroted back at me. I really have to watch what I say. ‘It wasn’t in the house, honey. It was a car accident.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Like Granny and Grandad?’ she whispers. ‘You said it wouldn’t happen again.’
‘No, no! Not like them. The doctor said that Aunt Kate is still—’ Alive, I almost say. ‘She’s in the hospital and the doctors are doing everything they can to make her better so that she can spend Christmas with us.’
Mabel slumps against me. ‘I was scared. I’m glad she’s all right.’
Then she straightens up. ‘Can I give her my Christmas present early? That might cheer her up.’
Finally, my tears come. I look out the window so Mabel won’t see them. I’m not sure I can go through all this again.
It had been early morning here when the doctor rang from the A&E in Australia, but he hadn’t had to search for my contact details that time. Mum and Dad had everything neatly written in a small notebook in Mum’s handbag. They were careful people like that.
‘Is this Lottie Crisp?’
As soon as I heard the man’s bouncy Aussie accent, I knew something was wrong.
My parents had dreamed for years about spending a month travelling around Australia. Finally, for Dad’s sixtieth birthday, they were doing it. I knew their itinerary off by heart. A week in Sydney, then a flight to Melbourne where they’d visit some friends, then a two-week drive through the outback.
‘Miss Crisp,’ said the man as I braced myself. His laid-back accent didn’t fool me. ‘There’s been an accident involving your parents. I’m terribly sorry.’
I only half-heard the rest of what he said. The outback, drunk driver, Mum killed instantly. Dad fought to stay alive but his injuries were too severe. Could I come?
I had to bring their bodies back to England. That was the worst part of the first few days, sitting on that plane knowing my parents were lying in the hold with all the holidaymakers’ luggage.
Aunt Kate came to stay with Mabel so that I could go. We’d only had a few hours together before I had to leave for the airport. Even though it was her only brother who’d died, and her beloved sister-in-law, she was as rock-solid as the Welsh cakes she made for Mabel’s tea.
‘I would do anything to take this pain away, my sweet Lottie, anything,’ she said as she smothered me in her ample bosom with the grip of a Sumo wrestler. ‘I’m here for you, do you understand? Whatever you need, I’m here for you, my darling girl. We’ll get through this together, you, me and Mabel.’
We did get through it, together, though I’ve had more than a few harsh words since then for whoever decides our fates.
If they now think they’re going to take my Aunt Kate too, they’ve got another thing coming. We Crisps don’t go down without a struggle.
Chapter Two
The train ride to Rhyl is smooth, but my mind skitters from one horrific scenario to another. What will I find when we get to the hospital? If only I could rewind the past seventy-two hours and keep Aunt Kate safely off the road. She’s got the eyesight of a mole. She should never have been driving anyway. If everything had gone to plan, Mabel and I would be turning up in two days’ time, full of excitement for our first Welsh countryside Christmas with Aunt Kate at her countryside B&B.
She’s run the business since before Mabel was born, but always shuts up between Christmas and New Year’s so she can come stay with us in London.
This year though, Aunt Kate is taking in paying guests for the holidays. It’s the last thing she wants to do – and it’s always hard to pin Aunt Kate down on details – but something about her bank loan being dependent on the B&B getting a certain rating by the end of the year means that she has to host the reviewer over Christmas. So Mabel and I said we’d bring the Crisp family Christmas to her instead.
That was the idea anyway.
We’re the only passengers to exit the two-carriage train in Rhyl. From what Aunt Kate has said, it’s a typical Victorian resort town. It’s about as far out of season as you can get now, but in summer the beachfront probably bustles with swim-suited families, all burnt to a crisp and ready to eat their own weight in Welsh rock and candyfloss.
That sounds like heaven right now.
I tuck Mabel’s scarf into her collar against the slanting rain, and pull my coat more tightly around me.
‘Aunt Kate lives here?’ she asks, peering at the ornate ironwork on the station, with its paintwork tattooed with rust from the sea air, and its glass roof.
‘No, not in town. I think she’s about fifteen miles from here in an area called Snowdonia.’
‘Will there be snow there?’
‘It feels cold enough, doesn’t it? But I don’t think so. Not where the B&B is anyway. Maybe up in the mountains.’
‘Are we going there now?’
‘Not yet. We need to go see her at the hospital first, remember?’
A lone taxi sits at the front of the station.
The driver gets out to load our bags into the boot, hugging his huge sheepskin coat more tightly around his tall frame. He’s dishevelled in a way that would make him a hipster in London, but something about his stained jeans and ancient boots tells me that his stubble and too-long dark hair aren’t fashion statements.
I’m one to talk. If not for the doctor’s early morning call, I’d be getting a haircut and colour at lunchtime today. Wales is just going have to deal with my dark roots…. and wayward brows and chipped nails. Aunt Kate’s never really cared about how I look anyway. She always thinks I’m beautiful. Which is a bit of a stretch.
Mabel is, however, beautiful. She’s got the same pale blonde, straight hair that I had at her age, which I now have to pay £80 quid for. But her eyes are chocolate-dark like her father’s instead of my nothingy-hazel. And she’s already long-limbed and graceful, so she also missed out on the Crisp family short-arseness.
My gorgeous girl.
‘We’re going to Glan Clwyd hospital, please,’ I tell the driver.
He pulls out from the station like he’s fleeing the scene. We hurtle up the quiet road and careen around the corner.
‘You can slow down a little. It’s not an emergency. Mabel, check your seatbelt. You’re sure it’s on?’
His motoring skills don’t improve as we race along the rural two-lane road, sandwiched between the sea and sheep-filled fields. If this is how people drive around here, then I’m not surprised Aunt Kate crashed her car.
My heart starts racing when the hospital comes into view. What if we get to the desk and the nurse looks at us with pity as she works out how to tell us that we’re too late?
No, I won’t think like that. For Mabel’s sake, I’ve got to stay positive.
‘We’re here to see Kate Crisp, please,’ I tell the plump, pleasant-looking woman behind the reception desk. ‘She’s in Critical Care.’
She taps her keyboard. ‘Just down that corridor, love. Now what you do is go through the double doors on your left. The nurse inside can take you straight to her.’
‘Oh, okay, that’s brilliant, thank you!’ I find myself smiling. She’s the perfect hospital front desk person, with the type of positive bedside manner that could make you look forw
ard to having your leg amputated.
When we get to the Critical Care desk, the young nurse says, ‘You’re looking for Ms Crisp? She’s right this way.’ As if we’re just meeting her for lunch.
We follow her down another short corridor.
‘Please clean your hands whenever you go into the room.’
I gesture for Mabel to hold her palms under the liquid disinfectant.
‘It stinks.’
‘I know it does, but it kills the germs.’
‘Does it smother them?’
‘Something like that.’
Aunt Kate has the room to herself. She’s in the bed closest to the door, with a mask over her face and tubes running from her arms.
‘Is she dead?’ Mabel whispers.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. Her face is swollen and her forehead has turned a nasty shade of purple. There’s a stitched-up laceration over her eye. ‘She’s just sleeping.’
‘I’ll see if the doctor is free,’ the nurse says, hurrying out.
I go to my aunt and gently touch her hand. ‘I’m here, Aunt Kate. Mabel and I are here.’
‘Can she hear you?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think so. Do you want to talk to her? I’m sure she’d love that.’
She nods and shuffles very close to the bed.
‘Hi Aunt Kate, it’s me, Mabel. You’ll probably know it’s me even with your eyes closed because of my voice. We had a nice journey on the train. We had regular seats, but then because there weren’t many people on, we moved to a table. Mummy said it was better for her computer, but then she forgot her computer and she swore. Not the F word, though, just the S word. I still told her that ladies don’t swear. That’s right, isn’t it, Mummy?’
‘That’s right, I shouldn’t have said that.’
An older woman joins us as Mabel continues talking to Aunt Kate as though they’re chatting over tea and cake.
Dr Lonergan smiles as she introduces herself. She’s got a kind but serious face. It’s a trustworthy face. She takes Aunt Kate’s chart from the end of the bed and then gestures outside.
Christmas at the Falling-Down Guesthouse: Plus Michele Gorman's Christmas Carol Page 1