The Patron Saint of Lost Souls

by Menna Van Praag

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Mercifully, the visit with the social workers passes uneventfully. Gertie, seeming to have forgotten about the day before, only talks about how much she loves Gatsby’s and entertains everyone by telling them interesting historical facts about selected antiques, having procured such facts from Jude’s magazines. The little silver hummingbird sits on the counter as they all listen, rapt. The social workers commend Jude on how well-adjusted Gertie seems to be already. They inform Jude that their next visit will be without advanced notice, so they can better see – though Jude hears ‘spy’ – them both under more natural, unaffected circumstances.

  After the social workers have gone, Gertie continues her exploration and examination of all the treasures Gatsby’s holds. Jude sits behind the counter with the hummingbird, flicking through Art & Antiques, pretending not to watch her niece. She wonders whether her father might have died yet – though, no doubt, the hospital will call when that happens. That’s what they did with her mother – Jude had just left the hospital to take a shower and sleep a few hours and she’d regretted it for the rest of her life, tormented by the thought that her mother was alone at her last breath. Jude had wasted thousands of hours wishing she could undo time, so it could spool back and let her relive that day, that decision.

  ‘Aunt Jude?’

  Jude looks up to see her niece leaning against the counter. ‘Yes?’

  ‘How are we going to celebrate Christmas tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jude says. ‘I don’t usually do anything special and … I didn’t, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to or not.’

  Gertie sighs. ‘I don’t want to go back to school.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because then I won’t be able to spend all day here.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jude says, feeling, not for the first time, extraordinarily grateful for Gatsby’s, for she deeply suspects that it is the reason why her niece has decided to stay with her. ‘But you’ll still get a few hours after school every day and we can stay here all day Saturdays and even Sundays, if you’d like.’

  A smile of delighted relief breaks onto Gertie’s face. She nods so fast her curls bounce on her shoulders. ‘Yes, please, I’d like it very much.’

  ‘OK,’ Jude says, ‘then that’s what we’ll do.’

  Jude wakes half an hour before midnight, bolt upright on the mattress realising she’d forgotten her Christmas ritual. She glances at her clock and cries out. She’d completely forgotten and now she only has thirty minutes before it’s Christmas Day and her chance has gone for another year. It’s silly, perhaps, to believe that she can only find her personal talisman on Christmas Eve, but Jude has always believed in the power of this particular day. There’s something special about it, something potent. As a child she loved the feeling of anticipation, the feeling that anything could happen, that she might finally get everything she dreamt of on Christmas Day. Jude’s dreams weren’t big – she’d have happily settled for lunch that didn’t end with her father drunk and her mother sobbing – but every year those, and any additional dreams, were dashed and, for that reason, Jude had always preferred the day before Christmas to the day itself.

  Jude hurls herself out of bed, onto the landing and down the stairs. She has saved up her wishes all year, waiting for this night, channelling them all into one place, thus enhancing the possibility of one coming true. It’s a silly superstition, Jude knows, but she doesn’t care. Throughout the year she’s careful not to ask for anything, not to dilute requests like a child who asks too often for chocolate – so often that his demands become background noise all too easily ignored.

  Deciding not to turn on the lights, for fear of waking Gertie, as she steps onto the shop floor, instead Jude switches on a glass art deco lamp in the corner. It throws dim shards of coloured light on the walls and across the floor, setting the mood nicely, coaxing the magic of Christmas Eve wishes out of the dust.

  Jude steps into the centre of the room, halfway along the haphazard path – carved out among the antiques – between the counter and the door. This affords her the best views of the biggest selection of everything she owns. Ideally, Jude would tour every inch of Gatsby’s, examining each potential talisman but, right now, she simply doesn’t have the time. Glancing over at the Victorian grandfather clock standing in the corner – its deep, solemn tick-tock having marked time since before Jude inherited the shop – she sees she has fewer than twenty minutes to choose or, rather, to be chosen.

  As she does every year, Jude keeps her focus soft, turns her palms to the ceiling and waits. She tries to quiet the clamour of panic rising in her chest, the fear that she doesn’t have enough time, that she’s wasted another year of her life, that she has let her only opportunity slip through her fingers. It won’t help her now; in fact, it’ll only hinder her chances of finding and being found. Jude needs to be as calm, as tranquil as she can possibly be: an open, receptive vessel. This could be the year. So Jude has told herself every single year. Though, of course, with each passing year her hope wanes. Just as it did when she was a child and she longed for a happier childhood. And since that never happened, no matter how long and hard she wished (employing every birthday candle, every four-leafed clover, every shooting star) so, Jude thinks, it’s really a wonder she has any reserves of hope left at all. She must be a person of great faith. Either that or a total idiot.

  Jude glances back at the grandfather clock: five minutes until midnight. Panic blooms again as Jude sweeps her gaze across all the antiques she knows so well. What are the chances that any of them will suddenly transform into her talisman? In the next five minutes.

  Then, at one minute to midnight, she sees it. A globe. A hand-painted glass sphere suspended between two gold pins attached to a two-foot-tall stand of intricately carved mahogany. It’s at least two hundred years old and probably one of the most expensive pieces in the shop. Jude acquired it at an antiques market three years ago. She’d always adored it and was secretly pleased that it hadn’t yet claimed itself an owner, but she’d never had an inkling that it might be hers, hers. But, sure enough, she’s feeling the pull, the sense of certainty and desire, knowing that this object belongs to her as much as her own heart does.

  As the grandfather clock begins to chime the midnight hour, Jude steps, cautiously, reverently, to the globe and then bends to pick it up. It’s heavier than she remembered and she has to hold it with both hands. Jude can barely contain her excitement. What will it give her? How will it transform her life? What is it, exactly, that she wishes for? She can no longer remember. It doesn’t matter, she has her talisman now; the wishes can come after, they can take their time, she doesn’t care.

  Jude holds the globe as if it’s entirely crystal and glass, the balloon of her joy bursting out of her chest and bobbing up into the air above her. Why did it finally happen? Why this year? Perhaps, Jude thinks, it has something to do with her new niece, perhaps she’s a talisman of sorts herself. Yes. It must be, since Gertie is by far and away the best thing that has ever happened to her.

  And then, Jude knows what to wish for.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘Where’s Mathieu?’ Daisy asks, pronouncing it Mat-e-ou.

  ‘With his son, I suppose,’ Viola says.

  Daisy regards her daughter. ‘You suppose?’

  Viola shrugs. ‘I’ve not spoken to him since yesterday.’

  Daisy perches at the end of Viola’s bed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘We had a row. He thinks I blame him for missing the competition, for losing my job. He stormed out.’

  ‘Did you try to stop him?’ Daisy asks, fluffing Viola’s duvet.

  ‘No,’ Viola admits. ‘But I don’t think he would have, even if I’d tried.’

  ‘And did you blame him? Do you?’

  Viola shrugs. ‘Perhaps, a little. I mean, I know it’s not his fault, of course. But still, I can’t help thinking – my life was so much … simpler before I met him.’

&nbs
p; Daisy laughs. ‘Well, of course it was. Love is never simple. Wasn’t that a quote by Oscar Wilde? Love is rarely pure and never simple.’

  ‘Truth,’ Viola says. ‘Truth is rarely pure and never simple.’

  Daisy smiles. ‘Oh, yes, that’s right. Sometimes I forget you studied literature at university.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Viola says, ‘for about a second.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Daisy asks. ‘I can make us some dinner. Your fridge is full to bursting.’

  Viola shakes her head, rubbing her tangled hair against her pillows.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ Daisy stands. ‘I’ll make us both a cup,’ she declares, bustling out of the bedroom before her daughter can object.

  Ten minutes later Viola is sitting up in bed, nursing a cup of Earl Grey and nibbling a chocolate hobnob, with a plate of the biscuits, piled high in a great pyramid, balanced on her knees. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she says. ‘You’re being really … sweet.’

  Daisy swallows the last of her own hobnob, reaches for another, and pats her daughter’s knee. ‘You’ll be OK,’ she says. ‘It’ll all work itself out in the wash, you’ll see.’

  Viola sips her tea. ‘I thought you didn’t approve, anyway. You told me not to get involved with him in the first place. I’ve been waiting for you to say: “I told you so.” After all, you were right.’

  ‘You might not think so, but I am capable of holding my tongue, on occasion,’ Daisy says. ‘And, anyway, what relationship is without baggage? You’re certainly no walk in the park—’

  ‘Hey,’ Viola protests, mildly. ‘You’re my mother. Aren’t you supposed to think I’m perfect and nobody’s good enough for me? That’s your job.’

  Daisy smiles. ‘Of course, darling. And I do. But I was going to say, neither am I—’

  Viola raises an eyebrow. ‘No kidding.’

  ‘—and neither is anyone else. You won’t find a human being on this planet who behaves impeccably even half the time. Every one of us is rife with insecurities and vulnerabilities and what-not. And sadly, we all can’t help but take it out on each other. So, you’ll never find a perfect person, not if you spend your whole life searching. But you might, if you’re very lucky, find the perfect person, for you.’

  Viola regards her mother from over her cup of tea. ‘When did you get so wise?’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ Daisy says with a smile. ‘I’ve got plenty more I’ve learnt over the years, if you’d ever care to hear it. I always have, you’ve just never listened to me before.’

  Viola considers this, reluctant to admit her mother is right but also unable, in all conscience, to deny it. ‘So, tell me more,’ she says. ‘I’m listening now.’

  Daisy reaches for another biscuit. ‘You’re pushing your Mat-e-ou away because you’re scared.’

  Viola frowns. ‘Of what?’

  Daisy bites into the hobnob. ‘Of getting hurt, being left, being rejected.’ She gives her daughter a wry smile. ‘You’re holding onto your independence because you don’t want to end up like me.’

  Viola raises her eyebrows.

  ‘What?’ Daisy says. ‘You thought me so dumb I didn’t notice that my daughter would rather die than turn out like her mother?’

  Viola opens her mouth to protest but Daisy holds up her hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I felt the same way about my mother. For better or worse, most daughters do. It’s a shame, though, because each generation ends up living to extremes, the pendulum swings back and forth – I gave everything up for my marriage, so you invest everything in your career instead—’

  ‘Ah.’ Viola sits up. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong. I … I asked Mathieu to … marry me.’

  ‘You did?’ Daisy asks, incredulous. ‘Well, my dear, I take my hat off to you. So, perhaps I was wrong, with my theories. Perhaps I’m not quite so wise, after all.’

  Viola takes another biscuit and they both sit in silence, nibbling and contemplating.

  ‘Well,’ Viola says, eventually. ‘Maybe you’re right, just a little. I mean … it was rather spur of the moment, while I was feeling particularly … exuberant, reckless and bold – very unlike myself. After that, after what happened, I suppose I took a bit of a step back.’

  Daisy nods. ‘So, no wonder Mat-e-ou is acting the way he is. He senses you’re pulling away, so he doesn’t feel safe either, and so …’

  Viola regards her mother. ‘Who are you and what have you done with my mother?’

  ‘Cheeky girl.’ Daisy shuffles up along the bed and gives Viola a slightly awkward but heartfelt hug.

  ‘Thank you,’ Viola says, as they part. ‘Thank you for feeding me biscuits and giving me advice and not shrieking, and letting me spend Christmas Eve in bed, even though I’m not ill.’ She sighs. ‘Thank you for letting me be a little girl again. I think I really needed it.’

  Daisy reaches up to brush a stray curl from Viola’s cheek. ‘You know, perhaps losing this job of yours won’t be such a bad thing after all,’ she says. ‘Perhaps you could do with a little break. Let yourself be less than perfect for a while. It might do you good.’

  Viola sighs again. ‘I don’t think I know how to take a break. I’m not sure I ever have.’

  Daisy nods. ‘I know you adored your father, and so did I. But he did set himself rather impossible standards. And, more’s the pity, he passed them on to you. And the problem with impossible standards is that they always leave you feeling inadequate, no matter how amazing you are.’ Daisy looks at her daughter with soft eyes. ‘And, trust me, Vi, you are amazing. Utterly and absolutely. No matter what you might think.’ Viola opens her mouth but Daisy presses a finger to her lips. ‘Trust your mother, she’s very wise.’

  Viola gives a half-smile. ‘Then I suppose I’d better believe her, all evidence to the contrary.’

  Daisy grins, patting Viola’s hand. ‘There’s a good girl.’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Viola lowers her voice, glancing down at the plate of biscuits atop her knee. ‘Would you stay the night? I know it’s silly but I don’t want to be—’

  ‘Of course,’ Daisy says, before Viola can finish. ‘Of course I will.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The third phone call comes while Jude is standing behind the counter and Gertie is searching for something in the shop. This is how they have decided to celebrate Christmas Day. They have opened the shop; though surely no one will come in, it doesn’t matter.

  ‘Miss Simms?’

  The moment Jude hears Dr Ody’s voice she knows what the news will be.

  ‘Yes.’ She waits. She waits for this moment she seems to have been waiting for her whole life. ‘Dr Ody?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry, I …’ He stumbles, clearly not very well practised at the breaking of heartbreaking news. Although, Jude is about to say, in this case, he doesn’t need to worry.

  ‘My father …’

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Ody agrees, finding his voice at last. ‘He asked you to call us.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Jude says. ‘Isn’t he …?’

  ‘He asked—I mean, apologies,’ Dr Ody stumbles on, not appearing to hear her. ‘He asked us – me – to call you.’

  ‘But, I thought, I thought he was …’

  ‘What?’ Dr Ody asks, then realises what she means. ‘Oh, no. Not … not yet.’

  Jude can hear the discomfort in Dr Ody’s voice, the concern that he’s not doing this properly and her heart goes out to him. She remembers that smile.

  ‘We think he probably won’t last the night and he’d like you to visit.’

  Jude nearly drops the phone. ‘What?’

  ‘Your father would like you to visit him.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. But are you sure? You don’t mean someone else’s father?’

  Dr Ody lets out a small laugh, then stifles it. ‘Yes, Miss Simms, I’m quite sure I’ve got the correct father.’ He pauses. ‘Will you come?’

  ‘Um, I, um …’ Jude thinks of the long, white hospital c
orridor, of the sterile room, of her father laying helpless in the bed. She feels herself start to sweat. ‘I, um …’

  ‘Miss Simms, if I may,’ Dr Ody says, as if he’s stepping out onto a lake of ice and he’s not entirely sure it’ll hold his weight. ‘I’ve been with many, many patients at the end and, even when feelings are acrimonious, family members always deeply regret not coming to say their goodbyes – if they have the chance and don’t take it.’

  The image of her dead mother rises up. Her own sorrow and regret. She can’t imagine that she’ll feel anything like that for her father. But, she’s also sure that Dr Ody is a good man, a person who tells the truth and wants the best for everyone. She doesn’t want to disappoint his faith in humanity.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘OK, I’ll come.’

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Viola sits, slumped on the sofa next to Daisy. Between them is a large ceramic bowl of homemade salt and sugar popcorn – the first thing Viola has made since she lost her job, since she went away with Mathieu – it being the dessert to their Christmas dinner of chocolate hobnobs and frozen pizza. On the television Love Actually plays, a film that Viola and Daisy have watched every Christmas since it came out. Both can recite each and every word. Sometimes, when the mood strikes them, they’ll speak out their favourite scenes, each playing a character. Some years they dissolve into laughter. Some years they cry. This year they sit in silence, slowly munching. Viola smiles when Hugh Grant, as the prime minister, dances through Number 10. Daisy laughs when Colin Firth completely misunderstands his Portuguese housemaid. When the proposal scene begins, Daisy glances at her daughter.

  ‘You could try the grand gesture,’ she suggests. ‘In order to make it up to him. You could learn French and propose again. You could throw in a bit of public humiliation too, for good measure – that’s always a nice romantic move.’

  ‘Yes,’ Viola says. ‘You’re right, I could. But I won’t.’