by Jenny Colgan
Pearl had tried to move from her south London estate up to north London to be nearer work and Louis’ excellent, difficult-to-get-into school (they’d used the café address, which she’d told her vicar made her feel uneasy and he had patted her hand and told her that the Lord worked in mysterious ways and he’d heard William Patten was a wonderful school), but it was difficult: her mother, who lived with them, hated leaving the house, and Ben, Louis’ dad, didn’t live with them but popped in regularly, and she really didn’t want that to stop. So it made for a long commute, but she couldn’t think of a better plan right at the moment.
Big Louis’ mum picked the boys up every day from reception, a massive favour she was repaid for in coffee and buns. Pearl left the counter and crouched down so Louis could launch himself into her arms. It was bad for her knees, but, she told herself sternly, there would come a day, who knew when, when he would no longer want to rush to her and give her a huge cuddle and a big wet kiss on the cheek and tell her all about his day and generally behave as if she was the best person in the world; which to him, of course, she was. She never grew tired of it.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said. Although Big Louis’ mum probably felt exactly the same way about her own little boy (there was, in fact, no probably about it), Pearl could never help but feel that the curve of Louis’ smooth cheeks, his long black eyelashes, his soft tight curls, his round little tummy and ready smile were possibly the most beautiful things she had ever seen. And even to disinterested observers, he was an appealing-looking child.
‘MUMMY!’ Louis had a worried look on his face as he pulled a picture out of his Cars rucksack. It was a large butterfly, roughly painted in splurges with silver paper on its head and wired antennae. ‘BUFLYS ARE BUGS! DID YOU KNOW THAT?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose I did know that. Don’t you remember the book about how hungry he is?’
‘They are caterpillars. Caterpillars are bugs with legs but they are also butterflies. Like toast,’ he added reflectively.
‘What do you mean, like toast?’ said Pearl.
‘There is bread, and there is toast. But one is bread and then it is toast and is different. I hungry,’ said Louis.
‘I HUNGRY,’ barked Big Louis, suddenly anxious in case he was missing out.
‘Here you go, you two,’ said Issy, appearing with some toasted fruit bread and two cups of milk. Being let loose in a cake shop every day wasn’t very good for four-year-olds, so they all made sure they kept an eye on the boys, particularly Louis, whose body shape echoed his mother’s, and who liked nothing better than settling down for a chat about diggers with a customer – anyone would do, although he particularly liked Doti, the postman – with a large wodge of icing in his chubby fingers.
‘Mamma?’ said Louis. ‘Is it Christmas?’
‘Not yet,’ said Pearl. ‘When it’s Advent, and we start opening all the little doors up till Jesus comes. That’s Christmas.’
‘Everyone at school says it’s Christmas. We have a big tree in our classroom and Miss Sangita says that it’s a good time for everyone to slebate.’
‘Slebate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it is a good time to celebrate. In its own time. This is still November. Fireworks and Hallowe’en just finished, remember? Scary costumes and loud noises?’
Louis looked down at the floor and bit his lip. ‘I’m not afraid of fireworks,’ he said quietly. He had been, undeniably, very very scared of the fireworks. And although he had enjoyed getting the sweeties at Hallowe’en, he had found running into ghosts and ghouls – particularly the big boys off the estate in their Scream masks, charging about shouting on their bicycles – rather off-putting too, if they were being honest about it. Miss Sangita had told Pearl that Louis was a little sensitive, and Pearl had sniffed and said that what she meant was not a total lout like the rest of the children, and Miss Sangita had smiled nicely and said she didn’t think that attitude was really necessary, and Pearl had felt cowed again, and remembered that this was a nice school and she had to stop panicking about her boy.
She thought about it too as they rode the bus home together, Louis helpfully pointing out every Christmas tree and decoration in every house they passed – and there were many. When they reached the centre of town to change buses, his eyes grew huge and round as he looked at the window displays of the famous department stores: Hamleys, with its feast of magical moving animals in a woodland scene; the great cascade of lights down Regent Street; John Lewis, its windows seeming to brim with every form of bounty imaginable. The pavements were full of excited shoppers looking for bargains and soaking up the atmosphere, and already pubs and restaurants, festooned with gaudy garlands and turkey menus, were packed full of revellers. Pearl sighed. She couldn’t deny it. Christmas was definitely coming.
It was just, it had been such a hard year. Not for her – the shop was doing well, and Issy had been more than kind, making her a manager, paying her as much as she was able, as well as being flexible for Louis’ sake. Pearl had even, for the first time in her life, been able to put a bit by; to begin, possibly, to think about a future; moving closer to the shop and Louis’ school and away from the estate. Not that it was a bad estate, she thought loyally. Not the worst, by any means. But to move into a little place that wasn’t exactly like everyone else’s, where she could decorate how she wanted and have an extra room for her mum. That would be nice. That would be very nice indeed. And it had looked, briefly, like it might be possible.
That was before the economic downturn had taken its terrible toll on Benjamin.
If Pearl had had a Facebook page – which she didn’t, as she didn’t have an internet connection – her heart status with Benjamin would have been ‘it’s complicated’. Ben was absolutely gorgeous, and they’d dated and she’d got pregnant, and whilst obviously she wouldn’t swap Louis for the world – he was the best thing that had ever happened to her – nonetheless, Ben had never lived with them and came and went in their lives far more than she would have liked. The problem was that Louis absolutely worshipped him; thought his tall, handsome, muscular dad was a superhero, swooping in on the family from time to time in between top-secret missions. And Pearl couldn’t bear to burst his happy bubble; his cries of joy when Ben came round, and it felt, for a while, like they were a proper family. So she was stuck. She couldn’t move on. It wasn’t fair to Louis. Things had been starting to get better for Ben too, the work coming in more steadily … until the last six months.
The building site jobs had dried up, just like that. He’d got some work up at the Olympics park, but it felt like every contractor in the whole of Europe had bowled up there, and the competition was fierce. Elsewhere, there wasn’t much either. People were putting off moving or building extensions or finishing renovations or expanding their premises till they found out how the cards would fall; whether they would lose their jobs, or have their hours cut or see their incomes fall; whether their pensions would flatline and their savings would become worthless against inflation. Pearl struggled with the one bedroom; sometimes, she thought, looking out at the rain, she had no idea how people managed to heat larger properties at all. Keeping her power key charged up was a job in itself.
It wasn’t Benjamin’s fault, it really wasn’t. He was looking for work, trying everything, but there just wasn’t anything for him, and he’d had a few problems with the benefit office in the past, so he got the absolute bare legal minimum.
She knew him so well. He was easily led, but he was a proud man. A hard worker when he had work, but if he didn’t … Well. He had a lot of friends who dabbled in things she didn’t want Louis’ daddy anywhere near.
So she’d been helping him out, here and there, and more and more, and she didn’t know where it would end. Benjamin hated taking the money too, hated having to ask and beg like a dog from a woman. Which meant that their rare nights out, the odd meal, the odd staying over – it killed her to admit it, but he was still the best-looking man she had e
ver seen in her life – became less frequent. It was no fun taking your woman out to dinner when she had to pick up the tab.
Pearl was really feeling the pinch. But oh, Benjamin was so good with their boy. He played with Louis for hours, was genuinely impressed by his daubings and scrawlings from school; would kick a ball round the waste ground or discuss diggers and cranes till the cows came home. Pearl would starve before she deprived her son of that.
It wasn’t going to come to that. But Christmas was going to be tight, that was all, and she hated being reminded of that fact in every decorated window and expectant-looking face.
Chapter Two
Christmas Cherry Chocolate Biscuit Slice
This is a no-cook cake that is utterly delicious. You can add a slug of rum if you want to be extra seasonal, but bear in mind it won’t burn off in the cooking. ☺
275g butter (I used about 200g unsalted)
150ml golden syrup (2 very generous tablespoons)
225g good-quality dark chocolate
200g digestive biscuits (roughly crushed)
200g Rich Tea biscuits (roughly crushed)
125g mixed nuts (walnuts, brazils, almonds) (optional)
125g glacé cherries
1 packet of Maltesers (plus if you have any other sweeties – Rolos, Munchies, etc. – lying around, they can go in too)
Line a 15cm round cake tin or a 2lb loaf tin with a double layer of greaseproof paper. (I used a silicone loaf mould. There is no need to line the silicone mould.)
Melt the butter, syrup and chocolate in a pan over a low heat. This took some time as I used the lowest setting on the hob. Make sure that the pot is large enough to take all the crushed biscuits, etc. Stir to mix the ingredients thoroughly.
Add the biscuits, Maltesers and fruit and nuts (if used). Stir well. Make sure to break the biscuits relatively small as they will not fit in the mould/tin otherwise.
Transfer to prepared tin. Level it on top and press down well to avoid air gaps. Allow to get cold and hard. It needs about two hours in the fridge or about 45 minutes in the freezer. The longer the better. It tasted much better on Saturday. Wrap completely in greaseproof paper and store in a fridge.
Decorate with holly. Do NOT count calories. This is a time of joy.
Helena picked up Chadani Imelda and gave a grim smile of satisfaction that denoted the size of her achievement. Even though Chadani had hollered unwaveringly, she was now dressed in frilly knickers, a frilled shirt, a ballet skirt and a pompom coat, plus lacy tights with small pompoms at the back, baby-pink Ugg boots with tiny stars and a pink pompom hat with long dangling ribbons. Her fierce red hair clashed outlandishly with all the pink, but Chadani was a girl, Helena thought determinedly, and therefore needed to be identified as such.
‘Don’t you look pretty?’ she cooed.
Chadani gave her mother a ferocious look and tugged mutinously at the hat. To no avail; Helena had already tied it up for safe keeping. A one-year-old’s hands were no match for the strapping power of a registered accident and emergency nurse. And she was still a nurse, she kept telling everyone. She was going back to it. Just as soon as she found the right person or nursery to take care of Chadani Imelda. So far, there had not been one to meet her standards.
Issy at first had thought Helena must be joking about being overprotective. Helena herself was so strong and confident and independent; how could it even be possible? And it might have taken Helena herself by surprise. Nonetheless, from the first squalling breath Chadani Imelda had taken, sunk deep into Helena’s remarkable bosom, after a quick and utterly straightforward labour Issy felt would do nothing to help Helena’s empathetic skills with the sick – she had marched into hospital under her own steam and popped the baby out in under ninety minutes without even an aspirin – Helena’s entire life had become the Chadani Project.
Ashok’s adoring family, once they’d got over the shock of him fathering a child out of wedlock to a rather staggering and distinctly larger-than-life redhead, did nothing to deflect Helena from Operation C. Ashok was the youngest of six, four of them female, all of them noisy (one of the reasons why he had been totally unworried about taking on a strong woman), and all of them very keen to kick in with help, advice and gifts for the new baby, their own children grown up.
So Chadani never left the house without a couple of extra layers just in case, or an extra feeding bottle here and there so she didn’t go hungry; every toy in the catalogue now subsumed Issy’s old flat, which Helena and Ashok had bought. Once small and cosy, it was now small, cosy and completely hidden under vast amounts of plastic, drying babygros and a large sign on the wall that said ‘Princess’.
Issy had narrowed her eyes at that.
‘She’ll have high self-esteem,’ Helena had insisted. ‘I don’t want anyone pushing her around.’
‘No one pushes you around,’ pointed out Issy. ‘I’m sure she’ll inherit that from you anyway.’
‘You can’t be too sure,’ said Helena, leaving Issy to clear a space on her own old red velvet sofa, now piled high with very small designer knitwear.
‘Helena, this says “dry clean only”,’ said Issy sternly. ‘Now, I may not be a parent, but …’
Helena looked slightly shamefaced. ‘I know, I know. But she does look so amazing in it. I’m surprised no one has stolen her, I really am.’
Issy made a nodding face, like she often did around Chadani Imelda. It wasn’t that she wasn’t a lovely baby – she was, of course; the daughter of her dearest friend. But she was very noisy and squally and demanding, and Issy did sometimes feel that she would be more comfortable out of all those clothes; and perhaps if she didn’t have Helena, Ashok and at least four other relatives jumping to attention every time she squeaked, she might do a little better.
‘So,’ said Helena, importantly. ‘Let me know what you think. Here are the outfits I was planning for Christmas Day. Look at this little reindeer hat, isn’t it darling? To die for.’
Chadani picked up the corner of the reindeer antlers and started biting it, angrily.
‘Then I thought red velvet for church.’
‘Since when do you go to church?’
‘I think everyone at church might like to see a lovely baby at Christmas time. That’s the whole point,’ said Helena.
‘Well, yes, the baby Jesus, symbol of light and hope for the world. Not just a random baby …’ Helena’s face stiffened. ‘Even though she’s obviously a very, very special baby. And she’s a year old now anyway. Does she still qualify as a baby?’
Chadani had cruised over to the television and was pulling Baby Einstein DVDs out of the rack and throwing them on the floor. Helena was completely ignoring it.
‘Of course!’
‘And Ashok’s a Sikh,’ Issy added, unnecessarily.
‘We’ll go to temple for Diwali as well,’ said Helena. ‘Now for that you need to really dress up.’
Issy smiled. She wanted to open a bottle of wine, but remembered that she couldn’t because Helena wasn’t drinking because she was still breastfeeding on demand, and at this rate looked likely to be doing so till about 2025.
‘So anyway,’ said Helena, ‘Chadani is …’ and she launched into a list of Chadani Imelda’s latest accomplishments, which may or may not have included ‘scatter all the Baby Einstein DVDs’.
Suddenly Issy had slightly lost the urge to confide in her friend. Normally they could chat about anything, but since Chadani had arrived, Issy had felt them drifting apart in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Helena had met a load of new, pushy mums through North London Mummy Connexshins, which she presided over by virtue of having the most natural birth and breastfeeding the longest, and their endless, stupefying discussions about baby-led weaning and sleeping through the night left Issy completely cold. Even when she tried to join in by bringing up Darny’s latest misadventures (all the children had to be either perfect or awful, it seemed, there was no middle way; likewise, when you’d given birth you ha
d to have either hardly noticed, or nearly died and required fifteen pints of emergency blood transfusions), Helena had looked at her patronisingly and said it would be different when she had her own. Starting a conversation about missing her boyfriend seemed a bit …
‘I miss Austin,’ said Issy, suddenly. She was going to at least give it a shot. ‘In New York. I wish he was hating it.’
Helena looked at her. ‘Ashok’s on call,’ she said. ‘I’ve been getting up four times every single night, then he comes in and wants me to keep the baby quiet all day. In this tiny, crappy apartment! I ask you.’
Issy loved the flat, and still felt very proprietorial about it.
‘Oh dear,’ she said tentatively, then ventured, feeling cut off from her own feeble complaint, ‘Should Chadani still be waking up at night?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Helena. ‘She’s very sensitive.’
As if in answer to this, Chadani toddled over to the large pile of freshly washed clothes on the sofa and upturned her beaker of supplementary milk all over them.
‘No!’ howled Helena. ‘NO! Don’t! I just … Chadani! That is behaviour of which I am critical! Not that I am criticising you as a person and as a goddess. It is because this behaviour at this time …’
Chadani stared at Helena, continuing to hold the beaker upside down, as if conducting an experiment.
Issy decided not to press the boyfriend matter any further.
‘I’ll just head out …’ she said.
As she went, she could hear Helena saying, ‘Now, I would be very happy if you would give me that cup now, Chadani Imelda. Very happy. Make Mummy happy now and give me the cup. Give me the cup now, Chadani. Give Mummy the cup.’
Chapter Three
Whatever Pearl thought, Issy decided when she got home, it was time to start the Christmas cakes. She gathered together the huge bags of sultanas, raisins and currants – wondering, as she passingly did once a year, and once a year only, what the difference between them was again – along with the glacé cherries and candied peel. If she didn’t start them now, she wouldn’t have enough time to feed them and they wouldn’t be good and strong and delicious in time.