The Three Day Rule

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘Is there going to be a service in the church this year, Dad?’ she asked her father.

  Gerald looked at her in the rear-view mirror. His eyes were still a clear blue-grey beneath white bushy eyebrows.

  ‘There was talk of the vicar coming over from Fleet Town on Christmas morning, but I don’t think there’s enough interest.’ He turned his attention back to the road. ‘She’s a woman you know. I don’t hear great things about her.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s a bit stuffy. Puts people’s backs up.’

  ‘No chance of you running off with her then?’ Elliot teased.

  ‘Er, no,’ her father replied, adding to Elliot, ‘not with that moustache.’

  Elliot guffawed. How could he even joke about their father being with another woman? Stephanie wondered. But her father didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, the good-humoured banter continued, as the car continued further north, past the row of cutesy cottages which tailed out of the village.

  Suddenly, beyond the twee, low-walled cottage gardens, the land became rocky and boulder-strewn, rank with heather and gorse, suitable for sheep farming and not much else. The road snaked ahead of them, up and around the mighty domed shape of Solace Hill that protruded from the centre of the island, ‘like a great fat tit’ as Elliot had always loved to say. A couple of horses were at the top. They stared down impassively at the Land-Rover as it drove past.

  Then came the row of stone houses, facing the sea, incongruous in their isolation.

  ‘All empty again,’ her father commented, as if it were some kind of mistake.

  Stephanie knew that inside they were all done up for rent, with Welsh quilts on their beds and decorated with tourist-friendly brass fixtures and sepia photographs. Weekends and summertime, lights glowed in their windows at night and smoke curled up from their chimneys into the sky, but now, at Christmas time the windows were dark.

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, Dad,’ Elliot said, laughing. ‘Who would be mad enough to come here at this time of year?’

  ‘You lot, for starters,’ her father replied. ‘I think it’s wonderful in the winter. A real adventure. Perfect for the kids.’

  In spite of his optimism, Stephanie felt herself shiver with a sense of foreboding. Instinctively, she held Simon a little tighter.

  ‘Ow,’ he said, ‘Mum, let go. You’re hurting me.’

  As they pulled up at her father’s house, five minutes later, Stephanie could see Isabelle putting the finishing touches to a Christmas wreath on the knocker of the white wooden front door. She had arrived yesterday and must have brought the wreath with her, Stephanie concluded, knowing that her father wasn’t big on Christmas and that there was no way such an unpractical item could have been purchased in any of the island’s limited stores. Then another thought occurred to her: Isabelle had probably made the wreath herself. Perhaps she majored in arts and crafts, the same as she seemed to in everything else she turned her hand to.

  Isabelle turned and waved, flashing them an orthodontically perfect, professionally whitened American smile. As the kids waved back, Stephanie could see that her sister-in-law was looking as groomed as ever, her blonde hair perfectly sculpted to fall behind her ears. Today, she was wearing a pink cashmere jumper, a rabbit fur gilet which ruffled in the wind like the poor thing was still alive, and designer jeans tucked into furry boots. She stamped her feet, excitedly, waiting for everyone to join her at the front door, waving and shrieking with delight as Simon and Nat piled out of the car and ran over to hug her.

  Inside, after all the hellos, Stephanie noticed that the house felt different. It was warm and the soft tones of unobtrusive hotel-lobby-style jazz played in the background, rather than the usual dull rumble of Radio Four. It smelt different, too: of cinnamon and baking and furniture polish, rather than fishing tackle and sandy wellies.

  Stephanie had come in the summer when her father had first moved in permanently to this, their old family holiday home, after having sold the house in Exeter, but she was surprised to see everything now fully unpacked: the grandfather clock, the rocking chair, the old black and white photograph of her father in his university gown. His sailing ship prints had all found places on the hallway walls.

  Stephanie held Nat’s hand as they moved through to the dining room off the hall, where the mahogany table had been polished until it shone. In the corner by the fire, a brand new synthetic tree was laden with bows, lights and decorations. It could have been in a window display at Harrods, it was so beautifully done.

  Stephanie felt her heart sink with disappointment. This was her job. She’d been hoping to find the old Christmas box, which was stuffed full of a tangled collection of Christmas essentials. Just the smell of it and its contents – a few strings of dog-eared tinsel, a child’s shoe-box full of baubles, tarnished angel chimes, old red candles, a nativity scene which had lost most of its characters years ago – and the battered box containing the synthetic tree that her family had had since the Woolworth’s special offer in 1981, took her straight back to a time when Christmas meant something. And this year, more than ever, she needed a glimpse of that feeling.

  She’d been looking forward to sharing her Christmas tree decorating ritual with Nat, as she once had with her mother. She’d hoped that her daughter would also enjoy finding the box, assembling the tree and hanging up the chipped red and gold baubles. It was one of the things that reminded Stephanie most of being a child herself.

  ‘Oh,’ Nat said, clearly disappointed. ‘Mummy, you said we could do the tree.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Isabelle said, clasping her hands together. Stephanie could see that the skin on them was perfect, her large square-cut diamond engagement ring as showy as ever. ‘We were just desperate for something to do last night when we were waiting for you all to arrive.’ Isabelle put her hand out and touched Stephanie’s arm. Her nails were French manicured and Stephanie wondered where she found the time to be so indulgent. She was a captain of industry, wasn’t she? Wasn’t that meant to involve some actual work?

  ‘And I thought we’d agreed we’d do the tree before Christmas Eve?’ Isabelle said, her southern American accent as soft and seductive as ever.

  Stephanie often wondered whether it was Isabelle’s accent alone that had made her so successful in business as well as in securing her brother’s heart. Because if you took away her voice and went on looks alone and the steel-hard don’t-mess-with-me eyes, Isabelle was truly terrifying.

  Stephanie had no grounds to argue with her now, remembering Isabelle’s call a few weeks ago. Stephanie had been in a supermarket queue, trying to deal with Simon and Nat fighting, and she hadn’t had a chance to listen properly, before Isabelle had closed her into agreeing with whatever it was she was proposing.

  So now Stephanie assumed that this was the first fall-out from Isabelle’s planned timetable. It was her own fault she’d missed out on the tree or rather, it was David’s. They should have been here last night with Isabelle and Taylor, but David, who’d been tied up on a deadline at the computer magazine where he was an editor, had changed the plans at the last minute. There was no point in being childish, Stephanie told herself. It was only a tree.

  ‘Yes, of course we did. Did you find any of Dad’s decorations?’ Stephanie asked.

  ‘I found a box full of stuff, but I threw most of it away. Oh my God, Gerry has been keeping such a collection of old junk!’

  Stephanie bit her lip. ‘Well, it looks lovely,’ she forced herself to say.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ Isabelle said, pleased with the compliment.

  ‘There’s plenty of other things to do,’ Stephanie said to Nat. ‘I think it’s rather lovely that Aunty Isabelle has made the house so Christmassy.’

  Nat pointed towards the mass of presents perfectly wrapped under the tree. ‘Look at all those. Are they for us?’ she asked.

  Isabelle smiled and leant down so that her face was level with Nat’s. ‘Some of them, Natascha.’ Sudde
nly, Isabelle gasped. ‘Sweetheart! What on earth have you done to your head?’

  ‘I slipped on the door step at home,’ Nat said, as Isabelle pushed up Nat’s dark fringe to reveal the bruise on her forehead. Isabelle looked up at Stephanie.

  ‘It’s just a bump,’ Stephanie said, angry at the shame and guilt that instantly rose up in her. It wouldn’t go away. She felt Isabelle was judging her now, the same as she’d felt as if everyone had been judging her since what had happened last summer. It was like everything she’d been before – a respected GP, a strong and successful mother, and a caring daughter and a loving wife – had been wiped away by the events of a single second. That day had changed everything, for ever. Even though everyone knew it hadn’t been her fault, Stephanie wondered how many conversations Isabelle had had with Elliot behind her back. How many times had they laid the blame at her feet? Could it even be as many times as she had done herself?

  ‘You were very brave, weren’t you, darling?’ Stephanie told Nat, giving the bruise a gentle kiss. ‘Now why don’t you go and see how Grandpa is getting on?’

  When they’d arrived at the house, her father had announced that he was going to be busy chopping up logs in the back garden whilst they all settled in. She looked out of the dining room window but could only see Rufus digging a hole in the lawn. Her father must be hiding in the shed.

  Stephanie and Isabelle both watched Nat running off back to the hall. Neither of them spoke. Stephanie had been about to elaborate on the accident that had resulted in Nat’s injury, but instead, she let the moment pass. She didn’t have to justify herself, not to anyone.

  ‘So how have you been?’ she asked, steering the conversation on to fresh ground, as they moved through towards the kitchen.

  ‘Just so hectic,’ Isabelle said. ‘You know how it is. Work . . . family . . . Christmas.’

  Stephanie nodded, but the truth was that she didn’t know. Isabelle was one of the top directors of a big mobile phone company. She dealt with marketing slogans and product launches, Stephanie with broken femurs and weeping old men. Their worlds couldn’t have been further apart.

  ‘But what the heck. It’s the holidays now. You know, I can’t remember the last time I had more than two days when I didn’t have to do something for work,’ Isabelle continued, ‘and it’s so great not to be travelling. Those red-eye flights. Man, they’re a killer.’

  ‘And there’s no chance of it all slowing down in the new year?’

  ‘Forget it. The industry moves so fast, it’s a full-time job just staying on top of developments, and we’re restructuring which doesn’t help. I had to make a hundred and five people redundant last week.’

  ‘A hundred and five?’ Stephanie repeated, shocked. She knew from her experience in the doctor’s surgery the devastating effects on people’s health that redundancy could make. ‘Those poor people. Right before Christmas . . .’

  ‘I know. But the way I figure it, at least they’ll be with their families and have time to reflect. Firing them in January would be so much worse. Bad news to start off the year, and broke after Christmas. Just awful. This way, they can make a fresh start.’ Isabelle nodded, as if her justification closed the topic. She always did that, Stephanie now remembered. She had an unshakeable belief that everyone should see the world the way she did.

  Their path was blocked by David, who appeared in the kitchen doorway, wrestling Simon. Isabelle stepped out of the way quickly. ‘Oh my,’ she said, slipping into her shocked Southern belle accent again.

  Simon crashed on to the floor, laughing.

  ‘You two,’ Stephanie said, glancing at Isabelle. Isabelle’s expression hadn’t changed, but Stephanie momentarily wondered whether she was thinking that children should be seen and not heard. That would go some way to explaining why Isabelle and Elliot had packed off their only child to boarding school. Elliot had said that it was because of their work commitments, but Stephanie couldn’t imagine sending Simon or Nat away from her. Not for a day.

  But then Isabelle had never been very maternal. She’d fallen pregnant with Taylor within a year of meeting Elliot, when she was just finishing her masters and he’d been on a sabbatical with a law firm in New York. At first, Isabelle had freaked out about ruining her career chances, but Elliot, besotted with his blonde, beautiful prom queen and intent on doing the right thing, had proposed and brought her back to England. Isabelle had checked into an expensive private maternity hospital, before employing a full-time nanny and a personal fitness coach whilst recovering from her elective Caesarean, much to the bemusement of Stephanie and her parents. A giant traditional wedding had followed, during which Stephanie had held Taylor all day, as if Taylor had been her baby and not connected to the bride and groom at all. Within a month, Isabelle had taken a running jump at her career ladder and hadn’t looked back since.

  ‘Be careful,’ Stephanie told David, flicking her eyes towards Isabelle.

  ‘We’re only playing,’ David said, as Stephanie helped Simon back on to his feet.

  ‘Yes and you’re four stone heavier than him. Just watch it OK? Let him calm down.’

  ‘Oh, let them play,’ Isabelle said, smiling at David. ‘Simon’s turned into a real tiger, hasn’t he?’

  So much for Isabelle believing in kids being seen but not heard. Or maybe it was just her own kid who Isabelle didn’t like mucking around, Stephanie thought.

  ‘Ladies,’ Elliot said, stepping forward and joining the bulging family portrait which the kitchen doorway now framed. ‘Can I interest you in a drink? There’s some wonderful mulled wine on the go.’ He buried his nose into a steaming glass in his hand. ‘Ah, fruity,’ he said. ‘Might as well start as we mean to go on.’

  ‘In a minute. Do you mind if I go and unpack first?’ Stephanie said.

  ‘I’ve put you and David in the green room,’ Isabelle said. ‘I thought it would be more comfortable, and nearer the kids. Now then, where has Taylor got to? I know she’s so looking forward to seeing Simon.’

  Upstairs, Stephanie pushed open the bedroom door, feeling unduly annoyed. David joined her, carrying the rest of the bags.

  ‘What is it?’ David asked, as Stephanie groaned.

  She pointed to the twin beds which had been pushed together. The corners of the quilt had been pulled down and a little box of chocolates had been set on each of the plumped up pillows.

  ‘So what?’ David asked. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’

  ‘It’s not a bloody hotel.’

  ‘She’s just trying to help.’

  ‘She’s not my mother. I wish she’d stop acting like she owned the place.’

  Stephanie went over to pick up the two hot water bottles which had each been positioned on a graded set of folded green towels. She wanted to throw them out of the window – or through it. This was her father’s house, her only surviving parental home. Surely it wasn’t too much to expect not to be treated like a guest? Especially by Isabelle.

  She wished again that they’d arrived first. At least then Stephanie could have organised the sleeping arrangements herself. At home, she and David slept in separate rooms. It had been that way for nine months, ever since Nat had begun having nightmares and wetting her bed at least twice a week, waking up and screaming, gasping for air. Stephanie slept on the playroom sofa-bed, next to Nat’s room, so that she could get to her before she woke up Simon. Stephanie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been naked in front of David, let alone been in bed next to him, but it was too late to make a fuss now.

  There was a long pause. She braced herself, expecting David to have a go at her for all their grievances on the journey, but, to her surprise, he checked the door was closed and then moved towards her. He nodded to the bed and the hot water bottles in Stephanie’s hands.

  ‘It should be quite cosy. We might not need those.’ His tone sounded placatory, friendly even.

  Stephanie was so taken off guard that it took her a moment to realise his real motive. Then she tensed, appall
ed by his insinuation.

  ‘David, I really don’t think –’ she began, stepping away from him and hugging both empty hot water bottles to her chest. She felt queasy, as if he were a stranger making an unwelcome pass at her.

  David ran his hand over his hair. ‘Can’t we just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Christmas, Steph,’ he said. A pleading tone had crept into his voice. ‘I don’t know. I don’t want it to be like this. These past few weeks have been worse than ever. You’ve been behaving as if you hate me.’

  He looked at her hopefully, as if she was going to deny it. Stephanie looked quickly away from him at the floor, fear gripping her chest as she glimpsed, in the shadows of her mind, words she never dreamed she’d say. They weren’t fully formed yet, but she knew what they were. Once they were out, everything would change.

  David stepped towards her and laid his hand on her arm.His fingers were long and tanned. She used to call them piano player’s hands and tease him that he could be a hand model. She used to love them. But now . . .

  She was so tired, she thought. Tired of waiting for it all to get better. Tired of hating the fact that they didn’t talk any more, tired of being scared of what would happen if they did.

  ‘What is it?’ David persisted. Her whole body seemed to cringe away from him. These were the hands that had failed Paul, and no amount of counselling could change the fact that she couldn’t bear for them to touch her.

  ‘I’m going down to have a drink. They’ll be waiting,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘Stephanie?’

  ‘Please, let’s just get through this Christmas, OK?’

  Stephanie walked out of the bedroom on to the landing, her eyes blurring with unwanted tears. Over the banister, she looked down into the hallway below.

  ‘I can’t find Dad. He’s disappeared,’ Elliot was saying, coming through the front door.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ she heard Isabelle say. Then Stephanie saw her, walking towards Elliot with a cheeky grin.