by Jan Ruth
At Chathill, their impressive purchase was manhandled into the sitting room and secured in a half barrel weighted with sand and rocks. Free from constraint, its wide girth soon filled a huge area, engulfing the telephone table, several dog beds and an old piano, which had to be pushed and shoved along the wall, tearing a lot of ancient yellowing wallpaper in the process. Of course the tree was far too big for the room and the meagre collection of decorations was announced completely inadequate by Al. During the commiseration over the three kings, Fran materialised and admired the tree but avoided eye contact with any of them. Becca started to relate the chute story to her mother, much exaggerated, but Fran looked to be on autopilot.
‘Right,’ Al said, rubbing his hands, ‘Who’s for some Christmas shopping? Fran?’
‘I haven’t any money.’
‘I can lend you a bit. We’ll get really cheap stuff, use our imaginations.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘Yeah. Kate?’
Immediately, all eyes were upon her and Fran looked like a startled rabbit, so that the words which came out of Kate’s mouth, were not the ones in her head. ‘Er, no I’m all done. You go ahead and I’ll get some dinner on the go for later.’
‘Well… if you’re sure?’ Al said.
No, I’m not sure at all, she wanted to say, maybe even shout it as they all headed for the door and she was faced with the leftover debris in the kitchen, like a middle-aged Cinderella. And it was the age old dilemma, she had no idea where she stood with Al. Maybe she was reading far too much into it and a breezy denial that the kiss had even happened, was the best way forward. In the cold light of day it just seemed silly to feel so out of kilter over it, like the actions and thoughts of a teenager, but it was difficult to shake off.
She wandered over to the window, chewing her thumbnail, and saw the three of them squash into Al’s car. George was hoovering his vehicle and watched with narrowed eyes before waving them off with a cheesy salute. Forty minutes later, a chicken casserole went into the oven and she cleared the work surfaces again. As dusk crept over Snowdonia, George came back inside and informed her that it already smelt wonderful and opened an expensive bottle of wine.
‘It’s the season to be jolly,’ he said, and poured her a generous measure.
Later, dinner was more jolly than she’d hoped and afterwards they dressed the tree with a huge selection of discounted baubles. Fran declared they were an absolute bargain from the pound shop. George said it looked hideous and was already listing starboard side.
‘Why do you have to be so bloody miserable about it?’ Al said, ‘it’s just a bit of fun, not a photo shoot for Homes and Gardens.’
Christmas Eve. The sitting room looked and felt very cosy, thanks to Al and the effort he’d put in over the tree and making a good fire in the old hearth. Becca was happily wrapping secret gifts, casting sly glances.
Towards the end of the evening when Becca went upstairs, Kate slid her own presents under the tree and Al shot her a smile. She tried to determine what kind of a smile it was and what it might mean, but then grew exasperated with the whole situation. In truth she was irritated with both George, and Fran. George was as usual, ensconced in his study and Fran sat glued to Al’s side, as if they were being chaperoned. Eventually, Al’s drinking session, lack of sleep and two hours helping Becca outside caught up with him, and his head lolled forward in sleep.
Kate made an apologetic exit to her room and Fran managed a tiny smile. Unable to settle, she tried calling Tia. No response, no messages either. Tia thought nothing of blanking her and of course, she’d done this before, but it was Christmas and if she were honest, there was a niggle of concern about where she was and with whom. The usual failsafe was Facebook, but since she’d completed publishing The Jim Silver Chronicles, the first site she looked at was a promotional e-book group which had shown an interest in Alastair Black. Some of the members recalled the books from their print days, and she’d read various conversations about him, with interest. The discussion about Jim Silver was still going strong. Fascinated, she flipped over to the sales site and discovered that the first book was actually rating in the charts.
He’d sold thirty-eight copies without even trying. The thrill of it, the fact that she’d instigated it all was immensely satisfying. The anti-climax came when she discovered that Tia had removed her Facebook page. What on earth was that all about? It was difficult not to panic; not to let her imagination run wild. Calling Tia’s father was a last resort really, but she scrolled down her phone and hit the number.
‘Kate, hi.’
‘Stuart, is Tia there?’
‘Yeah.’
She took a moment to consider this, hurt and angry that neither of them had seen fit to let her know. Her daughter was a grown woman in her twenties and her sister a grown woman in her late forties, yet both of them had her constantly running on some sort of invisible elastic. Thank goodness Annemarie was away and someone else’s responsibility. For a fleeting moment, she had the urge to tip the tables over in much the same way she’d done with her job.
Of course one couldn’t detach from family in an emotional sense, and of course she loved her daughter, despite the double glazing between them. It just seemed her carer’s role, the big sister’s role and the mother’s role had been around in her life forever. It was irksome that Fran was now somehow on the edge of this circle of control as well, denying her of any sort of relationship with Al, whatever that may evolve to be.
Fifty years; a lifetime of obligation. It had raced through her hands like fine sand and buried her before she’d actually died. Would she ever come up for air?
‘Are you still there?’ Stuart said, annoyed.
‘Yes, sorry. Is she all right?’
‘Er, not sure. Women’s troubles, I think.’
‘Women’s troubles?’ she snapped, then rolled her eyes. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No, not really, she just turned up,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘Look, it’s Christmas Eve and there’s two other children here to consider. I’ve got to go.’
*
Christmas Day. She sent texts to her daughter and her sister, neither of whom replied, but steeling herself against their behaviour was easier after she’d gulped down a large Bucks Fizz. She hugged and kissed Fran, George and Becca, ignoring the slightly wooden response from Fran. Al was late getting downstairs. He was scruffy and unshaven but managed to look incredibly charismatic.
He clinked his glass against hers and his lips grazed her cheek. His eyes conveyed so much more though, spreading some warmth through her insides, a place where she’d felt so empty and alone, for too long.
‘Me and you, Christmas lunch duty?’ he said.
‘Sounds good, yes.’
He disappeared outside with Becca, and Fran said she felt redundant.
‘Come and help me prep the sprouts if you’re desperate,’ Kate said with a grin.
‘No, I meant with the farm. I think I’ll go outside anyway and see what I can do.’
‘Right, yes, of course, whatever you think.’
George waited till she’d slammed the back door. ‘I just despair, I really do.’
‘Oh, it’s okay, Al’s helping with the cooking and from what I’ve seen, he’s no slouch in that area.’
George up-ended the bottle of champagne into the last of the orange juice, his expression one of quiet deliberation. ‘Yes, well. It’s Christmas Day, and I’ve made a pact with myself. I hope I can make it last.’
Whatever his pact was based on, Kate could fully empathise. Feeling used and invisible was no recipe for a marriage. Al, was just one of the mystery ingredients. She collected together the components for lunch, stuffed the turkey with her homemade recipe and slid the main event into the Aga. How long it would take to roast, was another mystery.
In her room, she sorted through various limited outfits she could change into. Everything was too tight and showed fa
r too much excess baggage. In the end she settled on a new loose sweater and her usual denims. Through the window she could see Al wheeling a barrow of used animal bedding, half a cigarette stuck to his lip, hat pulled down, and designer denims tucked into wellies. He’d borrowed some huge old overcoat and with the collar turned up, his whole image was one of mild eccentricity, or maybe he was Jim Silver, artful detective… serial womaniser.
He was as good as his word with regard to the food. Showered and changed from outdoor duty, he set to work on the vegetables and made custard from scratch, which she stirred obediently with a wooden spoon. They talked about the books, their daughters and respective sister and brother. His reaction to the book sales was difficult to gauge, he seemed more interested in wanting to know what readers were saying, rather than how much money he’d made.
Throughout all of this, his phone was busy with calls from his son and his daughter, his grandchildren. He spent an age talking to Rupert and Barnaby, the conversation peppered with funny characters and voices. Kate could hear their combined laughter across the kitchen, spilling out from the tiny speaker.
Despite the constant interruptions to the cooking, Kate had to admire Al’s sheer, unadulterated passion for his children and grandchildren. It brought home to her how much pain Jo must surely be inflicting with her late, devastating decision to go ahead and abort his child.
‘I can’t decide whether to call Jo, wish her happy Christmas,’ he said, as if reading her mind. ‘Nothing feels right though, given what she plans to do. I mean, whatever I think I want to do, somehow falls to pieces in my head and I’m left with a nasty taste.’
‘No, I can imagine,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the pan.
‘I mean, we’re clearly finished as a couple, and I’m dead set against what she wants to do, but the thought of her going through a termination by herself… just makes me feel a bit of a cad, somehow.’
She watched him for a moment, intent on chopping carrots into batons and mixing almonds into the sprouts. She was further impressed by both his knife skills, and his concern for Jo. On the other hand, thinking of Jo made her feel hopelessly frumpy and insecure.
Once the preparation was well in hand, Kate made a platter of sandwiches and it was agreed that gifts would be exchanged during their consumption. George gave Fran a beautiful cashmere cardigan and a pearl necklace. On opening the layers of tissue, Fran looked close to tears. ‘I haven’t got you anything like this!’
‘If you wish to spend your allowance on pig-swill, that’s up to you.’
The sting of his remark was lost as Becca ripped the expensive paper off her riding clobber. ‘I can’t believe you’ve bought me all this,’ she said to her parents, holding up leather chaps, a jacket, jodhpurs and a hunting stock with a real silver pin.
‘Can’t have my girl riding to hounds in any old get-up,’ George said.
Trembling bottom lip, she threw her arms around her father, knowing full well where the cash had come from. ‘Thanks, Dad, I thought you didn’t care about any of it, you know?’
‘Just be safe, that’s all.’
‘I will, Stilton’s just the best, isn’t he, Mum?’
‘Good horse you picked there, Fran,’ Al said, and she nodded frantically.
Kate watched Fran and Becca unwrap the bulky parcels from herself; carefully unfolding full-length waterproof coats. Fran looked shell-shocked.
‘It’s too much,’ she said, ‘And you got one for Becca? They cost a fortune!’
‘I’ve seen you both getting soaked to the skin. Hope you don’t mind something practical. I used to hate it.’
‘Mind? It’s bloody marvellous, I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘You just did.’
Fran seemed embarrassed, but the ice was broken after that and they got onto the rest of the gifts. Butter and Marge received smelly marrow bones, Butter immediately making a slobbery mess, but poor little Marge just wanted to be nursed, and climbed onto Al’s lap.
Tom and Maisie had given their father an iPod loaded with every Morrissey track he’d ever produced, and Kate was reminded once again of her daughter’s preoccupation with herself. She’d sent money to Tia, because it was all she ever asked for and anything Kate chose as a gift was never quite right. However, there had been nothing forthcoming in the way of reciprocation.
‘Hey, I’m getting up to date with technology!’ Al said loudly, earpieces in place, frowning at the tiny screen. Becca exchanged a grin with her. ‘Stop shouting, Uncle Al!’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes! Anyway, what did you win for me at bingo?’
He dragged the earpieces out. ‘Aw, you spotted me in there did you?’
‘You kind of stood out.’
He threw a weird-shaped parcel across to her and she ripped the paper off to find a pink hobby horse. ‘I’m way too old for this,’ she said, then located the package attached to the horse’s pole and gave a whoop. It was a mobile phone. Her father looked thunderous, Fran detached.
‘Oh… wow,’ Becca said, casting a sly glance at George. ‘Dad said I couldn’t have one until I was sixteen. Did you win this at bingo as well?’
‘Funny girl. Come on, Kate, you’ve not opened anything,’ Al said, shunting various parcels her way. A silk scarf from George, handmade chocolates from Becca and earrings from Fran. While the others were busy examining Becca’s spoils, she opened Al’s present. It was a smooth, antique-looking wooden box, cute in itself. Inside, on a bed of washed silk, there was a tiny sheet of paper, rolled and held with a strip of ribbon, like an ancient scroll.
Full of curiosity, she unravelled the delicate paper and read the single sentence. The second she looked up, his eyes met hers, his expression perfectly serious. She managed to smile and nod but her hands felt clumsy and her heart was thumping uncomfortably. George saved her some thinking time by thanking her for the bottle of vintage single malt, and no one noticed her fumbling to put the paper and the ribbon back into the box.
‘You’re welcome. I just… I just need to check the turkey,’ she said, and escaped to the kitchen. Once there, she closed the door and read the words again.
I owe you something really special.
Chapter Thirteen
Al.
To Al, from Kate. He peeled the silver paper from the box. It was an e-reader with a silver finish, naturally. When he switched it on it was to see that she’d already added his own books to the index.
Fran and Becca disappeared upstairs to try out the new riding clobber and George rose to stand over him, jingling loose change in his pockets.
‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘What?’
‘Get women to buy you stuff. A brand new phone the other week, and now an e-reader. What are you listening to on that iPod, huh? This Charming Man?’ he went on, making jazz hands. ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now, The Boy with the Thorn in his Side? Written for you, all that Morrissey crap.’
‘Back off.’
‘For now.’
He waited until his brother moved, packed the e-reader back into the box and deposited Marge into a nest of cushions, then went to find Kate in the kitchen. She was struggling to lift the turkey out of the Aga, her face flushed.
‘Here, let me get that.’
‘Oh, it looks almost ready, thought I’d take the foil off it for half an hour.’
‘Yeah, good idea. Talking of silver stuff,’ he said, sliding the roasting tin onto a spare patch of worktop, ‘Thanks for the e-reader.’
‘I just thought it seemed crazy, you not having one.’
‘I mean what I say, about owing you.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
‘I do. I just haven’t worked out what it is yet. I’m sorry it didn’t coincide with Christmas.’
She shot him a quick sideways smile and busied herself with basting the turkey and looking for a carving plate. There were things he wanted to say to her, but
as usual they were never alone for any length of time and someone was bound to come bursting into the kitchen.
If he’d learnt anything from his relationship with Jo, it was that Kate had been right when she’d talked about marrying for the wrong reasons. Deep down, he’d known it was wrong with Jo, but he was only really ready to admit it now, because of the feelings he’d allowed to develop for Kate. With Jo out of the picture, the escalation of his desire to be with her was reinforced by that old green friend; subconscious permission.
Kate was a thinker, and he liked that. There was something deeply sustaining about being able to properly talk to someone. Despite this, Ms Roberts was incredibly difficult to read from a romantic point of view. It was that tough outer shell she presented to the world, but there again he liked the way she kept him guessing, and he’d never been one to shy away from making a fool of himself.
The truth of it was, he hated being single, loved being in love. This hadn’t changed since he was fifteen, a lifetime of seeking bonds like a begging dog, sometimes to the point of destruction. Was it wrong to make a play for Kate, so soon after Greg, and Jo?
‘Um, amazing stuffing,’ he said, helping himself to a big spoonful and dropping half of it down his front. He was scraping the mess off his shirt over the sink when she looked at him with a wide grin and the sudden realisation that he actually didn’t need to say or explain anything to this woman, washed over him with a mixture of relief, and fear. One, full-on smile and a lock-on with those eyes, and his soul was exposed. It was like watching his life flash before him. Fifty years; a lifetime of drowning in an embryonic sac. Would he ever come up for air?
*
Later, their combined effort at Christmas dinner was amazingly good and he was pleased to see that Kate clearly enjoyed her food. Helen had always been on a permanent diet and Jo, well Jo had been artistically perfect but he found Kate far more erotic. Her hair always smelt of the rain so it was a normal progression to imagine her body like a warm sea, deep and rolling, her skin the creamy foam of his desire… Okay, after a bottle of Chardonnay he was slightly drunk as well, but it happened a lot when he was in writing mode, these rambling thoughts. His inner eye constantly explored visual scenery, running like a film with dialogue whispering in his ear, sometimes mysterious, usually sensual.