by John Marrs
But that year, eight o’clock arrived and the house was firework-free. I dreaded the moment they’d wake up – not just because their dad wasn’t there, but because I was ashamed of how pitiful the gifts waiting for them were. I knew it, and soon they would too.
It was the best I could do, as my choice was simple but bloody unfair – piles of presents, or an empty dinner table for most of January. Nevertheless, I got them up one by one myself and tried to spur them into action.
‘Have we been naughty?’ asked James, when he saw there were only two boxes waiting for him to open.
I sighed. But without admitting Father Christmas was a big fat fib and what lay before them was all Mummy could afford, there wasn’t much I could say to convince them they weren’t being punished.
‘Of course not, darling,’ I replied. ‘Santa just didn’t have much room on his sleigh this year.’
It fell on deaf ears.
All day I tried my hardest to encourage them to wear those flimsy, colourful Christmas cracker hats and play with the crappy plastic toys inside. I even delayed dinner so James could watch the Top of the Pops Christmas special. Robbie said very little, and lay on his bed in his room stroking Oscar instead. Nothing I did lifted their spirits.
What should have been a day of celebration was missing its heart. Instead of the beautiful madness of six, it had withered to one drunken grown-up desperately pretending the Christmas chicken was really a small turkey. I knew what James was asking for when we pulled the wishbone together. Even a bottle of wine failed to bring me festive cheer.
I kept the house phone in my apron pocket for most of the day in the hope that if Simon was still alive, by some miraculous turn of events, he’d call. But, of course, he didn’t.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door and my heart jumped. Before I could say a word, the children leaped from their chairs and ran towards it.
‘Daddy!’ squealed Emily as her little legs buckled beneath her in the scramble. For a second, I thought they were right and chased after them, praying for the kind of miracle you see in Christmas films. But as the door opened, Roger, Steven, Paula and Baishali stood there, not him.
Their arms were full of gifts, but not even Santa could give us the only thing we all really wanted.
SIMON
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, twenty-five years earlier
10 September
I squatted on an upturned wooden box outside the hotel on the Rue du Jean. I placed my plastic hard hat on the pavement and lit my seventh Gauloise of the morning. Catherine had only ever allowed me to smoke socially or on special occasions. So with nobody to complain that my breath reeked of stale tobacco, my occasional habit had become a full-time addiction.
I stretched my legs out and winced as my knee joints cracked. Climbing up and down scaffolding twenty times a day with my hostel workforce was exhausting and took its toll on my body, but the results had been worth every second.
While the capital investment from the Routard’s owner wasn’t enough to restore it to its former glory, I’d thrown myself into my work to recreate something of worth as best I could.
I allowed myself to think back to my first project, a ramshackle collection of bricks and mortar that eventually became our first home. Before she and I could afford a car, we’d passed the cottage dozens of times on our way to and from the bus stop. It was in desperate need of restoration, yet it always caught our eye.
Ivy had crept up its faded whitewashed walls, along the patchy tiled roof, and clasped the chimney pot in its fingers. The wooden window frames had bowed and the garden hadn’t seen a tool in a lifetime. Weeds competed with trees to see which could grow taller.
But I liked that Catherine could see what I saw, a shared vision of its potential: somewhere we could raise a family, our own perfect family. We were living in a tiny apartment above a fish and chip shop when we heard that a gas-meter reader had discovered the body of the cottage’s elderly owner. Her withered shell had remained slumped face down on her kitchen table for up to a month.
Her estranged son put her house up for sale for a snip, like he wanted rid of both it and her memory as quickly as possible. Money wasn’t abundant, what with me freshly qualified with a university BA in architecture and employed at my first job with a small firm. Meanwhile, she was window-dressing at a department store in town. But we calculated we could afford the mortgage repayments if we scrimped. There’d be years of work ahead of us before it matched the image we’d painted of it in our heads. That didn’t matter – in fact, nothing mattered but buying the house.
Once our solicitor had handed us the keys, not even the stench left by a decomposing carcass put us off. We simply covered our noses and mouths with tea towels and toasted our first house with a bottle of Babycham in the hallway. We had something to build on of our own, which neither of us had experienced before.
As I stared at the progress I’d made in restoring the Routard, those same feelings of accomplishment and excitement rushed through me – the knowledge you are on your way to creating something flawless. Suddenly the voice I’d first heard in the woods the day I left Catherine made itself known: ‘Do I need to remind you of what happens to all perfect things?’
I shook my head, my euphoria evaporating in an instant.
‘It’s only a matter of time before they stop being perfect and destroy you.’
October 18
I lifted the sledgehammer over my head, swung it towards the door handle and smashed through the lock.
Bets had been placed on what secrets lay behind the keyless door in the Routard’s mysterious storeroom. Skeletal remains, valuable artwork concealed from the Nazis, an extensive wine cellar or perhaps a parallel universe were all jokingly considered.
With two well-placed whacks, the door sprang back on its hinges to reveal what not even the Dutch owner knew it contained – a six-feet-by-eight-feet, pitch-black room. When Bradley shone his torch inside, the spectators behind us gave a collective deflated sigh at the sight of crate after crate crammed with paperwork, receipts and invoices.
It wasn’t until later in the day, when I’d consigned the splintered door to the rubbish, that I caught a glimpse of a photograph poking out from one of the crates I’d dropped into the garbage earlier. I leaned over the edge and pulled it out for closer inspection.
A family, possibly the original owners, stood dressed to the nines, beaming proudly before the camera outside the pristine-looking Hôtel Près de la Côte. I instantly recognised the chubby-faced man standing at their side. It was Pierre Chareau, a classic modernist and art deco designer I’d studied extensively at university. I had long admired his maverick vision. Like me, he’d trained as an architect, but he’d added extra strings to his bow by branching out into design and decoration. The pinnacle of his work was the Maison de Verre – the first house in France to be constructed of steel and glass.
I grabbed the crate and hauled it back into the hostel courtyard. I lit up the first of many cigarettes as I ploughed through hundreds of pages of designs, photographs, blueprints and illustrations. There were sheets of handwritten notes and orders – all signed by Chareau. And they weren’t all related to the hotel. There were sketches of buildings that had never been, and designs of furniture that had.
When placed in chronological order, they offered a fascinating insight into the creative mind of a genius and the projects he’d never publicly acknowledged. Forty years after his death and I was residing in what had once been just his vision. I’d been charged with returning it to the glory he’d been responsible for. But with these papers, I’d also found my holy grail, and my way out.
5 December
I’d thrown myself into the final stages of the hotel’s renovation. I’d become obsessive, working all the hours God sent, day and night, only napping for a handful of hours at a time. And it was starting to take its toll on me.
I was crouched in a bath, sealing its rim with adhesive against the tiled walls, when the quite d
ry, very French tub before me was all at once replaced by the bath in my old house in Northampton, complete with water inside and bubbles, and a toy boat floating from one end to the other. I blinked hard, and when I opened my eyes again, the image had vanished as quickly as it appeared. I felt chills across my body so I climbed out and started work on a staircase instead. Thank God that bit of madness was not repeated, but the memory of it left a stain that took some weeks to wash out.
As the countdown to the festive period began, it became a challenge not to think of the family I’d shared so many Christmases with. But when I thought about Catherine, I kept reminding myself I was no longer a father or a husband.
We’d both agreed we wanted to be young parents, and being a parent was the greatest gift she ever gave me. Nothing she nor I subsequently did to each other ever took away the feeling of utter elation in holding those tiny, hope-filled hands for the first time in the house they’d been born into. Over the years, as each midwife passed each baby to me, I’d gently slip my finger between their tightly balled fists, plant a kiss on the centre of their foreheads and whisper ‘I will never let you down’ into their ears. It saddened me to think the first words they’d ever heard were lies.
‘Si, you need some sleep, man,’ yelled Bradley, bringing me back to the present. ‘Look.’
He pointed to the banister I’d just sanded down to the grain – I’d only painted and varnished it a night earlier.
I yawned and closed the lid on Catherine once again, and moved on to the wooden arc of the entrance hall. It felt smooth to the touch, but it could be better. I couldn’t bring myself to stop sanding it until it was beyond compare.
Christmas Eve
I’d never spent the holidays in the company of strangers before, which was probably why I’d been reluctant to embrace the forthcoming festivities. But my apathy evaporated when I turned the corner into Christmas Eve.
Diminishing numbers wasn’t going to prevent us from indulging in good food and all-round merriment. But it took queuing with crowds of locals outside the boulangeries and patisseries to collect orders for fine meats and cheeses to spark the kindling inside me. I fed off their gaiety until I found myself grinning without reason.
In keeping with French tradition, the seven of us left at the Routard International enjoyed an appetising midnight meal together before we welcomed Christmas Day. We covered the dining room table in a clean white bedsheet, treated our palates with the rich textures of foie gras on sliced brioche and smoked salmon on blinis.
My bloated stomach was already close to bursting point when the chef, who the Routard’s owner had hired as a reward for my renovation work, brought out a platter of cooked meats. I was completely spoiled.
‘How did you used to spend Christmas?’ asked Bradley as we smoked two plump cigars on the mild seafront.
I recalled a time two years earlier, sitting in the corner of our living room watching all six of them caught up in the moment. My relationship with Catherine was completely distorted by then, and I didn’t belong there. He had made sure of that. I was like a coiled spring that longed to unravel but didn’t know how or when to.
‘Not much,’ I replied ambiguously.
‘Thought you’d say that,’ said Bradley before we puffed away and watched a trail of shooting stars blast their way across the sky.
Christmas Day
With only a handful of guests remaining under my retiled roof, the hostel had been as restful as I’d known it.
‘Do you wanna call anyone?’ asked Bradley when he finished with the phone, handing me the receiver. I paused. ‘Do you want to call any of your family back in England or something? You know it’s Christmas Day, right?’
For the first time since I’d left Catherine, something unexpected in me was curious to hear her voice. I took the receiver and, without giving myself time to debate it, held it to my ear. I dialled the country code, then the area code, and finally all but the last digit of our phone number.
My finger hovered over the last number, unable to press it. Because even hearing her just say the word ‘hello’ as she picked up the phone, or the voices of the children as they played with toys in the background, would do me no good. The time of year for family and togetherness was weakening my resolve, but I had to come to my senses or undo all my good work.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I told Bradley, passing the phone back to him. I had to remain in the present, not the past.
Northampton, today
11.10 a.m.
He’d spent years holding himself back from allowing her sympathy. But even he couldn’t ignore how traumatic it must have been to miscarry and face it alone.
But as sorry as he felt for her, ultimately she had brought it on herself. All of it. And she’d been right: the baby had had a narrow escape.
He was surprised by her tenacity when it came to working three jobs, but he didn’t mention it, so as not to appear patronising. He’d expected her to have quickly found a replacement for him, if only to provide financial stability for the children. But he’d seen to it that one man in particular could never have been an option for her.
So far, she’d not mentioned anyone else; it appeared she’d muddled along alone. He admired that, as he did her return to dressmaking. He recalled how she’d believed that hobby had destroyed their family. But secretly he knew it wasn’t to blame. Not at all. And he understood how financially destitute she must have been to have picked up a needle and thread again.
For every story he’d recounted of his adventures without his boring wife and children, she was torn between bringing him back to the brutal reality he’d left behind and making sure he was aware of what she’d accomplished.
No one could ever really appreciate her lows unless they’d lived through them with her. She knew he understood grief, as they’d walked that path together. But he couldn’t comprehend the pain of losing someone without ever knowing if they were truly lost.
She wanted him to feel the same misery he’d inflicted upon them, but she didn’t need his pity. Besides, with his golden tan and tailor-made suit, he hardly resembled a man wracked with remorse or who had faced hard times.
She just desperately needed to witness some human emotion in his steely exterior, or proof that she’d not been completely blind to him throughout their relationship. That inside him, some compassion remained.
She thought she’d spotted it briefly when she told him about their Christmas without him. She noticed the uncomfortable twitch of his middle finger against the print of his thumb. It meant he didn’t like what he was hearing. She would use that to her advantage, she decided.
If he was going to play games by making her wait before he told his truth, then she’d use that time to make him feel as awkward as possible. And her children would be her weapons.
But, most importantly, she would try her hardest to show him she was not the same naive fool he’d left behind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CATHERINE
Northampton, twenty-five years earlier
New Year’s Eve
‘You’re drunk, Mummy,’ whined James.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I snapped, yanking the hem of his costume down further still. ‘And for God’s sake, stop fidgeting.’
‘Ow! You’re hurting me!’
I was trying to finish his Batman outfit for the New Year’s Eve fancy-dress party at the village hall. I’d accidentally jabbed a pin into his ankle and wasn’t in the mood for his whingeing.
It’d been a relentless week. I’d had all our costumes to make from scratch for an event I couldn’t give two hoots about. I’d worked an extra fifteen hours of overtime at the supermarket over two days and had a list of sewing requests as long as my arm. And I hadn’t even begun to tackle the baskets of unironed clothes stacked up in the hallway. There just weren’t enough hours in my day. So who could blame me for having a glass of wine here and there to help me through it?
Well, James, for starters.
Habitually, I’d uncorked the first by breakfast. And by early evening, one more empty bottle was lying on its side by the kitchen bin. But I certainly wasn’t drunk, I told myself, and it annoyed me my son had the nerve to presume I was.
‘Shut up, it’s only a little prick,’ I barked. James’s eyes filled up, which irritated me even more because he was only going to slow me down. I raised my voice and dug my fingernails into his wrists until he squirmed. ‘Right, you can either stop your sniffling and let me get on with this, or you can go to the party looking like a fool and have your friends laugh at you. Which one are you going to choose?’
Even as the words tripped off my tongue, I knew I was sounding like my mother. I heard a lot of her in myself these days and I didn’t like it. But the colder I became, the more frequently she reared her head.
It wasn’t James’s fault I was in such a foul mood. I’d missed Simon more than ever over Christmas. The new year was about to begin and I couldn’t see how things were going to get any easier.
It wasn’t helping that it was also my thirty-fourth birthday – my first birthday without him since we were eleven years old. I wanted to throw myself under the quilt in an alcohol-induced coma and wake up seven months earlier. Then I’d never let him out of my sight for the rest of our lives. Instead, I was going to a party filled with couples who’d remind me of what I was missing.
I also resented the kids for not remembering my birthday, even while I was trying to forget it. Four unopened cards and gifts from friends lay on the kitchen table, but there’d been no special kisses or cuddles from my own family – just relentless demands for food, costumes and attention. I longed to be the centre of someone else’s attention again.
‘There, it’s done, now take it off or you’ll get it creased,’ I grumbled as James stomped out of the room.
I sat on the living room floor alone, staring at the last drop of wine in both the glass and the house. I cursed the kids for taking up so much of my time that I hadn’t got the chance to stock up at the off-licence before it closed early. When everything else around me went wrong, wine was my safety net, and it made me angry if there wasn’t a bottle to hand if I needed it. I dreaded waiting another three hours for the party to begin before I could have another drink.