by Ellen Berry
‘I think you called them,’ James said, as patiently as he could manage. ‘They want to discuss something about a theft?’
Shaking his head and shrugging, Kenny followed James through to the living room and peered at the officers, clearly having no idea why they might be there. ‘Mr Halsall,’ the older one started, having immediately adopted a gentler tone, ‘you called to say there’s been a theft of power tools?’
‘Oh!’ Kenny nodded self-righteously and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Yeah. You can’t leave anything around these days, can you?’ He looked at James. ‘Have you seen them?’
‘Erm … not exactly. I mean, not recently, no.’ James glanced at the police officers, then turned to Kenny. Maddening though he was, he was still his father and he wished to avoid – or at least minimise – any humiliation for him. ‘Dad …’ He raked his hair at the back of his neck. ‘If you’ve been looking for your power saws and stuff well, um … Rod took them.’
Kenny glared at him, dark eyes blazing now. ‘You can’t blame our Rod!’
‘I’m not blaming him,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m just stating a fact.’ He exhaled loudly, the enormous ginger cat catching his eye as he slunk out from behind an ancient curtain. James turned to the officers. ‘My brother was living here with Dad for a while and he decided, um … he made the decision that it was probably best to look after his tools, so … he locked them in the boot of his car.’
‘They’re in his car?’ Kenny’s face paled.
‘Yes, Dad.’ He nodded.
‘Where’s his car now?’ Kenny thundered.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. He went to Switzerland, remember? I hardly ever hear from him but I assume he’s still there.’ James paused and cleared his throat. ‘So there hasn’t actually been a theft—’
‘So what am I meant to use for cutting down Christmas trees?’ Kenny snapped. ‘A butter knife?’
The younger officer’s mouth quivered, and he covered it with a hand. Being country police officers they were incredibly understanding, brushing off James’s apology for their time being wasted; so no harm done really. In fact, James suspected they had rather enjoyed their visit. After they’d left, and he had managed to convince his father that Rod had merely been ‘looking after’ the tools – ‘in case of burglars’ – the older man sat heavily in the armchair, grabbed the remote huffily and turned on the TV.
Great – a cheery documentary about the dreadful conditions in a garment factory in Cambodia.
‘Can’t I even get a nap around here?’ Kenny complained to the TV.
He had no recollection of calling the police, James realised. Nearly two years ago now, he had hoarded sandwiches and harassed Reena’s holiday guests, thinking her house was his own. Less worryingly – but hardly ideal – he had photobombed a society wedding. It all added up to the fact that, really, all James was doing was patching over the problem – doing his best, which clearly wasn’t enough, with fingers firmly crossed. And at some point, something would have to change.
He didn’t know quite what that meant, and before Connell’s visit to Lucy’s, he might have called her to talk it through. But he sensed a bit of distance between them now, and he knew there was another visit pending, which she seemed pretty excited about, with this art project and everything. The whole thing made him feel out of kilter, which he knew was ridiculous, so it now seemed easier to step back a little and not contact her quite so often. Perhaps, he reasoned, she needed a little space.
Meanwhile, James had one radical suggestion to put to his father. While it might not solve things long-term, it would certainly provide an immediate solution, and ensure no further calls to the police over the festive season.
‘Dad,’ James said levelly. His father swung round and peered at him. ‘Dad, how would you feel about coming – you and the cats, I mean – to my place for Christmas?’
A mile away in Rosemary Cottage, Lucy clutched her phone to her ear, knowing that whatever she said, there would no changing her mother’s mind. It would be as hopeless as trying to halt the tide.
‘So, what your father and I have decided,’ Anna had announced, ‘is we can’t have you and the children spending Christmas alone in that house. We just can’t bear it.’
‘But Mum—’ she’d started.
‘Now, before you say no, it’s too much work and all that – we’ve thought it all through, Lucy, and it’s the best solution all round. We’re coming to yours this year, and there’ll be nothing for you to worry about. We’re bringing Christmas to you.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Although Lucy wouldn’t say she was a crier normally, certain triggers sent her from respectably dry-faced to awash with tears and snot, virtually dissolving, within seconds.
Watching The Railway Children with Marnie and Sam generally did the trick, specifically the end scene where the steam cleared on the railway station platform, and ‘Daddy’ appeared. Daddy, oh my Daddy! Cue copious weeping into tissues. When one of her children was deeply upset, that too could turn on the taps – like when Sam had been devastated about his museum exhibits being thrown away. Even their scruffy old shed – Lucy had cried over that. But nothing guaranteed instantaneous eye flooding like the school Christmas carol concert.
Lucy’s family had arrived en masse: her parents, Aunt Elspeth and Aunt Flora, plus Tilly, the flatulent schnauzer who had apparently stunk out the car. They dragged in sack loads of presents like eager elves, plus mountains of food, which they had dumped in the kitchen before exclaiming how lovely and cosy Lucy’s home was (the aunts), and that ‘it’s quite a small tree, Lucy’ (her mother). ‘I thought you’d have had a bigger one,’ she added.
‘I decided this size would be easier to handle,’ Lucy had explained, glancing at what she’d thought was a perfectly respectable five-footer. ‘I thought I might be able to get one from James’s dad, but there was no one at the house when I called round, and I didn’t think I should just hack one out of the ground.’ In truth, she had half hoped James would be around to help her, and perhaps assist with setting it up in the house. But she hadn’t heard from him for a couple of weeks, and she didn’t want to bother him if he was busy. Now she assumed he and his father had gone away for Christmas.
Still, Lucy’s mother’s decorations more than made up for the seemingly disappointing pine. The life-sized reindeer had migrated from her parents’ house and were now bracketing her front door.
‘Ooh, someone’s feeling festive,’ Irene had chuckled as she’d marched by.
The living room was strewn with tinsel – despite Lucy’s protestations – and no horizontal surface was without a glittery Santa, a herd of reindeer or a cluster of twinkling lights. It was as if the John Lewis Christmas department had relocated to Rosemary Cottage.
‘This is quite … eye-popping,’ Connell had said with an amused glint when he’d arrived that morning. It was a flying visit; he was only staying for one night. ‘I could always stay at the pub,’ he’d said, ‘if you have a houseful.’ Lucy thought she’d detected slight disappointment when she’d mentioned that her family were planning to descend on her. But no, she’d insisted; her parents would share one guest room, her aunts the other; they could make it work, if he could bear them – plus her parents’ excitable schnauzer – all fussing around, and didn’t mind the tiny study with its single bed. Connell’s plan was to visit the school on the last day of term, having brought the made-up glass panels featuring the children’s designs. They were currently displayed on a table in the foyer for the parents to see.
‘They look wonderful,’ Lucy said now, mopping at her face.
Connell smiled. ‘I’m glad the kids are happy with them.’
‘How sweet of the artist to come to the concert,’ her Aunt Elspeth had whispered into her ear on her other side. She had been thrilled to discover that Connell was an old friend of Lucy’s. ‘And what a lovely man, Lucy,’ she added approvingly. ‘He’s a very handsome chap, isn’t he?’
‘I’m just saying, love.’
Mercifully, the children launched into the next carol. Lucy focused ahead, wondering if her puffy eyes would ever recover from the sight of thirty-five children singing ‘Silent Night’.
As the evening progressed, a rogue thought kept flashing into her mind – I wish Ivan was here – but she pushed it away, and when it was time for everyone to join in with a rousing rendition of ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’, her voice rang out clearly, and she felt happy to be here, to be part of this, despite the fact that her mascara had undoubtedly run, and her face was still entirely wet.
The concert had been lovely, and she had planned drinks back at her place, having decided to knock back some fizz to get into the spirit of things. While Lucy walked with her mother, the children and the aunts, Connell and her father lagged a few feet behind. The odd snowdrop had appeared on the verges, each as delicate as a tear, but it was after Christmas when they tended to appear in full force.
Snow had started to fall now – flat, soft flakes, drifting slowly, catching in their hair and delighting the children who were grabbing at handfuls and throwing them, it was settling that quickly.
Lucy glanced back to see Connell and her father still chatting happily, and she smiled.
Handsome chap indeed. Was Aunt Elspeth trying to set her up, or what? Luckily, there had been no awkwardness when Connell had showed up, and no hint of flirtation either, for which she was relieved. But Lucy would need to keep her wits about her if she were to get through tonight and tomorrow – before Connell headed back home to Nottingham – without humiliation.
There was no snow in Liverpool, although James had heard on the radio that it was falling incredibly quickly in the area of Yorkshire around Heathfield and Burley Bridge, and he almost wished he was there. Still, it was festive enough here. As he turned into Michaela and Ali’s modern estate, it seemed to him that the houses were competing as to which was the gaudiest.
Illuminated Santas were clamped to the roofs, and gardens were populated by elves and reindeer with fairy lights strung on every available structure. At one time, he might have thought it over the top, but tonight, after a rather sullen drive over from Burley Bridge with his father – the cats mewling in their baskets on the back seat – he had to concede that it was cheering. He would have to do a speedy job of raising the festive standards at his own place as soon as they arrived home.
‘I’ll wait here with the cats,’ Kenny announced as James pulled up in front of the spangliest house of them all. Icicle fairy lights dangled from the roof, and the clipped hedges had been sprinkled with what appeared to be some kind of outdoor glitter. Michaela had always loved a bit of glitz at Christmas, and the glossy black door bore a ritzy garland constructed from baubles, golden bows and red velvety leaves.
‘Come in, Dad,’ James insisted. ‘They’ll be fine. I’m not leaving you sitting out here all alone.’
‘I’m not speaking to that man,’ he said gruffly, which baffled James; his father had never met Ali, and probably wouldn’t remember Michaela either now. The thought triggered a rush of sadness in him, and he hung on to the hope that he would still be interested in Spike, and what was going on his life. Only a few weeks had passed since the bonfire, when Lucy and her children had come over for the evening, but since then James had noticed a deterioration in his dad’s ability to grasp what was going on around him. And there’d been that call to the police.
‘Please come on in,’ James said firmly. ‘We’ll only be a few minutes.’ Grudgingly Kenny climbed out of the car and followed his son to the front door.
‘Hi, James,’ said Ali as he opened it.
‘Hi,’ James said. ‘This is Kenny, my father.’
‘Kenny, hi!’ Ali beamed at him and shook his hand vigorously. ‘Come in. They should be on their way back. Spike’s been at some party or other. Incredible social life, he has.’
‘He’s been out a lot, then?’ James asked.
‘God, yeah. Social whirl for the kids around here,’ Ali said, leading them into the kitchen with its vast island unit and row of dangling copper-shaded lights. ‘I think they were expecting you at eight.’
‘I did say seven,’ James said, not wanting to make a big thing of it but silently urging them to appear as quickly as possible.
‘Ah, well. Can I make you coffee?’ Ali asked, in a tone that suggested he hoped James would say no.
‘Yeah, that’d be great. How about you, Dad?’ But Kenny was already wandering out of the kitchen, and when James looked around the corner he saw that he had sunk heavily into the concrete-coloured sofa in the living room. ‘Excuse Dad,’ he said to Ali, back in the kitchen. ‘He’s just not feeling terribly sociable at the moment.’
‘Don’t worry. Spike’s told me all about his granddad.’
As he set about fiddling with the seemingly complex coffee machine like some jumped-up barista, James perched on one of the high chrome stools at the island, and stole a glance at Ali’s hair. It was the thickest, densest hair James had ever seen on a man – not that he registered blokes’ hair normally – and the precise shade of a digestive biscuit. James had an urge to press a flattened hand on the top of it, to see if it would ‘give’, or even put a match to it to check whether it was flammable. As Ali bobbed about, fiddling with cups and levers and making steam hiss out – not from his hair but the coffee machine – James checked his watch, willing Michaela and Spike to hurry home.
Ali turned to face him. ‘So, we’ll miss Spike this Christmas. Unusual, isn’t it, for Kenny to come to your place?’
‘He usually refuses,’ James said, distinctly unkeen on discussing his family arrangements with this man. ‘But I sort of insisted,’ he added. ‘I’m, uh, trying to keep an eye on Dad at the moment.’
‘I gather he’s not too well these days?’
‘Um … he’s okay.’
Ali winced. ‘Michaela mentioned he’s pretty confused.’
James baulked at this. However difficult his father may be, he was also unkeen on Michaela discussing Kenny’s mental health with her boyfriend. How much longer were she and Spike going to be anyway? Hurry up, he willed them. Hurry up home and then I can get the hell out of here.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you had him diagnosed?’ Ali met James’s gaze directly.
‘Um, no – not yet.’ The question caught him off guard.
Ali pulled a sympathetic face. ‘You know, it might be helpful.’
James exhaled, reluctant to discuss any of this – but, equally, he had no desire to cause friction that might affect Spike by being surly with Ali. So he tried to pretend that Ali was just somebody’s husband whom he had met in the kitchen at a party, and not the so-called medical practitioner his partner had been sleeping with on the sly.
‘I realise that,’ he said lightly, ‘but he actually refuses to see a GP at all, so it’s tricky.’
‘Ah, yes – but that’s a conventional doctor.’
James frowned. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, we all know what happens when you go to see a GP, don’t we? You’re in for ten minutes max, quick diagnosis – treating the symptom, not the person – and then you’re pinged out into the street.’
He prodded some more at the coffee machine. The making of a simple hot drink seemed to be on par with preparing a lobster bisque in terms of complexity. Coffee machines were the new sports cars, James decided: the bigger and shinier and whizzier the better. Ali slammed down a lever, patted the machine on its top as if praising it for a job well done, and handed James a tiny cup of tepid tar-like liquid.
‘I think we have everything under control,’ James fibbed, ‘where Dad’s concerned.’
‘Right. So, would you consider taking him to see an alternative practitioner?’
‘Are you kidding?’ James splutt
ered, unable to stop himself. ‘It’s hard enough persuading him to go to the GP. So I doubt he’d agree to see someone with a bunch of herbal pills or some foul-tasting tea or whatever.’
Ali looked aghast. ‘Alternative therapies can be highly successful in the treatment of cognitive impairment.’
And that meat tenderiser hanging on the hook over there looks like it’d be highly successful for whacking you over the head with, mused James, clenching his back teeth together. ‘Well, we’ll see what happens,’ he said firmly, sipping the acrid dark liquid. After all the palaver, he made far better coffee at home with a simple cafetière.
At the sound of voices and footsteps in the hall, he experienced a surge of relief.
‘Oh, hi, James.’ Michaela smiled tightly as Spike beamed and hugged his dad.
‘Hey, buddy.’ James’s spirits rose at his son’s heartfelt greeting. ‘I think there was a mix-up with times,’ he started, addressing Michaela now.
‘Was there? No, I don’t think so.’ She frowned. ‘Anyway, are you all ready, Spike? You haven’t forgotten anything?’
‘I’m all ready.’ Spike beamed at his dad. ‘I packed last night.’
‘Good for you, being so organised. Granddad’s sitting in the living room if you want to say hi.’
Spike hurried through. Kenny might never have been a conventional cuddly grandfather, but he was of endless fascination to Spike. Michaela greeted Kenny briefly, and then they were off, clambering into James’s car, which he tried to start up and drive normally, instead of shooting off with a gleeful screech.
On the back seat, Spike was already bestowing all his attention on the cats. His light brown hair was roughly cut, and he was wearing his customary oversized jeans and a khaki sweatshirt. The flush of happiness and anticipation on his face gladdened James’s heart. ‘Can we camp out in your garden, Dad?’ he asked. Unlike Michaela, Spike regarded sleeping in a tent as the ultimate treat.
‘Sorry, not at this time of year,’ James said.
‘But we do winter camps with the Scouts.’