Eventually, Mum just came out with it and told me he was my biological dad and that she’d got pregnant when she was on her gap year in Naples. That, of course, produced a flood of questions from me, along the lines of why didn’t they stay together and why did my dad wait so long to come and meet me? I could tell Mum wasn’t comfortable revisiting the past, so eventually I stopped asking questions and just accepted what she kept telling me – that she and Alessandro were both so career driven, it could never have worked between them, and that while Martin might not be my biological dad, in every other way, he was. He’d been there for me all my life – all those years Alessandro was absent. Very gently, she told me I shouldn’t count on seeing Alessandro again. He had a life in Italy and who knew when or if he would return to England? I think she just wanted to protect me from being hurt.
But deep down, I knew different. We’d had such a brilliant time together. Of course Alessandro would want to come back and see me.
For a full year, I looked forward to Christmas with a lightness of spirit and a happiness in my heart that I’d never felt before, convinced he would return. I knew without doubt that we’d have an even better time than the previous year. I was going to let him read the Christmas diary I’d written about the amazing time we’d spent together, and I’d saved up lots of funny stories during the year to make him laugh.
I was so naive.
I learned a cruel lesson that year. Daydreaming can be so dangerous when the reality turns out to be heartbreakingly different to what you imagine.
Alessandro never did come back for me.
‘Tea?’
I look up, dazed. Mum is holding out a mug.
Deftly whisking away the tears, I paste on a smile, hardening my heart to the memories, as I always do.
Mum frowns. ‘What’s wrong?’ She’s immediately on the defensive, thinking she’s upset me. ‘I’m going to have a bit of a tidy-up tomorrow, so you don’t need to worry about me.’
I shake my head and take a gulp of hot tea that burns my mouth. ‘Good, good.’ These days, I go along with her pretence that she’s going to get around to clearing up the place. I know she won’t. And that’s why I will keep coming round every day. To make sure she hasn’t toppled the huge stack of medical books piled up on the side table, knocking herself unconscious with The Oxford Handbook of Clinical Diagnosis. (It gives me nightmares, that tower of hardback books, but Mum point-blank refuses to move them, saying that she might need them for reference.) Or that she hasn’t accidentally set one of her revolting stuffed parrots on fire. Actually, that would probably be a good thing.
If I don’t laugh about it, there’s a danger I might start weeping and never be able to stop.
I take a deep breath and change the subject. ‘We’ll need to talk about Christmas Day. When I should collect you and bring you over to ours.’
It’s going to be just Mum and me this Christmas. Harrison’s dad died earlier this year and his mum lives in Spain, so Harrison is flying over to join her for the festive season. It’ll be strange not to be together on Christmas Day.
Mum waves her hand. ‘Oh, there’s plenty of time for that,’ she says, even though there really isn’t. I know she finds the festive season hard. I suspect that if she had her way, she’d elect to stay here with her pot noodles for company. She hates thinking she’s a burden to me. But I’d never want to spend Christmas without her.
I feel suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. If I were ever granted a wish by some passing fairy godmother, it would be this: Please help Mum to move on with her life the way Martin has …
*
On the short drive home, I think about relationships and how it’s so difficult to know if you’ve met the right one for you. Mum thought she had, but how wrong she was.
I’m happy with Harrison, and I know the feeling is mutual. We’re quite different in many ways but they do say that opposites attract, don’t they?
Everyone should have a hobby, and Harrison is fascinated by Britain’s industrial heritage. He reads weighty tomes on the subject (weighty in the physical sense, as well as the intellectual – they’re the sort of books that come in really handy if a door needs wedging open). And he particularly enjoys photographing manhole covers. He says there’s a wealth of fascinating history right under our feet that people don’t even notice.
I must admit, it took me a while to get my head round his passion for manhole covers. But after a weekend in London dedicated to showing me many fine examples of cast-iron street furniture, I can sort of see why he’s interested. (Well, actually, I still struggle. I’d rather have gone to Madame Tussauds, to be honest. But that’s just me. Embarrassingly lacking in intellect. We did have a brilliant full English next morning, though.)
To be fair, it’s not just manholes. Harrison will also drive a fair few miles to see a good coal-hole cover, and the occasional drain grating. At first, I thought it was a really weird hobby to have. But I’ve been online and it absolutely isn’t! You’d never believe it but there’s actually a whole army of ‘gridders’, as they call themselves.
This morning, over breakfast, he was telling me that he’d heard about a particularly fine specimen of drain cover in cast iron somewhere along Ribblesham High Street. (Interestingly, not all drain covers are made of cast iron. Concrete is also used. And it’s a little-known fact that manhole covers date back to the era of ancient Rome, which is obviously a very long time ago. I know these things now.)
Another interesting fact is that Harrison and I actually met over a drain cover. It’s true! Mum’s bungalow is built on the site of an old ironworks and, would you believe, there’s a manhole cover almost right outside her house that has the name of the ironworks company on it. I’d never really noticed it before. Until the day Harrison was there, taking photos of it from dozens of different angles.
It was a boiling-hot afternoon in July last year. I’d nipped over to see Mum in between shifts, only to find her in despair over a blocked toilet. We tried pouring bleach down and waiting before flushing, but that had no effect. Mum was almost in tears because she knew what was coming. I was going to have to call a tradesman.
‘It’s fine,’ she said, pleadingly. ‘I read somewhere baking soda can work wonders. I’ll see if I can find some.’ She went off to perform the hoarder’s equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack, and I stared after her in despair.
‘Mum, you have to get it sorted properly. You can’t live with a blocked toilet. I’m going to phone a plumber.’
‘No! I won’t let you!’ She beetled back and made a grab for my phone. It fell to the ground, smashing the screen, and I had to bite my lip to stop myself yelling at her. I couldn’t leave Mum without sorting out the damn toilet, but how could I do that without a plumber? And now my phone was broken!
The burden of caring for Mum was suddenly too much. I escaped outside on the pretext of looking for something in the garage, and leaned against the wall, taking big gulps of fresh air and trying to calm down so that I could try to address the problem logically.
That’s when I noticed a youngish, fair-haired man, with dark-rimmed glasses and what looked like a camera, peering intently at the ground just beyond Mum’s front gate. Wondering if he was okay, I went over to investigate.
He looked up and I thought how handsome he was.
‘Do you live here?’ he asked, gazing at the house as if it was a palace.
‘No. But my mum does.’
‘Wow. Does she know she has a piece of social history right outside her front gate?’ He pointed at the circular piece of metal, with a design on it, set into the pavement. ‘Look at that. A Victorian coal-hole cover, made by a foundry that doesn’t exist any more. Amazing!’
‘Gosh. Now that I know it’s a piece of Victorian history, I’ll take more notice of it in future!’
He smiled, showing lovely white teeth.
I took out my hanky to dab my wet mascara.
‘Are you all right?’ He seemed genuinely
concerned, so I ended up telling him all about Mum’s blocked toilet and how she hated having tradesmen in because then they’d see the state of the house.
‘I know a bit about plumbing,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to have a look?’
I was so relieved, I actually laughed. ‘Would you? I’d be so grateful. If I can’t fix it, she’ll have to come and stay with me tonight.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, we’d definitely better do something!’
We laughed at his joke and went inside, and I distracted Mum in the kitchen by making tea, while Harrison burrowed his way through to the bathroom. He took the piles of junk in his stride, and not once did he turn back to me to roll his eyes or give me a funny look.
Twenty minutes later, after he’d poured a whole bottle of shampoo down the toilet, followed by a bucket of hot water, Mum was smiling with relief that her loo was flushing properly again, and offering him tea.
His name was Harrison, and Mum seemed amazed to learn that she had a piece of social history right outside her front gate.
I swear it was fate at work that day. I mean, what are the chances of there being a manhole cover right outside Mum’s house that Harrison just happened to be photographing at the exact time I was inside having a complete meltdown over Mum? Often, we’ll be talking fondly about the unexpectedness of our first meeting, and Harrison will heave a sigh, abandoning himself to sentimental reminiscences. ‘Remember that manhole cover!’ he’ll say.
And I’ll smile and recall how he rode to my rescue. I’d been at my very lowest ebb that day, desperately scared about Mum’s future and feeling so alone. But Harrison turned things around.
It’s something I’ll never, ever forget.
Chapter 3
When I arrive back from Mum’s, Harrison is still out, so I decide to make a start on the mince pies I’ve offered to bake for his office party on Friday.
He’s been making a big effort lately to show that he’s worthy of a promotion at work, and he’s hoping to impress his sweet-toothed boss with my special Christmassy pies. They have a deliciously rich and crumbly orange-and-cinnamon pastry, and I add apple brandy to the filling to make them extra indulgent. I doubt my festive snacks alone will land him the job he’s after, but it’s lovely that Harrison considers my baking worth showing off.
Thinking about Harrison’s hopes of promotion reminds me that in a few days’ time, I’ll find out if I’m to be The Pretty Flamingo’s new restaurant manager! A bolt of nerves and excitement surges through me. Everyone seems to think I’m the obvious candidate and I know Mr Hastings, the retiring restaurant manager, likes and trusts me. The fact that I’ve worked through every Christmas period for the past six years is sure to count in my favour. Plus the fact that I’m always happy to work extra shifts when they’re short-staffed. If I get the promotion, Erin might stop badgering me to leave and take up cooking for a living!
But perhaps they won’t think I’m good enough.
Instantly, I’m back in that kitchen doorway, a miserable ten-year-old, overhearing a bitter-sounding Martin muttering to Mum, ‘Let’s face it, she’s far too timid. She’ll never amount to anything.’
Something inside me dies but I brush the feeling away, as I always do, telling myself I don’t care. If I get the job, great. If I don’t, it really doesn’t matter.
The message light is flashing on the landline in the living room. Pressing the ‘play’ button on the speaker, I head through to the kitchen, already rolling my sleeves up to start baking and expecting to hear Harrison telling me when he’ll be home.
I stop in the doorway.
Unless he’s caught a horrible cold that’s deepened his voice and added a barrowload of gravel to it, that’s definitely not Harrison. Maybe it’s a friend of his or one of his colleagues. I hurry back into the living room, just as the stranger’s deep voice rumbles, ‘pulling out your heart by its bootstraps. But enough of that …’
Intrigued, I hit ‘play’ to hear the message from the beginning.
Hi Clemmy, it’s Jed Turner. Have to say it was amazing seeing you on Saturday night. Can’t believe it’s been so long since our legendary holiday in France. And by the way, you never spoke truer words than when you said about love reaching into your chest and pulling out your heart by its bootstraps. (A throaty chuckle here.) But on to cheerier matters. I’m calling to invite you to spend Christmas in the country. Log fire, hot tub and an entire forest of fir trees. How could you refuse? Phone me to say yes.
I stand there, staring at the phone, the cogs of my brain whirring madly.
Who on earth is Jed Turner? And who, for that matter, is Clemmy? It must be a wrong number. All the same, I listen to the message again, although it’s more out of curiosity than anything else.
Jed Turner has a deliciously deep voice. Someone’s obviously had their heart broken with all that bootstrap talk! I wonder if it’s him?
I listen to it twice more, shaking my head at the weirdness of the message landing on our phone, and wondering vaguely where this amazing place is with its log fire and hot tub. Somewhere quite palatial, by the sounds of things.
I feel a bit guilty, as if I’m eavesdropping: It should be Clemmy listening to the message, not me. But that’s silly – there’s nothing I can do about it. Presumably when Jed doesn’t hear back, he’ll phone her again and, this time, he’ll get the number right.
But I need to get on. I have mince pies to bake!
I wash my hands and gather my equipment and ingredients, all the while mulling distractedly over the phone message.
What is the relationship between Jed Turner and Clemmy? They’d been on a ‘legendary’ holiday to France, but that seemed to be a while ago. Were they boyfriend and girlfriend when they jetted off together? Describing a holiday as ‘legendary’ means it was obviously pretty special in some way. Maybe they had stupendous sex for the first time in their lives, or maybe they had a mad, passionate fling but were forced to go their separate ways at the end of their magical holiday, or maybe I should stop dreaming up these ridiculously romantic scenarios because the reality is probably very different. It’s just that having heard Jed Turner’s rumbling and seductively deep voice for myself, it’s little wonder my imagination is running riot.
I stop and stare into my bowl. What am I doing? The recipe calls for 200 grams of plain flour, but I’ve somehow carefully measured out the same weight in granulated sugar instead! I never usually get it wrong. What’s going on?
It’s that phone message.
It’s thrown me because I really don’t know what to do about it. Obviously, Jed is keen to get together with Clemmy, and inviting her to spend Christmas with him is a pretty bold move. But Clemmy didn’t receive the message. I did. And how sad is that? What if they never get a chance to meet up and possibly reignite their passion? All because Jed Turner punched in the wrong digits?
I need to get his number on ‘call return’ and phone him to tell him about his mistake.
Oh, shit!
Glancing down, I grimace at the greyish lump of dough in my hands.
What’s the golden rule of making perfect pastry? Use a light touch! But for the past few minutes, I’ve been pummelling the pastry to within an inch of its life, squeezing and mangling it like I’m trying to hand-wash a stubborn stain from a favourite cardy. I stare into the bowl in dismay. Forget ‘light and flaky’. These mince pies will be hard enough to substitute as balls at Wimbledon.
An hour later, I’m just cracking a tooth on one, trying it fresh from the oven, when I realise I’ve got a text from Harrison, sent half an hour ago.
Getting five-o’clock back. Will phone when on train.
I smile affectionately. Harrison’s texts are always brief and to the point, with no emoticon extras, but I’m used to that. It’s just him.
I glance at my watch. It’s five-fifteen. Panic surges within me.
Oh God, what if he phones me on the landline?
Dropping the mince-pie disaster, I race
through to the living room and snatch up the phone before Harrison’s call can wipe the last ‘call return’ number. Dialling 1471, I carefully note down the digits on a nearby piece of paper, noticing that it’s a local call.
Then I study the number thoughtfully.
Jed Turner sounds like a perfectly nice man and I’m sure he would welcome my call. But something is stopping me phoning him, and I’m not really sure what it is.
Carefully, I fold up the paper and slip it into my jeans pocket. I’ll phone Jed Turner when I’ve got more time.
I definitely will …
Chapter 4
‘Time for a coffee at your place?’ I call after Erin as we battle our way through the crowds to the main exit of Bradbury’s department store. With less than a fortnight to go until the big day, Christmas-shopping madness in Angelford is reaching fever pitch.
Erin turns and signals happily with her thumb over the heads of several shoppers, totally oblivious to the fact she just almost put a man’s eye out. Wincing, I weave my way through the throng and join her outside on the pavement. After the warm fug of the centrally heated store, the frozen air makes me gasp. We huddle into our coats, hands deep in our pockets, and start walking along to Erin’s flat.
‘So, anyway,’ she says, finishing a ‘bad break-up’ story she was telling me in the perfume department before we got separated in the crowd. ‘He was the one who waited till after midnight so he didn’t have to break up with me on my birthday! Can you believe that?’
I roll my eyes at such idiocy and hunch up my shoulders for warmth.
Erin can relate all these bad break-up stories with a big smile on her face for one very good reason: Mark. Since they met over a year ago, she and Mark have been totally inseparable. They truly are two halves that make up a whole. Same daft sense of humour. Same weird obsession with zombie films. And completely besotted with each other.
I’m so pleased for her because her romantic life before she met him was a non-stop disaster. She seemed to be forever falling heavily for a guy, then finding she’d picked the only bloke in the room with a weird hang-up.
Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin Page 3