A Midwinter Promise

by Lulu Taylor

  That’s the thing, though. Do I love Bertie? Really love him?

  The journey with his firstborn son played through his mind at rapid speed: the birth and the giddy excitement, the blissful early days before they knew the truth; the faint niggles as Bertie missed his developmental milestones and then the diagnosis, with all its brutal facts. Through it all, Johnnie had loved him, wildly and desperately; he had been prepared to move mountains for his little boy, full of protective passion. He was ready to take on anyone who looked askance when Bertie acted differently to most boys his age. Then Joe and Nathan had arrived, and he’d gone on a different fatherhood journey, closer to the one he’d dreamed might be possible with Bertie. It involved smiles, conversations, silly chatter, songs, jokes, hugs and kisses, bedtime stories, games and laughter. That was something that Bertie never did. He never laughed. He smiled, and made noises of pleasure – but he never broke into peals of laughter.

  As Bertie grew up, Johnnie began to feel the pain of his unrealised potential, and instead of subsiding, the grief for the person his son would never be increased. He had tried to accept Bertie as he was, and he thought he had succeeded, but now . . . Bertie was on his way to becoming a man, and it was much, much harder than he’d expected. He hadn’t anticipated his love changing from fierce passion to this new emotion: removed, wary, worried. Protective, still, but more like a guardian than a parent. It was nothing like the way he felt about Joe and Nathan, as their relationships grew and changed, as the boys matured and became their older selves, with opinions and personalities that intrigued and pleased him. They would be friends as well as sons. But Bertie . . .

  Where has it gone? Where is my love for Bertie? Is that why I let Netta do most of the caring? She was right about that. I’ve been avoiding Bertie. I’ve been letting her shoulder it all. Because of the way I feel, and the fact I’m frightened of that, and what it means.

  He stared out across the park, and felt the unaccustomed sensation of tears in his eyes. Blinking them away, he put down his cup.

  Netta was at home with the boys. It was time to get back.

  In the potting shed, Alex was lost in her work making table arrangements for a wedding the following day. Her ear pods were in, and she was singing along loudly to the music only she could hear as she created tiny but delightful posies in tones of pink and green, arranging each one in a miniature mercury-glass bud vase. An unexpected movement in her peripheral vision made her look up and she shouted out in surprise, nearly knocking over a vase as she jumped. A man was standing there, his hands held up to her as if in a gesture of surrender. She yanked the pods out, recognising the man from the local enterprise party the other night. He was wearing the same faded red hoodie.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, flushing. He must have been listening as she’d sung along to the track in her ears. ‘You made me jump! What makes you think you can just walk in without asking?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I knocked but there was no answer. I came round the back on the off chance I’d find you.’

  ‘Well, you have,’ she said brusquely and went back to putting miniature pale pink roses into a vase. ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘Hey.’ He stepped forward, looking a trifle hurt. ‘I thought we were getting on okay the other night, then I offended you. I’m sorry if I made a blunder while we were talking – I obviously didn’t know that you used to live in the house.’

  She glanced up, feeling her antagonism soften slightly, partly as a result of the beseeching expression on his face, and partly because of his warm, rolling accent. His name is Jasper. She hadn’t forgotten him. ‘So you know about Tawray, do you?’

  ‘Pam told me when you’d gone. She was a bit embarrassed, to be honest, that she’d not cleared it all up right away.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘So as we’re neighbours . . . well, I just thought it would be a good idea to build some bridges, that’s all.’

  ‘Right.’ She felt a gathering of irritation in her stomach and looked away. ‘Okay. Thanks for calling by.’

  Jasper looked exasperated. ‘What’s the problem? I know I live in your old house, but is that any reason to be so off with me? I mean, it’s not my fault you’re not there anymore, if that’s the cause of this chilliness. And I don’t think I’ve done anything else to offend you.’ He frowned as he saw her expression. ‘Have I?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Uh-oh. What?’

  She tied a pink ribbon around the vase she’d just finished, and looked up. ‘If you must know, I was a bit put out by the way I got treated when I called round to the house.’

  ‘You called round?’ He seemed mystified.

  ‘Yes. The woman who answered the door was very unfriendly. I only wanted to tell her about the flower tradition.’

  Understanding spread over his face. He nodded. ‘Oh right, you talked to Polly, did you?’ He made an apologetic expression. ‘She can be a bit brusque.’

  ‘Yeah. Rude, actually.’

  ‘All right, rude. Sorry.’ He looked abashed. ‘That’s no good. I’ll talk to her about it. Honestly, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Okay.’ She was slightly mollified. ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘So.’ Jasper smiled at her. ‘Are we friends?’

  She pushed out her lower lip thoughtfully as she gathered a fresh set of stems and started to sort through them. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Jasper pulled a stool over from the side of the room and sat down, up against the long pine table. ‘Beautiful flowers. You’ve got a real artist’s eye.’

  She eyed him sardonically, but actually she was pleased. She liked to think of her arrangement as art: temporal, sure, but art nonetheless. There was something so pleasing about well-arranged flowers; they only had to be put next to a clumsy arrangement for the difference to be seen. In so many areas of life, quality looked easy. Whenever people said, ‘Oh, it’s just a . . .’ it was a sure indicator that they didn’t understand the vast gulf of skill between basic and brilliant.

  ‘Is all this for a wedding?’ Jasper asked.

  She looked up, as if surprised that he was still sitting at her potting table. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, that’s a brave time of year.’ He shook his head gravely.

  She couldn’t help smiling at his mordant tone. ‘You mean the weather?’

  ‘Oh no. Not the weather. Let’s face it, it’s bound to be shit and if it isn’t, that’s just a bonus. No. Think about. It’s the anniversary. Every year, just before Christmas, you’ve got to remember a bloody anniversary, a card and a present. When you have to send out hundreds of cards and buy dozens of bloody presents. Whenever people get married on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Day, I think, good luck getting a table for that anniversary, mate!’ He made a comical expression and shook his head. ‘Nah. Get married in the summer like everyone else, and have a decent date for your anniversary. That’s my advice.’

  Alex laughed. ‘I’ve never thought of that. It’s a good point. My anniversary was in April but that was the month of my husband’s birthday and then, through terrible planning, both our daughters were born in April. So that was an awful month.’ She shook her head. ‘God, I used to dread April. Whoever said it was the cruellest month wasn’t wrong.’

  ‘T. S. Eliot, I think.’ He smiled at her. ‘Unless someone said it before him.’

  ‘Okay. Impressive.’ She finished another arrangement, deftly tying the pink ribbon with a flourish before pushing the vase to the side and reaching for another.

  ‘So why don’t you tell me about this flower tradition?’

  Alex looked up, startled, and found she was staring straight into blue, twinkling eyes. Nonplussed, she said hesitantly, ‘Oh . . . well . . . yes . . . the flower tradition . . .’

  ‘I’m all ears.’ He folded his arms and crossed his feet at the ankle, adopted an earnest expression as if ready to absorb whatever she had to say.

  She took a breath, just in case he
was mocking her, and when she saw he was waiting for her to speak, she said, ‘Fine. I’ll tell you all about it.’

  When she’d finished, he was gazing at her with an unreadable expression. Then at last he said, ‘I love it.’

  Alex was taken aback. ‘Really?’ She’d expected an interrogation or a dismissal, not this complete acceptance of the value of a dried flower display.

  ‘Yes. I want to do it. Is there still time?’

  She thought. She had committed a lot of the dried blooms to other projects, assuming she wouldn’t be working at Tawray this year. ‘I’m not sure . . . It might not be as lavish as usual, but I could certainly pull something together. The baubles are the things that really make people smile, and I’ve got just about enough for those. I could order in extra dried stock for the garlands, which are more about quantity.’

  Jasper clapped his hands together, pleased. ‘I really do like this. I want to do something a bit environmental at Tawray, you know? And Christmas decorations from nature – that’s really good. We’ve all had enough of plastic baubles and foil tinsel, right? Wrapping paper we chuck away after one day that can’t be recycled. That’s bloody awful. I like the idea of a sustainable Christmas. Why don’t we try and turn the open day into a kind of Christmas fair for local environmentally friendly businesses?’

  ‘Yes!’ Alex exclaimed, enthused. ‘I love that! Local produce, no plastic, sustainable decorations. That’s brilliant!’ Her face fell. ‘But it’s really short notice. Really short. To pull off something like that.’

  ‘Let’s not think too big then. How about baby steps? We’ll do the flower display, along with any local producers who show an interest and still have availability, and whatever else works.’

  ‘There’s usually a cream tea thing in the old orangery. It’s small, only space for about a dozen tables. But people like it.’

  ‘Great.’ Jasper slammed his palm down on the pine table. ‘You’re a genius. I’m getting loads of great ideas right now.’ He smiled at her. ‘Shall we do this together?’

  ‘Oh.’ She blinked at him. They’d got a bit carried away with the vision of an environmentally friendly Christmas. The truth was, she would have trouble just doing the flowers. And then there was everything else. ‘I’d love to,’ she said lamely, ‘but . . . there are family issues.’

  He looked disappointed. ‘Really? I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes. My father isn’t well.’ That didn’t really cover the extent of what was happening but she didn’t know how to say more to a relative stranger. ‘And my brother is coming down with his family. It’s just not easy. But . . .’ She didn’t want to pour cold water on a project that had already begun to excite her. It had never occurred to her that Tawray might play a role in all the things that concerned her: local trade, the environment, nature . . . But if Jasper was serious . . . well, that was really something. ‘Look, can I think about it? I’ll definitely do the flowers, if you’re happy with my costings, but I’ll need to work out what else I can do.’

  Jasper smiled, his face brightening again. ‘Great. Look, give me your number and I’ll be in touch. If you’re okay with that.’

  Alex smiled back. ‘Yes. I am.’

  After Jasper had left, Alex’s mood lifted. Tawray – and her mother’s connection to it – was not, perhaps, lost after all. She was going to do the flowers, and that was brilliant. She imagined climbing the ladders to drape the great chimney pieces in delicate but surprisingly robust garlands of intense beauty, and to put strands of marigolds, dried to the colour of old brass, across the family portraits that still hung there.

  Or will they still be there? Where have all the pictures gone? All the furniture? Pa had never said, and she couldn’t ask him now.

  She thought of him lying at home in the house he’d shared with Sally for the last few years. She’d been there when the ambulance arrived from the hospital, driving slowly, unlike most ambulances, to keep David stable. They’d carefully lifted him down on a gurney, before carrying him into the house, Sally fluttering around like a panicked mother bird, directing the bearers to go here, there, up, down – ‘gently, now, gently!’ – until David at last lay in the hospital bed in the study. He was, Alex realised, exactly as he’d been in the stroke unit, no more and no less responsive, but it was different to have him at home. In these familiar surroundings, despite the equipment around him, he seemed more normal and peaceful, as though this was an inevitable stage of his life and not a medical emergency. It was easier to accept that he might die this way, away from all the doctors, nurses and equipment that were supposed to keep him alive.

  She knew that was counter-intuitive. She should want him in the place where they could best care for him, with drugs, operating theatres, resuscitation capacity . . . And yet, the feeling of having him home was good and felt so natural, how could that be wrong?

  Sally had clucked around him, tucking him in, checking his equipment and summoning the nurse in a querulous voice to bombard her with questions about every aspect of David’s condition.

  Poor woman, Alex thought, watching as the nurse patiently and kindly dealt with the torrent, I hope they’re paying her a really good day rate.

  Putting up with Sally would be tough, on top of overseeing the last days of a man unlikely to regain consciousness.

  I suppose he’s not coming back. The consultant has been pretty clear about it. Alex found it was easier to deal with bitter grief if it was pushed firmly away from emotion to fact. But he’s not dead yet. Maybe he can still hear us. Maybe he’s still thinking about all of us. I wonder what he’d have to say about us all. And what he would say if he had one last chance.

  In the kitchen after work, Alex checked her emails while she prepared supper for the girls. It was completely black outside, not so far off the shortest day of the year; Scarlett and Jasmine left for school and returned home in the dark. That was why it was all the more important to provide a warm, cosy home with hot food and welcoming beds.

  She scrolled through her messages, dismissing the unimportant, and then saw one from Tim marked ‘Christmas’. She opened it.

  Hi Alex,

  It’s probably the right moment to talk about the most sensitive time of the year. I’d really like it if I could have the girls this year. You wanted this divorce and I didn’t, so perhaps you would be generous and let me kick off the whole ‘your place, my place’ thing. Chloe wants us to go to her parents on the Isle of Wight, and I think the girls would love it. Can we say Christmas Eve in the morning until Boxing Day? If I’m honest, it would be great to have them all the way to New Year, but I realise that’s a bit much to ask. As long as I can take them for Christmas, that’s fine, thanks.

  Hope your dad is okay.

  Tim

  Alex read it, convulsed with sadness. Christmas. Why was that one day so incredibly meaningful? One single twenty-four hours. And yet . . . the thought of it without the girls filled her with grief. She’d been with them every Christmas of their lives, from the first when they’d been oblivious bundles, to the frantic excitement of stockings and presents and all that went with it as they grew older.

  He wants to take them away from me.

  She caught herself up.

  It’s not about me.

  But still, it caused her pain. He wanted them, she wanted them. One of them had to surrender.

  She thought and then wrote a quick email to Tim:

  I don’t disagree in principle with what you want to do. I understand you’d like the girls with you. The problem is that Pa is desperately ill, and the doctors are expecting him to go at any time. I would prefer it if the girls could be here when that happens. Can we try and agree to be flexible? If they are here for that, and it happens before Christmas, I don’t mind if you take them for the stretch between Christmas and New Year. If not, you can take them for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, but I’d prefer it if they can be nearby in case of any sudden changes. I hope you can see that this won’t be repeated,
and I’d appreciate your understanding.

  Alex x

  She read it through again, and felt that it was the best response she could give right now. It seemed odd to be bargaining with her father’s life, but she had no other option: she didn’t want the girls to remember their grandfather’s death as a time of distance and confusion.

  I lived through that. I know how awful it is.

  They would know everything, every step of the way. That was the best thing for all of them, she was sure.

  Chapter Twenty

  David had been drifting in and out of consciousness for such a long time, he’d forgotten what it was like to hear a whole conversation. Certainly the idea of getting up, walking around and participating seemed so removed from his reality as to be closer to a dream than a memory. He was not exactly conscious even when he became more aware of his surroundings. It was like lying fast asleep while a radio played in the same room, and sometimes what was on it dropped into his consciousness along with the memories that floated like feathers around his mind.

  He heard Alex and Johnnie. He was aware when Mundo spoke, the bass of his voice shimmering through his consciousness, sending things shaking and awry. It pounded like a distant rock track, booming away, hurting almost.

  He knew Sally was constantly with him, and that comforted him. Throughout his life with her, she’d been assiduous about looking after him. No one could have been kinder to him, or more solicitous, and he’d accepted it gratefully. The calm of life with her was welcome after the tempests of his first marriage. How lucky he had been that Sally was there, supporting him, when the final, awful blows fell. She’d been prepared to devote herself to him for the rest of his life, because the two of them were bound together after that. He loved her, in a pleasant, friendly way that never scared him, or hurt him. If for some reason Sally had left him, he would not have felt that his soul had been hollowed out and his whole being drained; he wouldn’t have suffered agony in the way he had with . . .