by Isabel Wolff
Firstly, Theo and Beverley have met. And yes, I know what she said, but I just don’t believe her—why else the strenuous denials? And look, I’m not being conceited or anything, but, as you know, I’m pretty good at reading between the lines. And my guess is that Bev’s simply embarrassed about the six-year age gap, so she’s trying to play it all down. Plus she’s naturally going to be a bit wary because Theo’s been through a lot. But I can see them together quite easily actually. I sensed some Karmic bond. Now, as I swept leaves in the garden, I had a sudden, happy vision of their wedding in about, what, eighteen months time? There was Trevor, chief usher at the register office, with a white ribbon round his neck. Then we were going on to the Planetarium for the reception, or maybe Greenwich Observatory. And now we’d had the wedding breakfast and Theo was making his speech.
‘This is a wonderful day for me,’ he began, his voice quivering with emotion, ‘after a painful and difficult time. But meeting Bev has changed everything: she’s brought the sunshine back into my life. But our happiness would never have been possible without…’ he was looking at me ‘…our dear friend, Rose. To Rose Costelloe!’ he said, raising his glass as I blushed and smiled. And now I fast forwarded to the christening of their first child. They’d asked me to be god-mother to the baby who—you’ll never guess—they’d named after me! It was incredibly touching, and as I dug a large dandelion out of the ground I had to fight back the tears. The privilege of making other people happy. The joy of sorting out their lives. Take Henry and Bea for example: I’d brought them together as well. Now I was suddenly at their wedding, in Ashford, as the twins’ parents still live down there. In fact—yes—of course—it was a double wedding—two have and two hold—because Bella was getting hitched too. She was marrying the Jackson Pollack whom she’d also met, indirectly, through me! The twins had on identical cream silk Vera Wang dresses, though strangely, Henry was wearing one too… And I was just trying to imagine how this would look in the wedding album when the phone rang. I picked it up.
‘Hi,’ said Bea. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Wedding. I mean, weeding.’
‘In December? You must be mad. Anyway, I’ve got some news, about Henry.’
‘Don’t tell me—he’s asked you out.’
‘No. I’ve asked him out actually.’
‘That’s jolly brave.’
‘Well I’ve decided I’m not going to hang about. I’m thirty-seven, I really like him, so I’m going to be upfront and direct. Henry’s such a good sport,’ she giggled. ‘I mean, what a great sense of humour—going to the ball in drag!’
‘Er, yes.’
‘You don’t want him back yourself, do you, Rose?’ Bea suddenly asked, sounding stricken. ‘After all, you did know him first.’ I visualised Henry in his black silk cocktail dress, sling-backs and pink feather boa.
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s great. But I don’t.’
‘And you know he told us about this empty shop near High Street Ken? Well yesterday Bella and I went to see it and this morning we signed the lease. It’s slightly out of the way,’ she went on, ‘so we got it at a good price. But it’s perfect.’
‘That’s great news. And how’s Bella?’
‘Smitten with her new bloke. It’s Andrew this and Andrew that—it’s enough to make you throw up. But I’m not really bothered because I hit it off with Henry. You can tell when a man likes you,’ she went on expansively. ‘We had this instant rapport. Speaking of which I thought Theo and Bev really got on.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘They did. Beverley’s being coy about it; and of course he’s got baggage what with his separation and everything but, well…watch this space.’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask what you’re doing at Christmas?’ Bea added. ‘Do you want to come home with us? We’re going down tomorrow.’ Christmas in Ashford? No thanks.
‘That’s really kind, Bea,’ I said carefully. ‘But I’m not sure I want to go back. You know; all those memories…’ My voice trailed away.
‘Mmm…thought you might say that. So what will you do?’
‘I’ll be here, on my own.’
‘Sounds absolutely ghastly.’
‘No, I shan’t mind.’
‘What about Bev and Trev?’
‘They’re going to her parents in Stevenage tomorrow and then to Scotland for Hogmanay.’
‘And where will Theo be?’
‘In Leeds with his folks. But I’ll have Rudy to talk to, and I’ve got a huge backlog of letters. Honestly, Bea, I’ll be fine…’
‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,’ crooned Rudy on Christmas Eve. ‘Hello, this is The World Tonight!’
I heard the clatter of the letter box and went to pick up the second post. There was an invitation to the next Agony Aunts’ lunch in January and a handful of Christmas cards. There was one from ‘The Editor’s Office’ signed—or stamped, rather—by Ricky, and his deputy, Pete. There was one from Accounts signed by fifteen people none of whom I’d ever met. There was a card from Pyschic Cynthia with my astrological chart for the coming year. Thanks to ‘generous Jupiter’ I could look forward to ‘stunning changes ahead.’ I don’t want any more stunning changes, I thought, I’ve had more than enough this year. I’d moved house twice and my marriage had failed. I needed only a death to complete the hat trick of traumatic life events. There were five cards from the publicity departments of various publishers and the rest were from assorted friends. ‘Hope you’re okay,’ was the most frequent message—a tactful reference to my forthcoming divorce. ‘Must catch up soon,’ was another favourite—i.e. ‘tell us what’s been going on.’ I scribbled back a few from my emergency pack—they’d arrive late but I didn’t care. I wasn’t even bothering to keep up appearances, I was saying Bah Humbug! to Christmas this year; my only concession to the festive season was a strand of tinsel through my weeping fig. If I’d had the money I’d have gone off to some remote Pacific island, alone. Now I opened the last card which had been forwarded to me from London FM. It was of a Christmas tree decorated with shiny red hearts and it was inscribed, To dearest Rose, my favourite agony aunt in the whole wide world and a very Special Lady. With lots of love, Colin Twisk. xxxxx P.S., it said in the bottom left hand corner, your wonderful advice has worked! I stared, slightly queasily, at the crosses by his name, then the phone rang. I picked it up.
‘Hello?’ I said. There was silence; then heavy breathing, more rasping than before. I took a deep breath, put the phone down, then shouted ‘Wanker!’ Suddenly I heard Theo’s tread on the stairs.
‘Are you talking to me?’ he said with a smile.
‘No. I had another nuisance call. I keep getting them, Theo. It’s such a…’
‘Nuisance?’
‘Yes.’ I pressed 1471. ‘Number withheld.’
‘You should ring BT or the police.’
‘I don’t feel I can—I haven’t been threatened yet.’
‘Well if it carries on I would. Anyway, I’m off to the, er, familial bosom,’ he said rolling his eyes. ‘I’ll be back on the twenty-eighth. I hope you’ll be all right on your own, Rose.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I murmured. ‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t forget to put the chain on the door.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And do screen your phone calls.’ I nodded, touched by his forthright concern. ‘Well, then, I guess I’ll love you and leave you,’ he said brightly as he put on his coat. I felt a sudden stabbing sensation in my sternum.
‘What’s up, Rose? You look pained. What’s the matter?’ he repeated. ‘Did I say something wrong?’
‘Yes. You did actually.’
‘What?’
‘Well…it’s just that I loathe that expression.’
‘What expression?’
‘“I’ll love you and leave you”.’
‘Oh,’ he looked nonplussed. ‘Why?’
‘Because Ed always used to say that—“I’ll love you and leave you.” And that’s exactly
what he did.’
Theo looked at me. ‘Then in that case I’ll just wish you a very Happy Christmas,’ he said, then he opened the door.
‘That’s better. Thanks. You too.’
I felt oddly disconcerted by Theo’s absence—well you get used to people, don’t you?—so I decided I’d have a bit of a sort out—I find it pleasantly distracting. So I sorted out my wardrobe—I like to keep my clothes neatly arranged by colour (and of course, season), then I lined up my shoes. I tidied out my handbag—restoring everything to its designated compartment—then I gave the house a bit of a clean. I washed the kitchen floor, then vacuumed the hall, then went all up the stairs. I hoovered the landing on the top floor by Theo’s bedroom and, as his door just happened to be open a crack, I decided to give his carpet a quick blast. He’d had a bit of a clear-up I couldn’t help noticing as I pushed the cleaner inside. The books were unpacked and ranged on the shelves, the posters blu-tacked neatly to the walls. There was one of a star-chart, like a child’s join the dots puzzle, white on midnight blue. I stared at the constellations: Ursa Major, Canis Minor, Taurus and Gemini—that’s my sign. Most of the others I’d never heard of: Bellatrix, Carina, Delphinus, Sculptor, Phoenix, Aquila and Lynx. There was also a large map of the moon, the craters speckling the grey surface like rising bubbles: these had lovely names too. ‘Oceanus Procellarum,’ ‘Mare Humorum’ and ‘Mare Serenitas.’ I wished I could feel serene, I thought as I glanced around the rest of his room.
The silk nightie still peeked from under his pillow—poor chap. And now I looked at the photo in its silver frame: this, I guessed, was his wife. She was blonde, very pretty, with an oval face and she had this fantastic smile. It struck me again that she looked a little like Theo, but then we often are drawn to our own physical type. To my surprise, she didn’t look hard, as I’d imagined her, but humorous, as though she could be easily delighted or amused. Poor Theo. He’d clearly adored her—breaking up with her must have been hell. I closed his door, went downstairs where the answer machine was winking—the Hoover must have masked the sound of the phone.
‘Rose, it’s Henry!’ I heard, to my huge relief. ‘Just down to Wiltshire to see my folks. Thanks for taking me to the ball. It was…’ he paused, ‘…a very special night. I expect you know that Bea’s called a couple of times,’ he added with a self-conscious laugh. ‘She’s a super girl—really good fun—and I’ll be seeing her again quite soon. Anyway, I wish you a Cool Yule, Rose, despite everything, and a brilliantly Happy New Year.’ Then he crooned, in his attractive baritone, ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas…’ blew me a long, noisy kiss, like bath-water being sucked down the plug, and was gone.
The one thing this Christmas wasn’t going to be was merry, but what could I do? I was right not to go back to Kent. The truth is—and I don’t know why I’m telling you this—I never enjoyed Christmas there. We’d spend half the day in church, and there was no television because my folks disapproved. We’d listen to the Queen on the radio and when the National Anthem played we’d all have to stand! Then my mum’s two unmarried aunts would come over, but to be honest, they were dreadfully dull. And I’d hear the twins’ laughter ringing through the wall, and the sound of their TV. So I’d ask my parents if I could go next door, and eventually they’d agree. ‘But only as long as you’re no trouble,’ Mum would say. She was always saying that. ‘You mustn’t be any trouble,’ she would tell me every time I was asked out. ‘I do hope she wasn’t any trouble?’ she’d enquire anxiously when she came to pick me up. And the other mums would always say, very nicely, ‘Oh not at all—good as gold.’
Looking back, I think that was true. I was much too quiet to be naughty. My height had made me horribly shy. I don’t mind it now—in fact I quite like it—but when I was a kid I absolutely hated being so tall. And it was as though my parents felt they had to apologise for me the whole time; as though they were embarrassed by their freakish-looking ‘daughter’ who, anyone could see at a glance, wasn’t theirs. But then they can’t have known, when they adopted me, that I’d be almost six foot by the time I was twelve. But in any case I didn’t get invited that much because my friends weren’t often allowed back. As I say, Mum was fanatically house-proud and she didn’t want too much ‘noise’ and ‘mess’.
To be perfectly, yes, perhaps even brutally honest, I don’t think my parents liked children that much. So much so that I’d often wonder why on earth they’d wanted me. I mean, why would a forty-three-year-old couple, childless for fifteen years, suddenly decide to adopt? It was only after they’d died, and I was sorting through their things, that I found out the answer to that. Anyway, Christmas in Ashford holds few happy memories, which is why I prefer to stay here.
By contrast Christmas last year was bliss. Ed and I joked that it was ‘Kissmas,’ in love and alone in his house. As I switched on the radio, I thought bitterly of him and my porcine replacement all cosy in front of the fire. I had a sudden happy vision of her on one of our Wedgwood platters, trussed, stuffed and honey-glazed, with an expression of surprise on her piggy little face and a large apple in her mouth…
Once in Royal David’s city, piped the boy treble from King’s College, Cambridge, stood a low-ly cattle shed. Where a mother, laid her baby… Lucky baby I thought. In a man-ger for its bed… Carols always get to me. I felt the familiar ache in my throat. Mary was that mother mild…Wish mine had been. Jesus Christ, her little child. As my eyes started to brim with tears of self-pity I switched the radio off. The best remedy for pain is distraction, so I went into my study and started to work. There’s nothing like immersing yourself in other people’s worries to make you completely forget your own.
He’s finished with me, I can’t bear it, I read. My wife’s met this man over the Net… My son hasn’t seen me for twelve years… My neighbour’s rows keep me awake all night.
I’d got through about twenty replies before realising that it had got dark. So I went down to the sitting room to draw the curtains when I heard the distinctive squeak of the gate. I looked through the spyhole and my heart sank. Not again. Heaven’s bait.
‘Good evening, Madam!’ said the first one pleasantly, lifting his hat.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ve asked you not to call.’
‘But we would like to share the joy of God’s love with you. Have you five minutes of your precious time to spare?’
‘No.’
‘But Jehovah is waiting to welcome you into his glorious Kingdom.’
‘Then he’ll be waiting a long time.’
‘But Jesus loves you, Miss Costelloe!’
‘That’s what they all say…’ What? ‘How did you know my name?’ I snapped.
‘Because you’re on the electoral roll.’ Oh. Of course.
‘Look,’ I said wearily, ‘you’re wasting your time. I dislike organized religion and I don’t believe in Jesus. Happy Christmas. Goodbye.’
I double locked the door, put the chain on again, and settled down in front of the box. On the screen was a euphoric Jimmy Stewart, running through Bedford Falls.
‘Merry Christmas everybody!’ he was shouting. ‘Merry Christmas!’ It was A Wonderful Life wasn’t it? Not…
The next day, while most of the country stuffed themselves senseless, watched telly and quarrelled, I worked. At seven-thirty, I bagged up my thirty-three replies, all ready to be posted, then got out a bottle of wine. And yes, I know, I know, you shouldn’t drink alone, slippery slope and all that. But I thought, why shouldn’t I? It’s Christmas Day; I’m pissed-off and I’ve been working non-stop. Forty minutes later I’d had most of a bottle of rather good Merlot when I heard the gate squeak again. Then the doorbell rang and I stiffened, bracing myself for more grief.
Away in a manger…piped childish voices. Relieved, I groped for my bag. No crib for a bed. Where was it? Oh. Right here. The little lord Jesus… I peeped through the spyhole, then drew back the chain. Lay down his sweet head… There were five of them standing on the step aged between about
seven and twelve. They were obviously local kids, on a late trawl for pocket money, but their voices were clear and sweet. The stars in the bright sky… I opened my purse. Look down where he lay… What on earth should I give them? A fiver would be about right I didn’t have one. I only had a twenty quid note. The little lord Jesus…Oh, what the hell…asleep on the hay.
‘That’s to share,’ I said, handing it to the biggest boy. ‘And don’t spend it on cigarettes.’
‘Oh no. Thanks Mrs,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Fanks,’ said a younger boy. ‘You can have another carol for that if you like.’
‘She can have two more,’ said a small girl generously.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘One was fine.’
‘Happy Christmas!’ they said as they left. ‘God bless!’
‘God bless you,’ I replied. ‘Think I’ll turn in Rudy,’ I said, dizzy with drink. I covered his cage.
‘Nighty night!’
It was only ten to nine but I ached for sleep: the combination of work, wine and seasonal sadness had exhausted me. My head hit the pillow like a brick. But I had strange dreams. I had the dream I sometimes have about my mother—my ‘real’ one I mean. We’d met at last, but it was at the Old Bailey, where she was in the dock. I was the prosecuting lawyer, in a wig, and I was cross-examining her. And my voice, which had started quiet, got louder and louder until I was really shouting at her. I was letting rip about how she’d deserted me and never, ever, ever come back.
‘How could you do it?’ I yelled. ‘How could you? How could you?’
She looked ashamed and appalled. I have this dream every now and then and it always makes me feel happy and light. Then I had an erotic dream about Ed, which upset me, followed by a nightmare about Citronella Pratt. She was looking at me pityingly and saying, ‘Oh poor Rose. You’ve got so many problems haven’t you? Oh I do so feel for you.’ And I was about to ask her what she was being so bloody smug about what with her husband famously running off with a man, not to mention the fact that she’d lost her crappy column in the Sunday Semaphore and was now reduced to being the agony aunt on that cheap weekly, Get! magazine, when something suddenly woke me up.