Snow Angels, Secrets and Christmas Cake

by Sue Watson

  ‘Stacey... this is Sam,’ Richard started, and she threw me a glance over her shoulder and an almost inaudible ‘hi,’ before turning back to him. I felt humiliated and walked off.

  ‘Hold on... where are you going?’ Richard called, catching me up.

  ‘I don’t have all day to wait for you,’ I said as he panted and puffed and caught me up.

  He discreetly caught my hand in his - and the feeling of his warm glove around my cold bare hand was so comforting I melted slightly felt an urge to kiss him - but resisted. We didn’t show our affection in public because I didn’t want it to affect Jacob and Ella at school. If the other parents knew we were an item, then the kids would too, and if things didn't work out it would make it all the more difficult for everyone.

  We wandered back, chatting and laughing, away from the playground without the yummy mummies lurking, I felt free and being with Richard felt good. But arriving at the bakery I was delighted, and concerned, to see a small queue had formed, with Mrs J behind the counter trying to handle it alone.

  ‘Do you want any help?’ Richard asked. ‘I can serve if you like?’

  I knew Mrs J could handle it – as long as no one from the afterlife distracted her. The previous morning I’d come back from the school run to find her ignoring the queue of customers to do an impromptu Q and A with deceased members of the Coronation Street cast. Consequently, I was keen to have extra support which was why I’d asked Tamsin to help – and I liked having Richard around. In fact, I’d started to miss him on the nights he stayed home, which certainly hadn’t been part of my plan to keep things casual.

  So Richard helped Mrs J take the money and serve people while I replenished the stock and laid out more loaves and cakes. Most people had turned up to buy emergency bread because they hadn’t been able to get to the supermarket due to the snow-blocked roads. And this was working for the White Angel Bakery – because along with the bread, they were buying cakes, cookies and Christmas gingerbread.

  When Mrs J had to leave to ‘get our Lawrence’s dinner’ at noon, Tamsin arrived, slipped off her kitten heels and got behind the counter with Richard. I had been expecting a panicked call from her all morning to ask where somewhere was or who was going to help her carry boxes, but she’d done it all. ‘So everything’s delivered?’ I asked, surprised. She nodded coolly; ‘Of course, what did you expect? Now if you don’t mind I have customers,’ she gestured to the waiting hordes. I blew her a kiss, my sister was quite amazing when she wanted to be. She and Richard were brilliant, chatting away and serving quickly and efficiently. I smiled as I heard Tamsin describing the gingerbread as ‘sublime’ and waxing lyrical about the savoury plaits until they were all sold. Her glitzy black top was covered in bread crumbs and cake dust and by three pm we had sold all the bread and far more cakes and cookies than I’d ever expect to sell on a snowy Wednesday in December. The door was jingling constantly and at one point I looked up from a tray of steaming Mediterranean bread to see Richard serving a group of yummy mummies at the table... all four of them watching intently as he went through the menu... and, I noticed, caressing their necks as he described each and every cake. Tamsin looked over at me and winked, ‘I told you, love – get in there before someone else does,’ she said, taking the tray of bread from my hands.

  Later, Tamsin went to collect Jacob while Richard and I cleared up.

  ‘I sometimes wonder if I’m not interesting enough for you,’ he looked up from the table he was wiping.

  I shook my head. Where was this coming from?

  ‘I do have a past,’ he smiled. ‘I used to paint,’ he leaned back on the counter, staring ahead. ‘I never had the courage to try and make a living from it like you did with this place.’

  ‘Wow... you never said.’

  ‘I sold a few to a gallery once, just watercolours, not big and daring art. I’m no Damien Hirst.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I have a problem with art – well some art. It comes from having a sister who would have paid a million pounds for a toenail if someone had told her it was art,’ I laugh.

  ‘Ah... you can laugh, but the right toenail…’ he smiled.

  ‘So if you don’t create bizarre installations of your unmade bed or the odd toenail what do you paint?’ I asked.

  ‘I just paint what I like, I wanted to paint you and Jacob and Ella walking home from school in the snow yesterday.’

  My heart melted. He reached out to me, slipping his arm round my waist.

  He laughed. ‘When we walked back here and I saw the window filled with Christmas cupcakes I wanted to paint that too... I think you’ve inspired me.’

  ‘Ah... I’m touched.

  ‘...and when you’re naked... I want to paint you.’

  ‘Oh God – weirdo – and he knows where I live,’ I rolled my eyes.

  ‘I’d like to paint you... now, laughing like that,’ he said.

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘Yes, preferably,’ he had a glint in his eye and he pulled me closer.

  ‘There you are!’ Mrs J appeared in the doorway.’ What’s going on in here with you two mooning over each other?’ she said, starting to polish the glass counter. Honestly it was starting to feel like Central Station with Tamsin or Mrs J popping up at the most inopportune moments.

  Richard said hello to Mrs J then said he’d better get off. I think he found some of the ladies in my life a little too forceful - they intruded with force and said what they thought – loudly. ‘There was no mooning, Mrs J,’ I curled my lip. ‘Richard and I were just having a rare and quiet moment,’ I said pointedly, when he’d gone.

  ‘Whatever – just don’t let that sister of yours know you’re entertaining gentlemen callers during office hours, she’s worried you’ll relapse.’

  ‘Relapse into what? Prostitution?’

  ‘Ooh Sam, you’ve got a filthy mouth, it’s shocking,’ she said, putting the chairs on the tables so she could give the floor ‘a good do’.

  I smiled, she worked hard at the bakery, cleaning and stepping behind the counter when necessary and was as reliable as clockwork. She also never, ever failed to pass judgement on what I was doing. It was annoying and often humiliating – but I had to smile, because somewhere underneath that perm and those tight, disapproving lips was a heart of gold – and a lot of love for the Angel sisters.

  ‘Anyway Mrs J, I told you, I’ve given up on guys. I don’t make the same mistakes twice... that’s called masochism.’

  ‘Oh... so that’s what you do, is it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean I ... I don’t indulge in whips and ...’ I tried, because she was likely to tell anyone who’d listen that Sam from the bakery was ‘one of them masochists’.

  I ceased trying to explain myself when she disappeared under the table to wipe the floor, I was too tired and it would only get complicated. I opened the oven and let the blast of warmth light my face as I surrendered more rum sultana cakes into the furnace-like heat. I went to the window to see if Tamsin was on her way back with Jacob and, sure enough, there she was in the snow still wearing her ‘delivery outfit’ and designer heels.

  Mrs J joined me at the window. ‘She looks like the cat’s dinner.’

  Together we watched her staggering through the snow in a visor and dark glasses. She and Jacob were throwing snowballs at each other – Tamsin’s were small and not very robust, with more of a scattering than a throwing action, but Jacob’s were big and heavy and his aim was good, and at one point I feared she’d be knocked out. But after every freezing whack on the head she’d gather herself together, and waving to Tim the butcher in a flirty way, soon regained her flounce through three feet of snow.

  ‘What is she like?’ Mrs J sighed, shaking her head.

  ‘She’s something else, my sister,’ I smiled, my heart filling with love and pride.

  14

  Yummy Mummies in Knock-off Gucci

  Tamsin

  I think what struck me most about being ‘poor’ at this time of
year was that everyone else seemed to be ‘doing Christmas’ except me. The bakery was all about the festive season, with glittery toppings and sprigs of holly and snowflake-shaped cookies. The TV was sheer torture, with commercials for glittering liqueurs, breathtaking chocolates and delicious perfume ads where you didn’t recall the perfume, just the beautiful woman wandering through it. There was no escape, and for someone who was used to having the money to just buy this stuff, it was a special kind of hell.

  I thought about how different this year would be from last, I’d always insisted on the family eating together when we could – and Christmas was the epitome of this. I loved that we spent time together on Christmas Day, but the rest of the year we all seemed to go our separate ways. I wanted to be a ‘proper’ family and chat about our day over a meal together. But often it would end up with Simon and I at the table alone as the kids gobbled their food and abandoned us. Hugo would be prostrate on the sofa, watching something inappropriate on TV and Hermione would disappear to her bedroom.

  Before they broke up for the Christmas holidays the kids were from a wealthy family. They didn’t have the usual student worries about paying for rent and food because we covered all that and more. But their new term in January would be quite different... and thinking about it – that might just be the making of them. Only the day before, Hugo had made everyone beans on toast at Sam’s – something he’d never have done before. Hugo never cooked and wouldn’t have touched baked beans. ‘I need to practice,’ he’d said. ‘No more take-aways and restaurants when I go back to Uni – we can’t afford it now.’ I felt so proud and hearing that I realised my son would be fine and step up to this new, challenging time ahead.

  Being a mum and going through my own kids’ growing pains had made me aware of Jacob’s problems too. Of course Sam denied he was having problems, but I’d collected him from school and he was always on his own. Sam knew that he didn’t make friends easily and some of the kids made fun of him but was so close to it she hadn’t really looked at the situation from both sides.

  Before I moved in, I’d sometimes walked to school with Sam and Jacob before meeting Phaedra or Anouska for coffee. I’d seen the withering looks from the designer-clad yummy mummies hanging around in the playground in nasty little clusters. Of course they weren’t in ‘real’ designer, it was all rather faux. But I suspected their snobbery and meanness was far more real than their cheap knock-off Gucci handbags.

  Sam was attractive, a little younger, but wore huge, baggy jumpers and sometimes even flip flops or sandals in winter. When it was warm she wore vests that showed off her pert figure and you could see the jealousy in their over-made-up eyes. They resented her because she was different – and the fact she didn’t even try to join their gang bothered them the most. It was the same at school, I can’t count the times I’d had to threaten or hit some bullying madam who didn’t understand my sister and saw her as an easy target to mock or threaten. How I longed to do the same for her and Jacob now – wait by the school gates at home time and sort out the bullies.

  I loved the fact that Sam was a free spirit and didn’t care what people thought – but I worried it was affecting Jacob. One evening, I went into his room and sat on the end of his bed for a chat. I missed bedtime with my own children, who had friends, and probably lovers now, and didn’t need Mum.

  ‘Do you like school Jacob?’ I asked, tucking him in.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well... do you have friends who make you happy when you go there? Do you like your teacher?’

  ‘Mrs Robinson’s nice, but Josh is a dick.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not nice, to call someone that.’ I tried not to reveal my shock at such a vulgar word coming from my nephew’s rosebud lips.

  ‘No, but that’s what he calls me. He says my jumper’s too big and my hair’s too long.’

  ‘Would you like to get your hair cut?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mummy likes it.’

  ‘But do you like it?’

  ‘Daddy likes it.’

  My heart broke. I could see he was suffering in his own little six-year-old way but I hadn’t yet worked out how I could help my nephew. So after a rather confusing chat about something called ‘Minecraft’, I kissed him goodnight and left him to go to sleep. Sam was baking downstairs so I joined her and tried to broach the subject of Jacob’s hair and being Sam she behaved like I was suggesting he join a cult. She went on and on about him being an individual and accused me of all kinds of evil.

  ‘I just think you could make life easier for him by getting his hair cut,’ I reiterated.

  ‘Keep out, Tamsin. Jacob is a good and happy little boy and he is what he wants to be. I will not have him changing for someone else – if some of the kids don’t like his hair then hard luck.’

  I understood that Jacob’s identity and Steve’s memory were wrapped up in all this and I knew it was important, but to whom?

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you change his personality,’ I said, but a haircut would have been a start. I respected her principles and ideals about being an individual – but at his age, Jacob just wanted to be like his friends, he didn’t want to stand out.

  ‘His long “girl’s” hair is all the other kids see,’ I said.

  ‘Jacob loves his hair like that... it reminds him of his Dad.’

  ‘It reminds you of his Dad,’ I said, without thinking.

  She glared at me, ‘Ask him... ask him then if he likes his hair like his Daddy’s.’

  ‘No. Because that’s a loaded question... you’re putting your own loss onto that child. He was twelve months old when Steve died, he doesn’t remember what his Dad’s hair was like,’ I tried to say this gently but she wasn’t happy.

  ‘Stop telling me what to do... how to run my life. And keep out of my relationship with Jacob too!’ she yelled, running upstairs to the flat like a teenager.

  I was only trying to help. I don’t know why I bothered, she never took my advice anyway. It wasn’t just the way she was with Jacob, she didn’t know how to cook pasta, she had sex on the floor and her hands looked like an old man’s with bitten nails, but would she get a manicure? I dared to mention it and she bit my head off like I’d told her she had to fly first class to Cannes in her lunch hour.

  Then there was the pierced navel and her refusal to marry lovely Richard. I knew it was difficult for her to take another man into her bed (though not the floor apparently) and I understood her reasons. I’d held her hand through it all, but I felt it was time she moved on, cut her son’s hair, say ‘yes’ to Richard – and no to any more piercings.

  I hadn’t meant to hurt her, but I had to address the hair situation because I believed her own grief might be hurting Jacob. I had to help my nephew – in the same way I’d helped Sam after Steve’s death.

  After only a week in the hospital she was discharged and I brought her home with me. She’d been a total mess when I collected her, calling for Steve, only wanting Jacob. I’d made sure she had a beautiful private room with apricot walls and matching bed linen, but in spite of all this she was still desperately unhappy.

  My friends said I should book her into a really good spa, apparently there’s a wonderful one somewhere down south. But I brought her back to the bosom of my family on Chantray Lane and installed Fifi, my life coach on suicide watch. Fifi practically saved my sister’s life. Five years later, here she was with her own business, a lovely kid and a nice boyfriend. She’d done so well and I didn’t want her to fall at the final hurdle.

  15

  Lusty Firemen and Frosty Macarons

  Sam

  It was just before closing time and Mrs J was reading Heddon and Hall’s tea leaves in a rare quiet moment when I got the phone call from Tamsin. ‘I can’t get it to go,’ she shrieked down the phone, followed by a loud ‘OH MY GOD IT’S STOPPED! I assumed she was referring to the van, which Mrs J confirmed with a nod.

  I put down the phone. �
�If that was in the leaves you might have told me sooner, Mrs J,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve only just seen it. But there’s worse to come I can tell you that.’

  Great, I thought, and thanks for breaking it to me so gently, and I went to greet my hysterical sister whose screams could now be heard over the van shuddering to a halt outside the bakery. The bonnet was smoking and Tamsin was yelling for help. So there was worse to come... worse than this? Really?

  Fortunately Heddon and Hall placated her while I called the garage.

  ‘Call the fire brigade, my love, we need those boys - it could all go up at any time,’ cried Heddon, clinging to a tearful Tamsin. But that wasn’t necessary – I knew he just fancied a parade of lusty firemen with his frosty macarons and coffee.

  Having calmed Heddon, Hall AND Tamsin, I spoke with Fred at the garage, whose opening line was, ‘Sounds like your big end’s gone, love’; I felt like it had too. I held on to the phone, not understanding a word of his garage-speak, just wanting to know the bottom line – would I have a van for deliveries in the morning? To my despair, the roundabout answer seemed to be ‘no’, and even worse – no van the following morning or the one after that either. Still clinging to the phone, my mind everywhere else, I tried not to cry as Fred talked worryingly about big ends, back ends and front ends, expensive parts, transmission systems and drive belts, which was just a list of unrelated sounds to me.

  ‘Just... Fred how much? How much and when can it be fixed?’ I asked.

  Again I was given another list of engine-related words and sounds, but all I heard was ‘about a grand’.

  ‘But the van isn’t even worth that,’ I protested. Then I cried.