What were the chances? Daniel thought to himself. Of course, he should have known . . . His client Sam Bird had not only created a series of offshore companies in which he hid his money but—as he was a narcissist—they were all named after birds. It was too much of a coincidence. He would check when he got back to the office. Normally he prided himself on having a better memory of his clients’ property portfolios, but his impression of this client was more about the man himself; a tough-talking no-nonsense Northerner who had made a ton of money and liked people to know it. He was ruthless and mercenary and Daniel suspected would have little sympathy for these tenants, if they were in fact his.
“Would you speak to them for us?” she pleaded, breaking into his thoughts.
“What?” Daniel jumped guiltily. “Speak to who?”
“The council, of course. About the rateable value review?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got a contact, but I don’t think . . .” he took another gulp of tea. “Honestly—I feel for you all. You’re getting it from both angles here, rent and rate hikes, you’re all going to have to make a plan. To raise your game. Find a way to make your businesses produce more money.”
“Oh yeah!” she mocked. “Doh, why didn’t I think of that?”
“Sorry.”
Then she forced a smile. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“Will you do something for me?”
“If I can.” She was guarded.
“I just want you to have a think—and this could help you all too—what sort of business could go into the Olde Sweet Shoppe that would complement what is already here.”
“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “I can think about it, and I’ll get the others to think too.” She gave him a considering look. “Why don’t you come to our meeting next week?”
“Who, what, when, why?”
She smiled. “In the café, next Tuesday at six o’clock, a few of us from around here, to talk about rate rises, rents, viability, all that jazz . . . yeah?”
“Sure. That could be good.” Why not, he thought to himself. He had no other clue how on earth he was going to find what Noel was looking for. The normal rules didn’t apply. Plus, he needed to find out whether Sam Bird was indeed the landlord here and come clean with them all that he had this other agenda to meet.
When Kate and Jack arrived at Greystone Manor her anxiety did not improve. She had passed it many times; it was on her bus route to work. Logistically, it would work well, but seeing the lovely old building—with a small boy in uniform trotting in with his leather satchel and holding the hand of a mum who reminded Kate of Anastasia—made her even less confident that it was an option. There was a grand circular in-and-out gravel drive, with two pairs of wrought-iron gates. She and Jack trudged in through the one marked Entrance and crunched up to the front door, a double, high, oak affair with a magnificent knocker.
“Can I do the knocker, Mummy?” asked Jack.
“I’ll have to pick you up,” said Kate, reaching down. But as she did so, the door opened, and a thinner, more polished version of Pat appeared before them in a cobalt-blue two-piece skirt suit, a blouse with a pussycat bow, and neat, sensible court shoes.
“Mrs. Thompson,” she said. “And Jack too! What a lovely surprise,” she added, bending down to be on eye level with him. “I didn’t think you would be able to come but I’m very glad you’ve made it too.”
Kate blinked. “I’m so sorry, childcare,” she muttered, trying not to stare, but failing.
“Of course, it’s no trouble at all,” said “Pat,” smiling.
“You’re . . .”
“I know. It’s disconcerting, isn’t it?”
“Pat told me you were sisters, but she said you were older.”
“Twelve minutes older, and don’t you forget it,” joked the woman. “I’m Ursula Walker,” she said, holding out her hand. “Pat’s twin.”
“Cool,” said Jack. “I know about twins. You were the same egg.”
“That’s right,” said Ursula, unabashed, giving Jack her full attention. “We are identical twins, with exactly the same DNA. But”—she held up her hand—“do you know whether identical twins have the same fingerprints?”
“No,” said Jack, intrigued.
“What do you think then?”
“Erm . . . I think you do.”
“Actually, we don’t,” said Ursula, raising her eyebrows. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yeah, that’s really amazing,” said Jack, fascinated. “What about other stuff . . . like . . . do you have moles in the same places too?”
“Sorry,” said Kate, pulling an apologetic face.
“Never apologize. Curiosity. That’s what I’m looking for. I don’t know enough about my sister to know exactly where her moles are, but my guess is we do not. Now,” she said, looking at her watch, “the other boys are just about to go into their second lesson of the afternoon, which is biology, as it happens . . . would you like to go and see what they’re up to?”
To Kate’s amazement, Jack willingly trotted off with one of the other teachers, leaving Ursula and herself in the office alone.
“So, fill me in,” said Ursula, once Kate had been given a cup of tea by the lovely secretary, who was a delightful contrast to the receptionist at the school they had just left.
Kate did so, her voice shaking with outrage when she recalled the way the woman from the Local Education Authority had wanted to send Jack to the PRU.
“It saves them money,” explained Ursula, nodding sagely. “That’s why they are pushing you to accept it. Funding children to come to a facility like this is painful for them. They say they have a commitment to providing all children with the support they need—it’s a legal requirement, actually—but they cut costs and corners if they can.”
“But how can I get them to do it?”
“First things first, let’s work out whether this is the school for Jack. If it is, then—yes, it’s a challenge—but we’ll see what we can do about the funding problem. I’ve had the reports from the LEA on Jack’s learning style . . .”
“You have? That was quick.”
“We know people,” acknowledged Ursula with a modest smile. “On the surface of it, I am confident we can meet his education needs, but I’d like to spend some time with him myself. I’m glad you’ve ended up bringing him, but first, let me tell you about Greystones . . .”
“So, it’s mainly a private school,” said Kate, checking her understanding, when Ursula reached the end. “Don’t they tend to have really high entry requirements?”
“You’re right, that’s usually the case. Parents who want to put their children into private schools tend to find the ones with additional or unusual learning requirements struggle with the entrance exams. Those are the schools who show off about their academic results which are—dare I say it—the inevitable outcome of cherry picking. What we do here is cater for boys who need to learn a different way and whose achievement is often, but not always, measured by different criteria. We don’t lower our expectations, though. Not one bit. If Jack is capable of passing a string of conventional exams, then he will do that here. But let me show you . . .”
The grand old manor house was only half of the school. A modern single-story building behind it housed most of the classrooms. The old building smelled of beeswax and disinfectant. Kate was shown the high-ceilinged, wood-paneled library and the dining room with its benches and long tables—the round, jolly cook greeting her warmly as she wiped the food remains from lunch off the tables in preparation for tea. The chocolate cake they were having was already cooling on the sideboard in two, enormous oblong trays.
“They’re growing fast, these boys,” she explained, seeing Kate looking at the cake. “They need calories and plenty of them. I make sure they get their five a day too, of course.”
In every room they went or peered into, there were small groups of boys, in their gray shorts and navy blazers, shirts tucked in and ties neatly knotte
d. Each group had at least one adult present, leading the boys in some endeavor that they clearly all found completely absorbing, such was the quiet air of rapt attention.
“We aim for calm,” explained Ursula. “A lot of these boys shut down when they are surrounded by chaos and noise. It overwhelms them and, of course, they are in no state to learn like that. We teach in short bursts, too, with lots of hands-on activities and repetition. We ignite curiosity and then let the boys explore.”
Kate’s heart swelled. This was the place for Jack.
Continuing their tour in the new part of the building, they came across him, in a group of six other boys his age, carefully examining a tank of what looked like brackish water and pond weed, with some rocks creating a sort of promontory at one end. They barely looked up as Kate and Ursula came in, but Jack saw them instantly and came toward them.
“Mummy,” he said. “Look. We’re learning about”—he paused and went on slowly and carefully—“meta-morphosis. It’s when something turns into something different, like what frogs do, look!”
“Metamorphosis, Jack, good, well done,” said the teacher, a fresh-faced young man in a tweed jacket and sharply pressed flannel trousers.
“Are you having a good time, darling?” asked Kate, pulling Jack against her for a sideways hug.
“Yeah, this is really amazing, Mummy. Can we stay a bit longer? We’re going to have break next and there’s chocolate cake on Fridays.”
“So I gather,” smiled Kate. “I think we’re not quite finished, are we?” she asked Ursula.
“Jack, will you come and have a chat with me, while Mummy carries on her tour? I’ll make sure we’re done in time for break.”
“Okay,” he said, happily. “See you, Mummy.”
Another cup of tea, this time with a slice of warm chocolate cake, was brought to her as she waited in the reception area. She was sitting with the sweet lady who seemed to be doing everything from making the tea, to answering the phone, to welcoming anyone who walked through the door—deliveries, parents, et al. She managed all of this with a smile and an air of unflappable calm.
Ursula was matter-of-fact. “Jack is a delightful boy,” she said. “I would very much like to offer him a place. However, I am bound to tell you the majority of applications for state funding are unsuccessful. It would be unkind of me to give false hope.”
“I’m desperate for you to offer a place to Jack. What would the fees be if I just paid for him myself ?”
Ursula mentioned a five-figure sum that exceeded Kate’s entire annual salary—and that was for a job that she was probably just about to lose anyway.
She hung her head. It was impossible.
“Chin up, girl,” Ursula said, suddenly sounding exactly like Pat. “I don’t agree with my sister over much,” she went on, “but I’m glad she sent you. It’s up to you now. I can only help so much. Jack has a huge advantage over all the other state-educated children who need us. He has you.”
Kate shook her head, tears filling her eyes, but Ursula was having none of it.
“You are going to have to fight. I’m sorry . . . but you will. Get onto the LEA. Know their jobs better than they do. Know Jack’s rights. Kick their arses.”
Kate blinked at the surprisingly robust language.
“Yes,” Ursula went on, unapologetically. “You need to kick their arses. You contact your MP. You contact your local paper. You embarrass them into complying with their legal obligation to provide your child with the education he needs. I will concur, I will write the letters, provide the forms, but I can’t do this for you.”
As she escorted them both to the door, she rested her hand on Kate’s arm. “I’m so sorry you have all this on your shoulders,” she said quietly. “Pat told me. It’s almost too much to bear, but you’re strong. A mother’s strength is a joy to behold. Keep going.”
Kate was not at all sure Ursula’s faith in her was justified. As she and Jack went home, she was barely listening but merely making the appropriate noises as he chattered on about his exciting afternoon, the boys he had met, and the stuff he had learned. She couldn’t remember him ever doing that on the way home from his current school. Not ever.
“What Christmas thing are we doing tomorrow?” asked Jack sleepily as Kate sat with him on his bed, stroking his hair.
“Well, it’s the weekend, so we’re having Christmas pancakes for breakfast . . .”
“Yay!”
“And then we’re doing Christmas cleaning . . .”
“Boo.”
“And then we need to do Christmas homework,” she teased.
“Muuummmy . . .”
Kate smiled. “And then . . . we’re going to the St. Nicholas Christmas Fair. Is that Christmassy enough for you?”
“What’s at the Sir Nicholas Christmas thing . . . ?”
“Saint Nicholas,” corrected Kate, gently. “Saint Nicholas is sort of the German version of Father Christmas, so the Christmas Fair is all about German Christmas celebrations, which is great, because Queen Victoria’s husband, Albert—he was German—pretty much invented Christmas in this country: Christmas trees, candy canes, gingerbread . . . er . . . Christmas cards, all that . . .” she added, having pretty much exhausted her knowledge of German-inspired Christmas traditions.
“Brilliant,” said Jack. “And you’re not selling trees?”
“Not tomorrow, monkey boy. I’m all yours.”
“We need to get our own tree,” he murmured sleepily as his eyes drifted closed. Kate watched him, smiling, but didn’t reply.
13 Days ’til Christmas
Daniel finally fell asleep only to wake again with the dawn. It was probably the gentle rocking as the big pleasure boat went by on its way to the pier to prepare for the first of its tourist trips of the day, its bow wave lifting the narrow boat in a barely-there shift and yaw. There was the soft lap of waves on the bow, the familiar condensation running down the insides of the windows . . . His bed was faintly damp, and he was too cold to sleep anymore.
In the summer his friends envied his home and felt he wasted the pulling potential his unusual accommodation offered. In the winter, no one disputed that a boat, even one moored on the Bristol canal basin right in the heart of the city, wasn’t a home for the fainthearted. It was hard work living in a place without the convenience of power, warmth, unlimited fresh water from the tap, and the easy removal of wastewater. On the river, all these essentials of a civilized life were hard won in a series of chores which Daniel never resented. Instead he found the constant need to collect fresh water, empty waste, plug into the power, recharge the batteries, and replace the gas cylinders presented a comforting physical routine.
With Zoe there, the importance of keeping the boat warm, dry, and well-resourced was paramount. It had given Daniel a sense of purpose when all hope was lost. She had died while rocked gently in her cabin, held in Daniel’s arms as they both idly watched their waterborne community, the people, boats, birds, and the river itself, flow past the porthole. It was an implacable continuity that was a profound comfort. He had dozed and then, on waking, he had found that quietly, imperceptibly, they had gone from two to one—and he was alone.
He was bad at being home alone. He cleaned and tidied the living space, which was small and didn’t take long; he had made a trip to the nearby convenience store to restock the fridge; and then he was ready to get out. To go anywhere.
Wandering from the docks into the center of town, he found himself at the Christmas Market in the St. Nicholas shopping center, a covered Georgian arcade filled with Christmas sights and smells. Especially smells. As if sleepwalking, and invisible to the throngs of families brushing against him, he haunted the aisles.
Why was it that smell was so evocative? He had brought Zoe here in her wheelchair exactly a year ago. They had known time was short, of course. The expedition had been carried out with military precision: warm clothes, medications, timings perfect. Scant strength gathered up following a late-morning na
p, he and Zoe had sallied forth from the houseboat on a mission to buy candy canes and a gingerbread house and then—strength allowing—they would take the car to Cabot Circus to choose the perfect tree. Of course, getting the tree onto the houseboat would be ridiculous, but the plan was to have it on the deck outside, still lit and decorated but, as Zoe had pointed out, happier in the chill than in the average suburban, centrally heated house.
The replay of the video in his mind of that afternoon when they chose the tree was so vivid—his excuse for interaction with Christmas Tree Girl leaped upon and savored—it was more real than his surroundings. His head filled with a memory of how her blond plait had a lock of hair escaping from it that she needed to tuck behind her ear as she chatted with Zoe. He was brought up short by a thud—a solid obstacle in his path. Dragging his mind back to the present, he looked down and was astonished to see the same blond plait.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he said, his hands shooting out to steady her as she rocked on her feet. “I totally wasn’t looking where I was going . . . I was thinking about you.” He blurted it out, his hands still holding firm to her upper arms.
She smiled up at him. “I’ve been thinking about you too,” she said, before putting her hand up to her mouth to stop the words. “Not in a weird way,” she added. “Obviously.”
“God no,” he agreed. “Me neither.”
“I was actually wondering when you were going to come and get your tree,” she said, in a rush. “You and . . .”
“Zoe,” he said. They were still standing chest to chest, just inches between them, neither drawing away.
“I never asked her name,” said Kate. “Zoe. That’s lovely.”
A long moment passed.
“She’s gone, isn’t she?” said Kate, so quietly that if Daniel hadn’t still been so close, nearly touching, he wouldn’t have heard.
He nodded, his eyes holding her gaze, watching them fill with tears. Or was it his own. He couldn’t tell any longer.
And then, because it was the most natural thing in the world, he felt her arms slip around him and his went around her in response. She pressed her head against his chest, and one of her hands moved up and held him gently on the back of his head. They stood joined, the other shoppers parting and flowing around them like they were rocks in a river. Despite being nearly a foot shorter than him, she rocked him in her arms, as she would do with Jack when he had suffered the greatest hurt in the world.
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