Christmas Every Day

by Beth Moran

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. I… slipped in a puddle. I couldn’t see it, because I’d lost my glasses.’

  As I finished speaking, he handed them to me for the second time.

  Placing them firmly on my nose, I straightened my spine, daring him to disbelieve me.

  ‘You lost your glasses walking out of a shed?’

  I stared right into his eyes, which looked chocolate brown in the wintry sunlight. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You slept in there?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  Shaking his head slightly, he began to walk away. ‘That’s great. I don’t want to know your business. I’ve got better things to do than come to your rescue every five minutes. How about next time you fall over, you do it a bit more quietly?’

  ‘Next time, how about ignoring me? I didn’t ask you to come to my rescue.’

  ‘Fine. That’s a deal. You’re obviously perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.’

  ‘Yes. I am. What made you think I wasn’t? The fact I have breasts and long hair means I need taking care of?’ I shouted after him.

  He turned, frowning. ‘I can’t say I’d noticed. But you’re right. People lose their glasses and slip in dry puddles while walking out of sheds all the time. Good day.’

  I watched him stride away, non-existent retorts dissolving in my throat. Turning around to confirm that, yep, all trace of last night’s puddles had dried up in the sunshine, I brushed a straggle of cobweb off my jeans and prepared to re-enter the shed to get my bags.

  It was only later that I registered that the man had worn no shoes and carried a cricket bat. He really had been coming to save me. No, thanks. The whole reason I was here was to prove to my family, my ex-work colleagues, the slime-ball Richard, and mostly myself that I could take care of myself. Which I would start doing that very day. Once I’d found somewhere to empty my bladder and get a decent cup of coffee.

  The car didn’t leave much room in the shed for anything else but hung up around the walls were some gardening tools, various other pieces of worn-out clutter and an ancient-looking black bike. As I had no key for the car (thankfully I had found it unlocked, avoiding the need to break another window) I decided the bike would be the best way to reach civilisation before I died from caffeine withdrawal.

  To my great relief, despite the oil, rust and flabby tyres, the bike was still rideable. I creaked along, feeling like a community nurse from the nineteen fifties, following the frosty track back towards the lane and eventually the village beyond. After a few minutes, I spied a footpath leading off the track and into the forest, with a signpost pointing to Middlebeck, two miles away.

  Heaving the handlebars around, I followed the dirt path. Initially, it felt quite pleasant lumbering along between the trees. The only sounds were the cheeping of birds, or the whistle of the wind in the evergreens. The forest floor was still thick with autumn leaves – every colour from pale yellow through coppers and purples to rich mahogany. There were holly bushes laden with berries, fat and glistening in the pale sunlight. A robin hopped along the bushes beside me for a while.

  I tossed my hair in defiance at my new neighbour’s prediction that I’d be leaving so soon. This was great. I’d grab a coffee, wander around the village, ask in a few shops about any work… Maybe a coffee shop – or, no, a tea room – would need a waitress. I could sort the cottage out in my spare time, get to know some of the locals, find the key to the Mini. Everything was going to turn out splendidly.

  If I could only reach Middlebeck, which was seeming more and more unlikely as the last remains of air squished out of my back tyre, and I was now bumping and wobbling along on the rims of the wheels, probably soon to be overtaken by the snail I’d passed earlier. Clambering off, I propped the bike against a large oak tree and continued on foot, sure I must have covered two miles, and the village would appear just around the next corner.

  Three corners later, I saw a gate up ahead. And – was it a mirage caused by fifteen hours without caffeine, or could I smell freshly ground coffee?

  Hurrying through the gate, I emerged into a large clearing. It offered space to park twenty cars or so, several picnic tables, a large noticeboard displaying a map and, to my joy and relief, a brick building with a sign that read ‘The Common Café’ and a loo.

  I took a few minutes to wash my face and dab at the worst of the grot on my clothes with a paper towel. Hot water – bliss! I then scanned the chalk-board menu displayed beside a hatch designed to serve customers eating outside.

  ‘What can I get you?’ the young woman on the other side of the hatch asked.

  I ordered a large Americano and a mega-breakfast cob. I wasn’t sure what a cob was, but I needed the mega.

  ‘Were you here for New Year?’ The woman stepped back to throw a sausage onto a griddle.

  ‘No. I’ve just moved here.’

  She twisted back around to look at me, a streaky slice of bacon dangling from her fingers. ‘Middlebeck? I didn’t hear anyone new’d moved in.’

  Wow. Mum had warned me it was a place where everybody knew everything about everybody else. How small was the village? Was this clearing Middlebeck?

  ‘No. A cottage in the forest.’

  She glanced over my shoulder at the footpath I’d approached from, cracking two eggs onto the griddle one-handed. ‘Charlotte Meadows’ place? Mack never said. But then, he wouldn’t.’

  I nodded vaguely, pretending to be engrossed in taking the lid off my coffee-cup and clicking it on again. Not sure whether to feel pleased, upset or embarrassed that a stranger in a café window had just told me my grandmother’s name.

  ‘You must like a challenge, taking that on.’ She grabbed the biggest bread roll I’d ever seen and deftly placed the bacon, sausage and eggs inside, adding a slice of beef tomato and another of cheese, followed by a squirt of ketchup.

  ‘Thanks.’ I swapped the mega-breakfast cob for a handful of coins, and took a moment to figure out how to eat it.

  ‘You met Mack?’

  ‘Mmm?’ I said, around a mouthful of salty bacon and a burst of sweet tomato. With a loud gurgle, my shrivelled stomach declared this a meal better than any I’d tasted in Edinburgh’s fanciest restaurants.

  ‘Bit of a mystery man, isn’t he? But, hey, living so close, maybe you’ll crack that rough exterior. Succeed where every single woman round here failed.’ She leant on the counter, gazing off into the distance. ‘You could start by borrowing his tools, asking him to steady the ladder while you paint the ceiling, or help carry out the old oven. Get to know each other a bit better, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Urr… I’m not looking to know anyone a bit better.’

  ‘Oh.’ She stood up again, and briskly began flicking crumbs off the counter with her cloth. ‘I’ll leave you to your breakfast, then.’

  ‘No. I didn’t mean you. I meant, not any men. Not like that.’ She pursed her lips, still flicking. I panicked, having seemingly offended the first person I’d met beside the neighbour – Mack – with whom I wasn’t exactly off to a good start. ‘I’d like to get to know you better.’

  She raised one eyebrow. ‘Oh? Is that what you tell all the girls?’

  ‘Yes. No! I mean, I don’t know anyone here yet. It’d be nice to make some friends.’

  ‘Really?’ She stared over my shoulder, wisely dismissing me as the social freak I had revealed myself to be. Help, Jenny! This woman seems to know everyone. Pull it back, or the whole village’ll hear you’re bonkers and no one will give you a job. She wants to talk about men. Give her something! Think of some girls’ talk.

  ‘I’ve just come out of a bad break-up.’ I spoke louder than necessary, trying to regain her attention. ‘It was pretty hideous. Broken heart, betrayed by a close relative, publicly humiliated, blah blah blah. So, I’m off men for at least a decade. Including my neighbour. Mack, you said? Is that an actual name?’

  She looked back at me, widening her eyes to near circles. Was it working? I was far fr
om fluent in Girl. Keep going, Jenny!

  ‘I know! I suppose he’s not bad-looking, underneath the scowling, and the chauvinistic, wild-man-of-the-woods vibe. But I’m not interested in getting to know any men. Even if they do have eyes like a steamy mug of hot chocolate. So, if Mack likes to keep himself to himself, we’ll be perfect neighbours.’

  ‘Good to know.’ An unmistakeable growl came from behind me.

  I froze, holding up the mega-cob I’d been using to emphasise the point, like a ventriloquist’s puppet. Okay, so the round eyes and strange look were Girl for ‘Shut up! The man you are simultaneously complimenting and insulting, but in both cases discussing like a hunk of meat, is right behind you!’

  ‘All right, Mack?’ the woman said, cheeks flaming.

  I inched around, trying to cover my face with my purchases. Keeping my eyes firmly on the ground so all I saw was a pair of tatty running shoes, I scuttled off. How much did he hear? At the edge of the trees, I glanced back to see Mack, dressed in running gear, being asked if he wanted his usual order.

  ‘No, thanks, Sarah. I suddenly feel in the mood for hot chocolate.’

  Ugh.

  Breakfast eaten, perched on a tree stump, my humiliation dissolving in the glow of sunshine, I wheeled the bike back to the cottage with renewed vigour, itching to get inside and away from Mack as soon as possible. A search of my shed revealed a small hacksaw, about ten inches long and not even that rusty, so I got straight to work.

  Two hours later, after I’d hacked, chopped, grappled with and stomped on a few of the thinner branches, the blade snapped. I hunted through the shed again, but the only other thing I could find that would be of the slightest use was a spade. Maybe I could dig a path to the door? It was only a few metres. And that would save time in the long run, as this way the bushes wouldn’t grow back. Excellent plan, Jenny! Everything is turning out awesomely.

  Two hours after that, as I wrestled a small bush out of the ground, having dug a hole big enough to bury myself in, a prospect more appealing with every aching movement, Mack’s back door opened. I quickly picked up the spade again, putting all my fake attention on digging.

  ‘Tunnelling your way in?’ He stood there, in a grey hoodie and faded jeans, the trainers swapped for thick socks. I ignored how the muscles in his forearms flexed as he leant on the doorframe and crossed his arms. Not interested.

  ‘Surprised to see me still here?’ I said, trying not to grunt while attacking another root.

  His beard twitched. I think that might have been a smile. ‘You haven’t been inside yet.’

  Something burned hot in my stomach. ‘I’m not a quitter.’ Not any more.

  ‘Would you like a hand?’

  ‘Why, because the quicker I’m in, the quicker I’ll be gone? No, thanks. I can manage.’

  Really, Jenny, are you sure about that? Do you want all the blisters on your hand to merge together into one giant, festering sore?

  ‘How about borrowing my saw?’

  ‘If I dig the plants out, it’ll save me having to do it later.’

  Accept the saw, you stupid, stubborn goat!

  ‘Maybe. But at this rate you’ll be sleeping in the shed again.’ His eyes glittered with humour.

  I said nothing, an internal battle raging between my current loathing of all men and my need to get to the blasted back door before dark.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Och, Jenny. This man is not Richard. Stop acting like a cow. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your choice.’ He nodded, once, and went back inside. It was only then I wondered if he was trying to laugh with, not at, me.

  I thought about the rats’ eyes, gleaming in the shadows, and promised myself I’d not stop digging until I was in the darn cottage. An hour later, I broke my promise. Exhausted, hungry, fingers numb with cold, feeling slightly deranged at the stress of my predicament, I walked the forty-five minutes through the woods back to the café, just in time to find Sarah closing up. She topped up my bottle of water and, after I drained it in one, refilled it. I also bought a banana and a slab of chocolate, eating them both on the way back.

  I returned to find a huge, shiny saw propped up against one of the bushes, which looked decidedly less bushy than when I’d left. Glancing up at the ominous clouds now rolling in across the late afternoon sky, I swallowed the last piece of chocolate, along with my pride, and picked up the saw.

  The blade snapped off on the second to last branch. But, as the first drops of sleet began to fall, I had no energy left to worry about that just then. Squeezing my way through the remaining spikes, I finally entered my new home.

  3

  Wheezing and gasping, I very quickly stepped out again. I could almost feel Mack laughing through the walls. Gritting my teeth, I leant back around the door and felt for a light switch. As soon as the lights clicked on, I ducked back out, waiting for the scrabbling sounds to die down as whatever lived in there scrambled for cover. I kicked and banged the door a few times, giving them all one last chance to disappear, took a deep breath of bracing forest air, and strode into the centre of what I supposed must be the kitchen.

  The grandmother I’d heard nothing about until a few weeks ago – Charlotte Meadows – had passed away six years earlier. Mum only found out when the lawyers had tracked her down months later to inform her she’d inherited the cottage. Driven by guilt, shame and regret, she’d fled on a journey – both geographical, emotional and, it would seem, spiritual – with a final destination about as far from the self-serving socialite she’d been as it was possible to get.

  So, I’d expected the cottage to need a clean. To have a few mice, spiders, maybe even a bat or two. I knew the roof might be missing a few tiles and was fully prepared to throw on a lick of paint. But, seriously, how bad could a house get in six years?

  One look told me this house’s problems had started a long time before that. The sink, table, worktops, dresser and most of the floor were covered in stuff. Pots, pans, plates, mugs and other kitchen items. Also, three metal buckets, books, radios, a guitar-case, dozens of empty bottles and piles and piles of junk. I picked my way over to the fridge, opening the door to release a blast of mouldy air that made my eyes water and throat seize up. Slamming it shut, I pulled my jacket collar up over my mouth and nose, and turned towards the oven. The hob was buried under more rubbish, but one glance inside and I had to retreat to the garden and retch a few times.

  Sneaking over to the outside tap sticking out of Mack’s house, I took a long drink before splashing more water over my face. I desperately needed a shower, but had a feeling that wouldn’t be happening any time soon.

  The rest of the house turned out to be in much the same state. Every room jam-packed with stuff, only a narrow passage through the hoard leading between the kitchen and the living room, through to what I assumed had once been a dining room, and then to a tiny cloakroom. I didn’t think the toilet had been flushed since the last user, six years ago. More retching, more water, more deep breaths and wondering how on earth my life had come to this. On the upstairs landing I found three bedrooms, providing sleeping-quarters for yet more varieties of animal life in amongst the clutter. Another door revealed the boiler and shelves of sheets and blankets. I wrapped a musty pillow case around my nose and mouth before opening the final door into what had to be the bathroom.

  Oh, my goodness.

  My knees buckled.

  There was dust, yes, stirred up into clouds of motes shimmering in the evening sunset glowing through the enormous window. A faint hint of mildew, the odd green fleck of verdigris on the copper taps. But stepping into that bathroom was like entering an alternate universe, where things were clean and spacious and white and clean and welcoming and lovely and … just clean. Had I died and gone to bathroom heaven? Or was the reality of the bathroom so reeking it’d knocked me unconscious, triggering a hallucinogenic dream?

  Either way, I didn’t care. I crossed the wooden floor, leaving footprints in the dust, and peered into the roll-top bath.
Nothing a quick swipe with a cloth wouldn’t sort out. I opened the window, sat on the closed toilet seat and wept.

  I slept in the bath, wrapped up in my sleeping bag. It was marginally more comfortable than the Mini. The shower that had preceded it had been the best thirty minutes of my new life. Too tired for the gnawing in my stomach to bother me, I’d locked the bathroom door to keep out my assorted housemates, and slept for twelve hours straight.

  The following day, I headed back towards the village, stretching the kinks from my neck and shoulders as I walked. Bypassing the café, I carried on along a road for another quarter of a mile or so into Middlebeck. After a few big old houses, interspersed with higgledy-piggledy cottages, I arrived at the green, an area of grass circling a pond, surrounded by the village amenities. These consisted of a pub, a quaint little church and village hall, a row of shops, and Middlebeck Primary School. The shops included a general store, bakery, hairdresser, post office and a Chinese take-away. Not bursting with potential job opportunities, then, but I only needed one.

  I went to the store first, loading a basket with the barest essentials of cleaning supplies, heavy-duty rubbish sacks, an electric kettle, and various food items that needed no cooking and minimal crockery: cheese slices, crackers and bread, fruit, tins of tuna and some packets of instant pasta. A box of teabags. Counting up the dwindling notes in my purse, I then added a puncture repair kit. I also chucked in a free newspaper claiming to contain over seventy job ads.

  I asked in every shop about work, as well as the pub. People were polite, but firm. I’d be better off trying Mansfield or Nottingham. Wandering back to The Common Café, I wasted the last of my change on one final coffee, and sat in the crisp sunshine to search the paper with a breakfast of apple and cheese. There were one or two jobs that seemed possible, until I considered the cost of travel, and the timings, and the fact that I would rather starve to death in amongst Charlotte Meadows’ hoard than ask my previous employer for a reference.