by Sharon Booth
It was only when I’d left college and started earning my own money that the house had been trimmed for the festive season, once more. It had made Olivia happy, I was sure, whatever she said to the contrary, and it had given me a sense of achievement and purpose. I'd felt I was helping to put the past behind us all, signalling a new start and fresh hope. I was making our house a home again. Mum hadn't said much, but I knew she appreciated the effort, and had enjoyed seeing the place so cheerfully decorated once more.
In recent years, though, both Mum and Olivia had informed me that I was going over the top with it all, which I felt was a bit unfair. All I was trying to do was add a touch of class to the proceedings, after all. It wasn't my fault that my family were stuck in the seventies and had a tinsel obsession. I, on the other hand, read the interior design magazines, and knew that Christmas decorations had moved on a long way since those days. I was determined not to be left behind. My own flat was too small to hold a decent-sized tree, so the family home was where I really went to town and practised my design skills.
"I suppose, at least, I'll have more hope of getting the kids some of the toys they want," Olivia said at last, as we left Moreton Cross behind and headed towards York. "Mind you, they've got no chance of getting everything. You should see the length of their lists. Toy adverts are an absolute bugger."
I laughed. "That's the point of them. About time Carroll's started upping their advertising budget, if you ask me."
Olivia glanced at me. "What do you mean?"
I shrugged. "Just that, well, it seems to me that we need to be attracting new customers. Jack's kind of put all our eggs in one basket with the LuvRocks contract. Easy money, I suppose. I can understand the attraction, but personally, I think it was a big mistake, and Christopher Carroll evidently agrees with me."
"He does?" Olivia sounded worried. "But we're doing okay? The factory, I mean. Things are all right?"
I flashed her a reassuring smile. Probably best not to discuss what Christopher Carroll thought. "Oh, yes, fine. It's not that. It's simply that … well, do you approve of the LuvRocks stuff? Really?"
Olivia frowned. "It doesn't bother me much, as long as we're getting paid. I know some of the older ones don't like it, though."
"Understandable. It's hardly tasteful, is it?"
Olivia tutted. "Trust you to think about that. The thing is, Jack knows what he's doing. This LuvRocks contract must be worth a fortune, since he's thrown so much work at it. Most of our production lines are working on those products now, after all."
"Exactly. What happened to good old-fashioned seaside rock, and our premium chocolates?" I shook my head. "I just think he's taken Carroll's down a rather dubious path, that's all. We should be classier than that."
Olivia's face broke into a grin. "It's all about class with you, isn't it? You're ever so pretentious, Marley. Sometimes, I think you forget where you came from."
"It's not about where you come from," I assured her. "It's where you end up that counts."
"And to hell with anyone who gets in your way en route?" Olivia raised an eyebrow.
I tutted and put my foot down on the accelerator.
York was heaving. It took us a while to find a parking space, and then we stood beside the car, deciding where to go first. Our breath hung in the air, and Olivia shivered and pulled her coat tighter. "It's bloody freezing. Can we grab a coffee before we start?"
"We've only just got here," I said. "And we have shopping to do. Coffee is our reward when we've finished."
Olivia sighed. "Wish I'd put a thicker jumper on," she muttered. "Right, where's the nearest Argos?"
"I have no idea. I'm heading to Rochester's. They do an amazing selection of Christmas decorations."
Olivia gaped at me. "Rochester's? Are you kidding me?"
"What's wrong with Rochester's?"
"Nothing, if you've got pots of money to spend, which I haven't. Why don't we find a Pound Shop? Honestly, Marley, if you will insist on changing the Christmas decorations every year, you may as well buy the cheapest ones."
I could barely believe what I was hearing. "Have you any idea how tacky that would look? Come on, let's start browsing."
Seeing Olivia's reluctance, I sighed. "There's a fabulous coffee shop in Rochester's, too. We could do some shopping, then have a drink. And think how lovely and warm it will be in there, and everything under one roof. Better than trawling the streets in this cold weather, going to different shops."
Olivia looked highly doubtful. "I wanted to visit The Shambles," she protested, referring to an ancient cobbled street in York that looked like something from a Dickens novel.
"So do I," I assured her, "but we can do that after Rochester's. What do you say?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, but I shouldn't think I'll be buying anything from there. I can't afford those prices, and I'll bet the toys are twice the price of the ones in Argos."
Rochester's Department Store was lovely and warm, and Olivia unzipped her coat with obvious relief. Even she, for all her cynicism, could hardly deny that the shop was beautifully and tastefully decorated for the festive season. Best of all, there were no cheesy Christmas songs blaring through the speaker system. I was sick to death of hearing the endless round of festive blasts from the past, although Mum loved them. But then, my mother was a child of the seventies. That sort of music was a comfort blanket to her. Instead, gentle orchestral versions of carols soothed and relaxed me and Olivia, as we browsed the selection of tree ornaments, garlands and lights.
"Oh, I love this," I said, holding up a beautiful bauble in deep purple, with silver filigree. "What do you think? Purple and silver this year?"
Olivia shrugged. "It's as good as any," she said, then caught sight of the price tag and gasped. "You're kidding me! For one poxy Christmas bauble? Marley, you're crazy. You can't possibly buy everything from here."
I was uncomfortably aware that she was right. As tempting as it was to fill a basket with a selection of the beautiful goods on display, my budget simply didn't stretch to it.
"Why don't you just get a few pieces from here, and get the rest from the Pound Shop?" Olivia suggested. "Honestly, Marley, it's a waste of money, otherwise, and you still have all your presents to buy, don't forget."
I sighed. "I suppose so." It felt like admitting defeat, but I did have to buy a new outfit for the factory Christmas buffet, and then there was my Christmas Day dress to purchase, too. One day, I thought with renewed determination, I would buy everything from Rochester's. Fox Lodge would be like something from an advertisement at Christmas, when it belonged to me. I knew for a fact that Great Uncle Charles wouldn't so much as put a sprig of holly up this year. He didn't hold with Christmas, which he referred to as ‘a great con trick foisted on a gullible public by the manufacturers of gifts and cards’. He said the same thing about Valentine's day. And birthdays. And any sort of event that encouraged people to buy things, come to that.
I glanced around, noting with envy the well-dressed shoppers who blithely filled their baskets with whatever took their fancy.
One day.
Olivia refused point blank to buy any of her presents from the store. "I can get twice as much somewhere else. I just can't afford this place. Sorry."
I was determined to carry on, regardless. I belonged in the shop. It was my sort of place. I selected a handful of beautiful and elegant tree decorations, and chose my Christmas cards with care.
Olivia didn't see the point. "I bought a box of forty cards for three quid at the supermarket, the other day," she said. "Why are you paying all that for ten?"
"Because they're classy," I replied. "Besides, I don't need forty."
"I don't suppose you do," Olivia said.
I scowled. "Shut up. Just because you send a card to the world and his wife. Ooh, look. Jenny Kingston handbags. Aren't they gorgeous?"
Olivia followed, as I rushed over to examine a selection of rather beautiful bags, each bearing the gold JK emblem.
Above them, a large canvas poster hung on the wall, showing a striking model with a bag over her arm, and the slogan, Are you a Jenny Kingston girl?
"I would love to be a Jenny Kingston girl," I said longingly, stroking the leather of the nearest bag in awe.
Olivia looked deeply unimpressed. "I'm more a tenner-from-the-market girl," she admitted. "I've never paid more than that for a bag in my life, and I don't intend to start now."
"But look at them," I said, stunned at her indifference. "Look at the design, the quality. Oh, I'd love one. They're so gorgeous." I turned over the price tag and winced. "Ouch."
"Exactly," Olivia said. "Who'd pay that for a bag?"
"That one's only two hundred and seventy." I pointed to a smaller one, which bore a Sale sign.
"Only two hundred and seventy?" Olivia gaped at me. "Seriously, Marley, what planet are you on? I once bought a pasta salad from Marks and Spencer's, and had to lie down to recover from the trauma. You need to forget all about designer brands and face facts. You just don't earn the sort of money that enables you to live the lifestyle you want. You have to accept that and cut your cloth accordingly."
I didn't reply. In my mind's eye, I was choosing a bag and paying for it with my new credit card—the credit card I would get when Great Uncle Charles left me everything in his will. How much longer would it be?
I felt myself start to blush. What an awful thing to think. I didn't wish my uncle dead, really I didn't. I hadn't meant that the way it sounded in my mind, but after all, he was so old. It couldn't be much longer, could it? He didn't have much of a life, did he? And I could make so much of a life for myself with the money that he just left to rot in a bank somewhere, gaining no pleasure from it whatsoever. There was nothing wrong with that, was there?
"Come on," I said reluctantly. "Let's go and get a coffee. We'll need warming through before we leave here. How far away is this Argos branch?"
Chapter Seven
Kit knew it was serious when the caller ID flashed up Colin Henry's name. It was Saturday. Why else would Colin be calling him at the weekend?
"Mr Carroll—”
"Kit." He'd told him every time they'd spoken not to call him Mr Carroll. Mr Carroll was his father, and Kit wasn't his father. He wasn't even Christopher. Not anymore. "I'm guessing it's not good news?"
There was a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid not. The liquidators have been appointed."
"Jesus." Kit dropped down onto the sofa and stared unseeingly at the painting of his grandfather on the wall. Why, he wondered vaguely, was that still hanging up there? It had been his father's pride and joy, showing Edwin Carroll in full country squire mode, surrounded by sycophants as he held court at Fell House, pipe in hand and trusty Labrador at his heels. Surely, Jack didn't want it in full view? He'd bet a pound to a penny that Amanda resented dusting it. Although, knowing Amanda, it was probably Jack who did the dusting.
"Kit? Are you still there?"
Kit blinked, forcing himself to focus. "I don't really know what to say," he admitted. "I sort of knew this was coming, but even so." He shook his head. "How bad is it?"
"As I said, we're talking liquidation, not administration. There's no hope of salvaging it."
"Bloody hell."
"I know. Halliwell & Stephenson's are a big company. It's quite sad, really."
Kit felt sick. That was that, then. "What do I do now?"
"We'll need to register to claim the money we're owed. Do you want me to come over to talk things through?"
On a Saturday? Hell, things really were dire.
"If you like. I'm guessing I'm going to need to contact my solicitor?"
"I'd leave that until Monday. Solicitors come at a hefty price, don't you think? Besides, there's nothing he can do until Monday, anyway."
Kit decided that the painting was definitely going into a cupboard somewhere. His grandfather eyed him with contempt, and he shivered. The sooner it went, the better. "How bad is this, Colin?"
"You toured the factory. You told me yourself how things were. The main thing, right now, is to keep a cool head and not panic. We have to go over the figures, see how things stand."
"Is there any chance of recouping our money?"
There was a long silence during which Kit could feel the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. "We're way down the list," came the reply at last. "There'll be a whole queue of people ahead of Carroll's. I'm sorry, Kit."
Not half as sorry as he was, Kit thought, putting the phone in his pocket and running a hand through his hair. He removed the offending portrait from the wall. There would be enough people looking at him with accusation in their eyes before long. He didn't need his own grandfather to do the same.
***
"You've got to be kidding me!" I looked around in amazement, absorbing the unexpected sight of my mother's living room in all its festive glory. "What the hell happened? Have you been visited by the Christmas fairies?"
Mum was sitting at the kitchen table, magnifying mirror in front of her, sweeping mascara onto her lashes in her usual fashion—mouth open, tongue sticking out. She apparently couldn't concentrate with her mouth shut. "Don't be sarky," she called through the open door. "Thought you'd be pleased, anyway. Saved you a job."
I pulled a face as I scanned the room, noting with distaste the balloons, the cheap foil garlands, and the dreaded singing snowman that sat cheerily on the sideboard, just waiting for Olivia's kids to arrive and start it up. God, hour upon hour of Let It Snow, in that dreadful whiny voice. Last year, I'd been driven to take out the batteries and hide them.
It was the tree that upset me the most, though. Every year, I looked forward to going to Helmston Market and buying a real tree, cut from the local forest. I always chose the biggest, bushiest tree in the group and paid for delivery. The scent of pine would fill Mum's house, evoking memories of childhood Christmases, when Dad had been around to cheer us on as we opened our presents, and was always as surprised as we were to discover what Father Christmas had brought us. Christmas was Dad. He may not have contributed much to buying our gifts, but it was Dad who got excited about the big day; Dad who chose the tree and decorated it. It was a standing joke that we weren't allowed to touch it. He liked it done just so, and we were forced to sit on the sofa, watching him wind fairy lights around the tree's bushy branches unaided. The only contribution we’d been allowed to make was shouting out if something looked lopsided, or out of place. We never minded. It made us laugh how seriously he took it.
Mum used to pull a face when he unwrapped the tacky decorations, and blew up the balloons, and stuck Christmas cards all over her walls, but we knew she was just glad to see him smiling. Dad was never happier than at Christmas. For a few brief days, there was a respite from the bad moods and strained atmosphere. Olivia and I didn't hear them row much, but only because Mum never argued back, no matter how much he tried to provoke her. She was always trying to appease him, like she was just grateful to have him, at all, no matter how appallingly he behaved.
My spirits sank as I gazed at the six-foot artificial tree before me, with its fake pine cones and sprayed-on snow. Multi-coloured lights winked at me, as if to deliberately taunt me. Where were the tasteful clear LED lights I'd bought for my mother last year? The ones she’d draped around it, I was sure, were the ones I'd shoved in the loft, hoping never to see again. They even had a button on the control unit, one that, when pressed, sent tacky Christmas music blaring out. You could choose from twenty carols and popular festive songs. Popular with whom, I couldn't imagine.
"What's with the tree?" I forced myself to sound calm, as I re-entered the kitchen, barely noticing that my mother had begun applying lipstick.
Mum glanced up at me. "Do you like it? It was on sale in my catalogue. Couldn't resist."
"What do you mean, you couldn't resist?" I felt bewildered. "Since when did you bother with a tree? And how come you've decorated the room? That's my job."
She frowned. "It shouldn't be, though, should it?
You're not upset, are you, Marley? I thought you'd be pleased. Saved you all that palaver."
It was on the tip of my tongue to burst out that I liked all that palaver, but I kept my mouth firmly shut. I knew I was overreacting. What did it matter who decorated the house? The only thing that mattered was that it got decorated, and it was great that Mum had felt inclined to make the effort after so many years.
Yet, I felt a strange sort of panic growing inside me, and had to fight it off. It felt as if things were slipping out of my control, which was ridiculous. There was no way I was going to let on how upset it’d made me. Instead, I sank into the chair opposite my mother and held up the bag I was carrying. "You could have told me you planned to do it before I spent all this money on decorations for you."
Mum blotted her lipstick with tissue paper, then reached over and took the bag. "Bloody hell, love," she said, scanning the contents in disbelief, "how many decs do you think we need? You buy new ones every year! What's the point?"
"I thought it would keep things fresh, if we changed the colour scheme every year," I protested. "That's why I got you the clear lights. Nice and neutral. Not like those things ..." My voice trailed off, and I sighed, feeling defeated. "I don't know what to do with these now."
"Take them back to the shop," Mum suggested. "You could get your money back."
I wasn't about to go back to York to beg a pound shop for a refund, and I certainly wouldn't show myself up by asking for any such thing in Rochester's, of all places. How common would that look?
"Can't you use them in your flat?" Mum said.
I laughed. "Yeah, right. That place is so small I can only have a two-foot tree on my bookcase. Definitely no room for all these baubles, and I've got some quite large ones, too. I was expecting to decorate a seven-foot real tree, remember?"