by Sharon Booth
"Says who?" demanded David. "All presents come from Father Christmas. You know that."
Sam shook his head. "No, they don't. Auntie Marley told me last year that she paid a fortune for my Spiderman, so I wasn't to break it."
My cheeks burned. Hell, I had, too. Although, to be fair, I'd got it from Rochester's toy department, and I'd been rather miffed to discover that I could have got it a lot cheaper in the sale at Toys R Us. Even so, how had a kid of Sam's age remembered that? Typical. "Okay, I do like to buy you a little something, just to top up Father Christmas's gifts. That doesn't mean I'll get you whatever you want, though. Anyway, I don't even know if you're on the naughty, or nice, list, yet. If you're on the naughty list, I'm not allowed to get you anything."
Sam looked horrified. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Who says?"
"Father Christmas," Olivia said firmly. "Now sit yourself down and tell your dad what you want to drink, while I fetch Tommy and Max, since no one else seems to have offered."
"Oops." David shook his head. "Bad books again."
I sighed and placed the bag of Christmas decorations under the table.
As David filled plastic beakers with blackcurrant cordial, Olivia came through, carrying two little blond boys, one resting on each hip. "Glued to the Disney channel again," she said, putting Max down next to Sam, and strapping Tommy into the highchair.
"You really shouldn't let them watch so much television," I reproached her. "And," I added, as David placed the beakers on the table, "they shouldn't drink cordial. I hope it's sugar free."
Olivia visibly gritted her teeth.
"It's a once-a-day treat," David assured me. "Usually, they drink milk, or water."
"You don't have to explain yourself to her," Olivia snapped. "When she's got three kids under five, then she can start lecturing us on good parenting."
There was an awkward silence, broken only when Max knocked over his drink and let out an anguished wail.
"Oh, for God's sake." Olivia jumped up and pulled sheets of kitchen roll from the holder on the worktop, frantically mopping up the rapidly-expanding pool of blackcurrant.
After lecturing David on his failure to give the younger boys beakers with lids, making Max a replacement drink, and throwing the soggy kitchen roll in the bin, Olivia finally sat down, and the meal began. Personally, I thought the shepherd's pie was a bit dry, and the vegetables were practically puréed, but I decided it would be wiser to say nothing, given the mood my sister was in.
Sam started an argument with Max over cauliflower, of all things, and Tommy hurled mashed potato onto the floor, in spite of Olivia's valiant attempts to catch it before it landed.
"Told you we should get a dog," David said, grinning. "You wouldn't have to worry about mash on the floor, if we had a dog."
"Can we have a dog?" Sam said, eyes wide with excitement.
"Did you put it on your Christmas list?" Olivia asked.
"No." He looked crestfallen.
"Too late, then." She beamed at him and shovelled sprouts into her mouth.
Sam considered that for a moment, then said, "But Auntie Marley—”
"Forget it," I said immediately. "Maybe remember to put it on your list next year, Sam?"
"He can try," Olivia said darkly.
I said nothing more as the meal progressed, feeling it was wiser to stay out of the various arguments surrounding Christmas presents, dogs, the lumpiness of the gravy, why Sam couldn't have salt on his meal, and why people had to eat vegetables, even though they were apparently disgusting and smelled like dirty socks. Really, it was like feeding time at the zoo. I wondered, yet again, at Olivia's ability to cope with it all every day. I just couldn't imagine being able to deal with so much chaos. Maybe it was a good thing motherhood had never happened for me, after all.
As David cleared the more-or-less empty plates away, Olivia leaned back in her chair and gave a sigh. She looked worn out, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. "I'll do the dishes," I promised.
Olivia smiled. "Thanks, Marley, but no need. David and I decided not to buy presents for each other this year. Instead, we clubbed together and bought a dishwasher. Didn't you notice?"
I hadn't, but then, why would I? "A dishwasher? Not a very romantic present, is it?"
"That's what you think," David assured me. "It's saved a lot of arguments, and it's a real blessing. Who needs a games console, anyway?"
Olivia scowled. "You said you didn't mind."
"I don't," he said quickly. "I was making the point that I prefer a dishwasher any day."
"Hmm." She looked unconvinced, and I didn't blame her. If that hadn't been a blatant hint, I didn't know what was.
"So, do you want these Christmas decorations, or not?" I said to change the subject. I lifted the bag from under the table and handed it over to my sister, who peered inside dubiously.
"Are they for our tree?" Sam had buried his head in the bag, making his voice sound muffled. He looked up, his eyes eager. "Are we putting our tree up tonight, Mum?"
"Definitely not." Olivia shook her head. "It's only just December."
"You said Grandma has got her tree up," he said sulkily.
"So she has, but that's got nothing to do with it."
"Have you opened your advent calendars today?" I asked, changing the subject yet again. I was finding this family meal extremely stressful. Talk about touchy.
Sam and Max looked at each other and wailed. "Mum, where's our advent calendars?"
Olivia glared at me. "We haven't bought them any, yet."
I stared back. "Why not?"
"I've been busy. Thanks for that, Marley."
David rolled his eyes. "Not having much luck today, are you?"
"Sorry." I bit my lip. I should have thought, really. I could have bought the advent calendars myself. They were only a couple of quid each, and the boys were my nephews, after all. "I'll nip to the supermarket tomorrow and drop you some off. Promise."
The boys looked mollified, and Olivia sighed. "Okay. Thanks." She handed the carrier bag back. "Sorry, but these aren't really our thing. Besides, we've got loads of decs in the loft, and the boys will be making stuff at nursery to stick on the tree, so ..."
Feeling a bit huffy, I decided it was time to leave, but the boys begged me to stay, so I ended up sitting with the whole family in their messy living room, watching some weird children's programme on the television. Olivia and David were quite right, I realised. Every commercial break was packed with advertisements for some toy, or other. It was shocking, really.
Before long, the boys were dragging out the Argos catalogue, and showing me every present they'd selected. Sam had even made his mother write the prices down, along with the catalogue number, just to make things easier for Father Christmas, even though Olivia had assured him that the elves made all the presents, and Santa wasn't given to shopping in Argos.
It was clear that the eldest two, in particular, were beside themselves with excitement at the rapid approach of Christmas, and I saw Olivia's eyes soften as they babbled on about the forthcoming Nativity play, and Max warbled Away in a Manger, which he'd apparently been learning at nursery, while Tommy banged his fist on the Argos catalogue as a musical accompaniment. It was all very charming, but I thought my sister and brother-in-law should hand out complimentary paracetamol to their guests. I definitely felt a headache coming on.
When Olivia wandered into the kitchen to make another drink, I followed her, desperate for a respite from the excitement. "How do you stand it?" I said, feeling quite awestruck that she wasn't on tranquillisers.
Olivia unscrewed the lid of a coffee jar. "You get used to it," she assured me. "Sometimes, I want to put on my coat and run, but most of the time, I just feel blessed. They're a handful, but I love them to bits. I couldn't be without them."
"Really?"
Olivia laughed. "Really. I'm happy, Marley. They're my family. You should try it one day. It's different with your own, honestly."
&
nbsp; I felt a familiar lurching in my chest. Was it different, as she’d said? I would never know, would I? I forced myself to sound dismissive. "No thanks. That's not what I want, at all."
Olivia paused, a spoonful of coffee hovering over the open jar. "So, what do you want? What's the great plan?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Own my own house, one day. Go on some decent holidays for a change. Buy a Jenny Kingston handbag." I grinned, but Olivia didn't grin back.
"Don't you think that's all a bit shallow?"
"I don't see why. At least it's peaceful. I couldn't cope with this racket every day."
"I think you'd be surprised by what you can cope with. Don't you want children? A husband? A real home? I don't mean a show house. I mean, a home."
"Not really." I thought about Fox Lodge, and how beautiful I could make it look. I certainly didn't want piles of children's clothes and toys cluttering up the place, the way they cluttered up Olivia’s three-bedroomed semi. I'd had a lucky escape in that department.
As for a husband.
A pair of glittering dark eyes flashed into my mind, and I almost gasped at the shock of it. Where the hell had that image come from? "I'm happy alone. No one to please but myself."
Olivia sighed and collected milk from the fridge. "Makes me wonder why you were given a second chance."
"Second chance?" I blinked. "You mean, when I—”
"When you died, and came back from the dead. Like Lazarus," Olivia said, not at all over-dramatically. "And to be saved by Kit Carroll, of all people."
"Christopher," I corrected her automatically.
"Kit," she repeated firmly. "He hates Christopher, as he's mentioned several times. I mean, in films, people only get brought back to life for a reason, don't they?" She shrugged. "I reckon you were saved for a purpose."
I nudged her, almost causing the milk to slop over the top of the carton. "Don't be so daft. Saved for a purpose! Have you been watching It's a Wonderful Life again?"
It was my sister's favourite film, and always made her philosophical and a bit soppy.
"Not yet. You know it's my Christmas Eve treat," Olivia said. "But the kids wanted to watch A Muppet Christmas Carol this morning, and it did get me thinking."
I tutted and reached for my mug of coffee. "You're barmy," I said. "A Muppet Christmas Carol, indeed. Well, when I find my divine purpose, I'll let you know. These Christmas films have such a weird effect on you. I was only dead for a few moments. I'm not a ghost. Nor am I an angel. You'll be calling me Clarence next."
A tinkling sound filled the air, causing me to stare, open-mouthed at my sister. Olivia giggled and nodded, indicating something behind me, and I spun round, to find Max standing there, holding a little silver bell in his hand. "Can we keep this one for our tree, Mummy?" he enquired.
I swallowed, as Olivia winked at me.
"If you like, Max," she said, putting the milk back in the fridge. "I'm sure we've got room for just one special decoration." Turning back to me, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. "That was a sign, if ever I heard one. Maybe it's time you earned your wings, sis. Told you so."
Chapter Nine
I flicked through my glossy magazine, only half concentrating on the television, which I'd switched on to mask the ticking of the clock, which hung on my living room wall. It was an old-fashioned sort of clock, I thought. Time to get a new one. I'd seen some rather classy ones in Rochester's, come to think of it.
"Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business."
I glanced up at the television. A Christmas Carol. Again. How many film versions had been made of that book, I wondered. The one showing was a rather obscure one, and I had no interest in it, really. Still, it was nice to have something on in the background, and at least it was festive—apart from the fact that it was in black and white, and everyone in it looked thoroughly miserable.
As my eyes grew heavier, I yawned and dropped the magazine to the floor, too tired to read any more. I pulled up a cushion, propping it on the arm of the sofa, and lay down, resting my head on its plump warmth. I ought to have visited Great Uncle Charles, really. I hadn't seen him all week, and he had no one else. No other visitors. I wondered if he would get me anything for Christmas. Not likely, I supposed. He wasn't one for presents.
It occurred to me that I hadn't asked what he was doing for Christmas dinner. I hoped he wouldn't be alone. I couldn't do anything about it, if he was, as I was going to Mum's. I always went to Mum's, as did Olivia and David and the kids, and there was no way my mother would want Great Uncle Charles there. I sincerely doubted he'd accept such an invitation, even in the unlikely event one would be issued.
I closed my eyes. A short nap would do me good. I'd visit him later.
"You fear the world too much .... I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off, one by one, until the master passion, Gain, engrosses you ..."
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. How long had I been asleep? My heart was thumping. Vague memories flashed across my mind—images of Great Uncle Charles and my father, and coffins and ghosts, and a tall, hooded figure that said nothing, but merely pointed accusingly at me, until it threw back its hood and revealed a pair of dark eyes that were no longer soft and melting like black treacle, but hard and cold like onyx. Accusing eyes. Scornful eyes.
"It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one!"
I shivered, and stared at the television set as the credits rolled. What on earth was that dream about, and why had it left me with an overhang of dread? I was being ridiculous! It was just a nightmare, brought about by falling asleep while watching A Christmas Carol, and thinking about Olivia's stupid comments the previous day. I needed to put it all from my mind and pull myself together.
Even so, I couldn't shake the thought that—just maybe—Olivia had a point. It was hard to accept, but as I glanced around my tiny but elegant living room, I realised my life was going nowhere. I'd been treading water for a long time, and things seemed to have come to a grinding halt. Certainly, I had a decent enough job in the factory, and an adequate, if unimpressive, flat in the village, but that was basically it. My social life consisted of visiting my sister and brother-in-law, or my mother. My evenings were mainly spent sitting in the living room, watching some programme, or other, on the television, to the point I was in danger of becoming a Netflix addict. If I had died that evening in the pub, would anyone have known, or cared?
Well, obviously, my family would have cared, but who else? I had no one, really. I was going nowhere. And that being the case, why had I been given a second chance at life, when good, decent people like Grandad hadn't?
Chewing my lip, I contemplated the possibility that Olivia was right. Had I been saved for a purpose? And if that was true, what purpose? It didn't make sense that I'd been saved just to carry on wasting my time, when Grandad had made the most of every day, yet had had his life snatched away from him so cruelly, and at a comparatively young age, too.
Sighing, I padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. Too much thinking and puzzling was making me hungry.
My gaze fell upon the bar of Carroll's Coolmint Choc Bloc, sitting on the shelf where I'd placed it after Great Uncle Charles had rejected it.
It occurred to me, suddenly, that maybe my great uncle was the reason behind my stagnation. I hated to admit it, but I had kind of put my life on hold. With the promise of Fox Lodge and Great Uncle Charles's money dangling before my eyes, I hadn't really pushed myself to take a better job, or improve life for myself. It was all about waiting. Waiting for an old man to die.
Feeling bitterly ashamed of myself, I closed the fridge door. I would go and see him, as I'd promised myself I would. Not because I wanted anything from him, but because he was
family, and he deserved better from me—however much he enjoyed winding me up.
***
As I stood at the gate of the large, red-brick, Victorian detached villa, some half-an-hour later, I eyed the house with a frown.
It was Sunday afternoon, but the curtains at every window of Fox Lodge had been drawn.
After clicking the gate shut after me, I walked down the short drive and tried the front door. Locked. Well, of course it was. I lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped loudly, then put my ear against the door, listening for sounds of life. Nothing. I opened the letterbox and peered inside. The hallway was dark and gloomy. I swallowed nervously. Oh, God. What if?
Fragments of my dream flashed across my mind. A coffin, an open grave, an accusing hand ...
"Uncle Charles?"
Silence.
I stood up and rapped frantically again, then I crouched down and pushed open the letterbox. "Uncle Charles? Are you there?"
In the quiet that followed, I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.
Just as I was wondering if I should call the police, an ambulance, the fire brigade—hell, even the coastguard, if necessary—I heard a faint call from upstairs.
"What did you say?"
"I said, bugger off."
Feeling outraged, I straightened, all my guilt and compassion forgotten. I lifted the door knocker and hammered it loudly against the peeling, green paint of the wooden door.
After a moment, or two, I heard a window opening above me, and stepping back, I looked up, unsure any longer whether I felt relief, or fury, on seeing my great uncle leaning out. Judging by the thunderous look on his face, it was fury he was feeling.
"Stop banging that bloody door. My head's thumping."
"Well, let me in, then," I responded, suddenly noticing that he was wearing pyjamas, and his wispy white hair was uncombed. Most unlike him. "Are you all right?"
"If I was all right, would I be in bed at this time of the day?" He sneezed, and I frowned up at him.
"Have you got a cold?"
"Give the girl a paper hat," he said. "No flies on you, are there?"