by Sharon Booth
"Well, let me in, and I'll make you a nice hot drink and something to eat."
"I don't need anything to eat."
"Yes, you do. You have to look after yourself at your age. Bet you haven't even got the heating on, have you?"
"Don't need it on. Got blankets, haven't I?"
"Blankets? I hope you're joking." I shook my head. Who used blankets nowadays? Was the old goat too tight even to buy a duvet? "Look, let me in. I'm worried about you."
"Sure you are. Bet you could hardly contain your disappointment when I opened the window just now. Bet you thought I'd finally croaked it, and all your dreams had come true."
"Stop it." I felt a prickling of guilt, remembering my earlier thoughts. "You're a horrible old man, but you're my great uncle, and you're not well. And you shouldn't be hanging out of the window in this freezing weather, when you're full of cold."
"Oh, bugger off home," he retorted, then gave way to a fit of coughing.
I glared up at him. "Right, that's it. Let me in, or I'll break the window."
"You wouldn't dare," he wheezed.
"Watch me."
He hesitated, then tutted. "Round the back. Key's under the plant pot on the step."
The window slammed shut, and I rushed round to the kitchen door. Moving the terracotta plant pot, I discovered the key lying there, plain as day. Had he never heard of burglars?
After unlocking the door, I hurried into the house and rushed straight upstairs. Great Uncle Charles was sitting in his bed, propped up by pillows, and I was relieved to see he did have a duvet, after all.
"You said blankets," I said, nodding at the bed.
"Blankets, duvet, it's all the same."
Standing closer to him, I was alarmed to see how unwell he actually looked, and his voice was definitely croaky. "It's freezing in here." As I spoke, my breath misted the air, and appalled, I pulled the duvet higher over him. "I'm putting the heating on."
"No need for that," he said. "I'm in bed, aren't I?"
"I don't care," I replied. "The cold air isn't going to help your chest. The heating's going on, and that's that. Now, have you eaten today?"
He leaned back on his pillows and sighed, suddenly looking rather pathetic. "Not very hungry."
"I'll make you something," I said. "Hungry, or not, you need to eat. Keep up your strength. I'll bring you a nice hot drink, as well."
He didn't reply, and I hurried onto the landing, to the airing cupboard, where I knew the boiler was situated. Flicking on the central heating, I waited a moment until I heard the click of the boiler kicking into action and the sound of water gurgling in the radiators, then I headed downstairs and back into the kitchen.
Rummaging around in his cupboards, I was dismayed—although not surprised—to find them mostly bare. It occurred to me that I had no idea if he did his own shopping, or if someone else shopped for him. God, I was a horrible person. I really should make more of an effort with him.
Finding a tin of chicken soup, I decided that would suffice for now. Chicken soup was supposed to be good for ill people, wasn't it? He had half a loaf in a bread bin—maybe he could manage a couple of slices to dip in his soup. I made him a cup of tea—weak and disgusting, just the way he liked it—put everything on a tray, and carried it upstairs.
For a moment, I thought he'd fallen asleep, but as I put down the tray, he opened one eye and said, "Took your time, didn't you?"
"Yep. I did it on purpose, just to piss you off," I informed him. "Can you sit up? Do you need any help?"
"I'm not a bloody invalid." He was clearly struggling to get comfortable, but I knew that if I offered to help again, he would only snap at me, so I stood patiently waiting.
"All right, I'm up. Are you going to hand me that tray, or do I have to beg?"
I scowled and handed him the tray.
"What's this?"
"Chicken soup and bread, plus a cup of tea, made just the way you like it. Got any complaints, put them in writing, and I'll file them under who gives a crap."
"You're all charm," he muttered, but lifted his spoon just the same. "Don't just stand there watching me. If you want to make yourself useful, get me a hanky. Nose is running. Top drawer."
He nodded over to the ugly, dark chest of drawers on the far wall of his bedroom, and I clamped my mouth shut to prevent the rude retort escaping my lips. He was ill, I reminded myself. He was old, vulnerable. He needed looking after. Or shoving in a home.
I didn't mean that, I thought quickly, and yanked open the drawer, pulling a face at the sight of Great Uncle Charles's underwear neatly folded up. What an awful day it was turning out to be. I reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a handkerchief, plain white with a navy blue CWJ embroidered in the corner, just in case he forgot his name. As I went to close the drawer, I noticed a silver frame sticking out from underneath the pile of pants.
With curiosity winning out over revulsion, I lifted the underwear to reveal a framed photograph of my grandparents.
Carefully, I removed the photo from the drawer. "Why don't you put this out on display?"
Uncle Charles paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "Huh? What are you on about now?" He clearly registered what I was holding in my hand, because his face darkened, and he scowled. "Put that back now."
"But why? Why have you hidden it away in the drawer?"
"What's the point of looking at it every day? They've gone. They've all gone." He dropped his spoon back into the bowl, causing chicken soup to splash onto his tray. "You've put me off this now."
I carried the photograph over to him. "It would look lovely here," I said, placing it carefully on his bedside table.
He glared at me. "Are you deaf? I said, put it back."
"But he was your brother!"
"Was. Not anymore. Gone. Dead, in case you'd forgotten."
"Of course I haven't forgotten. How could I? I loved Grandad. He was the best man in the world. And Grandma was lovely."
Great Uncle Charles studied me, silent for a moment, then he sighed. "They were good people."
Surprised, I nodded. "They were."
"Not like your father. God knows what went wrong there. He was a real shit."
"I can't argue with you about that."
He raised an eyebrow. "Can't you? Makes a change. Pass me that hanky, for God's sake. This soup bowl's filling up more with every minute."
I hastily handed him the handkerchief. "Shall I take the soup away?"
"Nah. Waste not, want not," he said. He blew, quite ferociously, into his hanky, then rubbed his nose rather vigorously, leaving it alarmingly red. "Got in touch with me a couple of years ago."
I was so grossed out at the thought of the chicken soup with snot seasoning that I didn't register what he'd said for a moment. "What? Who did?"
"Your father." He said it so casually, as if his nephew still lived in the village and popped round every day.
"Dad got in touch with you?"
"That's what I said."
"But when? Why?"
Annoyingly, Great Uncle Charles chose that moment to break off some bread, dip it several times in the soup, then shove the lot in his mouth, which he took his time chewing, paying no heed to me, as I stared at him impatiently.
"Well?"
He swallowed the bread and smacked his lips together. "Well, what?"
"You said Dad got in touch with you? What did he want?"
He shrugged, then coughed. I struggled to feel sympathy as I watched his shoulders heaving. Finally, fearing he was never going to stop, I reached over and banged him on the back. As his coughing finally subsided, he glared at me. "What the hell was that for?"
"I was trying to help."
"What? By breaking my backbone? Nearly shoved my lungs through my chest." He took a sip of tea and leaned back against his pillows.
"I'll go to the chemist tomorrow and get you some cough medicine, if you like."
"Waste of money. Tot of whisky will do the job."
<
br /> "So, you were saying?"
"Yep. Tot of whisky. Haven't got any honey. You can buy that, if you're in a generous mood."
"I mean about my dad! What did he want? He never got in touch with us ..." My voice trailed off. He hadn't, had he? At least, he hadn't got in touch with me. Olivia would have told me if she'd heard from him, surely? But what about our mother? Would she have kept it to herself?
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "Save yourself the bother. He won't have got in touch with your mother, or anyone else in your family. Nothing in it for him. Unless one of you has won the lottery and kept your trap shut about it to me."
"Money? He wanted money?"
"What else would he want?" He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief again. "Cheeky devil had the nerve to turn up on my doorstep, asking for a loan. A loan! Like I'd ever get that back again."
"What did he need money for?"
"Who knows? Who cares? Some woman, probably. He got nothing from me, I can tell you that much. Told him to sling his hook and get a job. Can't believe he dared show his face around here, after the way he behaved. Your poor grandad was heartbroken. The shame of it. Said he was glad your gran hadn't lived to see it. Mind you, your mother didn't make things any easier, blaming your grandad like that. As if he could be held responsible for what his son did. Your father was a grown man. Disgusting."
"She was devastated when Dad left," I murmured. "In shock. She was looking for someone to blame."
"And turned her back on a good man, who had no one left in the world! How was that fair?"
It hadn't been, and I knew it, but I didn't want to be disloyal to Mum, even though having to keep my relationship with my grandfather secret had seemed desperately unfair at the time.
Grandad hadn't really got on with Dad, and family visits to my grandparents' house had always felt forced and rather strained. After Nan died, my parents rarely took me round to see him, at all, and when Dad left, Mum cut all ties with his family, and expected us to do the same.
Olivia hadn't seemed bothered. She'd not formed the bond with Grandad that I had, somehow, always being keener on Mum's side of the family, who lived in Whitby. Without even thinking about it, I'd kept my visits to Grandad a secret.
"Did he say where he was living? Dad, I mean."
Great Uncle Charles sucked in his cheeks, as if he'd just drunk vinegar. "No," he said eventually, "and why would you care?"
"He's my dad."
"Was your dad. May as well be dead now. As dead as your grandad."
"Thanks."
"No point sugar-coating things. Everyone goes in the end. Everyone leaves."
"Except you, clearly."
"I hang on just to spite people," he admitted. "Mind you, the way I'm feeling right now, this might be your lucky day."
"Don't say that," I protested. "You're awful to think like that."
"Am I?" He eyed me knowingly. "So, you're not just waiting for me to pop off, eh? Like your father."
"My father?"
"Well, he's next in line, isn't he? Said as much when he visited. Reckoned he'd got it all worked out. He thought it would all come to him, anyway, so why shouldn't I give him an advance?"
I gasped, appalled. "He said that?"
"As good as." Great Uncle Charles settled back on his pillows, a smug look on his face. "Soon put him straight, though. Told him I'd changed my will when he buggered off, and there was no way he was getting a penny. Quite glad he went. Never liked him. Gave me a good excuse."
"Well, I'm so glad things worked out for you," I said angrily. "Never mind what we went through. What Mum went through."
"Your mother was a fool. If she'd opened her eyes, she'd have seen what he was from the start. He was always the same. Sly, devious. Must have got it from your grandma's side."
"Oh, my God! How can you say that?" Anger flashed through me at him being rude about Grandma. She'd been a lovely lady. Great Uncle Charles was a devil.
"Don't take it personally. Nothing against your grandma. Just that genes will out, and there was no one as rotten as your dad in the Jacobs family."
"What were you? Adopted?"
"That," he said, wagging his finger at me, "was extremely rude."
"You shouldn't insult Grandma, then. Is there anyone you actually like?"
"Not really. Not anymore." He sighed. "All gone. Everyone I ever cared about. Dead."
Noticing the sudden look of sadness in his eyes and the wistful tone in his voice, I tried hard not to feel offended. It must have been hard to be alone. To lose his parents, and his brother.
"You still have me," I pointed out. "And you'd have Olivia and Mum, too, if you were a bit nicer."
"I wouldn't even have you, if you didn't want this place," he snapped, all wistfulness vanishing. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I'm better off alone."
I watched him crossly. He really was an old miser. Just like Ebenezer Scrooge. I felt goose pimples breaking out on my arms at that thought. "You know the other week, when I said I'd died?"
He stared at me. "What of it?"
"Olivia thinks I was brought back to life for a reason."
He rolled his eyes. "She would. One sandwich short of a picnic, that girl. Why else would she have three kids in three years?"
"Stop being nasty for just one second. My point is, I was trying to figure out my purpose—the reason I was saved."
"Saved?" He cackled. "Bloody hell, talk about delusional."
"I was saved," I continued firmly, "for you. I think I have to make you see the error of your ways."
For a moment, he simply gaped at me. Then he burst out laughing, which led to a prolonged, and rather alarming, bout of coughing. When he'd finally finished, he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and shook his head. "You're completely cracked. So, you're some sort of angel, are you? You know who you put me in mind of?"
I bit my lip. I had a feeling that whoever it was, it wouldn’t be anyone nice.
"My cousin Sis."
"Sis?"
"Christine, her name was, but we called her Sistine after the Sistine Chapel, which is nearly as holy as she was. She was a nut-job, too, just like you. Had a near miss with a Bourbon biscuit in nineteen-sixty-four and found God. Poor bugger clearly wasn't hiding from her well enough. After that, she thought her mission in life was to convert us all to her beliefs."
"What were her beliefs?"
"Basically, she believed in anything that made you bloody miserable."
"I'd have thought you'd have converted immediately. Sounds like a religion tailor-made for you."
His eyes narrowed. "You think I'm miserable?"
I spluttered with laughter. "Are you kidding?"
"You should be flattering me. You'll never get anything from me at this rate."
"Ah, so you do intend to leave me something in your will?"
"I do. I've left you my handkerchief collection. Then you'll have something to cry into when you discover you're going to be skint all your life."
My heart sank. "Why can't you just tell me?"
"Because where's the fun in that? I may have left you everything. I may have left you my handkerchief collection. I may not have mentioned you, at all. Ooh, exciting, isn't it?"
"You're absolutely awful. I can't think why I imagined I was here to save you. You're beyond saving. You'll never get to heaven, at this rate."
"Stuff heaven," he said, picking up his mug of tea. "I'm off to Hell. At least I won't have to pay the heating bill. Take my advice, if you really are barmy enough to believe that you were brought back to life in order to save someone, look elsewhere." He smirked at me. "Someone, somewhere, needs your help. Who can it be? The suspense is killing me. But not fast enough, eh?"
I looked away from his smug face, too annoyed to answer. If I had been given another chance, it wasn't for Great Uncle Charles's sake, he was right about that. But, if not him, who?
A little voice popped into my head. Olivia's voice. Olivia's annoying, ov
er-dramatic, watched-far-too-many-Christmas-films voice. And to be saved by Kit Carroll, of all people.
If Christopher was my reason for being brought back from the dead, my debt to the universe would just have to go unpaid. Besides, what did someone like Christopher need me for? He'd never needed me before, had he? Far from it. Why should anything be different now?
Chapter Ten
Christmas, it seemed, had arrived at Carroll's Confectionary. As I entered the building that morning, there was a cheerful buzz in the air, and an atmosphere of growing excitement and festive jollity.
The joys of the season seemed to have bypassed Christopher Carroll's office, however. He was in a vile mood, and the morning passed far too slowly for my liking.
As I walked into the canteen that lunchtime, it felt like another world. Cheesy Christmas songs blasted out from the kitchen, and people were singing along as they queued to be served.
One, or two people, even wore Santa hats, one of them being Don. "All right, Marley?" he said, grinning widely at me, as I wandered over to stand behind him, tray in hand. "Soon be Christmas."
"Still three weeks to go," I pointed out. "What on earth are you wearing?"
"Me Father Christmas hat. Do you like it?"
"No. You look a right tosspot." I glanced around. "Everyone seems to be in a good mood."
"Well, a lot of them were out at the weekend, at Sadie's wedding, and had a right good time of it. Talking about what they got up to always cheers them up."
"Hmm."
I thought, on balance, it was no wonder I wasn't feeling the festive love. What with my mother's secret date, the disastrous lunch at Olivia's, a bag of expensive baubles no one wanted, and my less-than-successful visit to Great Uncle Charles, it hadn't been much of a weekend.
I did need to pop by Fox Lodge when I left work, though, and make sure that he was all right. He was an awful man, but he was still a human being who needed looking after, whether he wanted to be looked after, or not.
"Did you go to the wedding, then?" I asked him. It rankled that I hadn't been invited. I knew Olivia and David had been asked to the evening do, although they'd declined, admitting to me that neither of them had the energy. At least they'd had the option, though.