Saving Mr Scrooge (Moorland Heroes Book 2)

by Sharon Booth

  "Yes?"

  "Can you—will you be kind to Kit?"

  My mouth dropped open. "What?"

  "Just … just go easy on him, okay? He's got a lot on his mind, and he's been dropped into all this with very little warning. He's doing the best he can, so, please, just support him. For me?"

  Well, honestly! At the end of the day, it was quite clear that it was a case of family comes first. Whatever Kit had done, Jack was going to be on his side. What a waste of time my trying had been.

  "But the factory! The LuvRocks contract! The—"

  "I know, I know. I hear what you're saying, and I understand, honestly. But just be on his side, will you? He's a good man, Marley. The best."

  Talk about deluded. It was clearly a battle I couldn't win. "But you'll talk to him about everything?"

  "Oh, yes." His voice sounded different suddenly, more determined. "I will definitely be talking to him. You can count on that."

  "Fair enough." Thank God for that. He sounded a bit more like the old Jack, and I felt a stirring of hope. Maybe he would do something, after all. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Jack."

  "No worries. Thanks for keeping me informed."

  "Merry Christmas, Jack."

  "Merry Christmas, Marley."

  I replaced the receiver and leaned back in my chair, suddenly uncertain what to think, or do. Jack was going to tackle Kit about the way he'd been behaving, so it was all in his hands now. His problem. Nothing more I could do.

  But I had to be kind to Kit? Support him and be on his side? Huh! As if Kit had ever needed me to be on his side.

  A memory of the previous night flashed into my mind. I need your help, Marley.

  I felt an uncomfortable twinge of guilt, but dismissed it. I'd done what I had to do. Jack and Kit could sort it out between themselves. I was done.

  ***

  "I've got to hand it to the lad—he's no spendthrift, is he?" Great Uncle Charles cackled with laughter, then broke into another spasm of coughing.

  I'd been about to remind him that the scrapping of the workers' Christmas bonuses was no laughing matter, but his health made me frown in concern. "That cough's not getting any better. It seems to have come back even stronger. I'm calling the doctor."

  "Are you buggery!" He waved his hand at me, his face cross. "I'm fine. You call any quack round here, and it will be the last time you set foot in this place." His expression relaxed, and he smirked at me, a sudden gleam in his eye. "Mind you, it might be the last time, anyway, if I decide to sell up to the Martins."

  "The Martins?" My heart thumped. "Is that the couple who wants to buy Fox Lodge? Have you had any more dealings with them?"

  "I may have." He shrugged. "It could be that they've been here for a wander around, and have decided it's just what they're looking for. It may be that they can't wait to move in. It may be that we've just got to agree on a price, and then it's all systems go."

  "You wouldn't!" My voice was faint. "You haven't. I mean, you didn't."

  "You seem to know a lot about me," he observed. "Who says I wouldn't, haven't and didn't? Maybe I would, have and did. If you must know, they knocked on the door yesterday, and I let them have a look at the place. Nice couple. Come from London. Sold up their house, and they're renting in the village, for now, so they're cash buyers, and they've got plenty of it. Big plans for this house."

  I shook my head, feeling sick. "So, that's that?"

  "Never agreed anything," he said. "Just let them look. Said I was still thinking it over." He leaned forward, observing me closely. "Not having a very good week, are you? Fancy him expecting you to break the news to the factory workers about cutting their bonus. What a gutless coward. Typical of a Carroll."

  I felt a pang of guilt. "He didn't actually ask me to tell them," I backtracked. "He asked me to help him decide the best way for him to tell them."

  "Same difference." He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "And has he told them, yet?"

  "He wasn't at work today," I said. "Had meetings all day, apparently. I don't know." And I'd dropped him in it big time with Jack. How was he going to react to that when he found out? I shrugged helplessly. "It just feels as if we take one step forwards and two steps back."

  He would be furious with me, and how would he react when he saw the factory? My worst fears had been confirmed, when the staff rolled up at the gates an hour after leaving work, with an assortment of the tackiest, cheapest decorations I'd ever seen—and, believe me, I'd been dragged around enough awful pop-up Christmas shops with Olivia to recognise tacky when I saw it. The canteen looked like a pop-up Christmas shop itself, with tinsel draped everywhere, balloons in every corner, and awful foil garlands draped across the room. Someone had even brought a battery-operated Santa who yelled ho ho ho before dropping his trousers and revealing a large and very rosy behind. I'd tried to get them to take it home again, but had been drowned out by yells of protest. Apparently, it was funny.

  I'd had a bit more success with the foyer, where a six-foot artificial Christmas tree was decorated with a mixture of ancient baubles that had probably been around in the sixties, and an assortment of plastic snowmen, reindeer and angels that I guessed cost around six for a pound on a market stall. At least the lights added some elegance, and I'd donated a rather beautiful silver star to sit on the top. Plus, I'd added my Rochester baubles, although it quite broke my heart to see them sitting among such tawdry neighbours. It was like asking the Duchess of Cambridge to share a flat with the characters from Shameless.

  Frankly, I'd been appalled, but seeing the smiles on everyone's faces had kind of made up for it in a most unexpected way. Mum and the other cleaners had joined in, and we'd all worked together to give the factory the Christmas spirit it had been sorely lacking. Even the security guards had helped. A few of the staff had nipped into the village, returning with food from The Leaning Tower of Pizza, and it had turned into quite a party. Remembering the laughter and teasing that had gone on, and the cheers that went up when the lights were finally switched on, after being checked over by Don's pal, I felt a warm glow inside. Against all odds, it had been fun. I hadn't enjoyed myself so much in ages.

  "Were you disappointed?"

  I blinked, confused. "Disappointed?"

  "Well, he asked you out for dinner." Great Uncle Charles's eyes bored into mine. "You must have wondered why. Maybe you were expecting something a bit—you know—romantic."

  "Romantic? With Kit Carroll? I hardly think so."

  "Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

  "That was years ago. I told you, we were just kids. Anyway, never mind Kit Carroll. What are you going to do about Fox Lodge?"

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I told you. I'm thinking about it. Don't make my head hurt with your mithering." He closed his eyes and fell quiet.

  I picked up my cup and sipped my tea, my stomach churning. As if having to face Kit tomorrow at work wasn't bad enough, I also faced the prospect of losing Fox Lodge before it was even mine. I replaced the cup and rubbed my eyes. I was tired and feeling rather stressed out by it all. Maybe I'd join my uncle and have a nap.

  "It's not good this, is it?" he said suddenly.

  I jumped, not expecting him to speak. "What's not good?"

  "You, being like this. Your grandad would be very unhappy about it."

  My mouth fell open. My uncle was talking about Grandad without being prompted? It had never been known before. And what would he be unhappy about? "I don't know what you mean."

  Great Uncle Charles opened his eyes. Pieces of flint stared back at me, wizened old lips pursed tightly as he watched me shrewdly. "Don't you?" he said at last.

  "No, I don't," I said, feeling uncomfortable and annoyed, all at the same time.

  He tapped his bony fingers on the chair arm. "Does it never strike you as somewhat depressing that the only thing you have in your life—the only thing that gives you any interest—is a house? And not even your own house. My house. This house."
/>   I swallowed. "I don't—"

  "Don't say you don't know what I mean again," he said crossly. "How old are you, girl?"

  "Thirty. What's that got to do with anything?"

  "How old's that halfwit sister of yours?"

  I glared at him. "If you mean Olivia, she's twenty-seven."

  "Twenty-seven. Three years younger than you, yet she's married and has three kids. Three kids!"

  "She started young," I said defensively.

  "Yes, she did. Too bloody young. Daft bint. Even so, at least she got off the starting line. More than you did."

  "Not everyone wants to get married, or have kids," I pointed out, my stomach churning harder until I felt sick. "It's not compulsory."

  "Too right it isn't. And good luck to anyone who doesn't," he said. "Plenty of other things to fill your life with. Friends, travel, a career .... You, on the other hand, have this house."

  I blinked away unwelcomed tears, feeling a fluttering of unease. "What are you saying?"

  "When you were a little girl, your grandad had such high hopes for you. He thought you were wonderful. The sun shone out of your arse, as far as he was concerned, and nothing I could say would sway him. Personally, I thought you were an obnoxious little brat, but that's beside the point. I did, at least, think that your ambition would take you somewhere in life. Instead, you just stagnated. It's shameful."

  "How would you know what I have going on in my life?" I demanded.

  "Because you come here—out of the goodness of your heart, I'm sure," he added with a smirk, "and you struggle to find anything to tell me. Oh, I get the odd bit about your mother, and snippets about those nephews of yours, and a few thinly-veiled hints about how poky your flat is. That's pretty much it."

  "Maybe I don't want to tell you everything," I protested.

  "I'm sure you don't. But knowing you, if anything different happened to you, you'd be telling me about it. You couldn't help yourself. Look how you banged on about that choking thing in the pub, as if it was the most exciting thing to happen to you in years, which it probably was."

  I couldn't give him an honest answer to that. He was right. I simply stared at him, unable to look away, as much as I wanted to.

  "You've got a poxy job as a secretary in a poxy factory—"

  "PA," I interrupted forcefully.

  He tutted. "A secretary, in the one place you always insisted you'd never work. You've gone on one package holiday abroad, to my knowledge, to Benidorm with some girls from the insurance company you worked for. You shared a flat with those girls for two years. Then the insurance company goes bust, and what happens? Did you continue sharing the flat with them? No, you moved home. Did you ever see those girls again? If you have, you've never mentioned them. You never mention any friends, come to that. You don't go out, do you? Your life revolves around your family, and your dreams of living in Fox Lodge. That's it. What a tiny world you inhabit."

  I studied my nails. God, he was right! Truthfully, I'd only moved in with Lois and Jen from work because they'd been desperate for a third flatmate to help cover the rent, and Olivia had challenged me to leave our mother and stand on my own two feet. I hadn't enjoyed living there, at all. I'd hated it. And I'd only agreed to go to Benidorm because they'd roped in Jen's cousin and needed someone to share a room with her, and I hadn't enjoyed that, either. I found the whole experience tacky, and knew that they were well aware of the fact. When the insurance company went bust, Jen had found a job in her hometown of Scarborough and moved home, and Lois had moved in with her boyfriend, leaving me to head back to Moreton Cross. I hadn't heard a word from either girl since. We hadn't even exchanged addresses.

  "The only good thing you ever had going on in your life was Christopher Carroll. Now he's back, and all you do is fall out with him and bang on about this house. Something wrong with you, girl?"

  I gaped at him. "It's not my fault he's so obnoxious, is it? And I'm not banging on about this house. All I'm saying is, you should be careful before you go ahead and sell it. It's a lovely house. At least, it could be, if someone spent some money and time and love on it."

  "Someone like you, you mean?" Great Uncle Charles narrowed his eyes. "Or maybe the Martins? After all, does it matter who restores the old place, as long as someone does?"

  I folded my arms, trying not to sulk. He was just trying to wind me up, and I refused to let him succeed.

  "This Carroll chap," he said suddenly. "Strikes me, you need to up your game."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean, if he's scrapped the bonus, stopped the Christmas buffet, admits he can't wait for Christmas to be over, walks out on a Nativity play—not that I can blame him—and tears up a lucrative contract, then he's got serious problems, and you need to do something fast. This has to be down to you, you know. I mean, it's the third time he's come into your life. There has to be a reason for that."

  I leaned forward, suddenly eager. "Actually, it's the fourth."

  He raised a rather scary, antenna-like grey eyebrow. "Oh?"

  "I also saw him again when I was fourteen, and I never even knew."

  "How could you not know? You were sniffing glue, weren't you? I always suspected it."

  "I did not sniff glue," I said crossly. I cleared my throat. "I was pissed on cider, though. Well," I added defensively, as he gave me a smug look, "I was going through a rough time. Dad had just gone. You remember."

  "Right. So, you'd been celebrating?"

  I glared at him. "I was getting drunk to forget. Except, the only thing I forgot was meeting Kit, which is ironic really. Apparently, I was with a gang, and then some of the boys beat him and his mates up, and I didn't do a thing to stop them." Because I was too busy snogging some loser in the bus shelter, I added silently.

  He tutted. "Charming, I must say. Mind you, it only makes me more certain. He got his head kicked in, and he still wanted to go out with you. Four times, you two have been thrown together. Fate wants you to do something. Why else would it put him in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time to save your life?"

  "Hang on! You're actually taking me seriously?" It didn't make sense. "You're the biggest cynic going. Why would you believe in all that fate stuff?" Was it a good, or bad, thing? With Uncle Charles acting as if I was meant to save my Scrooge-like boss, it made it seem more real, more urgent. "And what do you care about saving him, anyway?"

  "I couldn't give a monkey's about any Carrolls," he admitted. "Even so, you need that job, and so does your mother and your sister. The way he's going, he's going to drive it into the ground, and then you're all going to expect me to give you handouts. It's in my best interests to make sure that dratted factory keeps going."

  "Right." I might have known there'd be something in it for him. "Although, you're completely wrong, if you think Mum, or Olivia, would come cap in hand to you. They'd never ask you for anything. Not in a million years."

  "Huh. You think? In my experience, it's surprising what people do when money's at stake. Pride goes well out of the window, along with reason and loyalty, and everything else."

  There it was again, that slightly wistful tone. I wondered what was behind it. "So, what do you want me to do about it?" I said.

  "Crack on with the plan to change him, of course. Take him back to the decent chap you claim he used to be. Now, you've tried Christmas Past and that didn't go down too well. Reckon it's time for Christmas Present. Show him how much fun Christmas can be. Not that it is, of course," he added, shuddering, "but you have to convince him otherwise. Get him a present. Stir his emotions. You need to fill him so full of Christmas spirit that he wants to share it with everyone else. To do that, you have to touch his heart. You remember how to do that, I suppose? After all, you love Christmas so much. If anyone can do it, it's you."

  "How do you know I love Christmas?" I demanded. I'd certainly never discussed it with him.

  He rolled his eyes. "You always did. When your gran was alive, your parents were kind
enough to take you to see her and your grandad every weekend, remember? Your grandad used to tell me how excited you got every year, chattering away about Christmas from around the middle of September. Then, when your father left and you made sneaky visits to see your grandad, he told me how you'd taken over from your dad, organising Christmas for your mum and sister. It's obviously important to you, so all you have to do is pass that feeling onto Christopher."

  "Kit," I said, without thinking. I was too absorbed in other thoughts about my mixed feelings towards Christmas. Great Uncle Charles would be astonished if he knew the truth. It was true, I had always loved the festive season, but for many years, it had become a distraction. Something to focus on to ease the pain that always seemed ten times worse at that time of year. It had, I was forced to acknowledge, become something of an obsession.

  He eyed me curiously. "Kit now, is it? Thought you didn't approve of that?"

  "Well, maybe I understand his reasons for changing his name a bit more now," I said uncomfortably.

  "Oh, and what were they?"

  I wasn't sure I had the right to tell him. Then again, he never saw anyone, so he was hardly going to blab it around, was he? "Because of some bad feeling between him and his father. He seems to think that Christopher connects him to his past and he doesn't want that connection."

  Great Uncle Charles frowned. "So, he's escaping his past? Maybe not such a good idea to try to drag him back there, then. Seems like it has bad memories for him." He coughed again. "Not that I can blame him," he wheezed, eventually. "Who'd want to be tied to someone like James Carroll? As bad as his father, from what I heard. Maybe the lad's not such a lost cause, after all."

  Maybe not, I thought. There'd been definite pain in Kit's eyes, when I'd mentioned his father before. I wondered why. I'd never seen the two of them together when we'd been a couple. Kit had refused point blank to tell his parents about us, saying it was our business, and there was no need for them to know. Even Jack didn't know about us. He'd been away most of the time, at Kit's old boarding school, and besides, Kit said he was just a kid and wouldn't understand. I'd tried very hard not to push him about the matter, but it had hurt. It hurt a lot. If I wasn't good enough for his family, what sort of future did we have together?