‘Bess just told me you saved someone’s life!’ Morag squealed, pulling him into an enormous hug.
‘An exaggeration!’ he protested modestly.
'But what were you doing here?’ asked Morag.
‘I had a meeting with the head and was just going to see if you needed a lift home. Didn’t realise quite how that would work out! You too, Bess, if you’d like one?’
‘I’d love one,’ I told him. ‘I took the bus today.’
‘I’ve got my car,’ Morag said. ‘And I’ve promised to give one of my students a private lesson, so I’ll be another hour. I should have told you, sorry . . . You take Bess and I’ll see you back home.’
In the car, Harry started on about the school – clearly keen to make some conversation that didn’t revolve around him being the day’s hero.
‘I’m teaching Year 2 this term, now Mrs Potts has gone on maternity leave. We’re doing a woodland theme for our topic, and I’m hoping to put on a production of a wintry play before Christmas. I feel I might have bitten off more than I can chew.’
‘Well, I can think of one little person who could help you.’
‘Dan, yes. He’s an absolute mine of information about owls, but I can’t get anything out of him about any other creatures. Do you think Enid might be persuaded to have a chat with me, give me a bit more info on woodland animals?’
I thought about it. ‘She might do . . .’ I said. ‘Let me ask her.’
I looked across at him and saw his face brighten. He has a wonderfully open expression: he’s the least likely person in the world to be deceitful, I always think. He just can’t hide a single emotion, even in profile next to me in the driver’s seat.
‘How is he?’ I asked. ‘How’s Dan getting on these days?’
Again, a difference in his face. A look of . . . protectiveness. ‘He’s okay . . . amazing. Yet difficult. He’s not my greatest challenge, though,’ he said as he indicated left and then swooped down the hill towards the Bay.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘His mum.’
‘She’s still on about these medical trials. I know the court is less likely to listen to her, because of her alcoholism, but she’ll still carry some sway if it comes to it. I just can’t bear the idea of putting Dan through it.’
‘Maybe it will come to nothing,’ I said, hoping to comfort him. I looked at Harry again as he turned left once more and slowed down past the church. In the amber glow of the churchyard lamps I saw another look on Harry’s face and my heart ached for him. Despair.
‘So, are you looking forward to Christmas?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Only a month away now, and I know it’s your favourite time of year.’
‘Yep, I’m always excited about Christmas,’ I smiled. ‘But there’s just one thing that gets me every year.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Harry as he pulled in next to my cottage and turned to face me.
‘Where have all the carol singers gone? Seriously! When we were kids there were always carol singers turning up at the house unannounced. They’ve gone to ground and, if you ask me, it’s a big shame!’
Harry laughed his huge, hearty laugh. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘The mystery of the disappearing carol singers . . . The Christmas conspiracy!’
‘We need to get to the bottom of it,’ I replied, stretching over to give Harry a hug and gathering up my bag. I opened the car door. ‘Thanks for the lift!’ I said. ‘And well done!’
Harry shook his head. ‘It was nothing! Take care, Bess. See you soon!’
I slammed the door shut and he drove off with a little toot of his horn.
Chapter Nine
Saturday 25 November 2017
Fred
Fred was standing in Coles, enjoying the air conditioning and wondering what on earth Enid might like to eat. It was too soon for grocery shopping for her visit, but he’d need to think about what to cook for Christmas Day. He assumed Enid had eaten roast turkey every year of her life until now and he hoped she wouldn’t find it too mind-boggling if he served up a totally different type of festive lunch: he usually threw some nice fat prawns from the Fish-o on the barbie and served them with fries, salad and avocado (a real treat as avos cost a fortune in Australia).
In fact, he thought, everything would be so different for her: the weather, the outdoorsy feel to the day, the lack of a tree or decorations in his particular case, though perhaps this year he’d join in his neighbours’ battle for the most extravagant external Christmas lights. And, of course, he’d buy Enid some prezzies, too, once he’d worked out what the hell she might like.
Fred wasn’t an expert on Asperger’s Syndrome but he knew from reading up on it over the last year that one of the common issues was a need for routine. Enid’s trip to Australia would seriously test that and he was worried about upsetting everything. What if, without meaning to, he sent her on the downward spiral she’d hinted at experiencing previously?
But, despite his concerns, he wasn’t put off. Terri-Lee thought he was mad. He’d only just explained to her about Enid’s condition and he’d immediately regretted opening his mouth.
‘I didn’t want to say anything before, but she sounded like a bit of a dag to me anyway, and now you’re telling me she’s nuts, too?’ Terri-Lee had said to Fred the evening before, after their yoga session down by the beach. She’d invited herself back to Fred’s for a beer and the alcohol had loosened his tongue. He should have known better than to feed Terri-Lee this bit of information.
‘She’s not nuts! She has a neurological condition that has to be managed,’ he said, his cheeks reddening. Trying to contain his anger, he opened a couple more beers and tried to find them a space on the cluttered table. He was still in the middle of the house sort-out.
‘Have you seen Rain Man?’ Terri-Lee replied, her brows knitted together with concern. ‘Seriously, you’re going to have one hell of a shock when she gets here! Is she a genius?’
‘No, she’s no genius, she’s told me. The guy in Rain Man had two different conditions – autism and Savant Syndrome. And I don’t think Enid’s Asperger’s is all that bad – apparently it wasn’t even diagnosed until she was in her thirties, though she always knew she was different. Look, I’ve got to know her pretty well. As well as you can without seeing a person. And I like her quirks. I like that she’s different.’ Why am I always having to defend myself and my choices to Terri-Lee? Fred thought irritably, thumping his bottle of beer back down so heavily that some of the liquid frothed over on to the table.
‘I’m worried about you, Fred. What are you getting yourself into? I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but I feel a responsibility towards your mum. I just don’t think she’d have approved.’
Fred felt the rage inside him beginning to build at the mention of his mother. He gritted his teeth. ‘Tel, Mum was well aware of my relationship with Enid before she died,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t remotely concerned. She was pleased for me!’
‘But that was before you talked about getting together in person . . .’
‘Well, we were hardly never going to meet up, were we? It was just a question of timing!’
‘Did your mum know?’ Terri-Lee asked, and Fred noticed her cheeks had turned pink at their confrontation. ‘That Enid’s autistic?’
‘Yes, she did, and you know what she said to me, shortly before she died? “Don’t you let that lovely girl get away, Fred. Nobody’s perfect, so you go and embrace those imperfections!”’
There wasn’t much Terri-Lee could say to that but thankfully the awkward silence that followed was saved by the shrill ringtone of Fred’s mobile.
‘Oh, it’s her now!’ he said, his face lighting up as he remembered they’d arranged to speak.
‘I ought to go,’ said Terri-Lee, dropping a brief kiss on Fred’s cheek.
The call was, as ever, a real tonic for Fred. There was no pressure or artifice involved in his rare conversations with Enid. Just a naturalness which made him absolutely sure that, regardle
ss of Terri-Lee’s dire warnings, the two of them would be just fine.
Chapter Ten
Friday 24 November 2017
Enid
I dreamt of Fred all night last night. The dreams reminded me of the ones I have about my parents: just a sense of ease and comfort and love. Though the dreams about Mum and Dad are followed by the waking realisation that the only place they’re actually alive is in my mind. I find it shocking every time. When I woke this morning, I had that same immediate sense of loss, before remembering that Fred is alive. Alive and real and soon to be really real. I’ll be able to touch him.
Touch is one of the senses that has confused me all my life. Labels irritate my skin. If the weather feels damp or humid, I feel like I want to explode. Then there’s human touch. I’ve never liked physical contact with a stranger – those overly tactile people who reach out and pat your arm when you don’t even know their name. The last time that happened I flipped out big time, embarrassing poor Bess and that slimeball Nigel. We were at church about six months ago and there was this churchwarden lady who’d heard my singing.
‘Such a lovely voice,’ she’d said, blocking my way out of the pew. She’d grabbed hold of both my arms in her enthusiasm. ‘She should join the choir, shouldn’t she?’ she’d enthused at Bess and Nigel, who’d managed to escape from the pew before I’d been blockaded.
‘No, thanks,’ I’d said, but the woman was one of those selectively deaf people, and she’d ignored me and kept on rubbing my arms.
‘Let me introduce you to the choir mistress.’ She’d started waving madly at a bushy-haired woman, while maintaining a vice-like grip on one of my arms. ‘Audrey!’ she’d shrieked, and her piercing voice assaulting my ears had been the final straw.
‘Will you get off me!’ I’d shouted, pushing her away. The woman had stumbled back, then looked at me, clearly deeply shocked. Nigel had rushed to her aid, to try and smooth things over, while Bess had quickly escorted me out of the church. I’ve not been back since.
But physical contact that’s connected more deeply to a person in some way – either through a sexual connection or through love – well, for me anyway, that’s different. I long for Fred’s touch. I dream about it, day and night. I realised when I woke up this morning that I haven’t told him that and if he’s read up about Asperger’s then he might think I’ll be all stand-offish, so I was pleased we’d arranged to talk during the morning: it gave me a chance to discuss it with him.
‘Enid!’ he said when he answered his phone. So much warmth in his voice. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I just want to tell you . . .’ I began, without listening to his niceties. I took a deep breath. ‘That I can’t wait to touch you.’
I could hear the smile in his voice when he replied: ‘Enid, I can’t wait to touch you either.’
‘I just thought . . . I needed to tell you that, because maybe you’ll have read that people with Asperger’s don’t like physical contact . . .’
‘I’ve been mugging up on everything since we first made contact, but I’ve read that it differs from person to person. Look, Enid, I have no expectations. Or at least my expectations for us are no different to how they’d be for any other relationship. Until we actually see each other in person, neither of us really knows how we’re going to feel. You mustn’t worry that I’m going to jump on you as soon as you arrive. Or that I’m going to be terrified to go near you. It’s all going to be fine, I can feel it. We’ve done this right, Enid, like we talked about in that first phone call we had, do you remember? We’ve got to know each other before anything physical happens and neither of us has ever done that before. We’ll just let nature take its course.’
He was so reassuring that I felt a deep sense of relief. I knew the feeling wouldn’t last and that my worries would begin to build again but for the rest of our phone call, at least, I was relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that when we said our goodbyes I uttered something to Fred that I’d never said before in all our time of being together apart.
‘I love you.’ The words slipped out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying and my stomach knotted as soon as they were said. But I needn’t have worried.
‘I love you, too, Enid,’ Fred replied – and there was that smile in his voice again.
After I put the phone down I thought back to that first-ever telephone call Fred had reminded me about. I remembered it had been quite stilted at first, both of us getting used to the intercontinental pauses, and each other’s strange accents. But then Fred said to me, out of nowhere, ‘Do you think we can make this work, Enid? Tell me honestly. I know you will.’
‘I think it’s got a chance,’ I told him. ‘A better chance than any relationship I’ve ever had before.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’ve all started with physical attraction and then once the guys have got to know me, it’s all gone downhill,’ I explained. ‘With us, because of the distance, it’s like we’re doing things in reverse. Maybe, in some kind of paradoxical way, the distance will bring us closer than we’ve experienced when we were in relationships on our doorsteps.’
‘You’re so right,’ Fred replied. ‘A decade ago, I constantly had one glamorous woman or another on my arm, but that’s how it remained – at arm’s length, emotionally. It was all so shallow – just based on physical attraction and nothing else.’
‘So our topsy-turvy set-up might just be the making of us . . .’ I paused. ‘Fred, do you think we can make it work?’
‘Yes, I really do,’ he said, and I was comforted by the certainty in his voice.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday 26 November 2017
Bess
There was great excitement in the Bay today: the new rector has just moved in and it was his first morning service. I’ve never seen the church so full as huge numbers of locals braved the snowy lanes, just so they could check out the latest cleric.
The church is beautiful and has had plenty of money invested in it by the diocese but the rectory is another matter: vast and imposing, icy-cold and poorly decorated, causing many a rector’s wife to implore her husband to decline the post. Most rectors braving the job have therefore been single men who’ve rattled around in the house on their own until a better offer has come their way. We were all dying to know if this would be another bachelor or a family man and whether he’d be old and pompous and fat or young and serious and scrawny. Or even – great hope – attractive.
Enid hadn’t come to church since an incident involving one of the churchwardens, but even she had been persuaded by this intrigue, so we scurried in and found a pew near the back. Nigel insisted on sitting between us, so Enid pressed herself against the end of the pew, as far away from him as possible.
I had a terrible view, so it wasn’t until the rector had stepped up into the pulpit that I saw him properly for the first time. I thought there might have been a collective gasp around the church when he did – or maybe it was just me. He’s so handsome! And young! That hair. Dark and thick, a lock bursting from the parting and resting just behind his left ear. Eyes such a brilliant blue that I could see their brightness even from my seat at the back. Tanned and swarthy, even in November! It looks as though he spends all his time outdoors, not within the cool and hallowed walls of a church.
‘Good morning!’ he said, smiling broadly. Hearts were being won down the aisle. He’s posh, but not plummy. ‘I must say, I’m extremely impressed to see so many of you in church today. I think my predecessor must have been a humble man to be so modest in calculating his flock.
‘As you may already know, my name is George. George De St Croix. I’m a Jersey bean, though I worked as a missionary in Rwanda for many years before taking up my last post in the north of England.
‘Now I must tell you – a confession – I’m possibly not going to be quite the clergyman you’re expecting, and I apologise profusely if that’s likely to cause you problems. But I honestly can’t be any other way. You see, I’m a r
ector who loves people. I mean, I love God too, of course. Heavens!’ He laughed, and everybody tittered uncertainly. ‘But pastoral care is what drives me. I want to help. I want to help you if you’re sick, if you’re grieving, if you’re unhappy, if you’re dying, or if you’re just so bloody joyful you want me to help you thank God for your good luck!’
After that, he started the service, and it was no less holy for the swear word he’d uttered, though I suspect that will be held against him by a few of the holier-than-thou lot forever more. For the most part, he’d won us over. He’s clever, I thought to myself at the end of the short service (his sermon was less than five minutes!). He’d seized the opportunity to draw the parishioners to him while he had them there. This man is nobody’s fool.
George continued to surprise us. Whenever we go to church, it’s tradition for us to have a drink afterwards at The Five Foxes – the pub where I work, just up the hill. Lots of the congregation had the same idea so the ancient pub was mobbed. Morag, Harry and Dan, who’d also been at the service, had bagged a large table so Enid and I hurried through to join them as soon as I’d said goodbye to Nigel, who had a lunch date with his mother in Rozel.
The table was at the opposite end of the bar to the fire that crackled away in the inglenook fireplace, but it was less busy down this end and suited Enid and Dan. It was toasty warm in there anyway, and the table was right beside the latticed window at the back, looking on to the pretty beer garden. With another fall of snow just starting outside, it was like a scene from a fairy tale.
‘So, I’m on the hunt for volunteers to help with the school Christmas play,’ Harry was saying as he sipped his pint of bitter, not looking too hopeful. I wasn’t really listening. I was mesmerised by George, who’d taken off his cassock to reveal a T-shirt emblazoned with the word RECTOR and a pair of ripped black jeans. I was intrigued to watch him work the room. He was smiley and charming without being too smooth, and was clearly trying to capitalise not just on having had a full church but on the fact that the pub was now heaving with parishioners.
The Christmas Forest Page 4