The Country Village Christmas Show

by Cathy Lake

  She stared into her empty mug as if she could find a smidgen of hope there at the bottom, but all she saw was a few leaves from the loose-leaf tea her mum used that had escaped the strainer.

  How on earth Clare was going to get through the next few weeks, she had no idea, but she was here now, and she had to make the best of it.

  What else could she do?

  Chapter 3

  Clare sat up in bed and winced at the bright light that hit her straight in the face like a laser beam. That wasn’t right; her bedroom curtains were lined with a heavyweight blackout material that prevented even a gentle glow penetrating her bedroom. She’d bought the curtains because Jason struggled to sleep if the room wasn’t in complete darkness. How he was going to manage when he was travelling the world, sleeping in tents and hostels, where mosquitos buzzed around and strangers snored next to him, she had no idea.

  She rubbed her eyes as it dawned on her that she was not in her own home. She was at her mum’s cottage in Little Bramble, in her old bedroom, in a single bed, with bright pink bedding that she’d bought in her teens with her pocket money. The bed was comfortable enough, but the pillows were – like every other pillow and cushion in her mum’s home – duck down and not her usual bamboo hypoallergenic pillows. The pillows were soft and could be plumped up easily enough, but they always had a slight odour to them that she associated with her childhood and that elicited mixed feelings. She had slept well on them in her youth, but also cried into them after a disagreement with her mum.

  She lay back down, which removed her from the ray of sunlight and provided immediate relief for her tired eyes. The ceiling was low with thick dark beams, some speckled with tiny holes where she’d hung things from drawing pins over the years and a few of which featured knots in the wood that were as familiar to her as the backs of her own hands because she’d gazed up at them so many times.

  Being here, lying in her old bed like this, made her feel as if the years had fallen away, as if she hadn’t actually grown up and moved out, married and had a child. Of course, she’d been back here from time to time, visited for lunches, dinners, birthdays, anniversaries, but never for long and usually she made the journey there and back in a day, not wanting to stay overnight, particularly since her dad had passed away.

  Coming here had been due to a lack of options, and, perhaps, although she hated to admit this one, because a tiny part of her hoped that it would be different now. There had always been a part of her that had longed to connect with her mum, to find the woman that her dad had loved and cherished. However, her mum’s reaction to Clare’s weight gain yesterday afternoon, the comment about how having a dog to walk would do Clare good, had reminded her that she had always to be on her guard against Elaine’s sharp tongue. Clare wasn’t sure how much of that ‘frankness’, as Elaine called it, she’d be able to stomach now that her dad wouldn’t be there to counter it. At times, he had been almost like a translator for her mum, smoothing things over and tempering her harsh comments.

  Closing her eyes, she started to drift, allowing the sweet-sharp scent of the sheets (her mum folded her bedding away with home-made lavender sachets) to soothe her, to carry her on a wave of relaxation . . .

  ‘What the hell?’

  Heart pounding, she sat up again, her breaths coming thick and fast. Something had dragged her rudely awake and it was still going on.

  She jumped out of bed and ran to the window that overlooked the small front garden with its privet hedge and driveway. Pushing open the sash window, she leant out so she could peer at the front door.

  ‘Mr David?’ she called to the man in full postal uniform. He froze, still gripping the large envelope that was halfway through the front door, his left foot pressed against the wall next to the door, then peered up at her window.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t our very own little Clare.’ Even after over thirty years of serving as a postman in an English village, his Caribbean accent was warm, his manner familiarly avuncular. ‘How’re you doing, little lady?’

  ‘I’m OK, thank you, although I’m not so little anymore.’

  He laughed. ‘No, of course not. Sorry, I haven’t seen you in a while and I always think of you as being little Clare Hughes. I’ll have to get out of the habit of calling you little.’ He tipped his navy cap.

  ‘It’s fine.’ Clare smiled. ‘Uh . . . What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you.’

  He’d misheard.

  ‘Good, uh . . . Can I ask what you’re doing?’

  His eyes widened and he gave a small laugh. ‘Ohhhh, you know . . . I go through this every day.’ Suddenly he was pulled towards the front door, so his right cheek pressed against the wood. ‘See, Clare . . . that big old Goliath . . . he likes to play with the post.’

  Clare snorted as she realised what was happening. Marcellus David was engaged in a bizarre tug of war with Goliath.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ She gasped. ‘Hold on a moment and I’ll be right down.’

  He nodded but didn’t let go of the envelope even though he was pressed right up against the door and clearly in significant discomfort.

  Clare grabbed her dressing gown, pulled it over her pyjamas then hurried downstairs and into the hallway. There was no sign of her mum but Goliath was blocking the front door emitting a low growl, his nose pressed against the open letter box, half an envelope between his jaws.

  ‘Goliath!’ she scolded. ‘No!’

  She might as well have tried to disperse a swarm of wasps by waving her arms and screeching. Something she had tried once and it definitely hadn’t worked.

  Taking hold of Goliath’s collar, apprehensively, even though her mum insisted the dog was a gentle giant, she tried pulling him backwards. He didn’t move a millimetre, just stood there as if he was made of stone, growling at the door as the envelope in his mouth got soggier.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr David!’ Clare shouted at the door. ‘He just won’t let go.’

  ‘It’s all right, Clare, I still have the letter this end.’

  Suddenly there was a ripping sound and Goliath lurched backwards, his paws skittering on the slate floor. Realising he had half the envelope in his mouth, he darted from the hallway and through to the kitchen.

  Clare shook her head, rushed to close the door to the kitchen, then opened the front door. The postman stood there, swaying slightly, beads of perspiration above his top lip, grinning.

  ‘Goliath won this time!’ He removed his cap and ran the back of his hand over his brow. ‘But tomorrow is a new opportunity.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr David. Does this happen every day?’

  ‘Most days, if Goliath can get to the front door. Sometimes your mum closes the kitchen door so he can’t, but if she forgets then Goliath, he takes advantage.’

  He reached into his bright red crossbody bag and pulled out three more envelopes, then handed them to Clare.

  ‘I do them one at a time because once Goliath has one he usually runs off and the rest have a chance of making it to your mum.’

  ‘Have you . . . I mean, you shouldn’t have to do this because I’m sure the experience is highly stressful, but have you considered using a dummy letter first? Just to let Goliath think he’s won. Then you could deliver the actual post?’

  Mr David nodded. ‘I tried, but that dog knows a real letter from a fake one.’ He tapped the side of his head then put his cap back on. ‘He’s wily, you see.’

  ‘I’ll speak to my mum about getting an external post box fitted,’ Clare said. ‘That might work.’

  ‘Very kind of you indeed.’ Marcellus smiled then turned and walked down the path before turning back to her. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Are you staying long, Clare?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure yet, but possibly for a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s good. Be nice for your mum and you to have some quality time together.’

 
As he walked away, Clare closed the front door and leant against it for a few moments, then opened the kitchen door. Goliath was lying on his giant bed in the corner, a mess of chewed-up paper on the floor in front of him.

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ Clare shook a finger and he wagged his long tail in response, clearly quite happy with his morning’s work.

  Clare tutted as she filled the kettle then dropped a teabag into a mug. While the kettle boiled, she went to the sink and peered out at the back garden, frowning as she spotted her mum in the middle of the lawn.

  Why her mum hadn’t dealt with the post situation she had no idea. But then, there was a lot about her mum that Clare didn’t understand, like why she was outside at seven thirty on a cold Friday October morning in her dressing gown. The garden was private with its high hedges and no neighbouring properties overlooking it, but even so it was a funny time for weeding.

  She made a cup of tea then headed back up to bed. All that excitement first thing was more than she cared to deal with on her first full day in Little Bramble. She’d be kind to herself and get some more sleep. What else did she have to do this morning, anyway?

  Sam downed his coffee while staring out of the kitchen window. The morning was grey and drizzly and the back garden looked almost sorry for itself as autumn colours faded, making way for winter. The trees had shed most of their leaves, the lavender bushes were bare and spindly and there were a few yellow patches dotted around the lawn from Scout. But none of that was bothering him.

  What was troubling him was Alyssa and whether she’d come home last night.

  He finished his coffee and swilled the mug, then traipsed through to the lounge. The house was so quiet this morning that he felt completely alone, as if he could be the last person alive. Alyssa used the cottage kitchen and sometimes the lounge when they watched TV together, but the garage conversion provided her with a private space of her own. It had a bedroom, a lounge area and a bathroom all created to allow her to move around freely in her wheelchair. Along with her specially adapted car, she lived an independent life. It worked for them both because it meant Sam could be there if she needed him but she could also be as independent as she liked, as an adult in their thirties should be. The only problem with it was that, in spite of straining to hear her coming home last night, Sam hadn’t. He’d eventually fallen asleep then woken with a start at five thirty, his heart pounding as he worried that she might have stayed out.

  But if she had stayed out all night, it really was none of his business and he had to accept that. If only he could let go and stop worrying about her, but since the accident, he’d felt more responsible for her than ever. What brother wouldn’t, especially as both their parents had passed away?

  He checked the clock above the TV and saw that it was six thirty. He’d wait until seven then text Alyssa to find out if she was home or if she had stayed out. If the latter, then he would just have to bite his tongue. Whatever had happened, he had to get ready for work.

  Chapter 4

  ‘Morning, Goliath,’ Clare said as she trudged down the stairs. He was waiting at the bottom, tail wagging in wide arcs, his mouth open in what looked like a big grin.

  Clare had been making an effort to get up earlier to try to reach the door before Goliath and save Mr David from the dog. So far this week, she’d managed Monday and Tuesday, even though she’d been so tired since arriving in the village that she could easily have slept through until eleven. She suspected that her exhaustion was due to the fact that everything was catching up with her, that the stress of Jason’s confession, their divorce then selling the house, that she had bottled up for so long, had finally landed on her shoulders and now she was paying for it.

  Each morning, she’d take the post from Mr David’s hand and exchange polite chatter about the weather, her well-being and his, make a cup of tea then head back to bed. It was working so far, this being back at her mum’s home. Well, kind of.

  In the kitchen, she made sure to shut the door to stop Goliath from getting to the front door, then made tea. Through the window she could see her mum, standing on the grass, in the misty October morning, wearing just her underwear this time. She was lost in the slow, languid movements of Tai Chi, as she was every morning, not weeding as Clare had previously thought. Clare wondered how she could stand the chill on her flesh, how she found the motivation to get up so early every day to head outside to work through the low-impact exercise routine. Clare had to admit that it was a very graceful activity and she could see the relaxation on her mum’s face as she moved. If only she could find the same relaxed state for herself.

  As the routine came to an end, Clare heard the front gate and so did Goliath. He jumped up from his bed and Clare put up a hand. ‘Sit!’

  He stared at her, tongue dangling from his mouth, then he bounded to the kitchen door. Clare lurched at the handle, pushed it down and tried to squeeze through the gap as it opened without letting Goliath out. When she managed to get through and pull the door behind her, she was breathing heavily and sweating.

  ‘Bloody dog!’ She blew out her cheeks as she hurried to the front door, opening it just in time to take two letters from Mr David’s hand.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Good morning, little . . . Sorry, Clare. And how are you today?’

  ‘I’m well, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘Can’t complain.’ He nodded. ‘Although the weather is not our friend again this morning. It’s so damp and grey.’

  ‘It is.’ She peered at the sky and shivered. ‘A day for staying indoors, I think.’

  He pushed his cap back on his head. ‘You know, every time I see you, I remember how you were as a girl. You were a funny little thing and there was one time that sticks in my mind, when you were about four or five, and you answered the door all dressed up, wearing a big blonde wig and a tiara, along with a gold dress that was far too big for you. I asked where you’d got the clothes and you said they were for the Christmas show. Then you said the sweetest thing. You said, “I’m dressed up as my mummy. She’s going to be the Queen of the Stage.”’ He placed a hand over his heart. ‘It was clear as day how much you loved Elaine and wanted to be like her.’

  Clare blinked. She had wanted to be like her mum? But wasn’t that something that all children aspired to at some point, to be like their parents? After all, Kyle had dressed up in her clothes many times – and in some of Jason’s. One time she’d laughed until she’d cried when she’d found him in front of her bedroom mirror in just a nappy, bright green frog print wellies and wearing one of her summery smock tops. He’d been just a toddler and she’d swept him up and held him close. She’d pressed her nose against the soft curls at his nape, inhaling his baby scent that lingered because she still had to use gentle shampoo, as anything else getting in his eyes made bath time far too traumatic.

  ‘Have you been out and about in the village yet?’

  Mr David’s question took her by surprise.

  ‘Uh . . . no. Not yet.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps today.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Have a good one, little Clare.’

  ‘You too!’

  She closed the door then made her way back through the hall. She pushed at the kitchen door but it only opened a crack then bounced back and smacked her on the forehead.

  ‘Ouch!’ She rubbed at her head. ‘Goliath, are you behind the door?’

  She pushed the door again, but it wouldn’t move so she knocked on it instead.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Post is here!’ She slipped one of the letters, a circular, through the opening and waved it about. There was a low growl then the envelope was snatched from her hand and she heard paws scurrying away as the door swung inwards.

  Goliath was, as she had suspected, on his bed, making short work of the circular she’d given him.

  Just then the back door opened and Clare’s mum came in. Clare averted her eyes, not wanting to stare at her mum when she was
wearing just her underwear.

  ‘Oh, Clare dear, are you being a prude?’

  ‘What?’ She met her mum’s laughing gaze.

  ‘Are you afraid to look at an elderly woman in her lingerie?’ She chuckled. ‘Nothing too terrible to see, is there? Seventy-five doesn’t look so bad, does it?’

  Clare turned the kettle on and got two mugs out of the cupboard.

  ‘No, Mum, you look great. Just great. But aren’t you cold?’ She pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself.

  ‘Cold?’ Elaine asked the question as if it hadn’t occurred to her. ‘Why would I care about that? Don’t you know that it’s just fabulous for my physique?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clare poured water on the tea leaves in the pot, then went to the fridge for milk.

  ‘Well, I’ve always wondered why people bother having breast lifts and tummy tucks and all that malarkey when all they need to do to have a natural body lift is to step outside on a cold morning. It’s just fabulous for tightening everything up.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Of course, dear. Your father and I used to have such a laugh sometimes, especially as we got a bit older, about how things tend to hang lower than they used to.’

  ‘Mum!’ Clare’s cheeks burned. ‘I really don’t want to hear this. It’s . . .’ She sighed. ‘Kind of inappropriate.’

  And not the way I want to think of my dad.