And he would have to decide what to do about his dad. The card was still in his pocket. He had got it out several times today. He kept thinking about how his dad must feel, all alone in prison. Wasn’t prison enough punishment? You didn’t have to lose the people you loved as well.
He had to see him, thought Harley. He wanted to, more than anything. It was deep down inside his DNA, the need. He wanted to see his father again.
36
Simon was sitting on the sofa in the half-darkness, the flickering television providing the only light. The tree was still in the corner but he’d turned the lights out as it got on his nerves, taunting him.
He hadn’t shaved today and by this time in the evening the unfamiliar stubble on his face made him look slightly sinister. There was a bottle of red wine at his elbow and a plate of cheese and biscuits, untouched. He’d opened the wine once Cynthia had gone to bed out of respect for her, even though she had carried on insisting she didn’t mind.
He’d phoned Mo and Lexi earlier, to make sure they were ok now Amanda had gone home. They were obviously fine, entrenched in a bar somewhere by the sound of it.
‘Merry Christmas for tomorrow, Dad,’ said Lexi. ‘And we’ll see you New Year’s Eve. We’ll be back in time.’
New Year’s Eve, thought Simon. They always had a get-together. Open house for anyone who didn’t have anywhere else to go. Would she be back by then?
‘Great. See you then.’
He didn’t mention Lizzy was missing. He knew the two of them would have been straight on the next plane, and he didn’t want to spoil their holiday. And what could they do to help? Even he could do nothing. It was so frustrating. All they could do was wait, but the minutes dragged past.
‘Dad!’ Hattie bounded down the stairs and into the room.
Simon looked up at his daughter. She looked feverish. Excited.
‘I’ve found her,’ she said. ‘I’ve found Mum.’
He jumped to his feet, looking behind Hattie as if Lizzy might be there. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s in Everdene. At that beach hut her friend owns. Caroline?’
‘Is she OK?’
‘I think so.’
‘How did you find her?’
Hattie looked uncertain. ‘Me and Luke put a thing on Facebook.’
‘Facebook?’ Simon frowned. ‘So the whole world knows?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Dad. We found her.’
‘Does she know? Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not yet.’
Simon grabbed Hattie and hugged her fiercely. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Thank God.’
Luke came into the room. When he saw Hattie in Simon’s arms, he panicked.
‘What’s happened?’
‘We’ve found Mum,’ said Hattie. ‘Someone answered the Facebook thing. We’ve found her. She’s at her mate’s beach hut.’
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ asked Luke. ‘How long will it take us to get there?’
‘Slight problem,’ said Simon. ‘I’m well over the limit.’
The irony of the situation wasn’t wasted on him. He’d have done anything to get in the car and drive to Lizzy, but there was no way he’d risk it.
‘We can get gran to drive?’ suggested Luke.
‘She’s fast asleep. And she hasn’t driven for a while – I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘I think,’ said Hattie. ‘We should get up first thing and drive down. Surprise her.’
‘But what if …’ All sorts of possibilities were going through Simon’s mind. A secret lover. That would be awful. ‘What if she’s with someone.’
The twins stared him.
‘She’s not with anyone, Dad,’ said Hattie kindly. ‘Not in that way, anyway. She’s just taking some time out.’
Simon sank down on the sofa and put his face in his hands. To his horror, he found he was crying. It was only now he knew she was safe that he could face up to the fear he’d been feeling. The fear and the guilt and the worry.
The twins rushed to sit either side of him.
‘Dad!’ Hattie hugged him tight. ‘Dad, it’s ok. Mum’s ok.’
‘I love her so much,’ said Simon, embarrassed but unable to control what he was feeling. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’
‘Well, don’t tell us,’ said Luke, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Tell Mum, you ’nana.’
37
Jack looked at Nat’s stocking, which the two of them had laid out carefully at the end of the bed earlier, trying not to think of Fran embroidering the golden N onto the red felt. He had better fill it now. He felt weighted down with the need to sleep: the long journey yesterday and the walk and the wine today and all the emotion were catching up with him. If he fell asleep and Nat woke before he did, the wail of disappointment when he found an empty stocking didn’t bear thinking about.
He took the parcels out from the bottom of his suitcase. He stuffed his in first: little things, of the kind he had once enjoyed. A kaleidoscope, a box of Lego, a silly dinosaur hat. Not big stuff, because he didn’t want Nat to be spoilt. Just fun stuff that they could do together. He never resented time spent with his son.
Then he took out the last parcel from the bottom of his case.
He held it in his hands, feeling her through the paper, knowing that when she had wrapped it she had been thinking about Nat opening it, knowing she wouldn’t be there.
He’d come to the hospice one day, when they knew she hadn’t got long. She was sitting up in bed, her head swathed in the ruinously expensive Hermès scarf she’d ordered off eBay. It was emerald green and covered in parrots.
‘If I can’t treat myself to one now, then there really is no point,’ she’d said cheerfully when she’d clicked the ‘Buy Now’ button.
She was surrounded by a pile of books she had ordered from the local bookshop. They’d hand-delivered them in a big cardboard box. She’d got hold of wrapping paper too: navy blue with tiny silver stars, in thick soft paper that felt almost like fabric.
And ribbon, because she never gave a present that wasn’t swathed in ribbon with big fat bows and trailing ends. Her presents always looked important, as if they might change your life.
‘I’ve chosen,’ she told him, in that voice that brooked no argument, which she was using more and more, ‘a book for every Christmas and every birthday for the next few years. For Nat.’ Her eyes were bright, with determination, morphine and tears. ‘They’re the books I loved, that meant a lot to me, and told me how to live my life.’ She held up The House at Pooh Corner. ‘I mean, who tells it better than Winnie the Pooh? You’ll have to read them to him, to start with.’ She shuffled through the other books on the bed. ‘There’s everything he’ll need. Roald Dahl. Harry Potter …’
She trailed off and they looked at each other. Jack swallowed down a lump. Would Nat one day take comfort from the one thing he shared with Harry: the lack of a beloved mother? At least Nat would have his dad.
‘I’m doing tags,’ she told him, ‘with the date on, so you know what order to give them in. Otherwise all they say is Love from Mummy. The books themselves will tell him all I want him to know.’
‘Jesus, Fran,’ said Jack, thinking that if she was trying to kill him, make his heart stop from the horror of the impending grief, she couldn’t have done a better job.
‘I just can’t bear the thought of him not having something from me to open.’ She was making herself busy now, not looking at him, taking her scissors and snipping through the paper: she cut the straightest lines of anyone he knew.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But whatever I get him will always be from both of us.’
She looked up at him and frowned, then pointed her scissors at him.
‘You’re to meet somebody else,’ she said. ‘I won’t have you moping. I won’t mind
, you know. It’s better than thinking of you being on your own.’
She held his gaze for a few moments, again with that stern look. If she’d had any eyebrows, they’d have been raised for extra emphasis. And then she carried on cutting as if she hadn’t said something utterly devastating and unthinkable.
He slid the parcel into the top of the stocking and laid it back on the bed by Nat’s feet. It was satisfyingly heavy, as all good stockings should be. Nat stirred slightly and Clouseau raised his head for a moment, then the two of them settled back down.
There was a little round clock in the kitchenette and Jack saw its hands were both vertical. Midnight. It was Christmas Day. He opened the door and stepped outside. The clean cold air made him blink and gasp, whipping away the last remnants of wine. He was enveloped in darkness: as inky black as night should be, but for a small cluster of stars above him, diamonds falling from a broken necklace.
If she was here, he would scoop them up and give them to her. He would give her the diamond stars. He would give her everything.
‘Merry Christmas, Fran,’ he said into the darkness. For she was Christmas: red velvet and gingerbread and snowflakes and candlelight. He turned his face up to the sky and to his surprise his face was not wet with tears; his heart did not feel cracked in half like a broken church bell.
He might not feel happy, he thought, but he felt hope.
38
Harley was starting to get cold on the beach when his phone finally rang.
‘It’s Hattie.’
‘Hi.’
‘Dad says it’s too late to drive down now as he’s had too much to drink to drive. Not that he’s drunk,’ she added hastily, ‘but he’s worried he’ll be over the limit. So we’re going to leave first thing in the morning.’
‘That sounds like a great idea.’
‘We should be with you by about midday. I just need you to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere. If she knows we’re coming she might take off somewhere else. We need to talk to her.’ She paused. ‘Tell her how much we love her.’
‘To be honest,’ said Harley, ‘I’m pretty sure she knows. I think it’s herself she doesn’t love very much right now.’
‘Who does love themselves?’ said Hattie. ‘I don’t. Right now I really hate myself.’
‘Don’t hate yourself,’ said Harley. ‘You sound great to me.’
He surprised himself rather with his boldness.
There was a little pause. Then Hattie spoke again. Her voice sounded pleased. ‘Thank you. You do too.’
Harley felt a little jolt of pleasure. ‘She’s been amazing to me, you know. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay her.’
‘You won’t have to,’ said Hattie. ‘I know Mum. She won’t expect anything. She’ll just be pleased that she could help. Oh God, I’m making her sound like Mother Teresa. She’s not. Sometimes she drives us nuts.’
‘That’s what good mums do. Drive you nuts.’
‘I guess so,’ said Hattie. Then, in a very small voice. ‘Can you give her a hug from me? Without telling her it’s from me?’
Harley laughed. ‘Of course.’
‘And you’ll call me if she tries to go anywhere, won’t you?’
‘I am not letting her out of my sight,’ he promised.
When Hattie rang off, Harley sat on the step outside for a moment. Part of him was longing to go back inside and tell Lizzy he’d spoken to Hattie. But he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. It was important for her family to come and find her. It would prove to her how much they cared.
They should train you at school, he decided, in how to look after your mum. Mums always seemed to know everything and to be invincible, but deep down they needed looking after just as much as anyone.
Frozen to the bone, he went back inside. Lizzy was about to climb up her ladder to get into bed.
‘I’m exhausted,’ she admitted. ‘See you in the morning. And sleep in one of the proper beds. Now we’ve got Caroline’s blessing.’
He laughed, and then leaned in to give her a hug, silently passing Hattie’s love to her, and she seemed surprised and pleased by the gesture even though she had no idea of its hidden meaning.
Then he sent Hattie a message to say her mum had gone to bed. A moment later he added an ‘x’.
At Pepperpot, Hattie blushed slightly. She hesitated, then started texting again.
So what are you doing there, then? You said it was a long story.
I’ve run away too.
OMG. What are you all like?
I know, right? We’re a right bunch.
He went on to tell her about his mum, and also Jack, and how they’d all become friends.
They carried on texting for hours. It was as if they had known each for ever. They talked about music, and art, because they were both doing Art A level, and the places they wanted to go most in the world (him: Copenhagen; her: Berlin). It was like having a new best friend, but there was something else too. A bond. A sense of belonging.
Hattie hoped she wasn’t imagining it. She hoped it wouldn’t vanish as soon as she saw him. She didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t have any pictures of himself on his Facebook page. She’d gone through hers, madly deleting anything that made her look like a dork or an airhead. Especially the photos of her and Kiki dressed up to the nines in sunglasses, pouting.
In the end, she had to say good night.
I need to sleep if we’re going to get up tomorrow and come down.
Ok. Looking forward to meeting you.
Me too. Thanks for everything.
xx
CHRISTMAS DAY
39
‘Mum! He’s been!’
The triumphant cry started Leanne awake. She could see him in the doorway, River in his blue and white flannel pyjamas, holding his stocking aloft with a wide smile.
‘Oh, wow,’ said Leanne. ‘He actually came?’
‘Yeah.’ River came running over to her side of the bed. ‘Can I open it?’
She held out her arms, marvelling at the excitement in his little face as he thrust the stocking at her.
‘For God’s sake, what’s the time?’ growled Tony, his voice thick with sleep and last night’s drink. He hadn’t been pleased that she’d been out most of the day yesterday. She’d had to make it up to him, with wine and attention and fake affection.
Leanne peered at her phone.
‘Six.’
‘Tell him to go back to bed.’
‘But it’s Christmas.’
‘It’s too early. Tell him Father Christmas will take his toys away.’
‘I can’t say that.’
Tony leaned over and grabbed her arm. ‘It’s too early.’
For a moment, she froze. She hoped River couldn’t see what was happening in the dim light. Tony’s fingers were tight. She tried to pull away but he squeezed harder. She knew how strong he was; how much time he spent in the gym doing weights. He could lift her up with one hand – he’d done it, in jest, more than once. But she had always sensed it was a warning. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Who to please. How not to cause a scene.
‘You’re right,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll put him back to bed. I’ll be right back.’
Thankfully he released his grip. She slipped out of bed and picked up River.
‘Hey, buddy,’ she whispered. ‘It’s too early yet. We won’t be able to stay awake if we get up now. You get back into bed for another hour.’
‘How come I can’t open my stocking! It’s right here,’ River protested as she carried him back to his bedroom.
She winced at the shrillness in his voice. ‘I know. But Mummy’s too sleepy right now. Just one more hour, OK? We’ll put the stocking back on the end of your bed. It will still be here when you wake up.’
She slid the little boy back under his duvet. He was a good kid. He always knew when to obey and when to push it. She guessed it was something he’d learned, just as she had. With a bit of luck, he would go back to sleep. She tucked his rabbit in under the bedclothes and he hugged it to him. There was a little frown furrowing his brow, and she felt sad that Christmas morning was off to a bad start.
‘Good boy,’ she whispered, patting him. ‘The sooner you go back to sleep the sooner you can wake up.’
He gave her words careful thought, then wriggled down under his duvet and shut his eyes as tight as he could. She shut her own eyes for a moment, faint with growing unease, sick with the suspicion that they were no better off than they had been the day she’d had the phone call from the police station. She had vowed to keep her boys safe and to give them a better life. She had failed them both. They were trapped. She was going to have to be wily. Strategic. And lucky.
Tony grinned at her as she came back to bed.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Come and see what Father Christmas has brought you.’
Her stomach turned over. The thought of him repulsed her. She looked at his smirk and felt sour with distaste. She could still feel the pressure from his fingers on her arm.
She bent over him, letting her hair tickle his cheek, blocking her nose to the scent of his cologne mixed with the night’s sweat. He insisted on keeping the heating on so it was like a hothouse. Once she had thought it a luxury. Now it stifled her. ‘I’ll just go to the bathroom,’ she whispered in his ear, keeping her tone teasing, laden with promise.
‘Hurry up,’ he said, reaching out a hand and caressing her thigh. It was all she could do not to shudder. She ran a finger suggestively down his cheek, then with her spare hand behind her lifted her phone off the bedside table.
As she left the bedroom she looked back to see Tony roll over and bury his face in the pillows. With any luck he would fall back to sleep. He was terrible in the morning: it took him ages to wake up properly. She watched the rise and fall of his back for a moment, saw his breathing slow down, then crept to the bathroom.
Christmas at the Beach Hut Page 23
