by Emma Davies
He shook the paper open, casting his eyes down the columns until he found what he was looking for. He didn’t enjoy many of the festive programmes that television had to offer but the carol concert from King’s College was something he never missed. He had over an hour and a half to wait, though, so perhaps he should enjoy a slice of the Christmas cake he had stashed away in his cupboards. That, and a good book should pass the time quite nicely.
Ten minutes later he picked up the last remaining chunk of marzipan from a plate at his side. The book remained unopened on his lap, but he turned his attention to it now, replacing his glass on the table and lifting the pages to where a bookmark had been inserted previously. He stared at the words until they blurred in front of his unseeing eyes. A heavy tear splashed onto the page. He brushed it away, angrily. Why couldn’t he just leave things alone? Accept that it was over, and move on with his life. He knew he was being foolish, and that a wise man would drink his port and read his book, but Oscar’s heart was not prepared to give up just yet – not when there was still a little hope.
He closed his book again and stared once more at the chair where his wife had always sat. ‘There’s not much I’ve asked for over the years, but we always prayed for a little Christmas miracle, didn’t we, Mary? Perhaps this year…’ He gave a sad smile and pulled himself to his feet.
* * *
She would be out, of course, thought Oscar. At this time of night on Christmas Eve, Hattie and her little girl would undoubtedly be somewhere else, listening to carols or visiting family, but as he picked his way carefully down the road to her house, he looked at the lit-up windows he passed and prayed.
He almost didn’t do it. His hand rose from the pocket of his heavy tweed jacket and hovered somewhere in mid-air before he finally screwed up the courage to ring her doorbell. His heart began to beat wildly and he leaned against the porch as he waited.
A burst of warm air, heavy with the smell of oranges and spice, was released into the night as the door opened, and suddenly there was Hattie, laughing and smiling at something just said.
‘Oscar!’ she exclaimed, pulling him in with her smile. ‘Poppy said it was Father Christmas, but I told her it was far too early!’ She leaned towards him, lowering her voice. ‘You’re not, are you? Only the mince pies aren’t cooked yet.’
Oscar looked past her to the brightly lit kitchen beyond, where her daughter was perched on a stool at the table.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ he said, taking a step backward. What was he thinking, coming here on Christmas Eve?
But Hattie just grinned. ‘You’re not,’ she said. ‘Please come in and save me from a very overexcited five-year-old. I hope you like tinsel.’ She led him down the hallway.
‘Poppy, this is Oscar, a friend of mine. Come and say hello… only mind your sticky fingers.’
The little girl climbed down from her stool, her tinsel ‘crown’ slipping down over her eyes. She smiled shyly, moving forward until she was standing directly in front of Oscar. She looked him up and down. ‘I like your tie,’ she said suddenly, with a grin. ‘It’s like the man’s on the television.’
‘We’ve been watching cheesy Christmas movies,’ said Hattie, holding out her hands. ‘Shall I take your coat? It’s a bit warm in here.’
Oscar began to unbutton his jacket. ‘Only if it’s not too much trouble,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be in.’
Hattie rolled her eyes. ‘Ah, Billy No-Mates, that’s us,’ she said, still smiling. ‘We usually go to my sister’s or my mum’s, but Jules is on her honeymoon, and Mum and Dad… Well, it’s been a bit trying the last few weeks so Dad’s whisked her off for a last-minute turkey-and-tinsel break. They did offer for Poppy and me to go too, but trying to keep a five-year-old entertained in a hotel room over Christmas didn’t sound like fun. So, I figured we’d have a brilliant time on our own. Isn’t that right, Pops?’ She smiled at her daughter and then looked back at Oscar, more carefully this time. ‘Would you like a drink of something?’ she asked.
She was obviously wondering why he was here, and in truth Oscar had no answer to that question. Where would he start? He shouldn’t be here. He should leave this little family to their happy activities and go back the way he had come, keeping his selfish questions to himself.
‘Oscar, is everything all right?’
He started at her words, pulling himself back from his thoughts and fixing a bright smile on his face. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘I just…’
Hattie glanced back at the table, which was covered with flour. ‘We’ve nearly finished here,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come and sit down while we spoon in the last of the mincemeat, and then madam here is going to get ready for bed while they cook. I’ll make a drink too.’
Poppy scampered back to the table and picked up two sticky teaspoons. There was mincemeat right the way up the handle, and Hattie grimaced slightly as she picked up the jar, tilting it at an angle so that Poppy could scrape out the gooey filling, tongue sticking out from between her teeth as she proceeded to drop spoonsful of the mixture into the waiting pastry cases.
‘We won’t win any prizes for presentation,’ said Hattie, ‘but I hear the reindeer aren’t that fussy.’
Oscar chuckled at the numerous dollops of mincemeat that lay around where they were working. ‘In my day, the reindeer had carrots,’ he said. ‘Times seemed to have changed.’
‘Oh no, they get carrots too,’ replied Hattie, ‘and Quality Street.’ She smiled at Poppy. ‘Well, they’re going to need a lot of energy if they’re going to fly around the whole world in one night.’
Poppy was nodding her head up and down. ‘Yes, they are,’ she said solemnly.
Five minutes later and they were done. Hattie peeled off her daughter’s apron and lifted her carefully, arms outstretched, towards the sink, where she put her hands under the running tap to get the worst of the stickiness off. It was obviously a well-rehearsed routine.
‘Right then,’ said Hattie. ‘Proper wash and then PJs. And I mean a proper wash. Father Christmas will not be coming to little girls who haven’t cleaned their teeth.’ She gave her daughter a kiss and set her back down on the ground. ‘Go on, off you go.’
She turned back to Oscar, grinning. ‘Don’t you just love it?’ she said.
It made the breath catch in his throat.
‘Now, where were we?’ Hattie stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the drifts of flour, lumps of pastry, sticky mincemeat and general chaos that surrounded them. She shrugged. ‘It can wait,’ she said. ‘Tea or coffee, Oscar?’
Oscar looked at her sunny face, flushed pink from the heat of the kitchen, or possibly just the spirit of Christmas. He couldn’t do it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have come. You have much to do and precious time to spend with your daughter—’
‘Oscar, I have time to spend with my friends too, especially on Christmas Eve, so none of that “I must be going”. Come and sit down… Although just mind where you put your arms or you’ll get covered in flour!’ She stood pointedly by the kettle with a mug in her hand.
‘Thank you.’ Oscar smiled. ‘I’ll have tea please – two sugars, I’m afraid.’
The drinks underway, Hattie picked up a cloth from the sink and began to rinse it under the hot tap, coming back to the table to scoop the debris away.
Oscar sat as directed and watched her for a moment. She was a wonderful mum, who clearly delighted in her daughter’s company. A young woman who was doing the best for her child under what must have been very difficult circumstances at times. And now, here she was, on the verge of trying to make a successful business to support both herself and her daughter. If Oscar were her father he would be very proud indeed… or even if he were her grandfather. He cleared his throat.
‘Hattie, there’s something I rather hoped I might discuss with you,’ he began, ‘although I confess my timing leaves a lot to be desired. The subject matter is also…
Perhaps “difficult” is the right word?’
‘Oh?’ Hattie’s head swung up to look at him as she stopped what she was doing. ‘That sounds a little ominous.’
Oscar smiled as warm a smile as he could manage. ‘It’s not meant to be, my dear, trust me, but I cannot think of any way other than to simply say it.’
Hattie sat down on the stool with a thump, the dishcloth still in her hand. She watched him for a minute. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking quite so serious, Oscar, but in the short time I’ve known you, you’ve never acted with anything other than the utmost respect for other people. Whatever you want to say is fine with me.’
Oscar gave one last smile before he opened his mouth to speak.
‘I think you might be aware that I lost my Mary just over a year ago, and it seems to me now almost inconceivable the amount of time that’s passed since we first met. We were eighteen and desperately in love, and even though it was more usual to marry young then than perhaps it is now, this went against us from the start. Our parents considered us incapable of loving each other as much as we did and, in my darker moments, I lay the blame for our naïvety at their door. When Mary fell pregnant she was taken from me, and as soon as our daughter was born she too was whisked away, out of sight from judgemental eyes and gossiping tongues, as if she was something to regret and hide from the world.’
Oscar struggled for a moment, swallowing. ‘We would have called her Susan.’
Hattie reached forward to cover his hand with hers. He could see in her eyes that she knew where this was leading, but she held his look, allowing him the time and space to tell his story.
‘I considered myself the luckiest man alive when I got my Mary back. I don’t think I could have survived if I’d have lost her too, and so we married, against our parents’ wishes. But although we had the happiest of marriages, we were never blessed with any more children.’
‘Did you ever try to find her?’ asked Hattie gently.
Oscar hung his head. ‘No. Mary couldn’t bear the thought of finding her and having the possibility that we might lose her all over again. We built our lives around each other, and that’s the way we stayed.’
Hattie remained silent. It must be hard for her to know what to say, thought Oscar.
‘I talked about my mum when we were at Lia’s the other day.’ Her voice was hesitant. ‘Are you here because you want my help to find Susan?’
Oscar couldn’t blame her for going for the easiest option to swallow, but now he didn’t know how to reply. The silence began to lengthen uncomfortably.
‘I see,’ said Hattie quietly. ‘I should have guessed, really. What other explanation could there be for you coming here?’ Her hand still covered his but she sat up slightly, causing it to move a little. She looked down at it. ‘But my mum has said she doesn’t want any contact. What makes you think it’s her?’
She was being protective of her family, of course she was, thought Oscar. He would expect nothing less. But he was committed now, he had to push this as far as he could go or forever wonder if he could have done more. He looked up into Hattie’s dark eyes.
‘Hope,’ he said simply.
It was too much. He saw the tears spring into her eyes almost immediately. She was a mother; she knew how it felt to contemplate the thought of losing a child because her darkest fears had taken her there.
‘Oscar, I can’t,’ she whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek. ‘We all agreed. My mum’s been through so much and I have to respect her decision, however much I would love you to be right. What if she does find out who her real parents are, and it’s not you, what then? She’d be opening herself up to something she never really wanted.’
‘I know.’ Oscar’s voice cracked, as much for the distress he was causing Hattie as for the final sliver of hope he saw evaporating before his eyes. His journey was at an end, he could go no further.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added. ‘I hope you understand, I had to ask.’ He held the edge of the table as he got to his feet. ‘I really am very sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Hattie wiped her eyes. ‘Oh, Oscar, you haven’t upset me. I just wish I could help, but I—’
Oscar held up a hand. ‘My dear girl, you’ve been kindness itself letting me sit here and ramble on.’ He looked around the kitchen. ‘Now, if I’m not much mistaken, you have mince pies to bake and a little girl to enjoy Christmas with. You take good care of one another.’
Hattie came from behind the table and threw her arms around him, hugging him tight for a minute. ‘Oscar, it’s Christmas! I can’t bear the thought of you by yourself like this. Won’t you stay? I never did make you that drink. Poppy and I will just be playing board games later and it’s so much better with three.’
‘No,’ said Oscar firmly. ‘I’ve outstayed my welcome, and I think it’s best if I go. Perhaps my coat, if I may?’
He waited while Hattie went to fetch it, struggling to keep himself together. He had thought that by talking to her he might be more able to cope with his daughter’s decision, but now he didn’t want to face the truth. The reality wasn’t enlightening, or comforting; it didn’t provide a means to move forward. It was just final. The end. Oscar’s heart could take no more.
He was close to tears as he allowed Hattie to give him one last hug. Her face was filled with concern but he was unable to meet her eye. Pulling away, he gave a smile that was more of a grimace and turned towards the door.
‘Oscar?’ The warmth in Hattie’s voice was calling him back but he was reluctant to stop. ‘If we were to find out that my mum is your daughter, that would make me your granddaughter, wouldn’t it?’ There was a gentle tone to her voice that tugged on the invisible line between them. ‘And in the blink of an eye our relationship would go from being one thing to something else entirely…’ Her voice was wistful now. ‘But that would be all right. It would be encouraged because we’d be family…’
Oscar couldn’t resist and he turned back to face her.
‘And I’m wondering why that one tiny piece of information should make all the difference to how two people behave when their whole lives have been spent apart. That doesn’t make sense; it’s not like a switch that you can choose to turn on or off.’
He frowned gently. ‘Well, put like that, it does sound odd, I admit, but I imagine it’s not something that would happen overnight. It would be about getting to know one another first, trusting each other, growing a friendship. I would never seek to presume—’
‘Oscar,’ interrupted Hattie softly. ‘We already have all that, so let me ask you: suppose I had just found out that you were my grandfather, would you be leaving now? Or would you be staying a while, before returning again tomorrow to spend Christmas Day with us?’
Oscar stared at her. His heart was trying to get him to believe something that could never be true, but his head was saying he mustn’t listen. ‘My dear Hattie, it’s a kind thing to say, but we don’t know that I’m anything of the sort.’
‘But you might be. And you didn’t answer my question.’ Her face was flushed pink as she spoke. ‘Would you still be going?’
‘Well, I…’
‘Even if you knew that given the choice of anyone in the world who I’d want to be my grandfather, I’d choose you without a second thought?’ She smiled at him, a full-on beam that lit up her whole face.
Oscar’s heart felt like it was about to burst with happiness. ‘No, I’d stay,’ he said. ‘Of course, I’d stay.’
Hattie came towards him, her arms outstretched. ‘Then let’s get your jacket off again. It’s the time of year for miracles, isn’t it? That’s what I always tell Poppy, and that if we believe in them hard enough, one day they might even come true.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘And for now, we can just pretend. Happy Christmas, Gramps,’ she whispered.
* * *
Just under a mile away, Lia sat on her mum’s bed. Moments ago, there had been tears running down her face, but the shock had dried them ra
pidly. On her lap, she still held the freshly laundered nightie that she had been about to put away in a drawer when she had found the notebook.
She had never seen it before, but it was new and of good quality. She’d wondered where it had come from until she saw what was written inside, and she realised that her mum must have asked either Jasper or Christopher to buy it for her.
Inside were pages and pages of lists. One contained her own name, written over and over; another, their address. A page further on held details of her mum’s favourite blue dress that she danced in – the writing shaky, the details added and then crossed out as she sought to remember. There were names of dances – the foxtrot, Viennese waltz, rumba and cha-cha-cha – and on one page even drawings of feet, numbered, Lia now knew, in a sequence of steps.
She stared at the pages, turning them this way and that. The sudden realisation brought fresh tears to Lia’s eyes; her mum had been improving over the last few months, and more than that she had felt it herself. The notebook was a way of trying to cling on to the memories she knew to be true, of remembering who she was and her life and everyone in it. It was so desperately sad to see how she had tried to capture these tiny moments of lucidity before they faded forever. Lia hugged the book to her. Out of all the things her mum had tried to remember, it was her dancing that she never wanted to forget. After years of denying how important it was to her life, in the last few months of that life, she had allowed herself to remember what had made her truly happy.
Lia had been wrong when she told Lucy that the memories made her mum worse; they hadn’t at all. They had made her better, happier, than she had been in years. She opened the book again, eyes shining, and turned the pages in wonder, reading and smiling. It wasn’t until she got to the last few entries that the breath caught in her throat. On one page her mum had written Lia dance lessons, underscoring it several times over, and on another was written only one word: Jasper.
