That was the wake-up call I’d needed. But what if I hadn’t woken up? I could have lost my job. My home. Lost Lily. The sympathy of family and friends. Ended up as a rough sleeper, dependent on the kindness of others.
Keen to troubleshoot, my mind started racing. That came with the job. A journalist was used to working out speedy ways to find witnesses to corroborate stories or evidence to provide proof. I needed to come up with a plan to save the place that had saved so many people from going hungry.
As we walked up the stairs, an idea stormed into my head and demanded attention, inspired by Davina’s talk of the Parents’ Association and a foreign news article I’d read last year.
My heart thumped so loudly my friends could probably hear it.
It was certainly ambitious.
Some might say crazy.
Did I even have time to organise it?
2
A young woman wearing a bobble hat and torn anorak sat in the supermarket’s doorway, on a sheet of cardboard, legs curled in a grubby sleeping bag. I took out my purse and dropped in a handful of change. She nodded and wished me a good evening. Most people walked past. But I wasn’t anything special. It was getting to know the food bank, through the feature I’d written, that had made me seen the story behind the person and stop to think about how that homeless person had got there. And Davina had told me stories about her volunteering. But without this personal connection would the rest of the community care enough about the food bank to spare time to help it out?
It was ages since I’d been out on a Friday night, let alone to a posh French restaurant. Usually Lily and I watched a movie with fish and chips. And if I went out with the girls, or Kit, it would be midweek. Fridays were special to Lily because she could stay up a little later, with no school the next day. But sometimes work commitments got in the way of our end-of-week celebrations.
I smoothed down the green dress and took a deep breath as I entered the Normandy Snail. I’d brought my notepad and pen. This was work. Nothing more. Nothing less. Even though Oliver had suggested we meet here instead of doing the interview over the phone or via email. I was doing a piece for my weekly column in the Birchwood Express. The local stories were a far cry from the crime or fraud topics I covered in the capital before Adam died. But I’d been lucky to get a regular slot and combined it with my freelance work of writing health and wellbeing articles for magazines.
And this piece kind of combined both. It was about the benefits of mindfulness and Oliver worked locally, running courses for local entrepreneurs who needed stress relief. He’d been offering free sessions to the unemployed.
‘Bonsoir.’ The waiter bowed as I breathed in the smell of garlic. I gave my name and he led me to a table.
Like Lily’s school of the same name, Birchwood Estate was small and self-contained with a parade of shops right next to where I dropped her off every morning, featuring a supermarket, newsagent, hairdresser, chemist and Love in a Mug, a busy coffee shop. The hypermarket was a fifteen minute drive away and the park only ten. It wasn’t often Lily and I ventured into Chesterwood, a town five miles away from Alderston village where we’d moved to after losing Adam. Yet I’d noticed a subtle change over the last couple of months, with her displaying more of an interest in shopping and fancy milkshakes since turning eight.
Apparently our house and next door had been built on ground that used to belong to an eighteenth century apothecary. My neighbour had an extension built and the work revealed an underground hoard of old-fashioned glass medicine bottles. She’d set them out in a display cabinet. When Lily and I had first arrived in Alderston I’d liked the sense of history that news gave our new home. It felt as if we weren’t starting over from scratch, but instead were continuing where other families had left off.
I sat down at the rectangular table, with a candle and red rose in the middle. Decorative plates featuring the lavender fields of Provence brightened up the white walls. The waiter brought me a small glass of red. I took a sip.
Adam would have rolled his eyes at a place like this. Stodgy fare was more his thing, sausages and mash and shepherd’s pie being amongst his favourites. That was one of the things that first made me realise his illness really was serious. He went off food. He couldn’t face a burger. Preferred plain toast to pizza. I started to feel guilty about all the takeaways we’d enjoyed. Being in your thirties was young to get stomach cancer. Perhaps we should have done more home cooking and chosen healthier options.
At first, after his death I’d lie on my back, at night, hoping to see his face. The generous mouth. The frown lines caused by long nights at the lap top perfecting prose. And I used to talk to him when Lily was at school. But I hadn’t done that for a while. And for the most part I slept soundly now.
Would Adam want me to meet someone else?
‘Fern? Fern Fletcher?’
I put down my glass and looked up at the slicked back hair and charming smile. He ordered himself a beer before taking a seat.
‘Great to meet you, Fern. And what a name. Fresh. Natural. I can picture that plant right now.’ He winked.
It wasn’t often that I was lost for words.
Oliver had mussels to start, beef with several side dishes, and a slice of tarte tatin for dessert followed by smelly cheese and liquor. He ordered more beer. I switched from wine to sparkling water. Oliver ate mindfully which meant giving me a running commentary. At first it was fascinating. He was right. Mussels were just like fish made out of mushroom. But by the time he’d described every element of every course I felt as if I’d never be able to face a meal again.
Finally, he pushed away his cheese plate and tried to hide a burp with his hand.
‘That hit the spot,’ he said. ‘It was almost as good as the progressive dinner I took part in last week.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘You do a different course at each participant’s house. My sister’s into that sort of thing. I plumped to do pudding.’ He smirked. ‘I almost forgot to hide the supermarket wrapping. Everyone was well impressed that I’d managed to bake a pavlova.’
I felt a strong desire to bring the evening to an end and I took out my notepad.
‘If I could just ask you a few more questions. What exactly do you find the unemployed gain from your sessions?’
‘They teach resilience and stress relief strategies. There’s usually a good reason for someone being out of work.’ He talked about mental health issues and physical illnesses.
‘You sound passionate about it.’
Oliver burped again, not bothering to hide it with his hand this time. ‘I’m interested in people’s stories. We’ve all got one. They should be shared. It’s only then that people can make sense of their lives and realise they aren’t alone.’
‘This piece is really going to interest the Express’s readers,’ I said. ‘So, it was your idea to offer your services to the local unemployed? You approached the job centre and not the other way around?’
Oliver grinned, put his fingers to his lips. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
A journalist’s five most favourite words.
‘I’m not stupid. Those people could be grateful, paying clients of mine in the future if they manage to turn their lives around. And it’s great for profile, plus brings in new business. Your article will help with that. I intend to approach all the job centres within a fifty mile radius of Chesterwood. You can include that last bit if you like.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘I believe in what I teach, of course I do. But an interest in mindfulness doesn’t make me a saint or mean I have to like a lot of the people I meet.’ He reached out and stroked my hand. ‘Anyway, why don’t you settle up and then we can think about what to do next.’
I paid the bill. Oliver insisted I must be joking when I said that no, us freelance journalists don’t have an expenses account. I declined his offer to continue the night elsewhere and pretended I hadn’t heard when he murmured something about mindful
sex. Instead I was suitably vague over when my article would actually be appearing. I couldn’t get home quick enough.
Alone in the lounge, once the babysitter had left, I felt a sudden urge to speak to Adam. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t stop laughing – and I hoped Adam was too.
What a re-launch into the choppy waters of eating one to one with the opposite sex!
I’d rather have shared a bowl of dog biscuits with Oliver’s terrier.
Lily came downstairs, her curls more unruly than usual. Black like mine. Permanent bed hair, Adam used to tease.
‘You okay, Mum? Who were you talking to?’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘How was the meal with your friend?’
‘I had a caramel dessert. The waiter had a lovely French accent. And how about you? Did you beat Megan at cards?’
Lily chatted about the games and popcorn and Disney movie before I tucked her back up into bed.
‘Daddy talks about Fridays in his book of advice,’ she said. ‘I was reading it tonight.’
It was collection of notes he’d written, just for Lily, during his last weeks. In it he’d talked about how to navigate life, about things that were important, big and small, and others that weren’t. It was private to Lily. I hadn’t read all of the contents.
‘He says Fridays are fun but that every day of the week is important. They are like a group of friends, each with a different role. Monday gets us focused on work. Sunday gives us a chance to unwind and catch up with chores.’
I nodded. ‘And Saturday is very naughty because it encourages us to spend money on cake out.’
She giggled and I kissed her goodnight. Half an hour later I lay under my covers, staring at the ceiling. Not that I could actually see it through the darkness.
Apparently, animals didn’t get the concept of things being there even though they weren’t visible, which was why dogs panicked if their owner hid behind a sofa. Oliver had explained this whilst clicking his fingers for the waiter who failed to appear.
Feelings were like that. I hadn’t kissed Kit. I’d never held his hand, nor run my hand through that tousled hair – something I’d only imagined this last week. We would platonically hug. Punch each other’s arms playfully. But the way I’d felt about him since that cinema trip, it wasn’t visible. The truth was only revealed by the secret heat that tingled when he’d brushed my skin on the way home or how quickly my heart beat when he’d smiled as he said goodbye.
It was ridiculous. Kit and me? We were just friends. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin it because of some misplaced sense of romance due to a dropped ice cream.
So parts of the evening with Oliver had been interesting. In fact, the meal was far from being a write-off. I’d pondered his comments about all people having stories and how communities suffered because telling them, face to face, had become a dying art. Instead we relied more and more on media and books. Increasingly people were isolated instead of coming together and being there for each other.
And then there was the progressive dinner he spoke of.
The evening had consolidated the idea I’d had of how to raise enough money to keep the food bank going until it was embraced by a big charity.
3
When I was little I used to imagine living inside a gingerbread house. It had furniture made out of biscuit with sponge for cushions, and strings of liquorice for curtains. Non-stop baking would give it a heavenly smell and its atmosphere would have been just as sweet as its decor.
That’s what Cara’s homely place was like – apart from the furnishings not being edible. It couldn’t have been more different to on-trend Davina’s. If it was a person it would have been a welcoming aunt, who always had your favourite biscuits in and never forgot to send birthday money. The colours were warm browns and terracottas. Fruit from the garden was made into jam, vegetables into chutneys. Her cake and biscuit tins were magic vessels that were always brimming. She made her own lemonade. She knitted clothes and there wasn’t anything she couldn’t recycle. Jazz music played. Twinkling fairy lights lit up the mantelpiece.
It was celebrations all year around in her house, what with Easter Egg hunts and Father’s Day camping in the garden. She put her Christmas decorations up at the end of November. Tonight the children were enjoying a late night of fancy dress, along with chewy spider sweets and eyeball chocolates even though Halloween wasn’t until Thursday. It made a nice end to their half-term holiday week.
We’d all go round to Cara’s the Saturday before Christmas as well, for a festive buffet.
Since Adam’s death, Lily and I would visit my mum and dad’s for the twenty-fifth, on the outskirts of London. Normally we’d open presents at ours and then make the hour’s car journey to London, not arriving before lunch on the actual day. This was because in the beginning I’d needed the space, in the morning, to digest the idea of Christmas without Adam – without jolly voices getting me up for a sociable breakfast. I could never face travelling there Christmas Eve. Then on Boxing Day we’d drop in to see Adam’s mum and dad who didn’t live far away. That was still painful, watching them desperately studying Lily’s appearance and manner, hoping to spot similarities to their son that would give them reassurance that, in some way, he was living on.
However, this year I’d sensed a change and we would travel on the twenty-fourth.
Something had shifted.
Things were getting better.
People called it moving on. I called it moving sideways. I’d never leave Adam behind. He’d always be there because of Lily. I was simply taking a different path, as if my life had been re-routed.
I no longer wore my wedding ring, but it was there in my bedside drawer, carefully sitting in a velvet lined box. On the anniversary of his death I would take a look at it. The slim band of silver represented a pivotal chapter of my life when I became a spouse and mum. Just because he’d died didn’t mean the stories Adam and I had created together weren’t worth remembering.
Lily once read something out loud from his book of advice about weddings. Adam wrote that it didn’t matter what sort of person Lily married, as long as they loved her to bits and were kind. Lily had pulled a face and said she was going to travel the world or to the moon and back, and therefore it wouldn’t make sense being half of a couple.
The front door opened. Lily and I stepped into the warmth. Cara’s husband, John, stretched his arms out and walked towards us, robot-like. Lily giggled. He was dressed as a zombie, wearing ripped trousers, a bloodied shirt and gory face paint. Apparently, he’d have to work late on Thursday so tonight was his chance to share the Halloween fun with his kids. His elderly mum rolled her eyes good-humouredly and beckoned us in. I liked Audrey. She wore smart slacks and the collar of a silk blouse poked out of the top of a grey cashmere jumper. Working in a charity shop, meeting friends to play bridge and Tai Chi classes used to fill her day before she’d broken her ankle.
‘Lovely to see you, Fern. How’s work going?’
Straightening her witch’s hat, Lily ran through to play with Hannah, Jasper and Arlo. Lex was there too. The children were good about letting the youngest join in. Jasper was always especially kind. He was a sensitive soul, with his wide blue eyes, attuned to the moods of others and keen to help anyone upset feel better.
‘Busy. I’ve just finished an article about cervical screening. Thousands of women are ignoring the call.’ Audrey was easy to talk to. She’d enjoyed a long career in medical sales, visiting GP surgeries with information about the latest drugs. We had plenty of common ground and she’d been keen to see my neighbour’s selection of ancient medicine bottles.
‘Do you hear this, Cara?’ she said as her daughter-in-law came into the hallway wearing an orange pumpkin hat with a green stalk sticking out of the top. ‘Have you been for your cervical smear? It’s so important.’
Cara’s dimpled cheeks turned red.
‘Your friend Fern does such a fantastic job, doesn’t she? Really making a difference to people’s lives b
y getting information out there.’
Now I blushed and quickly handed Cara the bags containing Tupperware boxes of rice salad and coleslaw that Lily and I had spent the afternoon making. She thanked me and disappeared into the open-plan kitchen and lounge saying something about checking the oven. We followed. I let Audrey go first. She only had a slight limp now.
Davina and Max sat talking to Cara’s next-door neighbours. None of the adults were dressed up apart from the hosts. The rest of us would on the actual day. Davina looked up and hurried over whilst Audrey hushed the children and suggested they play hide and seek in the back garden – under her supervision. They punched the air and two witches, one skeleton, a pirate and little princess duly rushed through the lounge, stopped only by Cara calling Hannah and Lex over and insisting that they had to give her a kiss or she’d cast a spell. Then they scampered out of the patio doors that were half open. John had gone out there to man the barbecue. Which was strange. Normally Cara insisted on being in charge of the meat.
It was a cold October evening, but Lily and I loved this regular autumn barbecue, warming ourselves around the coals and gazing up at winter stars. The food was always generous. Cara loved spoiling guests. She often spoke of her great-grandmother whose baking had been legendary in Belfast. She’d always divide any cake equally amongst the number of guests, slices being huge or slim accordingly.
‘So?’ Davina asked and we embraced before she adjusted her fur headband. Faux, of course. Cara had checked the first time she’d worn it.
‘So what?’ I took off my gloves and smiled at Max. Davina had done well to get him to turn up. Time was money in his self-employed world.
‘You know what.’
‘What what do I know?’
‘What does what what mean, Mum?’ asked Jasper. He’d come in for a glass of water. Davina beckoned him over, took off the pirate’s hat, and ruffled his honey coloured mop. He pulled away. Davina’s eyes clouded for a second.
The Christmas Calendar Girls Page 2
