‘And I’ll carve our nut roast, Mary,’ said Luke, who’d managed to cobble together something from chopped-up nut cutlets bound together with root vegetables and lashings of sage and onion.
Charlie had spent a lot of money in his lifetime on dining out and this lunch was right up there with the best of them. The roast potatoes were crisp against his teeth, fluffy on the inside, the turkey tasty and on the right side of dry, even the honeyed parsnips set his palate sighing with pleasure – and he hated parsnips usually. And there wasn’t as much as a hint of fish hovering around his tastebuds. They ate in a wonderful genial silence, entertained in the background by Radio Brian and his musical choices. Then one by one they set their closed cutlery on the plates, sat back in their chairs and the smiles on their faces mirrored the smiles in their stomachs.
While Bridge and Mary cleared up the plates and delivered them to the kitchen, Luke went to fetch the pudding and the trifle and Jack added more logs to the fire that crackled and hissed cheerfully as if joining in with the celebrations.
‘I can’t remember eating so much for ages,’ said Charlie, embarrassed then as a long, satisfied burp escaped him. Robin looked across at him and his heart seemed to swell in his chest. There was a rosy glow on Charlie’s sunken cheeks, and Robin couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen it there. Charlie had lost so much weight in the past months that he’d needed new clothes because nothing fitted. He’d asked Robin if it was really worth it and Robin had been furious at the very thought and taken him expensive shopping.
‘Perfect, wasn’t it,’ said Robin. ‘It’s all so perfect.’ A perfect bubble where all was well and he wished he could stay in it for a long time.
The fire spat a salvo of cracks and pops as if demanding attention.
‘Ah, the fire is so delightful,’ Jack said.
‘And as we’ve no place to go,’ added Charlie to that.
‘We did, we had Aviemore,’ said Robin and gave a small sigh. Charlie would have had every luxury he wanted or needed there on tap. He’d made sure of it.
‘I wouldn’t have enjoyed Aviemore a fraction as much as this,’ said Charlie with a grin of contentment. ‘I wouldn’t have heard rude jokes about Rudolf and his yuletide log or won my own personal piece of snowman poo in a cracker, or even learnt that it is possible to love a parsnip. Even the Cipriani hotel in Venice would be sadly lacking by comparison and you know how much I love it there.’
‘That yuletide log joke was disgusting,’ said Robin, a grin squeezing through the outrage.
Mary came back carrying dessert dishes and started to distribute them around the table.
‘I feel blissful,’ said Charlie, rubbing his stomach. ‘I am crammed to the gills full of lovely food and wine, I’m warm down to my bones and Radio Brian’s music is like soothing olive oil in my ears. I’ve got absolutely no discomfort and if I fell asleep in this chair and didn’t wake up, I think I’d be quite happy to let go.’
‘Don’t you bloody dare, Charlie Glaser,’ Robin warned him.
‘Not before pudding please, Charlie,’ said Mary, adding a gentle admonishment of her own. ‘Luke’s put all those cherries on the trifle especially for you.’
They knew the truth about him now, Charlie could tell, but they weren’t pussyfooting around him. He was just one of them, a fully paid-up member of the Figgy Hollow Six, as special as any of them, but no more, and that felt marvellous. Normal.
‘Go and get some champagne and mark it down on the notepad, Robin,’ said Charlie. ‘We should have champagne today.’
Robin didn’t protest. Whatever Charlie wanted he should have. There was a fridge under the bar where various wines were chilling. Robin hunted around in it.
‘There’s a couple of cold bottles here. Not exactly Dom Perignon, though.’
‘Perfect.’
‘And it’s pink. That all right?’
‘Even more perfect.’
Robin took six flutes down from a shelf, popping a maraschino cherry in the bottom of one of them. He fell into step with Bridge who was carrying Luke’s trifle from the kitchen, closely followed by Luke who paused with his tray by the bar to douse the Christmas pudding in brandy before placing it in the centre of the dining table.
Robin popped the cork from the champagne and carefully poured out six glasses of fizz, handed them out.
‘Aren’t you supposed to toast the pudding?’ asked Jack.
Luke started to raise his champagne in Bridge’s direction.
‘Don’t you dare,’ she replied, narrowing her eyes at him.
‘I think you toast the haggis at New Year,’ said Mary, ‘not sure about the pudding, but if the cap fits…’
‘Yes why not, let’s toast the pudding,’ said Jack.
Luke struck a match, held it near to the brandy-sodden pudding and the ghost of blue flames appeared.
‘A toast then, to the pudding,’ said Luke, then swept his glass-holding hand around the table. ‘And to us. The most eclectic but joyous set of strandees it is possible to be holed up with. May love find you and keep you, may it be Christmas every day in your hearts.’
Everyone raised their glasses then chinked them against the glass of everyone else.
‘So, we have rum custard, brandy butter or clotted cream,’ explained Luke, introducing the choices to accompany the pudding.
‘I’ll have all three,’ said Charlie. ‘And a spoonful of trifle on the top.’
‘Cholesterol!’ barked Mary, who was feeling a bit squiffy.
‘Fuck cholesterol,’ said Charlie, reaching for the jug of custard.
Robin didn’t argue with him. Charlie had always loved his food. They’d eaten in the best restaurants all over the world in their years together. When Charlie became ill and lost his appetite, Robin felt as if an integral part of his lover had died ahead of the rest of him. The wonder drug Charlie had been prescribed had given him back his love of food, his love of life because the two went hand in hand for him. It revived him so much, Robin wanted to believe the doctors had it wrong, that he’d get better, that all Charlie needed to do was give his body the chance to heal properly and eat healthily. And so Robin had pored over nutrition books, drawn up menus, trusted in superfoods, cruciferous veg, whole grains, unrefined this and organic that in the desperate hope that they would restore Charlie back to him. But a stuffed pepper couldn’t bring the sort of smile to his face that the Christmas pud had just put there.
‘Can I really fit some pudding in?’ asked Bridge, who felt as if her weight had doubled in the last half hour.
‘Course you can. Women have a second stomach especially reserved for it,’ said Luke. It was what Carmen said in restaurants. She always had dessert. She judged the worth of a dining establishment by the quality of their dessert menu. It was one of the funny little things he loved about her. And there were many funny little things that he loved about her.
‘Tremendous pudding, Luke. Did you make this yourself?’ asked Charlie.
‘Nope. According to the label it’s another product from Hollybury Farm. They must keep the pub supplied with their products.’
‘Local farm shop I reckon,’ said Bridge. ‘I might try and find it on the way home. So far everything from there’s been top-notch.’
‘There is a hamlet called Hollybury in this area,’ said Charlie. ‘They used to have a May Day fair every year. I remember my mother taking me and I won a teddy bear on the hook a duck stall. My, I’d forgotten all about that. It just shows you, doesn’t it, what’s lying there in the depths of your mind waiting for something to entice those recollections to the top.’
Charlie marvelled how the mere word ‘Hollybury’ could have unearthed such a wealth of technicolour memories. The bear was brown with a yellow ribbon around his neck and a red belly and he’d called it Robin. How could he have forgotten that?
‘I wonder what the people who should have been having their lunch here today are doing instead,’ Bridge said, to no one in particular.
/> ‘Eating cheese sandwiches, the poor sods,’ replied Robin, his spoon diving into the pudding. ‘Think of the favour we are doing the landlord. All this food would have rotted. At least, the stuff that wasn’t in the freezer, anyway.’ He picked up his champagne. ‘He should be paying us really. We’ve kept the place aired for him, we’ve taken care of perishables and no doubt we’ll give him a glowing report on Tripadvisor.’
Jack clicked his fingers. ‘I knew there was something I meant to tell you. I bet no one’s looked at the photographs on the wall.’
There was a general shaking of heads. Mary, in passing, had noticed some small postcard-sized photos in frames, but not taken much heed apart from that.
‘Well look more closely, they’re everywhere and so interesting. And they all feature Figgy Hollow as it was in its heyday. Although to be fair, “heyday” is probably pushing it a bit.’
‘I simply cannot understand why I’ve not heard of this place,’ said Charlie. ‘There are so many small villages around here and I know them all, in fact their names could be my specialist subject on Mastermind: Slattercove, Hollybury, Briswith, Winmark, Little Loste, Ren Dullem… what an odd place that was. Like something out of a John Wyndham novel. I went as a boy and remember there were no women to be seen and some of the menfolk staring at my mother as if she were some kind of bizarre creature.’
‘Bloody northerners, they’re all weird,’ said Robin, winking at Mary.
‘There was definitely something weird about that place.’ Charlie shuddered. ‘They were breeding mutants or harbouring aliens or something there. I mean the village we live in is quite insular and I like that, it’s quirky, but Ren Dullem was right off the peculiar scale.’
‘Where do you live, Charlie?’ asked Jack.
‘We live near Tring, beautiful part of the world. In a village called Tuckwitt, please don’t laugh.’
Too late: Jack exploded and his pudding shot out of his mouth, much to his embarrassment and Mary’s amazement.
‘Yes, it’s an unfortunate name,’ Charlie continued. ‘There’s a movement to change a vowel and make it slightly more respectable. We have yet to see if one day we will be Tockwitt or Teckwitt. The local rag rather enjoys running headlines about Tuckwitt councillors.’
‘I hope you folks won’t mind me taking the rest of the day off,’ Radio Brian interrupted their conversation. ‘Mrs Cosgrove is about to serve up and I wish I could send you the aroma coming out of our kitchen via the radiowaves. I will be back tomorrow, and until then I’ll leave you with some of my favourite carols to eat your dinner by.’
‘Wonder what he’s having?’ asked Charlie.
‘And in case you were wondering, we’re having a leg of pork,’ said Brian.
‘That’s so spooky,’ said Bridge. ‘It’s like he’s listening to us.’
‘I hope it’s not too tough on his gums,’ replied Robin. ‘He’ll not fare well with crackling.’
They ate up their pudding and Luke’s most excellent trifle while Brian played on with his pre-recorded tracks. Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright…
Charlie listened to the words of the carol he had heard so many times before but the lyrics struck a chord with him today. Sleep in heavenly peace. He felt he really would sleep in peace now that Robin had given him the gift of his time, let him say all the things he wanted to say.
As if Robin knew he was being thought about, he turned to Charlie and smiled. Smiled at the wonderful man that life had blessed him with, a man who had given him everything: a job, a family, a home, security, love. He felt tears welling up behind his eyes and stamped down on them hard. He would grieve Charlie when he was gone, not before. This was a time to savour, along with the pudding and the trifle. The here and now.
Chapter 26
Bridge couldn’t remember the last time she had put so much food away. Ben would have approved of her not counting any calories today. When they’d first met, she’d been ridiculously skinny, cheekbones pushing through her skin and he’d brought home-cooked food to her door to fatten her up. Professionally she’d been storming it, personally, she was a wreck: drinking too much, eating nothing, surviving on whisky and cigarettes and vitriol. He’d helped her find some balance in life. He was a good man, the best and she couldn’t wait to give him a big hug.
‘Anyone for coffee and a mince pie?’ asked Mary after all the spoons were downed.
‘You are joking,’ said Luke, falling against the back of his chair and framing his pushed-out stomach with both hands. ‘Hell yes.’
‘Well said, Luke, Let’s have the full works,’ added Robin. ‘It’s not Christmas every day, is it.’ He cast a fond gaze at Charlie who returned a grin so wide, he could have posted envelopes through it.
‘I wish it were,’ said Jack with a contented sigh. He was decidedly tipsy by now. ‘In fact, I wish it were this sort of Christmas every day.’
‘But may I suggest an interval,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s have our carol singing competition. In our pairs, we must go outside, sing and be rated by our peers.’ He spread his hands out towards them, looking not unlike da Vinci’s Christ at the Last Supper.
‘You want us to go outside?’ said Robin. He twisted around in his seat to peer out the window. ‘Actually it doesn’t look that bad. I think the snow’s stopped. A little fresh air might invigorate me because I’m in some danger of nodding off.’
‘I’m up for it,’ said Luke. Charlie’s wishes were theirs to grant. ‘And the losers make the coffee.’
‘That sounds fair,’ said Mary.
‘Extra points for harmonies,’ added Bridge, presuming the other half of her pair would be Mary, until Jack said, ‘Come on, Mary. We’ll go first.’
* * *
Outside the door, Mary stood in Charlie’s jacket, which engulfed her, with her size four feet in size eleven wellington boots. She felt as if she were in fancy dress, but she didn’t care. The snow was two foot deep, more here where it had drifted against the inn walls. It stretched as far as her eye could see and she had the sudden urge to run across it, stamping footprints into it like a five-year-old, but Jack was waiting for her to pick a carol.
‘What about “Good King Wenceslaslas”,’ said Mary and then hiccupped very loudly; the fresh air and alcohol combo wasn’t doing much for her street cred in front of this man her heart refused to shut the door on.
‘Okay, that works. Are we doing to go all the verses? I mean, going to do all the verses?’
‘Do you know them?’ Mary would have been surprised if he did.
‘I think so. I used to. My memory retains useless stuff like that, don’t ask me why.’
‘Okay then. Let’s do them all.’
‘Do you want to be the page or Wenceslaslas?’ Jack asked.
Crikey, it was catching. Mary sniggered to herself, hearing Jack struggle over the word. He has Wenceslaslasitis, she thought.
‘Be funnier if you were the page,’ said Mary.
‘Okay. After three. Then. That’s one-two-three and then start, not one-two and start on three.’
‘Mmmmm.’ Mary sang the elongated note so Jack could grab the key.
* * *
From inside, the remaining four listened to the carol being performed. Two strong voices for the first verse and chorus, then Mary’s solo in a deep, robust tone; the good king, enquiring of his page information about yonder peasant. Then the page sang his response about where the peasant lived.
‘That’s never Jack is it?’ said Bridge. Blimey, he had let his corset strings out.
‘He makes a very good castrato,’ said Robin.
‘I hope not, for Mary’s sake,’ said Luke.
So Luke also knew that Mary had a crush on the posh twit, thought Bridge. It seems there was only Jack himself who didn’t. Or maybe he does, said an insightful voice in her head, from a place unaffected by the alcohol. Maybe he just doesn’t want to reciprocate. Don’t interfere, Bridge. Let what will be, be.
She knew
only too well that love wasn’t always a high-speed dual carriageway; sometimes it was a round-about, too often a one-way street.
* * *
Outside Mary was as gobsmacked as any of them that Jack could achieve such a nuts-in-a-vice piercing falsetto. He was smiling while he was singing, his mood oiled by wine, champagne and probably the dessert too as Luke seemed to have a very generous hand where alcohol in puddings was concerned.
They joined together for the last verse. Gave it their all.
‘…Shall yourself find bleeeeeeeeeessssing.’
They dropped the last note totally synchronised, but it continued to hang in the air like the echo of a bell. Jack and Mary stood silently, without moving, as time stretched the long second and Mary’s brain was plunged into a sobering icy pool of clarity. If ever Jack was going to make a move on her, it would be now. If he didn’t, then he probably never would.
* * *
Had Mary always been that pretty, Jack thought. Alcohol was supposed to dull the senses, but the opposite was occurring. Her eyes were quite lovely, light and shining, a mix of sea greens and blues, the colour of a mermaid’s tail, he fancied as he stood there, slightly swaying. Her lips full, soft, he could imagine how they’d feel against his own. That weirdness swirled inside him again, a confusion of trippy emotions ruffling his senses. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to lift up his hand, thread it in the golden silk of her hair and kiss her. His hand twitched upwards, then common sense slapped him into temporary sobriety. He’d be taking advantage, he’d embarrass himself – and her. He’d have overstepped a boundary that couldn’t be un-overstepped. But how he wanted to. He should ask first. Mary, can I kiss you?
His mouth formed the first word: ‘Mary…’ – just as she turned from him.
* * *
It wasn’t going to happen. And she couldn’t stand there any longer looking up at him all doe-eyed waiting for his rejection. The moment had passed. The last vestige of hope detached itself from her, drifted away into the cloud-clogged sky.
I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day Page 21
