‘It doesn’t matter, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s just a coat. Here, have my hot chocolate,’ meanwhile thinking, ‘Oh, fuck, the one time I manage to get it together, I fuck it up again.’
But the church square was so beautiful, lined with Georgian houses with Christmas trees in the windows and Christmas wreaths on the doors. The church windows were glowing orange, organ music was playing and the fir tree outside was decorated with Christmas lights.
And there were some seats left inside, quite near the front. There was no sign of Miranda. Heart gave a great leap as Mr Wallaker appeared, looking cheerful yet masterful in a blue shirt and dark jacket.
‘Look, dere’s Billy,’ said Mabel as the choir and musicians filed into the pews. We had been strictly instructed by Billy not to wave, but Mabel waved, and then I couldn’t help it. Mr Wallaker glanced at Billy, who rolled his eyes and giggled.
Then everyone settled and the vicar walked down the aisle and said the blessing. Billy kept looking over at us and grinning. He was so proud of himself being in the choir. Then it was time for the first carol and everyone got to their feet. Spartacus, as usual, was singing the solo, and as that pure, perfect little voice rang out through the church . . .
‘Once in royal David’s city,
Stood a lowly cattle shed,
Where a mother laid her baby
In a manger for His bed.’
. . . I realized I was going to cry.
The organ swelled into action and the congregation started to sing the second verse.
‘He came down to earth from heaven,
Who is God and Lord of all.
And His shelter was a stable,
And His cradle was a stall.’
And all the Christmases before came flooding back: the Christmases when I was little, standing between Mum and Dad in Grafton Underwood village church on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus; the Christmases when I was a teenager, Dad and I suppressing giggles as Mum and Una warbled overly loudly in ridiculous sopranos; the Christmases in my thirties, when I was single and so sad, because I thought I’d never have a baby of my own to lay in a manger, or more precisely a Bugaboo stroller; last winter in the snow when I was tweeting Roxster, who was probably at this moment dancing to ‘garage house’ music with someone called Natalie. Or Miranda. Or Saffron. Dad’s last Christmas before he died, when he staggered out of hospital to go to Midnight Mass in Grafton Underwood; the first Christmas when Mark and I went to church, holding Billy in a little Santa Claus outfit; the Christmas when Billy had his first Nativity Play at nursery school, which was the first Christmas after Mark’s brutal, horrible death, when I couldn’t believe that Christmas would be so cruel as to actually try to happen.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy, pleathe don’t cry.’ Mabel was gripping my hand tightly. Billy was looking over. I wiped the tears away with my fist, raised my head to join in:
‘And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness.’
. . . and saw that Mr Wallaker was looking straight at me. The congregation carried on singing:
‘And our eyes at last shall see Him.’
. . . but Mr Wallaker had stopped singing and was just looking at me. And I looked back, with my face covered in mascara and my coat covered in hot chocolate. Then Mr Wallaker smiled, the slightest, kindest smile, the one smile that understood, over the heads of all those boys he’d taught to sing ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. And I knew that I loved Mr Wallaker.
As we came out of the church, it had begun to snow, thick flakes, swirling down, settling on the festive coats, and on the Christmas tree. There was a brazier lit in the churchyard and the senior boys were handing out mulled wine, roast chestnuts and hot chocolate.
‘May I pour some more of this down your coat?’
I turned and there he was, holding a tray of two hot chocolates and two mulled wines.
‘This is for you, Mabel,’ he said, putting down the tray and crouching to hold out a hot chocolate.
She shook her head. ‘I spilt it before, on Mummy’s coat, you see.’
‘Now, Mabel,’ he said solemnly, ‘if she had a white coat on, without chocolate, would she really be Mummy?’
She looked at him with her huge, grave eyes, shook her head, and took the chocolate. And then, quite unlike Mabel, she put down her drink and suddenly threw her arms around him, buried her little head in his shoulder and gave him a kiss: chocolatey, on his shirt.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tip a little bit more on Mummy’s coat, just for Christmas?’
He stood up, and pretended to lurch towards me with the mulled wines.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. We touched paper cups and our eyes met again and, even with the mess of kids and parents thronging around us, somehow neither of us could look away.
‘Mummy!’ It was Billy. ‘Mummy, did you see me?’
‘’Tis de season to hate Billy!’ sang Mabel.
‘Mabel,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘Stop it.’ Which she did. ‘Of course she saw you, Billy, she was waving at you, as she was specifically instructed not to. Here’s your hot chocolate, Billster.’ He put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. ‘You were great.’
As Billy grinned the fantastic ear-to-ear, sparkle-eyed grin, the old grin, I caught Mr Wallaker’s look, both of us remembering how close Billy had come to— ‘Mummy!’ Billy interrupted. ‘What did you do to your coat? Oh, look, there’s Bikram! Did you bring my bag? Can I go?’
‘Me too, me too!’ said Mabel.
‘Where?’ said Mr Wallaker.
‘Sleepover!’ said Billy.
‘I’m going too!’ said Mabel proudly. ‘Havin’ a sleepover. Wid Cosmata!’
‘Well, that sounds like fun,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘And is Mummy having a sleepover too?’
‘No,’ said Mabel. ‘She’th all on her own.’
‘As usual,’ said Billy.
‘Interesting.’
‘Mr Wallaker.’ It was Valerie, the school secretary. ‘There’s a bassoon left in the church. What do we do? We can’t leave it in the church and it’s absolutlely enorm—’
‘Oh God. I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s Billy’s. I’ll go and get it.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘Back in a mo.’
‘No! It’s OK! I’ll—’
Mr Wallaker put his hand firmly on my arm. ‘I’ll get it.’
Blinking, head swirling through confused thoughts and emotions, I watched him go off for the bassoon. I packed Mabel and Billy off with their bags and stood by the brazier watching them go with Bikram and Cosmata and their mums and dads. After a few minutes all the other families started leaving too, and I was beginning to feel a bit of a fool.
Maybe Mr Wallaker didn’t mean he was coming back at all. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I mean, maybe ‘Back in a mo’ was just the sort of thing people say when they’re moving around at a social occasion, though he was going for the bassoon, but maybe he’d locked it in a cupboard ready for the next lesson and gone to meet Miranda. And maybe he just gave me the nice look in church because he was sorry for me because I was blubbing during ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. And he only brought the hot chocolate because I was a tragic widow with tragic fatherless children and . . .
I downed a last mouthful of the mulled wine and, chucking my cup in the bin, splattering my coat with red wine to go with the chocolate, set off towards the square, following the last stragglers.
‘Hang on!’
He was striding towards me, holding the enormous bassoon. The stragglers turned to look. ‘It’s all right! I’m taking her carol singing,’ he said, then murmuring as he reached my side, ‘Shall we hit the pub?’
The pub was all cosy, old and Christmassy with flagstone floors, crackling fires and ancient beams decked with boughs of holly: though also full of parents looking at us with intense interest. Mr Wallaker cheerfully ignored the stares, found a booth at the back where no one
could see, pulled out my chair for me, put the bassoon next to my chair, saying, ‘Try not to lose it,’ and went to get us drinks.
‘So,’ he said, sitting down opposite, placing the glasses in front of us.
‘Mr Wallaker!’ said one of the Year 6 mothers, peering round the booth. ‘I just wanted to say it was the most marvellous—’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pavlichko,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I deeply appreciate your appreciation. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas, truly. Goodbye.’ And she scuttled off, politely dismissed.
‘So,’ he said, sitting down again.
‘So,’ I said. ‘I just want to say thank you again for—’
‘So what’s with your toy boy? The one I saw you with on the Heath?’
‘So what’s with Miranda?’ I said, smoothly ignoring his impertinence.
‘Miranda? MIRANDA?’ He looked at me incredulously. ‘Bridget, she’s TWENTY-TWO! She’s my brother’s stepdaughter.’
I looked down, blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in. ‘So you’re going out with your step-niece?’
‘No! She bumped into me when she was shoe-shopping. You’re the one who’s engaged to be married to a child.’
‘I’m not!’
‘You are!’ he said, laughing.
‘I’m not!’
‘So stop squabbling, and dish.’
I told him the whole story about Roxster. Well, not the whole, whole story: edited highlights.
‘How old was he exactly?’
‘Twenty-nine. Well, no, he was thirty by the time—’
‘Oh, well, in that case –’ his eyes were crinkling at the corners – ‘he’s practically a sugar daddy.’
‘So you’ve been single all this time?’
‘Well, I’m not saying I’ve been living the life of a monk . . .’
He swirled the Scotch around in his glass. Oh God, those eyes.
‘But the thing is, you see –’ he leaned forward confidentially – ‘you can’t go out with someone else, can you? When you’re in lo—’
‘Mr Wallaker!’ It was Anzhelika Sans Souci. She looked at us, mouth open. ‘Sorry!’ she said and disappeared.
I was staring at him, trying to believe what he’d seemed to be about to say.
‘OK, enough school mums?’ he said. ‘If I take you home will you dance to “Killer Queen”?’
I was still in a daze as we made our way through the parents and the compliments – ‘Magnificent performances’, ‘Overwhelmingly accomplished’, ‘Fiercely impressive.’ As we were heading out of the pub door, we saw Valerie. ‘Have a good night, you two,’ she said, with a twinkle.
Outside it was still snowing. I glanced, lustfully, at Mr Wallaker. He was so tall, so gorgeous: the ruggedly handsome jaw above the scarf, the slight glimpse of hairy chest below his shirt collar, the long legs in his dark—
‘Shit! The bassoon.’ I for some reason suddenly remembered, and started heading back in.
He stopped me, again, with a gentle hand on my arm: ‘I’ll get it.’
I waited, breathless, feeling the snow on my cheeks, then he reappeared, with the bassoon and the plastic bag of sausages.
‘Your sausages,’ he said, handing them to me.
‘Yes! Sausages! Good King Wenceslas! The butcher!’ I gabbled nervously.
We were standing very close.
‘Look!’ he said, pointing above. ‘Isn’t that mistletoe?’
‘I think you’ll find it’s an elm with no leaves,’ I continued to gabble without looking up. ‘I mean, it probably just looks like mistletoe because of the snow and—’
‘Bridget.’ He reached out and gently traced my cheekbone with his finger, the cool blue eyes burning into mine, teasing, tender, hungry. ‘This isn’t a biology lesson.’ He raised my mouth to his and kissed me once, lightly, then again, more urgently, and added, ‘. . . yet.’
Oh God. He was so masterful, he was such a MAN! And then we were kissing properly and it felt, once more, like everything was going crazy inside me, flashes and pulses, and like I was driving a super-fast car in a pair of stilettos again, but this time it was all right because the person actually at the wheel was . . .
‘Mr Wallaker,’ I gasped.
‘So sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Did I catch you with the bassoon?’
We both agreed we should take the bassoon safely back to his place, which was a huge flat in one of the lanes off the high street. It had old wooden floors and a blazing fire with a fur hearthrug and candles, and the smell of cooking. A small, smiling Filipino lady was bustling around the kitchen area.
‘Martha!’ he said. ‘Thank you. It looks wonderful. You can go now. Thank you.’
‘Ooh, Mr Wallaker’s in a hurry.’ She smiled. ‘I’m on my way. How the concert go?’
‘It was great,’ I said.
‘Yes, great,’ he said, bustling her out, kissing her on the top of her head. ‘Brass band a bit off but generally good.’
‘You take care of him,’ she said as she left. ‘He the best, Mr Wallaker, the best man.’
‘I know,’ I said.
As the door closed, we stood like children left alone in a sweet shop.
‘Look at this coat,’ he murmured. ‘You’re such a mess. That’s why I . . .’
And then he started slowly unbuttoning the coat, slipping it off my shoulders. For a moment I thought maybe this was a practised routine – maybe that’s why Martha was so quick to leave – but then he said, ‘That’s partly why . . .’ He pulled me close, his hand slipping to my back, starting to slowly undo my zip, ‘I fell . . . in . . . fell in . . .’
I felt my eyes filling with tears, and for a second I could swear his were too. Then he pulled himself back into masterful mode, and laid my head against his shoulder. ‘I’m going to kiss away all your tears. All your tears,’ he growled, ‘after I’ve finished with you.’
Then he carried on with the zip, which went all the way down, so that the dress fell to the floor, leaving me in my boots and – Merry Christmas, Talitha – black La Perla slip.
When we were both naked I couldn’t believe the naughty perfection of Mr Wallaker’s familiar, handsome, school-gates head on top of that incredibly ripped, naked body.
‘Mr Wallaker!’ I gasped again.
‘Will you stop calling me Mr Wallaker?’
‘Yes, Mr Wallaker.’
‘OK. That’s a cut-and-dried Caution which is going to lead inevitably . . .’ he picked me up in his arms, as if I was as light as a feather, which I am not, unless it was a very heavy feather, maybe from a giant prehistoric dinosaur-type bird, ‘. . . to a Misdemeanour,’ he said, laying me gently by the fire.
He kissed my neck, moving slowly, exquisitely downwards. ‘Oh, oh,’ I gasped. ‘Did they teach you this in the SAS?’
‘Naturally,’ he said eventually, raising himself up, looking down with his amused expression. ‘The British special forces have the finest training in the world. But ultimately . . .’
He was pressing now, gently, deliciously, at first, then more and more insistently, till I was melting like a . . . like a— ‘. . . ultimately it’s all about . . .’ – I gasped – ‘. . . the pistol.’
All hell broke loose then. It was like being in heaven, or other, similar paradise. I came and I came and I came, repeatedly, in a tribute to Her Majesty and the training of Her forces, till finally he said, ‘I don’t think I can hold on any longer.’
‘Just go, for it,’ I managed, and finally we both – in a perfect, miraculous, simultaneous explosion of months of desire at the school gates – did.
Afterwards we lay back, panting, exhausted. Then we slept in each other’s arms, then woke and did it again, and again, all night.
At 5 a.m. we had some of Martha’s soup. We huddled by the fire and talked. He told me what had happened in Afghanistan: an accident, a mistaken attack, women, children killed, finding the aftermath. Deciding he’d done his bit and he was through. And this time, I put my arms around h
im, and stroked his head.
‘I do take your point,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Cuddling. Quite good really.’
He talked about starting at the school. He wanted to be away from the violence, make life simple, be with children and do some good things. He wasn’t prepared for the mothers, though, the competitiveness and the complication. ‘But then one of them was kind enough to show off her thong when stuck up a tree. And I started to think that life could possibly be a bit more fun.’
‘And you like it now?’ I whispered.
‘Yes.’ He started to kiss me again. ‘Oh, yes.’ He was kissing different parts of me between his words. ‘I . . . really . . . definitively . . . conclusively . . . like it now.’
Suffice it to say, when I picked Billy and Mabel up from Bikram’s and Cosmata’s later that day, I was walking with extreme difficulty.
‘Why are you still wearing de chocolatey coat?’ said Mabel.
‘Tell you when you’re grown up,’ I said.
THE OWL
Thursday 12 December 2013
9 p.m. Just put the children to bed. Mabel was staring out of the window. ‘De moon is thtill followin’ us.’
‘Well, the thing is, with the moon—’ I started to explain.
‘And dat owl,’ Mabel interrupted.
I looked out at the snowy garden. The moon was white and full above it. And on the garden wall, the barn owl was back. He stared at me, calm, unblinking. Then this time he spread his wings, looked for a last moment and flew upwards, his wings beating, almost to the beat of my heart, into the winter night and the darkness and its mysteries.
THE YEAR’S PROGRESS
Tuesday 31 December 2013
*Pounds lost 17
*Pounds gained 18
*Twitter followers 797
*Twitter followers lost 793
*Twitter followers gained 794
*Jobs gained 1
*Jobs lost 1
*Texts sent 24,383
*Texts received 24,284 (good)
*Number of screenplay words written 18,000
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy Page 31
