Christmas at the Falling-Down Guesthouse: Plus Michele Gorman's Christmas Carol

by Lilly Bartlett

  I nodded. ‘Okay, but first I want you to know something.’

  I’ve dreamed about this enough times to know what he’s going to say. Maybe even just a few weeks ago I’d have been thrilled to hear it. But despite our years together and the love I felt, I’m not that eighteen-year-old girl who fell in love. I can’t let him make a fool of himself.

  ‘Skate, I do love you. I’ve always loved you.’ He smiles. ‘And falling in love with you was incredible. But I’m afraid those feelings aren’t there any more for me. I love you as a friend. But I don’t want to get back together.’

  His face falls. He looks truly shocked.

  ‘Oh, Skate, don’t be upset. I’m so sorry. We’re still friends.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’m an idiot.’

  ‘No, you’re not! You can’t help your feelings.’

  ‘Please, Carol, stop talking. I need to tell you something before you say another word.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘Trust me, Carol, just stop talking. I’ve wanted to talk to you to tell you that I’ve asked Berenice to marry me. I’m so sorry you misunderstood. I should have just come straight out and said it instead of wanking around.’

  I feel my face flush. ‘Oh my God. I can’t believe I thought… I’m such an arrogant cow.’

  I slide down the wall to the floor with my head in my hands. Of course he didn’t come here with his girlfriend to profess his undying love for me. He’s marrying Berenice. ‘Is there any way you can forget that conversation ever happened?’

  ‘What conversation?’ He slides down the wall next to me so that we’re both sitting with our legs straight out across the hallway.

  ‘I assume she said yes?’

  He nods. ‘We told our parents but I didn’t want to make a general announcement to your family without telling you first.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I’m quiet for a while as I try to ignore the utter humiliation I feel. I’m surprised not to feel any sadness. I really am over him. ‘Can I ask you something? What is it about Berenice that made you fall in love with her? I mean, she seems nice but she’s so much quieter than you, and a lot more serious. I wouldn’t look at the two of you and say you’re perfect together.’ I don’t add that she’s not even pretty, let alone fun. That would sound like sour grapes and I’ve had enough misunderstanding for one day.

  He shifts around so that he’s facing me. ‘Carol. It’s not about being perfect. I knew Berenice was special from our first conversation. She’s warm and caring and smart and I think she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. When I look at her I’m actually short of breath. Sometimes I can’t believe I’m going to get to spend the rest of my life with her. You don’t have to be perfect to be loved. That’s not what love’s about. You just have to be perfect for each other.’

  I think about this for a while. ‘I’m very happy for you,’ I finally say, hugging him.

  And I really am. The Skate I knew ten years ago is gone. He’s been replaced by a bigger, better, grown-up version, but he’s not mine any more. He’s Berenice’s, and he’s happy. It’s probably about time for me to grow up as well.

  ‘Congratulations. Let’s go tell the Colberts. It’s been a few hours since we’ve had any drama.’

  Hand in hand we go to spread the good news.

  Later on, the huge drawing room is full of wedding guests lounging all over the sofas and chairs. Mrs Campbell has laid out Christmas cake and mulled wine, and unlocked the games cabinet. The cousins are playing Monopoly (or, as Marley and I call it, Monotony). Skate and Berenice are side by side basking in the glow of our congratulations. They’re threatening a Christmas wedding here next year and Mrs Campbell says she’ll pencil us in for Craighorn Hall. Dad’s strumming carols on his guitar and Marley’s got her head in Jez’s lap so that he can stroke her hair. Mum is singing quietly along with Dad and Auntie Lou is reading to Granny. Granny usually just uses her iPad, but she knows Auntie Lou likes to feel useful.

  ‘Play another one, Dad,’ says Marley.

  ‘I think I’ve played them all.’

  ‘You haven’t!’ she says. ‘You know which one you’ve missed.’

  He smiles and starts to sing our favourite song. The idea came from an American jazz musician he played with in London over Christmas in the eighties. Every night after the gig he’d call his young son and recite this poem to him before bed. Dad put it to music and sings it to us every year. Even in my worst Christmas moods I’ve always loved it. To me, it means family.

  ’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

  Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

  In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

  Carol and Marley nestled all snug in their beds,

  While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

  And Mum in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,

  Had just settled down for a long winter’s nap.

  Then what, to my wondering eyes, should appear?

  But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

  With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

  I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

  More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

  And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

  Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

  (Marley and I shouted together.)

  On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!

  To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

  Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

  His eyes – how they twinkled! His dimples – how merry!

  His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

  He had a broad face and a little round belly,

  That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

  He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

  And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

  And laying his finger aside of his nose,

  And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

  He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

  And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

  But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

  ‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!’

  As the last notes die away, Granny says, ‘And God bless us, everyone!’ Then she laughs and shakes like a bowlful of jelly.

  Chapter Twelve

  I find Robert with Jez’s friends in the library. ‘Hey,’ I say, aware that everyone is watching me. ‘I wanted to thank you for the scarf.’

  He smiles, and stands up to touch it gently. I wonder if he can see my pulse pounding in my neck. ‘It looks beautiful on you. Feel like a walk?’

  ‘In these boots? You’re joking, right?’ I laugh but he doesn’t join me. ‘I’ve got my snow boots in the kitchen. Can we go out that way?’

  When we step out from under the eaves into the early evening twilight, my foot sinks nearly to my knee in the light snow. ‘I don’t know if I’ve ever seen this much snow.’

  ‘Do you really think we’ll get out of here tomorrow?’

  ‘Mrs Campbell said so, and I get the feeling she’s never wrong. Why, are you anxious to get back?’

  We start walking towards the gatehouse where the spa is. With all the snow, the landscape is disorientating.

  ‘Me? No way,’ he says. ‘I’d happily spend another week here. You must be dying to get back, though.’

  I shrug. ‘I’d rather relax here.’

  He stares at me. ‘You? Relax? I don’t believe it. I’d have put money on you forcing the coach driver at gunpoint to get you to the airport.’

  I try to laugh in the face of this unflattering picture. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly relaxed about the delay.’

  He nods. ‘You mean now that you’ll be back at your desk on Tuesday.’

&n
bsp; I’d love to wipe that smug look off his face, but I can’t because he’s right. I may have made peace with an extra day off but I’m not about to quit my job. I love it too much.

  ‘What did you ever see in me?’ I whisper, my eyes beginning to sting.

  ‘You mean aside from your great arse?’

  My mitten makes a gentle foof on his shoulder when I slap him. ‘That’s what the masseuse said.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Inside joke… Robert, I… I’d like to know what happened between us. I was a bit baffled by the way you left things.’

  He stops, and squints out at the tree line. ‘I know. I’m sorry about that. You deserve the truth. I just don’t think you’re going to like it.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t like getting dumped for no reason, so I can’t see how it’ll be any worse, really.’

  My heart is hammering in my ribcage. I’m sure I don’t want to hear whatever he’s got to say, but I need to.

  ‘I’ve never talked very much about my family,’ he says. ‘I’ve told you that I come from Hampshire and that I have a brother, Tim.’

  ‘That’s not true?’

  ‘No, it’s all true. I just haven’t told you everything about them.’

  ‘Well, if they’re like my family, they really need to be experienced to be believed.’ I try to laugh but I sound like a migrating goose. ‘I can’t see how your family has anything to do with our relationship.’

  ‘Carol, I look at you, and your life, and everything is exactly the way you want it. You said it yourself. You won’t tolerate anything less. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, anyone so composed and together and, well, perfect. Your looks, your clothes, your flat, even your job is just the way you want it.’

  I want to tell him how not perfect my life is. How I’ve worked so hard these last years that my friends have been whittled away to just Marley. How, if she doesn’t call, I sit at home on weekends watching DVDs. How I spend most of my workday worrying that someone will be declared a better analyst than me and then I’ll lose the only thing that gives me a purpose. Or that I’ve insulated myself from emotions for so long that I hardly remember how to feel them.

  But I don’t get the chance, because then Robert says, ‘I don’t come from a perfect family. And I’m as far from perfect as you can get.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is true! I’m not talking about leaving the toilet seat up or chewing with my mouth open. I mean really far from perfect.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Do you know what spina bifida is?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s a birth defect that can cause the spinal chord and nerves to be exposed in your back. Both my brother and I were born with it.’

  ‘But I never noticed anything…’

  ‘My case is mild. There’s no protrusion. In fact, it wasn’t even diagnosed until after my brother was born. His case, though, is severe. He’s paralyzed. His spine is deformed and he’s in a wheelchair. He needs a lot of hospital care and there are a lot of emergencies.’

  ‘That’s why you disappeared sometimes.’

  He nods. ‘They’re not always medical emergencies, but Tim gets down, as you can imagine. Sometimes I just go over to cheer him up.’

  My mind plays back over our relationship in light of this new information. ‘What happened in September? You stuck around that month.’

  ‘Mum and Dad took him away to Devon.’

  I nod. ‘Does he live on his own?’

  ‘Carol, he can’t even shit on his own. He lives with my parents… I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be harsh, but this isn’t a condition where the patient sits contentedly in his chair with a rug over his legs like in some BBC drama. It’s ugly and messy and horrible.’

  He used words like that in our last phone call. ‘And you broke up with me because you didn’t think I could handle your brother having this condition?’

  He slowly shakes his head. ‘Carol, you don’t understand. I have it. Even if you could deal with Tim, and the amount of time I spend with him, I have this too.’

  ‘So you’re going to get worse?’

  ‘No, I won’t get worse, but it’s a hereditary condition. It’s not a hundred per cent certain but there’s a big risk that my children will have it. Maybe like Tim. I know you want children one day. Two would be perfect, remember?’

  We were away together in Venice when I said that, sitting in the Piazza San Marco drinking wine. ‘This is a lot to take in,’ I say, wishing I’d never hear the word perfect again. ‘I thought you were just cheating on me. Or a spy.’

  He smiles. Then his expression clouds over again. ‘I’d love to be able to ignore this. But I don’t want to feel like you could do better, like I’m not quite what you want. This can never be fixed. I know you don’t want that in your life.’

  ‘You haven’t given me the chance to decide.’

  ‘I’m saving you the trouble. You didn’t love me enough, Carol.’

  ‘How do you know that?!’

  He shrugs. ‘Because you didn’t say it when I did. If you feel it, you say it. It’s not that complicated.’

  He looks at the sky.

  ‘We should go back inside. It’s getting cold.’

  ‘So that’s it? End of discussion?’

  ‘There’s nothing left to say, is there? What good would it do to say that I still feel exactly as I did months ago, that when I look at you my heart leaps? Or that when I remember the situation I want to cry… that I’d do anything for this to be different? It won’t change anything. Your feelings aren’t strong enough to overlook this. I know you. You can’t stand weakness and imperfection. You don’t accept it in your life. As much as I might want it, nothing has changed.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ’Twas the night before leaving, when all through the house

  Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

  The luggage was piled in the hallway with care,

  In hopes that the snow ploughs soon would be there.

  There I was nestled all snug in my bed,

  While visions of shortcomings danced in my head.

  I dream I’m catching a flight to St Petersburg and can feel the excitement building in my tummy as I check my luggage one more time. I’ve packed everything I could possibly need – summery dresses, walking shoes, my best make-up, the scarf Robert gave me, my hairdryer, and the hamster house Marley and I had when we were children (so I know it’s a dream after all). As I carefully fold the scarf I notice a tiny spot on it. I can’t go to St Petersburg with a spot on my scarf! I quickly mix a bit of hand wash in the bathroom basin, then go in search of my Marigolds to keep my manicure perfect. There’s only one glove under the kitchen sink. I look in all the obvious places for the other – in the cabinets and on shelves, behind the kitchen door, in the fridge. I finally find it in the coffee canister.

  By the time I get back to the bathroom with the gloves, the water has gone cold. I start again and scrub out the tiny spot. But I can’t pack a wet scarf so, hurrying to the suitcase I unfurl the hairdryer’s chord and dry the scarf in a few seconds. But now it’s wrinkled from the water. It just takes a minute for the iron to warm up and the scarf presses perfectly. Carefully, I fold it and lay it in the suitcase. As I’m wrapping the hairdryer chord back around, the plug catches on my thumbnail, ripping a sliver of varnish off. It’ll only take a minute to fix. I repaint the nail, balancing the varnish on my knee. When it slips, spilling just a dot on to my jeans, I sigh as I go in search of another pair in the right shade of blue to go with the tops I’ve already packed. Finally, I find them, grab my keys and passport and rush out the door.

  Since my flat is in Terminal One at Heathrow next to the WHSmith’s, I’m at the check-in counter in just a few minutes. I hand my ticket and passport to the airline agent, who taps on her keyboard for about nine hours. Then she smiles. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You’ve missed that flight.’

  ‘What? I can’t have. It’s
not leaving for another forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Check-in ended fifteen minutes ago. You’re too late.’

  ‘But I had to clean my scarf before I left, and I had to dry it. Then it was all wrinkly so I had to iron it. And when I was packing again, I chipped my manicure, so I had to repaint my nail. Then I spilled varnish on my jeans and had to change them. Look, my scarf is perfect, and my nails, and my jeans are clean.’

  Faced with this evidence, surely she’ll let me on the flight.

  ‘You didn’t have to do those things. Isn’t it more important to be here than to be perfect?’

  There’s a pulling, sucking sensation in my gut. It feels like going over the top on a roller coaster. That’s because I realise that Robert is already on the flight. He didn’t worry about cleaning his clothes or fixing his manicure. He got on the flight as he was, and I’m still in the terminal, immaculate and alone. I look up at the departures board. There isn’t another flight to St Petersburg.

  I wake with a start. It’s just a dream, I tell myself. I’ve got no plans for St Petersburg. My manicure is intact and I’d never fit an entire hamster house into my suitcase.

  But if it isn’t real, why am I crying like I haven’t cried in years? I try to stop the tears but it’s no use. They’re insistent little buggers. Then I do something else I haven’t done in years. I let myself go. I let myself feel everything that dream stirred up, and it’s terrifying. Hopelessness, helplessness, anger and sadness carry me along and I’m powerless to stop them. I cry and I cry and I cry. I’m acting like a mental patient and I don’t care. The feelings rush out. I snuffle and sniffle and sob and shudder until there’s nothing left. And then I realise something.

  That didn’t kill me. The world didn’t tip on its axis; north is still north and south still south. I’m not a weaker person because I feel. Perhaps, just maybe, I’m a stronger one.