I Won't Be Home For Christmas

by Amanda Prowse

  I WON’T BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

  Amanda Prowse

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About I Won’t be Home for Christmas

  While her free-spirited daughter travels the world, Vivienne prepares for a lonely Christmas in Bristol, with her best friend Ellen and her ancient dog Bob.

  Then a letter arrives that changes everything. Vivienne’s daughter is getting married in New Zealand, and she wants her mum and Ellen by her side.

  But out on the rugged coast of Tutukaka, the sea sparkles, romance beckons – and Vivienne falls under the spell of another life. Will she leave everything she holds dear for a chance at happiness? Or will her daughter be the only one to fall in love this Christmas?

  This book is for Jennifer Haggerty and Anne Ward, who became Jennifer Lee and Anne Smith.

  Through thick and thin, and through the highs and lows – and God only knows, there have been a few! Nearly seven decades on and still laughing inappropriately.

  Best friends then. Best friends now. Best friends forever. X

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About I Won’t be Home for Christmas

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Author’s Note

  Preview

  About Amanda Prowse

  About No Greater Love

  About No Greater Courage

  Also by Amanda Prowse

  From the editor of this book

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Prologue

  As the breeze took the last of the heat out of the long, hot, July day, the two friends made their way up the steep grassy bank and slumped down on the slope of hard-baked ground that flanked the River Malago in the heart of Bedminster, Bristol. There they lay, side by side in their sleeveless floral shifts, catching their breath with their arms raised above their heads. Their white ankle socks and tan leather T-bar school sandals sat neatly alongside each other in the grass, removed so they could wade in the shallow water. Slipping off the flat rocks, they’d watched the sediment rise between their toes, then tried to cradle sticklebacks in their palms, but the fish had darted away. With neither jar nor net, the girls hadn’t quite figured out what they would do if they did manage to catch one, not that this spoilt their trying, not a bit.

  The sun-scorched skin of their shoulders stung as they moved. Their pale flesh, usually cloistered under cardigans, was unused to this exposure, but as her nan always said, ‘The quicker you get through the burn, the sooner your skin’ll be ready for summer.’

  ‘I’d better be getting back soon, Elle. My mum’ll have my tea on and it’s a good few minutes’ walk back to Mendip Road from here.’

  ‘Yeah, mine too.’

  Vivienne ignored her friend’s fib. She had heard her own mother talking and knew enough to figure out that Ellen’s mum would more than likely be sloshed and dancing round the kitchen, and then it wouldn’t be long before the laughter turned to tears and she’d slide down onto the lino and sit slumped in the corner. And there she would stay until one of the older kids gently guided her upstairs, where she would fall asleep, face down, in her clothes. She didn’t like to think of her friend living in a house like that.

  ‘Come to mine if you like?’ Vivienne knew her mum would give her friend the warmest of welcomes. Everybody loved Ellen.

  ‘No, you’re all right. Reckon we might have egg and chips tonight.’

  Vivienne watched her friend’s mouth twitch at the prospect and it made her feel a bit sad. The girls loved each other, proper love, which meant that so long as they were side by side, all was right in their world. And that world was tiny: it consisted of school, this scrubby stretch of grass in the St John’s Burial Ground, and their respective homes, which were a mere hop, skip and a jump from each other but just a little too far to be connected by tin-can phones on string. They knew this because they had tried.

  It was 1971 and the eight-year-old girls were the very best of friends and had been ever since fate had sat them next to each other on their first day of school. Well, fate and an alphabetical system that saw them placed between John Payne and Lindsey Rathbone in the classroom and also on the register, where Vivienne Peebles hovered on the line above Ellen Pinder.

  They were a comical pairing. Ellen was meaty, with a broad, flattened nose, eyes that were wide and hooded, and fingers that were square and masculine. Even her hair was thick and coarse, with a uniform kink to every strand. Vivienne was the opposite: slight and shorter, with fine hair, pale skin and narrow wrists.

  They flopped back on the grass, breathing deeply and watching the clear blue sky overhead.

  Ellen turned on her side, shook her short bobbed hairdo and propped her large head on her wide palm. ‘I have to tell you what happened to me today, but you must not tell a single living soul, ever.’

  Vivienne mirrored her friend’s posture. ‘Cross my heart.’ She drew an X over her chest with her index finger. Her eyes were wide at the prospect of what Ellen might reveal. She’d learnt about so many things from her wise friend. Periods, illegitimacy, the music of the Jackson Five, and syphilis were just a few of the topics that she’d been enlightened on in the last few years. Ellen had explained that this was the benefit of having older siblings. They knew stuff.

  Sometimes, as thunder cracked over Bristol and darkness cloaked the city, Vivienne would stare at the thick curtains of the box room where she slept and think about the tantalising information that her friend had shared. She felt waves of guilt and fascination for these snippets of wickedness, certain that neither her mum nor her grandma could know about such things. And the idea of mentioning them to either, oh my good Lord, she would die of shame!

  Ellen tried her best to whisper, but for her this was a near impossible task. Her voice had a natural booming resonance that meant Vivienne always heard her before she saw her.

  ‘It was just after break time and I was minding my own business and David Batchwood told me to look under the desk.’

  ‘What did he do that for?’ Vivienne was impatient.

  ‘Well, I didn’t know what for until I looked, did I?’ Ellen tutted at her friend’s stupidity.

  ‘What did you see?’

  Ellen sat up and looked left and right, scanning the riverbank, confirming what she already knew, that no one was within earshot, and making the most of the added suspense.

  ‘I saw his thing!’

  ‘His thing?’ Vivienne also sat up at this revelation, her nose wrinkled in confusion.

  ‘Yes, Vivienne Peebles, his dingle-dangle.’ Ellen nodded her head, eyebrows raised, mouth fixed, her finger pointing downwards. ‘He had it poking through the buttons of his shorts!’

  ‘He never did!’ Vivienne gasped, horrified and intrigued in equal measure.

  ‘I swear on the Holy Bible he did!’

  Vivienne placed her hand over her mouth, fighting the desire to laugh, scream and ask questions. But the temptation was too strong. ‘What did it look like?’ she whispered, scooting closer to her friend.

  Ellen gave a little shudder and rubbed at her arms. ‘Well, I only took a quick look. Naturally.’

  ‘N
aturally.’ Vivienne nodded, chewing her bottom lip with nerves.

  ‘As I said, it was only a glance.’

  ‘Of course.’ Vivienne understood. Completely. Just a glance.

  ‘But it was kind of…’ Ellen cocked her head to one side, moved her fingers in the air and considered how best to phrase it.

  ‘Kind of what?’ Vivienne prompted, hanging on her friend’s every word, torn between wanting facts about this part of the male anatomy, the idea of which both fascinated and repelled her, and wishing she didn’t have to listen.

  Ellen flicked her head as though tossing the long, luscious locks she craved. ‘It was like a snail,’ she said, before falling back on the ground, covering her face and laughing loudly.

  ‘A snail?’ Vivienne repeated, confused and crestfallen. This was not what she’d expected. Not in the least.

  Ellen nodded. ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘What, like a curly little shell?’ She tried to picture it and failed.

  ‘No, you idiot!’ Ellen boomed. She laughed loudly until she wheezed. ‘Not a curly little shell! Like a snail that’s poking out of the curly little shell!’

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see!’ This made more sense. ‘Yuk!’ Vivienne joined her friend flat on the ground, both of them giggling hysterically.

  ‘Yes, yuk! And I ain’t never going to go near one of those. Oh my days.’ Ellen gave a shiver of disgust as she borrowed one of her mum’s favourite expressions.

  ‘Me either,’ Vivienne added for good measure, picturing the slimy little mollusc with its tiny tentacles waving blindly in the air.

  ‘I tell you this for nothing…’ Ellen giggled. ‘Ain’t nothing as funny as a willy, Viv. I’m absolutely sure of that.’

  Vivienne nodded in agreement. It sure sounded that way.

  Both girls were silent, each picturing why and how such a thing could ever be considered attractive or desirable, before looking at each other and collapsing again into another fit of giggles.

  After a couple of minutes they managed to contain themselves. They sat upright, restored their hair and tried to think sobering thoughts that might calm their hysteria. They were doing quite well until an innocent lad on a Raleigh Chopper cycled by on the path towards town. Both girls collapsed once again, laughing until their tears came. The poor boy sped up, red faced, wondering what on earth could be that funny.

  1

  As the boiler knocked loudly, doing its very best to pump heat into the chilly November morning, and the frost lingered on the inside of the single-glazed kitchen window, Vivienne rinsed her cup under the tap, preparing for her second cup of tea of the day. She’d already been for a quick march around the block and was dressed in her straight-leg jeans, walking boots and the blue micro fleece that she wore to death.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. You’ve had your breakfast and you heard what the vet said: you need to lose weight.’

  Bob stared at her, unblinking, his gaze occasionally wandering to the biscuits that sat on a little plate next to the kettle.

  ‘I’ve told you, it’s no use looking at me like that. It’s for your own good.’ She poured hot water onto the tea bag and did her best to ignore him. Which was relatively easy, until he started whining mournfully.

  As ever, she felt her resolve weakening. As she snapped a digestive biscuit and lifted a crumbly shard to her mouth, his pleading eyes were more than she could bear. ‘Oh, go on then.’

  She threw the nibbled edge into the air. Quicker than you could shout ‘Fetch!’ the collie-cross sprang up and angled his head just so. It always amazed her how Bob, who was now in his middling years, could move with the agility and energy of a puppy whenever he was in sniffing distance of a treat. It was a trick she wished she could master.

  The biscuit fragment landed in his open mouth. Vivienne laughed as he slunk back to his soft, sheepskin-lined bed in the corner and gave her a look of pure adoration. He ate his snack then placed his pretty head on his extended paws and closed his eyes, as if the exertion of biscuit catching had quite taken it out of him and another nap was required.

  ‘I don’t know, you live the life of a king. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, or should that be paw?’ She smiled at the dog she loved, then looked up at the sound of the letterbox snapping into place. ‘That’ll be the postman.’

  She did this, gave a running commentary on her day, for whose benefit she wasn’t sure – Bob certainly paid no attention. Maybe it was simply for the joy of talking, of filling the Victorian bay-fronted terrace with noise, trying to line the rooms that had once echoed with her daughter’s music, her son’s shouts, her mum’s burbling and her grandma’s tuneless singing, the noises of life. Now that it was just her and Bob, the idea of living in silence terrified her. Background noise helped keep any negative thoughts at bay.

  She trod the intricately tiled floor to the solid wooden front door of the house her parents had bought back in the late fifties for the princely sum of two thousand pounds. Sixty years on and the area was now on a fast track to gentrification. The ornate wooden spindles of the staircase and the original fireplaces, mouldings and ceiling roses meant that her family home was now worth almost three hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand pounds! The amount staggered and frightened her. Such a huge sum, and a wonderful return, of course, but it was all relative. Prices were rocketing right across her postcode. Not that she had any intention of selling, despite the numerous glossy flyers from estate agents trying their luck that were repeatedly poked through her door with the local paper.

  The idea of selling the only house she had ever called home, where her memories and ghosts also lived, was unthinkable. Aaron, her son, had suggested that it might be wise to sell up and buy a small flat. ‘Easier for you to manage, Mum, and great for future-proofing against any problems you might have getting up and down stairs.’ She’d nodded, feigning interest, suspecting that the sale of their family home would be more about future-proofing his wife’s Botox, holidaying and handbag habit. But rather than say this, she’d simply nodded, as if it was all going over her head; it was often easier that way.

  Vivienne stooped low and gathered the pale grey envelope from the coir welcome mat embossed with doggy paws. The postmark revealed it was from New Zealand. A letter from Emma! Her heart leapt.

  This was it, the big reveal.

  Emma had told her three weeks ago on the phone that she had ‘big news’ and Vivienne had been mulling over the possibilities ever since. Pregnant? No, that didn’t seem likely; she’d have told her there and then, far too excited to keep that a secret. Moving on, changing both her job and her location? Quite possible, as this was a regular occurrence and to Emma was always ‘big news’. And then, a couple of days ago, as she was dusting off the advent candle ready to pop it on the mantelpiece on December the first, it struck her. Emma’s coming home for Christmas! Her spirits soared at the prospect. Her daughter, back home for the first time in four years, with stories to tell and adventures to share. The thought of Emma asleep in her old room upstairs filled her with happiness.

  She longed to hear the familiar creak of the floorboards overhead while she pottered through her chores in the kitchen, and it would be a dream come true to have Emma on tap for a chat whenever she felt like it. Oh, that would be the finest Christmas present ever.

  Her mind flitted to one of the best Christmases they had shared. The kids were eight and ten and Vivienne had pulled double shifts for three months to get them a Game Boy each. This was going to be a huge deal and certainly not what they were anticipating. Just for once, she wanted them to be the children who struck it big on Christmas morning, wanted hers to be the ones in the park that the other kids gathered around with their mouths forming envious O’s, as they paraded their special presents from Father Christmas. The anticipation of seeing their faces on the day, as they ripped off the paper, was almost more than she could bear, but it made the long, long days and nights spent under the harsh strip light of the superstore, worth it. As she le
ft work on Christmas Eve, she had grabbed a couple of flashing Santa hats from the bargain bin and these along with the usual and expected chocolate reindeer, warm socks and a Harry Potter book for them both, two different stories that they could then swap, meant their haul was complete.

  She had watched, as each present was carefully taken from inside the pillow case in which the gifts were stashed, and smiled as they beamed their thanks at her, interested in the books, nibbling at the chocolate and putting the socks on their chilly feet. The three of them had laughed, as familiar Carols accompanied them on the radio.

  ‘Ooh, just a couple more.’ She had tried to sound nonchalant, as she first handed over the Santa hats. Aaron and Emma had immediately put them on their heads and with the lights flashing, laughed hysterically at each other. They then decided to put their heads under a duvet and in the darkness watch the other’s flashing lights that bobbed this way and that, as they giggled and danced. The Game Boys had been much admired, but quickly discarded in favour of their new game, hide and seek in the dark, where they took it in turns to seek out the flashing lights of their hats in dark corners, the inside of the wardrobe and even behind the sofa. Their laughter filled the rooms, sweeping out the winter cold and creating Christmas joy.

  She would never forget the sight of the Game Boys, nestling side by side on the swirly patterned carpet of the sitting room floor, representing hours and hours of extra work, while her kids laughed fit to burst and ran around the house, playing with the cheap hats she had grabbed as an afterthought.

  Even now, the memory of it made her smile.

  ‘Look, Bob, we’ve got a letter from Emma.’ She nodded in his direction as she tore open the envelope and hastily pulled out a stiff, ornate card.

  She stared at the lines of text and the fancy type, then wobbled backwards and sat down hard on the armchair by the kitchen fireplace. Resting her elbows on her knees, she studied the card again. Swallowing, she picked up her phone and called her best friend, who lived three streets away.