“Do you think my mummy will like it?” Jacob asked, sniffing, then rubbing his nose on his sleeve.
Lucie nodded slowly. She took in his pale face, his chapped lips and his light brown hair that was in need of a cut. “I think she’ll love it, sweetheart.”
A smile broke out on his face.
“That’s Daddy in the sky, watching over us. Mummy said he’s an angel now and he’ll always be watching over me. I wish he was here though. I told her I don’t want him to be in the sky, I want him home again.”
“Of course you do, Jacob.”
“But he had the cancer and it was too strong for him and he died.” Lucie tried to keep a neutral expression as Jacob told her about his father in the matter-of-fact way that children often did. He’d passed away during the summer, after a short fight against pancreatic cancer that had stolen him away from his wife and child in barely a few weeks. It was tragic in so many ways, and Lucie wished that she could make it all better for this young boy.
“I want my Mummy to have a good Christmas. She’s been very sad this year because she misses my Daddy so much.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Last night I heard my nanny McGurl telling Mummy that she didn’t want Christmas to come, but Mummy shouted at her that we would have Christmas no matter what. I was in bed but I heard them, and I crept to the top of the stairs and listened. I know it was naughty, but I was worried.”
Lucie glanced at the other children around the table, but they were all absorbed in their festive creativity, ignoring the outpouring that was happening right next to them. This happened sometimes; children would start talking about something that was going on in their lives, then it would all pour out as if the floodgates had opened. It was difficult when the subjects of their conversations were as emotional as this, but Lucie knew that Jacob needed to speak to someone and he had chosen her. So she would listen and be as reassuring as she could.
“Is Nanny McGurl your Daddy’s mummy then?”
He nodded then sniffed again. “She said she doesn’t want Christmas because Daddy won’t be there. It will never be the same again.”
Lucie gently laid his card on the table.
“But your Mummy will want you to have a good Christmas, because that’s what your Daddy would want, Jacob.”
“Yes, that’s what she told me this morning. My Daddy loved Christmas and always bought the tree and made us cake and made it all fun.” He paused, lost in his thoughts. “I miss him,” he whispered as his eyes filled with tears.
“I know you do.” Lucie took his hand and he stood next to her then placed his head on her shoulder and cried quietly. One of the girls briefly looked up and saw Jacob leaning on Lucie but she shrugged and went back to her glitter pot. “Your Daddy will miss you too, Jacob, but he would want you to be happy, because he loves you very much.” She patted his back then slid her free hand into her cardigan pocket and pulled out a tissue. Jacob lifted his head and nodded solemnly then let Lucie wipe his eyes and nose.
“I’m being brave for my mummy.”
“You are very brave, Jacob. But she won’t mind if you cry. Don’t try to hold your sadness in.”
“I can tell you, Miss Quigley. Can’t I?”
“Yes, you can. Anytime you need to tell me, I’m here to listen.”
The class teacher caught Lucie’s eye over Jacob’s shoulder and mouthed Is he okay? Lucie gave her a quick nod to show that she was dealing with the situation.
“Well, this is a beautiful card. How about if we make some special decorations for your tree, too?”
“Yes, please.” Jacob smiled and released her hand, then took his seat.
As Lucie handed him pieces of card, some small silver stars, and the non-toxic glue that smelt strangely like popcorn, she thought about what he’d said. She tried to ignore the blob of snot on her right shoulder. This young boy had lost his father just months ago. He’d overheard an argument between his mother and grandmother that he should never have had to hear. But these things happened. And, in spite of everything he’d been through, he still wanted to celebrate Christmas. So that his mother could enjoy it, and in memory of his father. Her heart ached for him, but it swelled with pride too. He was being so brave and positive – and he was only seven years old.
She watched as he carefully cut out a snowman, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. She thought then about Dale two evenings ago, bringing her a tree and asking her to try to enjoy some aspects of the festive season. Guilt washed over her. If this child could put some enthusiasm into celebrating Christmas for his mother’s sake, and if Dale could go to such lengths to help her enjoy the festivities, then she should try too. Not just be tolerant of it, but aim for something more. She had no right to be so stubborn, so glum, when others around her were making such an effort.
“Here you are, Jacob. This will add some extra sparkle.” She held out the plastic tube of gold glitter.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, and as he smiled at her, his puffy red eyes crinkling at the corners, Lucie knew that the time had come to start making some big changes in her own attitude.
* * *
Lucie parked her car and pulled up the handbrake. As the engine ticked over, seemingly affronted by the chilly air, she tried to prepare herself for what she was about to do.
Visiting her father and stepmother was never easy. Her father had remarried ten years ago, and since then he’d changed. He was not the man Lucie knew before. It could be that he’d actually become the man he was meant to be all along, the man he would have been if her mother had survived, but that was something Lucie would never know. The main issue now was that every visit was surrounded by drama. She’d never known a woman who craved attention like her stepmother did – except for her stepsisters, perhaps.
She took a few deep breaths, then grabbed her handbag and the tote bag of gifts, from the passenger footwell, and got out of the car. She’d deliberately parked further along the street, even though there was a space in front of her father’s driveway, because she wanted to gather her thoughts before they saw that she’d arrived. Thelma always seemed to pounce on her, rushing out onto the driveway and berating her for something or other before she could even get to her father, and that was something that Lucie always tried to avoid.
Today, she’d won this small victory. Next time, who knew?
She walked along the street, then turned left onto the Quigley drive and approached the front door. Sure enough, before she could even raise her hand to knock, the door swung inwards and there was Thelma, her jet black beehive hairsprayed in place, its colour only broken by the white-blonde streaks in her thick fringe. She was clad in a pink velour tracksuit with a fluffy white kitten over her left breast. The kitten was wearing a collar that sparkled with rhinestones. Because, well, Thelma loved rhinestones.
“Lucie! Wherever is your car? I’ve been watching out for you for the past thirty-three minutes. I thought you told your father you’d be here by eleven? That’s what he said. I’d swear on it, I would. So you’re late! Late! Oh deary me!” She paused, pursing her small fuchsia-coated lips in such a way that her mouth resembled a cat’s bottom. Lucie fought the nervous laughter that bubbled in her belly.
A sudden yelping was followed by a screech from Thelma as something shot out from beneath her. Lucie watched as it headed straight for her then circled her ankles repeatedly like a lasso. “Mary Puppins, stop that right now!” Thelma yelled at her tiny silver Chihuahua. She turned as her husband appeared in the doorway. “I’ve told you not to leave the door open, Mark! A million times!”
“I think you’ll find that you left the door open, darling.” He stepped out into the cold morning.
“Hey, Dad,” Lucie said as she tried to step over the tiny creature that was still racing around her, its tongue dangling from its open mouth.
“Watch it… You’ll squish her!” Thelma screamed.
Lucie wobbled, one leg raised as her stepmot
her dived at her, making a grab for Mary Puppins.
“Gotcha!”
Lucie turned awkwardly to find Thelma on her knees underneath Lucie’s raised leg, the small dog tucked under her elbow. She glanced at her father, who shrugged resignedly, so she turned on the spot and carefully lowered her leg. Thelma was panting loudly behind her.
“Let me help you up, Thelma.” Mark leaned over and offered his hand.
“You’ll all be the death of me, Mark Quigley. You and your daughter and naughty Mary Puppins,” she said as she hobbled into the house with Mark supporting her by the elbow.
“You’re stronger than you think, my angel,” Mark said as they entered the hallway.
“But my nerves!” Thelma whined. “My poor nerves can’t take it.” She clung to her husband. “I need to lie down now.”
“Yes, dear, of course.”
Lucie stood and watched. The bottom of her stepmother’s pink velour trousers was emblazoned with the words Hot Mama. Her instincts screamed at her, telling her to turn and run, back to her car and her quiet, calm life, but she knew she couldn’t do that. She needed to visit before she headed off to New York. She owed her father that. She probably owed it to Thelma, too, if she was being magnanimous.
Inside, the house was positively tropical, and her fingers tingled as they warmed up. She hadn’t realized quite how chilly it had been outside, but it was evidently cold enough to mess with her circulation. She hung her coat on the banister, then removed her shoes and tucked them onto the rack under the stairs. The house her father had bought with his wife was not one that Lucie would have chosen, but she knew he’d been able to pay for it outright with the life insurance her mother had insisted on having and the proceeds from the sale of their old family home. It was weird, that: as if her mother might have known something was going to happen to her. She’d provided for her husband through her death, but Mark Quigley hadn’t touched the money until he’d become involved with Thelma and she’d wanted to know why he had so much money sitting around in a savings account.
Mark had told Lucie all this not long after he’d got together with Thelma, after consuming a few beers on his birthday. He’d actually seemed proud of his new wife for pushing him to spend the money he’d left untouched for nearly ten years. The thought that her father was surrendering his financial security and independence made Lucie nervous, because if anything went wrong with his second marriage, then Thelma would surely get at least half. But Lucie also felt that it wasn’t her place to interfere, and that her father had to make his own mistakes.
If it was a mistake. Because for all that Thelma could be quite annoying, she really did seem to make her father happy. Hot Mama popped into her head and she grimaced.
Lucie made her way through to the kitchen and found her father filling the kettle.
“Cup of tea, love?”
“Please.”
“Cold out today.”
“Freezing.”
“She’ll be all right, love.” He nodded towards the lounge.
“Oh… yes, I’m sure she will.”
“She’s putting her feet up for ten minutes. She was so excited about you coming around, you know. She got herself a bit worked up. She even bathed Mary Puppins this morning and cleaned the house. Twice.”
Lucie smiled. She knew that Thelma cleaned every day, thoroughly, and that her obsession with cleaning was probably a form of OCD, but there was no point saying that to her father. What good would it do? He probably already knew it, anyway.
“There’s really no need. You should see my flat, Dad. Thelma would probably have a fit.”
He nodded, then dropped tea bags into a pot and poured on boiling water. Lucie watched him carefully, noting how he seemed to have put on a little weight since she’d seen him last, most of it settling around his belly. His chestnut-brown hair was still quite thick at the front, but when he turned away she could see that it was thinning over his crown and a few grey hairs shone as they caught the light. “She’s the same when she goes round to Lauren and Abigail’s. Hates mess, she does, of any kind. And our little Mary Puppins is the cleanest dog in Tonbridge, I don’t doubt it.”
His face brightened, and Lucie saw the father she’d grown up with, the dad who’d played Scrabble with her, who’d held her hand when she couldn’t sleep and who’d practised French with her as preparation for her GCSE oral exam. A sudden pang of loss overwhelmed her. She missed that man. Missed the closeness they’d once shared. But he was happy now, and she couldn’t begrudge him that. He deserved to be with someone he loved. A woman who’d stand by him through whatever life threw at them.
Her father carried their teas on a tray through to the lounge. Thelma was on the sofa, her flesh-coloured popsock-clad feet raised on a cushion, a hand draped across her forehead. She peered at them as they entered the room, then whimpered.
“Here you are, darling, here’s some sweet tea.” Mark placed the mug, featuring a fluffy kitten, on the side table next to his wife.
Lucie took a seat. Peering into her mug, she saw the tea was a deep orange, strong enough to stand a spoon in, as her mother used to say. Her father had always liked his strong, and Lucie had always managed to make it drinkable by adding plenty of milk. However, he had clearly forgotten and she didn’t have the heart to remind him.
“Where’s Mary Puppins?” Thelma asked.
Mark looked around him as if he suspected that the dog was hiding somewhere. “Oh. I thought she’d be with you. Perhaps she’s in the hallway.”
“I’ll check, shall I?” Lucie put her mug on the tray then prepared to search the house. She didn’t have to look far, because there was Mary Puppins, going for gold on her left shoe, the flowered pump folded right over as she humped it like it was the love of her life. “Oh, no! Mary Puppins! Cut it out!” She approached the dog but as she reached out, it growled at her then resumed its humping, pausing only to lick the shoe every so often as if it needed some affectionate encouragement to surrender in that way. “Now, come on, doggie… that’s my shoe.”
Lucie cautiously stretched her arm out again, but the dog froze. Its ears flicked back and its tongue poked out like a serpent’s as it bared tiny white teeth.
“Come on, Puppins. Give me my shoe. Don’t be a little bitch.”
“Best let her wear herself out.”
Lucie jumped.
“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to startle you. But I find it’s best to let her do whatever she needs to do. Let her finish what she started and all that.”
Lucie turned to face her father. “What? Really?”
He nodded. “She gets grouchy if you stop her when she’s engrossed.”
“She makes a habit of this?” Lucie wrinkled her nose, imagining smelly shoes covered in dog drool and goodness knows what else.
“Unfortunately she does. She stole one of Abigail’s shoes just last week – some shiny, strappy affair – and when Abi tried to get it back, Mary Puppins wouldn’t let it go. It was one of those expensive designer thingies as well and Abi was furious.” He shrugged. “But what can you do?”
“Put your shoes somewhere else?” Lucie stared at the open shoe rack tucked in the space beneath the stairwell. Surely the dog had easy access to all the shoes there, so putting them higher up might make more sense.
“It’s an idea, love, for sure,” her father replied, as if it had never occurred to him. “Let’s go drink our tea, shall we?”
Lucie gave her pump once last glance, winced at the growing stain on the toe where the dog kept licking it, then followed her father back into the lounge. That was yet another thing she’d need to add to her going away list – a new pair of shoes. Somehow she didn’t think the pair she’d worn today would ever be quite the same.
* * *
The first hour of her visit passed with polite conversation in her father and stepmother’s spotless lounge. Lucie nodded and shook her head and made all the right noises as Thelma told her all about her varicose veins – which she trie
d to show Lucie by peeling down her popsocks, but which didn’t look all that swollen from Lucie’s perspective – and about her frozen shoulder – which actually seemed pretty mobile – and about her female problems – which Lucie tried to block out, as she really had no desire to hear about her stepmother’s irregular menstrual cycle, or how she suspected that she had cysts on her ovaries and might need a hysterectomy.
Lucie watched Thelma carefully as she talked, the diatribe clearly making her feel more and more sorry for herself by the moment. At fifty-five, Thelma was an attractive woman, even with her puckered mouth. Her black hair with its streaked fringe was expertly coloured, no greys on show, and her skin glowed with what must be fake tan, as they hadn’t seen the sun for some time. She had large green eyes that were always emphasized with a thick flick of liquid liner. She could easily pass for someone much younger. Yet even ten years earlier, Thelma had been like this. Lucie could recall the first time she met her and how she’d been treated to a retelling of Thelma’s latest doctor’s visit.
Afterwards, as he drove her home, Mark had quietly explained that Thelma had suffered a bad childhood and that it left her neurotic about certain things, yet he had seemed very accepting of his new partner’s ways. Thinking about it now, Lucie wondered if it was Thelma’s apparent vulnerabilities that had drawn her father to his new wife; had he been afraid of being abandoned again? A woman as needy as Thelma would surely never leave him. It was more than likely that she would, in fact, always need him.
Lucie swallowed the dregs of her third mug of strong tea and tried not to grimace. “Thanks, Dad. That was a great cuppa.”
“Anytime, love, anytime. Now, how about some lunch? After we’ve eaten, I’ve got something for you.”
“You have?”
He nodded. “Not a Christmas gift, although we do have a little something here for you somewhere, but Thelma said you can have it when you come home from your trip. If that’s all right?”
A Very Merry Manhattan Christmas Page 7
