Her eyes widen at my caution.
‘I don’t mean real needles,’ I add. ‘The pine tree’s leaves are called needles. I think that one might be a bit small.’
It’s exactly Mabel’s height.
‘How about this one?’ I say of the one beside it. ‘It’s pretty straight. What do you think, Danny?’
‘Your job is to choose, mine is to chop. Say the word and it’s ours.’
‘Speaking of ours, are we trespassing?’
‘Probably, but this seems like the kind of an emergency where trespassing’s okay. So, will this be our Christmas tree?’
‘I think so. It’s tall enough. And that other one would work for the parlour.’
‘Then stand back, ladies.’
Mabel springs to my side.
‘Mabel,’ he says. ‘You’ve got the most important job. I’m going to saw and when you see it start to tip, you have to shout timber. Okay?’
She giggles.
‘I’m not kidding. It’s critical, so get ready.’
She giggles again and whispers, ‘Tell me when, Mummy, okay, so I don’t miss it?’
An hour later the Christmas trees are up in the hall and the parlour, thanks to Danny’s handy homemade tree stands. They’re bare of ornaments though.
‘Let’s have a look around for Aunt Kate’s Christmas stash.’
We’ve already found decorations for Easter, Valentine’s Day and the Queen’s Jubilee squirrelled away in the many cabinets in the house. If the worst comes to the worst we can hang the trees with bunting and call it a patriotic Christmas.
I don’t believe in ghosts but I swear the house retains some of the character of its past inhabitants. It’s easy to imagine women of a certain age in full stage makeup and flowing gowns draped on the sofas and chaises longues while Ivan plays host, tipping ice cubes into gin and tonics.
Of course they probably wore tracksuits to the Tesco and did Zumba in the conservatory but I prefer the romantic ideal. It’s not like they’re around to tell me I’m wrong.
‘Lottie, I found them,’ Danny calls as he staggers downstairs with a large cardboard box. ‘There’s another one up there. It’s not heavy, just awkward to carry. This one has the lights. If you want to check them I’ll go get the other box.’
Mabel and I begin plugging in each of the dozen strings to make sure they work.
‘This should be enough for both trees,’ I say, winding the first string around from the top.
‘If we space them carefully,’ she adds.
I look at her. ‘Do you remember Granddad saying that every year?’
‘No, but you say it every year,’ she says shyly. ‘And then you say that Granddad always said it. Does it make you sad?’
‘No, honey, it makes me happy to remember him.’
We’ve just put the lights on the first tree when Danny brings the other box down. ‘Sorry for the delay but I had to take a phone call.’
I keep forgetting that he has his own life outside Aunt Kate’s B&B.
‘I think we’ve got plenty of decorations. Some look like antiques,’ he says.
‘I’m not surprised. Aunt Kate loves Christmas. She’s going to be so unhappy to miss this one.’
I feel a little stab at my words. As I sat by her hospital bed last night, I kept wishing she’d open her eyes. It was very hard to remember that the drugs were keeping her in the coma. She’ll sleep as long as the doctors want her to.
‘We’ll have Christmas with her when she wakes up, won’t we Mummy?’
‘Definitely, and she’ll love how we’ve decorated the house. I bet it hasn’t looked this good since— Can I see those, please, Mabel?’
She hands me the box of ornaments she’s just picked up.
Oh, Mum.
It’s an old-fashioned ornament box, the kind from the fifties or sixties made of thin white cardboard with a cellophane window on the top and a dozen compartments for glass baubles. Whatever baubles once lived there are long gone though, replaced by others that were never a set.
They were my mother’s.
Or duplicates at least. Every year Mum bought a new ornament for our tree. The little wooden drummer boy, the blown-glass Christmas tree, the pom-pom snowman, they’re all here. She must have bought two and sent one to Aunt Kate each year. After the accident, Celine made sure she packed ours in a separate box at home. They’ve stayed in the attic for the last three Christmases.
Now it’s time to hang them again. ‘Here, Mabel, you can hang this one.’
Carefully she selects a branch for the silver angel. ‘It’s beautiful. Is it a guardian angel?’
‘I think it must be.’
Chapter Six
I’m dead on my feet by the time Danny drives us back from the hospital that night. But a promise is a promise so, practically delirious, I stumble to the kitchen, over-boil the pasta, pour over a jar of sauce and, as a small apology for my cooking, make up a batch of elderflower and ginger cordial for us all.
‘Mummy, don’t come in yet!’ Mabel calls from behind the closed dining room door.
I do as I’m told, looking around the hall. It won’t win any House Beautiful awards but it’s not bad for two days’ hard graft. I just hope the toothpaste holds up in the walls.
‘Okay, you can come i-i-i-nnn,’ she sings.
The dining room is beautiful. Two candelabra stand on the long sideboard against the back wall and pine boughs are tucked over the large gilded mirror above it. More boughs rest on the windowsills and the freshly washed panes reflect the candlelight back into the room. The middle of the long dining table is illuminated too.
‘We didn’t use the tablecloth because I might spill on it,’ Mabel says.
‘Or I might spill on it,’ Danny says.
‘Most likely it’d be me though,’ Mabel says. ‘I am only seven.’
‘You did a beautiful job. What a transformation.’
Danny smiles. ‘I think it looks good enough for the reviewer, don’t you?’
‘If he’s not impressed with this he’ll have a heart of stone.’ My tummy fizzes with excitement. We’re going to pull this off!
I pour the cordial into three cut-glass goblets and dish out our dinner. ‘I’m sorry the food probably won’t measure up to the surroundings, but as I said, cooking isn’t my forte. That’s why I’m paying you. Cheers.’ I clink Mabel’s and Danny’s glasses. ‘At least I know how to make good drinks.’
‘This is delicious,’ he says. ‘Elderflower?’
‘Yes, and ginger. If I’d remembered the lime I’d have added that. I’m glad you’re impressed with the drinks. Remember that when you taste my cooking.’
‘Oh I’m sure it’s not bad.’
He takes a forkful.
‘Hmm. Well. The drinks are good.’
Mabel catches my eye. ‘I think it’s just fine, Mummy, thank you.’
‘Mabel,’ Danny says, reddening. ‘Where are my manners? Thank you, Lottie, for dinner. Everything is great.’
‘Liar,’ I say. ‘But thank you.’
‘Pants on fire,’ murmurs Mabel into her spaghetti.
I feel a jolt as I watch Mabel happily chatting with Danny. When I was first pregnant I worried about being a single mother, but when we moved in with Mum and Dad those worries faded. Mabel got to have two extra people who loved her. Aside from the occasional questions about her father she didn’t seem to mind our modern family arrangement.
But did she, really?
As if reading my mind, Mabel says, ‘Mummy, is Aunt Kate married?’
‘Nope, she was never married.’
‘But what about Uncle Ivan?’
She’d never met Ivan but Aunt Kate always talked about him like he was still around. ‘They were very dear friends, but they weren’t married. Uncle Ivan was a confirmed bachelor.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It just means he wasn’t the marrying kind.’
‘Danny, are you the marrying kind?’
> ‘Mabel,’ I warn. Our financial arrangement doesn’t give us the right to pry into his personal life.
‘No, I’ve never been married.’
He forks in another mouthful of spaghetti. What a good sport.
‘I guess nobody’d have me.’
I find that hard to believe, but Mabel seems to consider this. ‘I guess nobody’d have Mummy either.’
Danny tries to cover his laugh with a cough, but fails.
She’s not wrong though. Her father didn’t stick around in the relationship for very long after I dropped the bombshell on him. I was devastated but, as I mentioned, I knew right away that I wanted Mabel.
I should give her father some credit though. He might have bolted from our relationship but he did try to be a dad, of sorts. He was a sporadic presence in our lives for the first few years, but as much as I wanted Mabel to know him, every time he visited it opened the wound in my heart again. And Mabel was ambivalent towards him. As a toddler she didn’t understand why this virtual stranger occasionally visited, expecting her to welcome him. His visits became more awkward over time until finally they stopped. So, after wishing for years that we could be a family, it was actually a relief by the time he moved to Thailand and left Mabel and me to get on with our lives. Knowing him he’s probably living in a beach hut with a string of young women that he updates more often than he does his Facebook status.
‘I do have a daughter though,’ Danny says. ‘She’s eight and she lives all the way over in America.’
Ah, that explains why he’s so good with Mabel.
‘Is she like me?’
‘Well, she is smart like you, and nice and pretty, so yes, I guess she is.’
‘But she doesn’t live with you?’
‘Mabel, you must be getting tired,’ I say, seeing the sadness in Danny’s eyes. ‘If you’re finished eating, let’s get your teeth brushed, okay? I’ll come back down in a few minutes to help with the dishes.’
‘That’s okay, I can clear up and make us some tea.’
By the time I tuck Mabel into bed and return to the dining room, the table is laid with pretty teacups and saucers.
‘Mabel is great,’ Danny says, pouring my tea.
‘She has her moments.’ I sigh. ‘She can really get on my nerves sometimes. Does it make me a bad mother to say that? Sometimes when I listen to everyone else talk about how perfect their children are, I do wonder if I’m just less maternal or if mine really is a pain in the arse.’
Danny smiles. ‘She’s just precocious because she’s clever and, no, that doesn’t make you a bad mother. People who act like their children can do no wrong are kidding themselves. Nobody’s perfect, but most are okay.’
This makes me feel good. ‘She is a good kid at heart and it hasn’t always been easy for her. My parents died three years ago and she took it pretty hard. We all did.’
‘That’s really crap, I’m sorry.’
‘It was total crap, but it’s a little easier now. Aunt Kate was amazing. She came to live with us after it happened. That’s why, now…’
‘I understand. But you said she’s recovering.’
I don’t want to dwell in the shadowy corners of my imagination. Instead I nod. ‘Tell me about your daughter.’
She lives with her mother, he says, in Austin, Texas, where she’s from. She’s an artist too, and they met in university. I can’t help thinking that Danny’s story mirrors mine and Mabel’s. I wonder if her father ever misses her like Danny obviously misses his daughter.
‘Do you get to see her?’
He fiddles with the handle on his teacup. His big hands look ill-suited to such a delicate object.
‘As often as I can get the money together for a flight. Her mother is good about me visiting. She was the one who wanted to move back to the US when Phoebe was two. Otherwise I’d see her more often.’
‘So you’re not together with Phoebe’s mother because of the distance?’
‘Oh no,’ he laughs. ‘We’re not together because we drove each other insane. She thought I was too intense and she never took anything seriously. We argued all the time. The best thing about our relationship was Phoebe. Luckily she got the right balance from both of us.’ He sighs. ‘I can’t wait to see her again.’
I can’t imagine being away from Mabel for weeks or months at a time. ‘When will you go next?’
‘Right after Christmas, thanks to you.’
So that’s why he took up my offer.
‘Then it was lucky I came along.’
‘Very lucky.’
As we sit drinking our tea, a low rumble starts behind the dining room’s back wall.
‘That must be the 8.30 train,’ I say, checking my watch. ‘Right on time.’
The teacups begin to rattle in their saucers as the train closes in on us. It sounds like it might come through the house.
White flecks begin raining down on to the table. Against the dark wood they look at first like terrible dandruff, but larger pieces fall as the train passes. A chunk the size of a fifty pence piece splashes into my teacup.
‘Holy shit,’ says Danny. ‘That ceiling is about to come down.’
As the sound recedes I survey the debris strewn across the tabletop. ‘I doubt my toothpaste is going to help here. We can’t let the reviewer see this. What’ll we do? The only other place to eat is the kitchen… I don’t suppose we could we make a chef’s table there and let them watch you cook.’
‘No way! I mean they’ll have to have Christmas dinner in here. Otherwise it’s not very Christmassy. The ceiling only seems to cave in because of the train. You’ll just have to keep them out of here at 8.30. Otherwise the house looks fine.’
The list of things we need to hide from the reviewer is getting longer than those we want to show him.
‘Oh sure, it might look fine,’ I say. ‘We just can’t let anyone take a shower, sit here in the evening or try to use their mobile inside the house.’
I’m kidding myself. The reviewer won’t judge the house on cosmetics alone. It has to meet all his needs. I’m guessing a shower is on that list.
I wish Aunt Kate were here. She’d know what to do.
‘I don’t know if we can do this,’ I say. ‘There’s still a lot wrong with the house.’
‘What would your aunt say?’
I laugh. ‘She’d say “Come on, girl, if at first you don’t succeed, then try, try again. Rome wasn’t built in a day” and about half a dozen other platitudes that don’t quite fit. She’s right though. Not trying would be worse than failing. Maybe if we think of everything that could be a problem and then find a way around those things, there’ll still be a chance. Starting with the train. We could use the dining room earlier in the day. Can we serve lunch each day instead of having the main meal in the evening? We could just make sandwiches for later on.’
‘Tea at teatime.’ he nods. ‘That might work.’
I have to stop thinking about what we can’t do and think about what we can do.
‘There are those beautiful bathtubs in all the bathrooms. Could you take the shower extensions off the taps, and maybe get the mounts off the walls? I think I have enough extra toothpaste to fill the holes. Then at least if someone flushes, nobody will die.’
‘You can tell everyone that mobile phones are restricted to the conservatory. Make it sound like it’s in keeping with the ambience. I can make sure the fire is always lit in there so that it’s warm.’
‘This is starting to sound like a Victorian house. All we need are servants running up and down the back stairs tugging their forelocks and curtsying.’
Wait a minute…
‘Why not?’ I say. ‘Why not make this a Victorian Christmas? We’re practically there anyway.’
Then we brush the debris from the table and stay in the dining room until after midnight again, working through all the details.
Chapter Seven
Mabel comes downstairs on Christmas Eve morning wearing her favourite
blue tutu. I’ve been up for hours already trying to find enough duvets that aren’t coated in Mingus hair. I did find enough extra candlesticks and candles to put some in each room. We’re going to stretch the Victorian theme as far as we possibly can. If I find any brass bed-warmers or stocking caps I’m definitely laying them out for our guests.
‘You look beautiful, Mabel.’
‘Well we have to look our best for our guests, don’t we?’
I stare down at myself. My jeans are covered with paint. Mould and lord knows what else streak my once-white top. Even if I could get them clean, Mabel is right. I don’t look fit to be a twenty-first century B&B host, let alone a Victorian lady.
Unfortunately when I’d packed my bag at three a.m. to come here, I wasn’t thinking about impressing a B&B reviewer and his family.
‘Morning,’ she says to Danny, who’s on his knees in the hall rubbing the floorboards with tan shoe polish. There was no floor varnish among Aunt Kate’s paint pots but for some reason she has an entire box of shoe polish in the closet. Danny is touching up the spots where we had to clean up his paint splatters with nail varnish remover. For someone who claims to be a sculptor he really doesn’t seem to have great hand-eye coordination.
‘Can we have scrambled eggs this morning?’ Mabel asks.
‘Sure, if we’ve got eggs.’ He looks at me.
Oh god, I forgot all about the chickens!
‘I’ve just got to check something outside, okay? Mabel, do you think Mingus is awake yet?’
My question sends her rushing off to find the cat while I hurry outside, hoping I haven’t accidentally killed Aunt Kate’s flock through neglect.
The back garden is wild and overgrown with once-manicured hedges and the uncut grass is flattened and streaked brown by the Welsh winter. It looks pretty grim but we don’t have time now for any more gardening. Our guests are due at two pm.
My feet squelch in the wet undergrowth as I stomp to the crumbling garage, behind which I spy the chicken run. At one end is a hen house but I don’t see any hens.
Creeping into the pen, I peek into the hut’s doorway.
A dozen sharp beaks gnash in my face and two dozen beady eyes stare me down as the birds erupt into a chorus of threatening clucks and squawks. Naturally I scream my head off and run back to the house.
The Reluctant Elf (Kindle Single) Page 4
