‘I guess. When life throws you lemons, make lemonade. Mum used to say that. I have my own saying and that is when life throws you a lemon, duck . . . or throw it back.’
‘That’s not the Jess I know. You would never duck. Come on. Take a challenge. Do something different. Christmas Day with the homeless. What do you say?’
I felt I couldn’t say no without being the worst person in the world. ‘I suppose I have to now,’ I said and then an idea occurred to me. ‘But seeing as I don’t really want to and you’re blackmailing me through guilt . . . how about we do a deal?’
Aunt Maddie looked at me suspiciously. ‘Do a deal?’
‘I do something I don’t want to. You do something you don’t want to.’
Aunt Maddie narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ve got a feeling I’m not going to like this, but go on. What’s the deal?’
‘You let me do a makeover on you.’
Aunt Maddie sighed heavily and I thought I’d let myself in for another lecture but then she smiled and held out her hand to shake. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Deal.’
When it was time for her to go, I walked with Aunt Maddie to her bus-stop then made my way to our local shop to buy some milk. It was freezing outside, with a bitter wind and, on the way back, I noticed Bridget over in the usual paparazzi spot looking pale with cold. I nodded at her when I went past.
‘OK, Jess?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. You look frozen.’
She nodded, her teeth chattering. ‘Part of the job,’ she said. ‘So glamorous, don’t you think? We get to go to all the best locations.’
I laughed. It wouldn’t do any harm to chat to her for a few moments. ‘What’s it really like being a journalist, Bridget?’
‘Hard work, long hours, waiting in all weathers for the big scoop,’ she said then indicated the few others who were parked nearby, stomping their feet and hugging themselves to keep warm. ‘And very competitive.’
‘So why don’t you do some other kind of writing?’
‘And that’s not competitive? Believe me, I have my novel on the go. Me and twenty thousand others.’
‘Don’t you feel bad invading people’s privacy?’
‘Ah now, the paper I work for doesn’t set out to ruin anyone’s reputation, unlike some who print what they like. I’m looking for the interesting story, so I am. People these days are fascinated by celebrity, so I go where the trend is. Like anyone else, I have bills to pay, I have to make a living.’
‘But who are you hoping to see come in or out of Porchester Park?’ I asked. ‘Most people have gone away to their holiday homes. It’s almost empty.’
‘Must be quiet for you in there, then,’ Bridget asked.
‘Ghost town,’ I said.
‘What’s it like living there for you?’
I looked at her suspiciously. ‘Hey, you’re not catching me out.’
‘Not angling for a story, angel. I’m just interested. I mean, there’s a lot of people with a lot of money in there . . .’
‘And I’m ordinary. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Not ordinary, Jess. Normal. You and your brother live a normal life. Back and forth to school. I see you getting off the bus as they get out of limos. You must note the contrast on many levels.’
I nodded. I felt like I’d already said too much but it was nice to be asked about me for a change and it seemed like she was just chatting, not digging for dirt. All the same, I didn’t want to get into trouble. ‘Better be going in now, Bridget.’
‘Sure. And have a lovely Christmas.’
‘You too,’ I replied.
She’s OK, I thought as I let myself back through the side gate. Paparazzi are only human after all.
When I got back up to my room, I called Pia. ‘A-allllll byyyy my-se-el-elelf,’ I warbled into the phone. ‘I don’t wanna be . . .’
Pia laughed at the other end. ‘Gotcha,’ she said. ‘Actually, I was thinking I’d been neglecting you lately. Sorry. Bad friend. I forgot the golden rule. Mates first, boys second.’
‘So, do you want to hang out and do Christmas London-style?’
7
‘Don’t ever let it be said that I haven’t given this Christmas my best,’ I said to the photo of Mum that I kept in my bedroom.
In the last week, I’d taken Aunt Maddie and Dad’s advice and packed in as many Christmassy things as I could.
Pia and I had been to see the lights on Oxford Street. Oo, lover-ly.
Charlie, Henry, Pia and me had been ice-skating on the outdoor rink up on Hampstead Heath. Oops, only fell over three times.
I’d been to Trafalgar Square to see the tree and sung along with the carol service that was going on. Ding dong merrily on hi-i-i-igh.
I’d been to Selfridges to meet Santa in his grotto but felt a bit daft lining up with a bunch of three-year-olds so went and tried all the perfumes on the ground floor instead. Mmmm. Nice.
Pia and I had got the boat from Westminster down to Greenwich and got most of our presents from the indoor market there. Handmade soap for Flo and Meg. Music CDs for Charlie, a fab brown velvet hat for Aunt Maddie to replace the monstrosity with ear-flaps that she wears which looks like a tea-cosy. It probably is a tea cosy. A book on history for Dad – if he ever has time to read it – and a green silk scarf for Pia when she was off buying chips.
Me and Pia even went to the Great Christmas Pudding Race in Covent Garden, which is a mad affair where people run around balancing a pudding on a plate whilst crowds of spectators try to grab, jostle and trip them up. There was a great atmosphere there. Near the Piazza, a vintage carousel was a whirl of brass and chrome as children rode the beautifully carved horses and called out to each other over the carols that wheezed out from an ancient-sounding organ. Everywhere, endless stalls offered a multitude of gifts for shoppers eagerly looking for stocking fillers. Busking musicians sang festive songs, street performers juggled, danced and did astonishing acrobatics, while mime artists dressed as robots, aliens and characters from history stood as still as statues.
Lastly, I went to Sadler’s Wells to see the Nutcracker ballet with Pia and her mum. It was truly magical and Pia and I pirouetted all the way back to the tube. All good fun, all very merry but I couldn’t help but notice the couples everywhere we went. Misty-eyed, arm-in-arm, laden with parcels, laughing together, living out my Christmas fantasies – only I had no boy to play them out with. Boo hoo, sob sob. Poor moi.
‘It’s a strange time,’ I said to Pia as we stuffed ourselves with croissants at her house on Christmas Eve morning. ‘Like, there’s this huge pressure on us all to be happy because it’s Christmas. You must be happy, have a jolly time, but what if you don’t feel like that? Mrs Moran was right. There is a lot to think about.’
Pia slurped a glass of orange juice. ‘Yeah. What makes your ding dong merrily on high? Different things for different people.’
‘When Mum was alive, it was always about our traditions. Things we did every year that made it Christmas for us.’
‘I know. So why not make some of the things we’ve done this week your new tradition?’
I screwed up my face. ‘Maybe.’ I thought over the things we’d done but none of them seemed enough. My mum was special and I needed something unique to remember her by. ‘But what? I’d like to do something that I know she would have loved but also something different. Apart from going to see the tree in Trafalgar Square, which was cool, I can’t say there’s anything that felt like the right thing to commemorate her by.’
‘So what would you like to do?’ she asked.
‘Dunno. Maybe I should go somewhere quiet, away from the rush and the shopping and people. Somewhere that feels, I don’t know, sacred. A church, I think, maybe – maybe not – or a temple or mosque. I don’t know what I believe yet and Mum wasn’t religious either, although she always respected other people’s beliefs. What I’m looking for is hard to describe, a kind of . . . inner calm. Do you know what I mean?’
&nbs
p; Pia nodded and made a peace sign. ‘Yeah, like something with a good vibe, man. Yeah, I get you. That would be nice. Jess goes holy-moley.’
‘Somewhere I can go or something I can do every Christmas to remember Mum.’
‘That would be Westfield Mall, then,’ said Pia with a grin. ‘Right in the middle of the Marks and Spencer’s food department. She loved the shops at Christmas. She loved people, feeding them, remember? Anyone who didn’t have anywhere to go was welcome at your house.’
‘What about a service at St Paul’s or Westminster Abbey? I bet that would feel special,’ I suggested.
‘Maybe. Bit grown up, though. Your mum liked fun at Christmas. I think she’d like the carol singing in Trafalgar Square best.’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’ I didn’t feel enthusiastic enough about any of the things we’d done to make them my new tradition, even though we’d had a good time exploring the options. Plus, I was dreading Christmas Day. While we’d been out and about in the last few days, I’d been super aware of the homeless. They made me feel uncomfortable with their hands held out for money, looking and smelling like they needed a good bath. And I felt guilty about them being on the streets when I had a warm home to go back to. Even so, I wasn’t looking forward to having to spend a whole afternoon with them.
I woke the next morning with a sinking feeling in my stomach. So much for ding dong merrily on high. This was going to be my most miserable Christmas Day ever, though at least Charlie had agreed to come to the lunch as well.
‘No way I’m staying here on my own,’ he said as we made our way on foot to the lunch location in West London. Aunt Maddie had sent us a map and we worked out that we could walk there in twenty minutes or so. Luckily the day was dry and bright as we trudged along. I couldn’t help but notice cars full of smiling faces, no doubt on their way to some scrummy lunch with family and friends somewhere. Bah humbug, I thought. Grrrr.
‘I reckon we go in, do our bit, then get out,’ I said. ‘This is so not what I want to be doing today. I want to get back as soon as possible, put my feet up on the sofa, turn the telly on, and open a box of chocs.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Charlie. That was his attitude to most things. He cruised through life in a bubble and rarely got worked up about anything.
*
The Victorian building where the event was to be held felt cold and smelt of wet concrete. It was already filling up by the time we got inside and I stared at the odd bunch of people taking their places in the main hall. Some seemed to know each other but I noticed a few on their own, sitting in corners, nervously eyeing the proceedings. A few of them hardly looked older than me and Charlie.
‘What are those teenagers doing here?’ I asked Aunt Maddie when she came out to greet us, then led us to the kitchens.
‘Everyone has their story,’ she replied. ‘Some have run away from violent or abusive parents. Some have got into drugs and been disowned. All sorts of stories.’
‘Why don’t they get jobs?’ asked Charlie.
‘Ah,’ said Aunt Maddie. ‘Easy to say. That’s what everyone asks but if you haven’t got an address or a bank account, it’s hard to get employment. Some of the older folk are here because they were made redundant then couldn’t keep up with their rent or bills so lost their homes. Some are alcoholics whose habit has caused them to lose their family or home. No home address, no job. No job, no way of paying your rent. It’s a vicious circle.’
‘Wow. That’s tough,’ said Charlie.
Aunt Maddie nodded. ‘It is. Believe me, the majority of these people don’t want to be in this position. There are experts here today who can advise them, though, maybe help them get back to having a normal life. In fact, there are all sorts of volunteers on hand here: doctors, dentists, opticians, counsellors, all kinds of medical help – because that’s another thing that goes with your home, with no address to register with a doctor, they can’t just walk in and be seen. For the three days they come here, there’s a chance to seek advice, have a hot shower, even a haircut – all the things we take for granted.’
We spent the next hour preparing vegetables and generally helping out in the kitchen. Apart from having to wear a kind of shower cap to keep my hair out of the food, it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined it would be. The volunteers were a jolly bunch and one of them started a round of Christmas carols. Soon everyone in the place was singing their heads off as we peeled carrots and prepared a mountain of sprouts.
‘Go and take a break,’ said Aunt Maddie once most of the lunch was ready and the kitchen was beginning to smell of roast turkey. ‘Go and see what’s happening.’
I didn’t want to go out and mix with the homeless. I wouldn’t know what to say to them, so I busied myself clearing our chopping area.
Aunt Maddie must have seen my reticence. ‘They won’t bite,’ she said. ‘Go and explore. There’s a lot going on.’
She pushed me gently in the direction of the door to the main hall and Charlie took off his hat and apron and came with me. A bunch of sad people getting dental checks and haircuts wasn’t high on my agenda as a fun thing to do on Christmas Day. I’d rather have stayed in the kitchen but I felt bad even thinking that. I felt sorry for the homeless but I felt awkward about having to go out and talk to them. It’s weird, I thought, days ago I was thinking I couldn’t keep up with my rich friends at Porchester Park and how they’re from a different world and today I feel as if I’m in a different world to the people here. It’s weird how some people have so much, some people so little.
In the main hall, I was surprised to see a rock band of fit boys about Charlie’s age entertaining the waiting diners. In another room, behind the main area, a trio of musicians were playing classical music on a cello, violin and harp. The audience in there was made up of older people, some sitting with their eyes closed, enjoying the music and probably the warmth of being inside. I noticed one man had a tatty pair of sandals on. Must be freezing for him in winter without proper shoes, I thought, as we went back into the corridor where a magician was moving amongst everyone, doing tricks. We stopped to watch him for a while and oo-ed and ah-ed with the others as he brought pound coins out of thin air.
‘Could you teach me how to do that?’ asked an old man seated on his own by the entrance. He looked like anyone’s granddad with ruddy cheeks, white hair and kindly eyes but there was an air of sadness about him, apparent from his shabby clothes, his stooped posture and his weary expression.
‘That’s Arthur,’ said Aunt Maddie, coming up behind me and drawing me to one side. ‘He’s a dear.’
‘Why’s he here?’ I asked.
‘He lost his wife a few years back and had a mental breakdown. They’d been together since they were teenagers and he couldn’t cope without her. He just fell apart, lost his job and then his house was taken away.’
‘And he has nowhere to go?’
Aunt Maddie shook her head. ‘At least he can come here for a few days, but it’s not enough.’
‘No,’ I agreed.
Charlie indicated a man at the far end of the corridor who had a puppy on his lap. ‘A lot of them have dogs,’ he said. ‘Why’s that?’
‘They don’t have anyone else. No home, no friends – just their dog. Sometimes, they’ll feed their animal before themselves. I remember once seeing a man out in the rain with his dog and the dog was in his sleeping bag, wearing a rain-hat, whilst his owner got soaked!’
‘I can understand that,’ I said. ‘Animals love you unconditionally. You’ll never find a more loyal friend.’ I was thinking of my cat, Dave. I’d had him since he was a kitten and, apart from Pia, he was my best friend – always there for a cuddle, my constant companion on the end of my bed when I woke up and when I went to sleep. After Mum died, I’d felt he’d understood how sad I was and made a special effort to be near to me and unlike with humans, I didn’t have to put on a brave act or even talk to him.
‘Exactly,’ said Aunt Maddie. ‘These people are just like us. They have fe
elings and they need companionship. Some of the centres don’t let dogs in over Christmas but we do. We recognise what they mean to our guests.’
I liked that and I was beginning to change my view of the homeless. A sudden fracas broke out in one room and within seconds, two burly men passed us holding on to a dishevelled man with shoulder-length ratty hair. As they passed, we stepped back and pressed ourselves against the wall. He stank really badly, plus I could smell alcohol as they went by, the man shouting and swearing at everyone.
‘Not all our guests are sweethearts like Arthur,’ said Aunt Maddie as the man was escorted firmly out of the front door. ‘Some are angry, bitter, difficult. No doubt that man has his story too but we have a zero-tolerance policy about bad behaviour here. We have to, because a few people can ruin things for everyone else and that wouldn’t be fair.’
Aunt Maddie then showed us the dormitories in the back halls where up to fifty people would sleep.
‘We can’t house everyone here,’ she said as we looked at the narrow beds lined up along the walls, ‘but there are six centres open like this around the city and over three thousand volunteers working. At least we can get some of them off the streets, if only for a short time.’
‘I hope Arthur has a bed,’ I said.
‘I already made sure he does,’ said Aunt Maddie. ‘He’s one of my favourites. I wish I could do more for him but there are so many like him to help. But there are people here to give advice on housing, how to get benefits and how to get set up again.’ She indicated an Indian lady in a corner with a couple of other older women. ‘That’s Usha over there. She was a teacher in a top school when she lived in India. Very proud. She despises her situation, being regarded as homeless. With her is Katya, a fantastic artist, and Sharon, a graduate who acts as quiz master for us every year. Many homeless people are actually highly qualified, some more so than the volunteers. There are ex-lawyers, ex-university lecturers, ex-teachers. All people who’ve had bad luck somewhere along the way.’
Paparazzi Princess Page 6
