The entire cast is now gathering round the Christmas tree to sing carols and my mind wanders to Jasper, Trudy and the choir. They’re doing their first ‘gig’ tonight at a care home. I’d like to be there. But I’ll have to wait till Christmas Eve when they’ll be performing outside the town hall and I’ll be there with my collection bucket.
I’m so deep in thought, it’s a while before my brain processes what’s happening.
When it does, my heart sinks into my boots.
The cast are singing ‘Little Donkey’.
I glance sideways at Mum.
She seems to be fine. She’s watching the singers, looking fairly relaxed as if she’s enjoying the music, although I notice Dad’s holding her hand tightly in both of his.
And then the half dozen small children in the cast filter their way rather haphazardly to the front of the stage and gather together in a little group to sing the final verse on their own. When they begin, a whisper of ‘aaaahs’ from the audience echoes around the hall.
There’s a purity and an innocence in those children’s voices that I swear would bring a lump to the throat of a stone statue.
I swallow hard. I’m struggling to hold it together. I grab Mum’s other hand, willing her to be strong.
She bears it for less than a minute before she crumples.
Luckily we are on the end of a row. Dad helps her to her feet and, face grim, he guides Mum firmly and protectively out of the hall.
I stare after them, blinded by tears, wondering if I should go too or whether I should leave it to Dad to comfort Mum.
Rob and Justine are getting up to leave, so I stand as well, my eyes fixed on the little group of carol singers.
It doesn’t help that the boy with the sweetest voice of all looks about four years old.
And that with his blond hair and cheeky smile, he is the image of Jack …
Chapter Twenty
I was ten when we lost my little brother, Jack.
He was just four years old when he died.
It was Christmas Eve.
I remember his bright blond hair and his cheeky smile. The way he was absolutely mad about strawberry chews. And how he was always pestering Mum to drive us to the park by the lake. He loved the swings best of all and I have a crystal clear memory of him shouting, ‘Higher, Lola, higher!’ At least, I think it’s a memory. It might just be something I imagined.
But I didn’t imagine how much Jack loved that park.
I have one dog-eared photograph of him that I keep in my purse. He’s eating an ice-cream cone and making a funny face at whoever was taking the photo; Mum probably. There’s more ice cream round his mouth than in the cone.
I loved Jack so much.
He was my baby brother.
I was aware that, as the youngest, he got away with an awful lot more than Rosie, Rob and me. I don’t remember being jealous of him, the way older siblings often are resentful of new additions to the family. But I do remember thinking that Mum seemed to love Jack just that little bit more than the rest of us.
I have a distinct memory of him being ill once – with flu, I think – and Rosie, Rob and I got a proper rollicking from Dad for making too much noise. We had to abandon our game of hide and seek and read our books all afternoon, so that Jack could sleep. For three boisterous kids on a rainy day in the summer holidays, this felt like a death sentence. I hate myself now when I remember how resentful we all felt towards Jack that day.
I don’t remember much about the time he died, except visiting him in hospital and taking him some of my strawberry chews. He must have been really ill, though, because he didn’t want any.
Life as we knew it vanished forever after our little brother died.
Mum took to her room and didn’t come out for weeks. Then she had her breakdown. Dad tried desperately to protect her; he was adamant we shouldn’t mention Jack’s name in front of her because he didn’t want her upset.
Rob and Rosie sometimes talked about Jack when Mum and Dad weren’t around.
But I didn’t join in.
I kept my memories of Jack locked away inside.
I envied Rob and Rosie. Their reminiscences were happy and not tainted by guilt like mine were. My gut-wrenching shame never went away, no matter how many games of Clock Patience I played to try and block it all out.
Because Jack dying was all my fault …
When I emerge from the village hall, I can only find Rob.
‘She’s taken the car,’ he says, when I ask about Justine. ‘Rushed off to do some last-minute shopping. We’ll go in Dad’s car. They’re waiting for us.’
‘I hope Mum’s all right,’ I murmur.
Rob nods, his expression grim.
We get in the back seat and Mum turns and attempts a smile. ‘Lovely pantomime, Lola.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it.’ I touch her shoulder. ‘Let’s get home, shall we?’
‘Oh, no. I was just saying to your dad we ought to call in at that nice pub we went to last time for a Christmas drink.’
‘Are you sure?’ The last thing I want is Mum trying to be brave just so that we have a good time.
‘Really, Lola, I’ll be fine.’
Dad pats her knee and smiles back at us. ‘She’s such a lush, your mother. One eggnog and she’s anybody’s.’
I laugh, more with relief that Mum seems okay than at Dad’s joke. ‘Great. Let’s go. Although we can’t be too long because I have to get my lamb in the oven.’
Rob snorts. ‘Some alcohol’s probably a good idea, then.’
‘Thanks very much.’ I whack him on the thigh. ‘I’ll have you know my lamb shanks main course has won prizes.’
‘Made it before, then?’
I grin at him. ‘Er, no.’
The Black Horse pub is a little out of our way but it’s full of character and only adds ten minutes or so onto our journey.
We crowd through the door, stamping the snow from our feet, and, as luck would have it, there’s an empty table right by the roaring log fire.
Rob goes to the bar and brings back the drinks.
Mum and Dad settle on the two-seater sofa, me in a rocking chair and Rob on a wooden stool.
‘This is lovely,’ says Mum. ‘Isn’t it, Malcolm? I’m so glad you invited us, love.’
‘It’s great to have you here,’ I say truthfully. ‘We should do it more often.’
I settle back and rock gently in my chair, looking out at the darkening afternoon, watching the occasional snowflake drift past the window. It’s lovely being here with Mum, Dad and Rob. So relaxing. It’s not that I don’t like Justine’s company. It’s just that she’s so argumentative and changeable these days. I don’t know how Rob copes. I glance at him, chatting to Mum and Dad about his finance business.
The lines on his forehead and round his mouth have deepened and his hair is greying at the temples. He can carry it off, though. It’s certainly true that men seem to improve with age.
But he looks tired.
I will have to find a quiet moment to talk to him and get him to open up.
On the way back, I stare out of the window, taking in the cheery glow of Christmas trees in shops and living room windows, and working out a timetable for tonight’s feast. It’s going to be tight as it’s already well after five. But at least we’ve decided to delay dinner until eight in the hope that Rosie and Josh might arrive by then. So I’ve got a couple of hours to make sure my lamb shanks are deliciously tender, the meat melting off the bone.
We’re driving back the way we came and should be home soon.
I’m far away in a world of dinner preparations, gazing out of the window but not really seeing.
Then for some reason, a flash of blue catches my eye.
I swing round as Dad slows at a roundabout.
And I see Rob’s car, parked outside a run-down motel.
As Dad gathers speed, Justine emerges from the main building. She hurries over to the car, and I’m just about to say, ‘Hey, look,
there’s Justine,’ when something stops me.
The motel is considered a bit of an eyesore in the area. It’s shabby and could do with a lick of paint. Or being razed to the ground.
What on earth is Justine doing in a place like that?
It’s not exactly on her route back from town. Perhaps she got lost and was asking for directions? But that doesn’t ring true.
As soon as I get in, I make straight for the kitchen and switch on the oven.
Nothing happens.
I flick it off and try again. Still nothing.
I freeze in horror.
This can’t be happening. Not after the washing machine debacle. The meal is all planned. The vegetables, which I peeled and chopped early this morning to get ahead, are all sitting in their pans of water on the hob. But without the oven, there will be no dinner.
I feel slightly sick.
Justine is going to love this.
Dad hears me slamming the oven door shut in frustration and comes through.
‘Wouldn’t worry, love,’ he says. ‘Let’s just get take-out.’
I stare at him in anguish, loving him for his calmness but knowing beyond doubt that I cannot order in pizza.
The bell goes. Justine. Dad presses my shoulder. ‘I’ll go.’
Five minutes later, she clacks through in her heels, having heard the news.
‘Are you sure it’s not working, Lola?’ She bends to the dials and flicks them round bossily.
‘Yes, of course I’m sure. Did you get your shopping?’
She turns with a frown. ‘Shopping?’
‘Yes, Rob said you had a few last-minute things to get?’
Her brow clears. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I did, thanks.’ She turns back to the oven. ‘Now, you rotten old thing, what’s wrong with you? Come to the end of your life by the looks of you. They probably stopped making spare parts for this model a century ago.’ She does a snorty laugh at her own joke.
Fighting a sudden urge to pick up the frying pan and whack her on the bum, I bite my lip and let her take over.
Everyone does that with Justine.
She sort of oozes practicality and superior knowledge.
She’s turning knobs expertly and I’m praying the oven won’t magically come on for her. Sod’s law, it probably will. And I wouldn’t blame it at all for stepping up to the mark. Justine is scary.
Thankfully, she can’t get it to work either. (I wonder briefly at my logic here.)
‘Right.’ She stands perfectly straight, arms folded. ‘Obviously no point trying to call a tradesman.’
She taps her foot, thinking, and Mum and Dad wander in.
‘We’ve got a bit of a problem,’ I tell them.
Justine looks at me disparagingly. ‘No, Lola, it’s not a problem. It’s a challenge. And what’s needed is a thoroughly logical approach to meeting that challenge.’ She taps her front teeth pensively. ‘We don’t have the facilities to cook in-house. So we need to out-source.’
She looks around triumphantly.
Dad’s smiles encouragingly, although I can tell he’s as bemused as I am.
Out-source? What the hell is she talking about? This isn’t a bloody board meeting.
I can’t help it. I just have to say it. ‘Actually, Justine, we’re not out of sauce at all. We’ve got plenty. I made it yesterday and we can heat it up on the hob.’
‘Sauce?’ She rounds on me. ‘What do you mean?’
She sees Dad grinning.
‘Oh, I see. It’s a joke. Out-source. Sauce.’ She purses her lips at me as if I’m a naughty child. ‘But that’s not exactly helpful, is it, Lola?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Dad nudges me jovially. ‘A bit of humour can go a long way in a crisis. I vote for a Chinese take-away.’
Justine completely ignores this and turns to me. ‘How many other people live in this building?’
‘Erm, just two – Jasper and Seb – in the flat upstairs.’
Her eyes light up. ‘Oh, a couple of homosexuals? Perfect. I always find them so helpful.’
‘No, they’re not—’
‘Do you know them well?’
‘Er, quite well.’
‘Right. Well, get up there and ask if you can avail yourself of their facilities.’
‘You can’t do that,’ says Mum, aghast.
‘Of course you can,’ argues Justine. ‘It’s the logical thing to do.’
Mum sniffs. ‘Well, it’s certainly not my kind of logic. But then thankfully, I’m not you, Justine.’
Justine’s eyes widen and we all look at Mum.
She sighs. ‘Sorry, I’m tired. The travelling’s worn me out.’
To give her credit, Justine bounces right back.
She presses Mum’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Trish, it’s fine. I know it must be terribly hard for you, what with little Jake dying at Christmas like that.’ She shakes her head. ‘Ghastly.’
There’s a shocked silence.
Our eyes slide to Mum.
‘His name was Jack,’ Dad says softly, putting his arm round Mum and pulling her tight against him.
‘Oh, God, sorry. Of course.’ Justine tuts. ‘Stupid me.’
She turns apologetically to Rob. He shakes his head at her in disbelief and tears spring to her eyes. To be fair, she does look completely mortified.
My heart goes out to her. She might be a bit loud and controlling and think she knows better than anyone else. But underneath it all, I’m sure she has a good heart. Rob wouldn’t have married her if she didn’t.
‘Justine, I agree with Mum,’ I say gently. ‘You can’t just go knocking on someone’s door and ask to borrow their oven.’
This rallies her instantly.
‘Why ever not? They can always tell you to sod orf.’ She stalks out of the flat and, to my horror, I hear voices echoing round the main entrance.
Snatches of Justine’s strident tones drift into the flat. ‘Awful predicament!’ ‘Ancient oven.’ ‘Telegram from the Queen, ha-ha-ha!’ ‘Would you be so kind?’
Mum, Dad and I exchange stunned looks.
Justine clacks back in, announcing merrily, ‘All sorted. Lola, this lovely gentleman says it’s perfectly all right for you to put your shanks in his free-standing Montpellier.’
She welcomes in the lovely gentleman with an arm flourish, like she’s an old-time music hall compere.
It’s Seb.
His eyes search out mine and I blush like a beetroot.
What must he think of Justine? Confronted by my sister-in-law’s bold request, the poor man probably said yes out of sheer shock. I just hope he doesn’t think my whole family is as mad as her.
Mind you, he doesn’t look too perturbed.
He’s standing there, quite relaxed, smiling as Justine compliments him on his choice of oven and goes into ecstasies over her own.
‘I mean, when you’ve enjoyed a Bosch with an adjustable temperature broil facility you simply can’t contemplate using anything else,’ she’s saying, making a firm stop sign behind her, in the direction of my own cooker monstrosity.
Seb’s taking it all in his stride, as if having a woman accost him in the hallway and demand the immediate use of his white goods is a perfectly normal, every-day occurrence.
‘Of course, I do a lot of baking. And bottom heat is vital,’ Justine’s saying, smoothing her hair which is already perfect. ‘I really must have bottom heat.’
Seb nods with infinite understanding.
‘I expect you and your partner are very creative. Do the two of you bake together?’
Seb’s eyebrows rise a fraction but he doesn’t waver. ‘Not often, no. Jas tends to be a bit messy in the kitchen. But his cream puffs are to die for.’
Justine turns away to inspect the lamb shanks and Seb catches my eye.
I’m trying desperately hard not to laugh.
An odd little burst of joy erupts inside me, knowing we’re on the same wavelength.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘Righ
t, let’s get this show on the road.’ Seb rubs his hands together and peers in the saucepans.
‘Not those,’ orders Justine. ‘Just the lamb shanks and the ingredients for the sauce. Lola? Could you gather your—?’ She swings round, just as I’m adding the redcurrant jelly to the rest of the items. ‘Oh, you’ve got that in hand, I see. Well done.’
Between us, Seb and I carry everything up to Jasper’s flat.
‘This is really good of you,’ I begin. ‘You honestly didn’t have to—’
He waves away my concern. ‘Hey, don’t worry. I’m working from home today. It’s not a problem.’
I deposit my armful of ingredients on Jasper’s shiny black marble work surface.
‘So.’ Seb’s lips twitch. ‘I guess you’d better introduce your shanks to my free-standing Montpellier.’
I laugh guiltily. It feels a bit disloyal, taking the mickey out of Justine, but she really does invite it.
‘Sorry about Justine. She’s somehow got the impression you and Jas are shacked up together.’
‘What a thought. No, he’s too disorganised for me. He’d drive me nuts in a fortnight. Plus he’s far too flat-chested.’
I laugh. ‘Where do you stand on bottom heat?’
Seb shrugs. ‘Well, yes.’ He nods, as if considering. ‘Of course it’s important. But to be honest, between you and me…’ He leans in, so close his breath is tickling my ear. ‘I’ve never, ever had a problem with a soggy bottom.’
I snort with laughter and move away to examine the oven, more to hide my reaction to Seb’s nearness than anything else. My arm, where he made the briefest of contact, is still tingling and I can feel a give-away blush scorching my cheeks.
I don’t like working in someone else’s kitchen because everything takes twice as long and there are big hold-ups while you search for the right implements.
‘Right, what do you need?’ asks Seb, as if he’s read my mind. ‘Wooden spoons, cutlery?’ He swings open a drawer, then opens a cupboard. ‘Casserole dishes, pans? And feel free to search up here for any ingredients you might need.’ He pulls open a cupboard overhead.
‘Wow, who’s the chef?’ I run my eye over the impressive array of spices, herbs and flavoured oils.
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 19
