A Christmas Gift

by Sue Moorcroft

  At lunchtime, she went to the cafeteria, selected lamb ragu with rice, then looked around for somewhere to sit. At a table in the corner she spotted Joe with some of this morning’s music students and dance tutor Avril and headed their way. ‘Hi, everyone,’ she said as she deposited her plate and drink on the table.

  Avril beamed, ‘Hiya!’ Her blonde hair was coiled at the back, the fringe left to frame her face.

  Joe said, ‘Hi.’ His plate was empty and he was lounging back in his chair, coffee mug cradled in his hands.

  With only a minuscule pause to acknowledge her arrival, the students continued with their own conversation. Georgine savoured her first mouthful of lamb with an appreciative murmur. Acting Instrumental was the only education establishment she’d worked in with catering of this standard.

  Avril finished her meal and put aside her knife and fork. ‘How’s your stressometer?’ she demanded of Georgine. ‘Climbing nicely as you pull everything together for the show?’

  ‘I thrive on it.’ Georgine grinned. ‘The buzz and thrill of seeing progress at rehearsals.’

  Lowering her voice, Avril enquired, ‘Nothing new on the Aidan front? No resolution?’

  Conscious that the students could be listening, Georgine was circumspect. ‘One to put down to experience.’

  ‘Awwwww.’ Avril pulled a sympathetic face. ‘So you’ll be living alone at Christmas?’

  Georgine laughed. ‘Except my sister’s moved in for a bit.’ And had come through with the first month’s rent, which had allowed Georgine to pay extra to the water authority’s outstanding bill.

  Joe joined the conversation. ‘Is your sister moving in a good thing?’ A smile lurked in his eyes.

  She made a face. ‘Time will tell. I love her to bits but we’re very different. Do you have siblings?’ She took another mouthful.

  The smile in Joe’s eyes changed to something more wistful. ‘I had a stepsister or, at least, my mother and her father lived together for a while. I lost track of her.’

  ‘That’s a shame, you must have been close if you were brought up in the same house.’ Then, seeing Joe’s gaze drop as if he were becoming uncomfortable with the subject, she tried to change it to Ian at the Raised Curtain.

  ‘What’s your sister’s name?’ Avril asked Joe at the same time as Georgine opened her mouth.

  Joe glanced at her. ‘Chrissy.’

  Avril, who could out-talk an auctioneer, opened her mouth with, no doubt, yet another question, but a student paused at the table. ‘Oggie’s looking for you, Rich.’

  Joe looked up at the student and opened his mouth as if to reply. Then a student called Richard jumped up from his place further along the table. ‘I asked him to sign my passport form. Thanks. I’ll go to his room.’

  Joe closed his mouth again, his gaze flicking towards Georgine.

  Avril asked Joe something else.

  Georgine couldn’t make herself listen. Her senses were locked on the man across the table, the room around them receding to hiss and blur, almost obscured by the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat. Now she knew why the name Blackthorn hadn’t seemed quite right, and, probably, why ‘Joe’ seemed to watch Georgine a lot.

  Maybe because she’d just heard his sister Chrissy’s name again, and when he’d almost answered to the name of Rich a moment ago it had spun the tumblers of her memory. His face and voice clicked into place, like one of those optical illusions where you thought you were looking at one thing but suddenly realised there was another picture there all along.

  Rich Garrit.

  Joe Blackthorn was Rich Garrit. How the hell had she missed it till now? It was so obvious! The face shape had matured, he was tall instead of small and spindly, the hair was completely different, but the eyes were the same, and the shape of his mouth.

  Rich Garrit had been the most underprivileged kid in their school with horribly outdated or unsuitable clothes in a mishmash of sizes. The wrong shoes. A PE bag that was a supermarket carrier bag with his name written on it in marker pen. The kind of parents that no kid would choose.

  Dumb with shock, vaguely she registered Avril checking her watch and making ‘back to work’ noises, the students moving off in a body to whatever awaited them next.

  And Joe gazing ruefully back at her.

  Through the soulful brown eyes of Rich Garrit.

  Chapter Eight

  If he hadn’t been cursing himself so bitterly, Joe could almost have laughed at Georgine’s flabbergasted expression. Lips parted, sea-green eyes wide, sandy eyebrows almost vanishing into her hair.

  But, shit. Even if he’d known the chances were high that this day would dawn, he’d hoped to find his feet in his new life before being obliged to embark on the emotional journey back to the infinitely crappier one.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t I get us both a coffee—’

  ‘Have you got an extended lunch hour or something? My watch tells me it’s time to get back to work,’ Avril put in, giving him a tiny prod in his shoulder as she got to her feet. ‘Crack the whip over your new assistant, Georgine!’ She giggled.

  Wrenching her gaze from Joe, Georgine stumbled to her feet, backing away. ‘I have to get back to work too.’ Dispensing with farewells, she rushed to join the line straggling out through the cafeteria doors.

  With a rapid, ‘Bye!’ tossed back to Avril, Joe hopped up and charged after her. Georgine’s amber hair made it a cinch for a tall person to keep her in view as the flow of students carried her along until she forked off right towards her room. He watched to check she went inside, then headed left for Oggie’s quarters.

  Finding the principal of the institution at his desk he whipped over to the coffee machine and helped himself to two cups of coffee with a breathless, ‘Sorry, Oggie. Explain later.’

  Oggie, who rarely looked anything other than serene, actually frowned. ‘Joe, you’re supposed to be—’ was all he got out as Joe, heart beating surprisingly hard and high up in his chest, set off in pursuit of Georgine.

  At her door, he paused, then stepped inside. ‘I brought you coffee.’

  From the other side of the large table, she gazed at him, her expression frozen into unfriendly lines. ‘You’re supposed to be—’

  ‘Accompanied, yeah. So sue me.’ He closed her door with an impatient foot. ‘You’ve obviously realised who I am. I’d like to explain.’ He put one of the coffee cups down on the table and pushed it across to her. It felt like he was creeping up on a wild creature and trying to gain its trust with food.

  Georgine’s eyes moved over his face. ‘This is beyond weird. Like a time warp crossed with the hall of mirrors.’

  He offered a smile. ‘I had a few reasons for not reminding you who I was straight away.’

  ‘You had planned to come clean at some time, then?’ She glanced at the cup of coffee but didn’t touch it.

  Her words rankled but he didn’t let his irritation filter into his voice as he pointed out, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong to “come clean” about. I recognised you. I can’t help it if you didn’t recognise me.’

  The green eyes were wary. ‘You’ve changed so much. I kept getting a strange feeling about you, but not knowing why. The penny dropped when you almost answered that kid when he said “Rich”.’

  ‘I was a ragged arse runt when you knew me. Becoming healthy after being underfed for most of your life is bound to prompt changes,’ he said with a hint of bitterness.

  ‘Your hair’s a lot darker now. You wear glasses. And, crucially, unlike me, you’ve changed your name.’ She took a few steps around the table, then paused as if not wanting to venture too close.

  He remained where he was, willing to stay out of her personal space but not by backing up. ‘Why don’t we sit down and I’ll tell you the story over coffee?’

  ‘Because I have to start ringing around the parents who are volunteering to act as house managers or to run the bar and refreshments counter during show week. Six shows means a lot of volunt
eers.’

  ‘Right.’ For an instant he’d forgotten he was in a ‘normal’ job. Maybe because he hadn’t had too much experience of normal. He spent a lot of his life on the road or rehearsing or recording. He didn’t think he’d ever had a reason to be in the same building five days a week since he’d left college.

  ‘I feel odd,’ she said, before he could speak again. ‘I’m supposed to be looking after you, but I actually don’t want to, not this afternoon. I want to concentrate on what I’m doing, not trying to solve the puzzle that’s you.’

  ‘I’m not a—’ he began.

  She held up her hands. Impatience seemed to be taking the place of shock. ‘No, don’t. I’ve got most of the notes together for you so I’ll walk you to the staff room. If you have your copy of the Very Kerry Christmas script you can begin adding your tech notes.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But it’s important we clear the air.’

  She nodded, though her heavy sigh suggested she regretted the necessity. ‘Could it be away from here? Maybe tonight, if you’re free. If we’re to work together a talk would be … enlightening.’

  ‘I can be free this evening.’ Until he made a decision or two, every evening on his calendar was free, with a question mark over Christmas week. His uncle and aunt, Shaun and Louise, usually invited him, but this year Shaun was working with a band in Australia and Louise had gone along for the whole Christmas-on-the-beach experience. ‘Here in the village? Is there a coffee shop?’

  ‘The Angel, but it’s only open in the evenings in summer or when there’s something on in the village. It’ll have to be the pub. Give me your phone number and I’ll text you details.’

  He shifted awkwardly. ‘I don’t have a phone I can use right now. Just tell me where and when and I’ll be there.’ His phone was off and as he’d no intention of switching it on any time soon it wasn’t a lie to say he couldn’t use it.

  She frowned, as if the fact that he didn’t have a working mobile phone made her even more wary. As if to show him what he was missing, her phone began to burble. Reaching for a notepad, she tore out a page and scribbled The Three Fishes, Main Street, 8 p.m. on it, shoving it towards him as she answered the call.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ he murmured.

  ‘OK.’ Then, into her phone, ‘Hello, Maddie. Yes … no, I wasn’t going to, but I can come along if you want me to.’ She reached for her production file and laptop, pausing to grab the cup of coffee he’d brought her then waiting for him at the door. He followed as she walked briskly up the corridor to the staff room and saw him inside with a nod and what passed for a smile.

  The door swung closed.

  He’d been dismissed.

  Irritated, Joe opened his locker to get the laptop Fern had issued to him, a battered old hand-me-down ‘from the pool’, though he would have thought ‘the shit heap’ a more accurate description. It was a far cry from his own state-of-the-art Mac Pro, but he supposed Acting Instrumental had a policy on what computers they made available to which staff and he was a very new, lowly volunteer who could be temporary. A shit-heap computer was evidently his level.

  Also, he wasn’t turning on his own laptop, to avoid the siren call of his inbox at present. Raf, Nathan and Liam from the band were probably trying to contact him, not to mention Billy, but, though he felt slightly ashamed for ducking them, he hadn’t formulated answers to what he knew would be their very real concerns.

  He cast a jaundiced eye over the overheated staff room. It boasted the kind of low chairs that seemed designed to make a tall person uncomfortable. A peek out of the door revealed not a single student, so for the second time since lunch, he broke the unbreakable rule that he shouldn’t be alone until his DBS checked out, and left. Soon he was unlocking a door that led him out of the building directly beneath the outside stairs that clung to the side of the building. From either side, the door looked to be the kind that led to a cupboard or some utility and had presumably been used to access staff accommodation in the days when the building had been a private residence. The flight of stairs was obscured by the bulk of the big rehearsal room and it had only been by chance that Georgine had caught him there on his first day. Wrong-footed at her presence, he’d hovered indecisively as she’d turned and spotted him. Letting her think he had no business being where he was had seemed the easiest way out.

  But now he ran up the steps, tapped a number into the keypad and let himself into a corridor with three doors, two on the left and one on the right. He opened and went through the one on the right, kicking off his shoes and hanging up his jacket.

  The apartment, apart from being as big as the other two put together, had appealed to him because it was so white and clean looking. Its impressive kitchen area held a battery of built-in equipment, making him appreciate why whoever had planned the apartment had gone with open plan. That kitchen was a work of art and shouldn’t be hidden behind a door.

  He crossed to the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of water, then moved into the living area and dropped onto the sofa, taking off his glasses and swinging his feet up onto the coffee table. Opening the shit-heap laptop, he emailed Oggie to let him know Georgine had recognised him, then fetched the photocopies of her storyboards from where he’d left them on the table by the window last night. Her notes had already dropped into his inbox so he searched out a notebook and a pen – he thought better with a pen in his hand. Then he settled down to work.

  Interrupting himself, once in a while he tried a couple of lines of lyrics, as the songwriting habit, imbued in him at college, had never left. Something about an old crush being the reason he’d been wary of seriously long-term relationships …? Sounded ridiculous. An immature get-pregnant-to-get-him-to-marry-me scheme a few years ago had been responsible for any wariness he had in that direction, and the woman who’d followed had been so incredibly indiscreet on social media about the details of their relationship that he hadn’t even felt obliged to end things face-to-face. She’d got her revenge by revealing the details of that phone conversation in a Twitter storm that had made him feel sick.

  He got up once to make coffee, standing at the kitchen window and staring out at the new block, which replaced what had once been a wonderful view over gardens and paddocks. He felt charged, restless, but made himself return to the work. He kind of wanted to show Georgine what he could do.

  His long ago alter ego Rich Garrit continued to invade his thoughts. At nearly fourteen, he would have almost wet himself with excitement to know he was going to meet Georgine France in a pub tonight. She was the prettiest and most popular girl in their school year, and to him an unlikely but highly prized friend. She’d lived in a big house in Middledip village and her parents had a car each: a Jaguar XKR and limo-like black Mercedes.

  Young Rich Garrit would have pretended to himself that they were actually going on a date. He’d never asked to start seeing her of course, knowing he’d be destroyed if she’d said no, and, in all probability, so would their friendship. And enough money for an actual date? In his dreams.

  Present-day Joe Blackthorn had to explain what Georgine obviously considered strange, if not downright suspicious, behaviour. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to come to terms with that uncomfortable thought.

  Rich Garrit had been an odd kid.

  But Georgine probably thought Joe Blackthorn odder still. Fucksake. Why wasn’t his life ever simple?

  Chapter Nine

  After work, Georgine drove to Bettsbrough. Gold Street, on the left just before the town proper, led her to the sheltered housing where her father lived without her being sucked into the one-way system.

  She used her key to let herself in through the main door. There was no sense in using the entry system, which would oblige her dad to ease himself out of his high-seat chair and shuffle across to press the ‘open door’ button. She would have tried to get him some kind of mobile phone-based system so he could remain in his chair while he talked to callers at the door, but his speech w
as now so unclear that he wasn’t keen. At least that saved her from having to find the money.

  Money. Who said it was the root of all evil? To her it was the root of all sodding hassle and disappointment.

  No trace of that kind of frustration showed in her face though as she let herself into the flat, past the bathroom and into the sitting room. ‘It’s me, Dad.’

  Randall twisted in his chair. ‘Hi, honey!’ It came out more as: ‘Ha unny’ but he’d said ‘Hi, honey’ every time he saw her for as long as she could remember so the imperfect diction didn’t matter.

  Cheered just to be with her dad, who seldom complained, no matter what life threw at him, Georgine stooped to hug him as he groped for the TV remote with his good hand to switch off the late-afternoon news. He was bulkier than he used to be and she couldn’t make her arms meet around him. ‘I called in at the supermarket and got the stuff for a full English as promised. Hungry?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Favourite.’ Randall gurgled a laugh. As his speech had deteriorated he’d compensated by developing a kind of verbal shorthand and making greater use of laughs, groans, nods and headshakes.

  Georgine chatted for a few minutes, satisfying herself there was no fresh reason to worry about him, then moved into the kitchenette, switching on the grill to warm up as she unpacked sausages, bacon, eggs and mushrooms. ‘How’d you like your eggs today, Dad?’

  ‘’Amble, p’ease.’

  ‘Scrambled it is.’ She pricked the sausages and put them under the grill, letting them get a head start while she cut the rind off the bacon, wiped the mushrooms and mixed the eggs. As she worked, she updated Randall on the Blair-moving-in situation. She knew Blair had visited Randall and told him in person about Warren ending things.