by Jenny Oliver
Harry laughed. The sound made her imagine what his face looked like. The lines by his eyes when he smiled. The dimple in his left cheek almost hidden by the stubble. She could picture him like he was in the kitchen with her. ‘It was good actually. Cathartic. Put everything into perspective a bit.’
‘That’s good. And The Bonfire? All OK there?’
He paused, then cleared his throat before saying, ‘Yeah, that’s actually, yeah. Wilf’s lot are opening another one. In California. I’m actually going to head it up. It’s this amazing spot, all outside overlooking LA. We can have big outdoor fires and ovens, and, well, it’s perfect. We can really experiment, mess about. Yeah. It’s really exciting.’
‘That is exciting.’
‘Yeah. The best opportunity for me. And you, I mean, your collection, I’m flicking through the photos now on your Instagram. Really impressive. Are you having a well-earned break?’
‘I wish. No I’m making Jane’s outfit, for her wedding. I’m sharing her studio on Cherry Pie Island. It’s the most beautiful space, I couldn’t ask for anything better. Well, it probably doesn’t compare to LA…’
‘Oh no, I bet it does.’
‘Well…’ Hannah shrugged. ‘Whatever, it’s another Christmas sewing. But I’ve realised that actually that’s my life and I quite like it. Are you erm…’ She paused, watched the snow as it swirled and swayed with the air. ‘Are you coming to Jane’s wedding?’
‘No. Not invited. I don’t really know them.’
Hannah nodded. ‘Are you back for Christmas?’ she asked. Every time she’d thought about Harry she’d presumed he would be. Presumed that maybe they’d go for a drink or perhaps have a catch-up at Emily’s.
She hadn’t realised quite how much she’d hoped that would be the case until he said, ‘No. My mum’s on a cruise so there’s no reason to. She was here in New York a couple of weeks ago. Came over for Thanksgiving which was really good. Now she’s somewhere exotic on a boat.’
‘Oh right.’ Hannah turned away from the window, annoyed with herself for being so disappointed, and started to stack up all the bowls and spoons that Jemima had managed to use in the process of making the cake. ‘Well maybe I’ll see you in California sometime. Wait for Emily to launch over there!’ she said as nonchalantly as she could, putting the phone on speaker and leaning it up against the stack of plates on the shelf above the sink so she could start doing the washing up. Trying to convince herself that this was just an ordinary phone call to an ordinary friend.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Harry laughed.
Hannah forced a smile. Then there was silence as if neither of them was quite sure what to say next.
Pulling on her rubber gloves, Hannah said, ‘OK, well I’d better go.’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK,’ she said, flicking on the tap. ‘Bye, Harry.’
‘Hey, Hannah…’
‘Yeah?’
‘I just wanted to say… I don’t think you’re aloof or uptight.’
She turned the tap off.
He carried on. ‘I said it because I was being mean and I was angry. I’m the uptight one. Really I should have been saying it to me.’
She half-laughed. ‘I am a bit uptight,’ she said looking at the phone that was still propped up in front of her at eye-level. A bit more like they were having a real conversation.
‘No. No don’t say that. I disallow it.’ He laughed. ‘You’re not uptight at all. You’re perfect.’
Hannah raised her eyebrows. Harry paused. She leant forward a touch, waiting to hear what he was going to say next.
‘I didn’t mean that like that,’ he said. ‘I mean. Not to say that you’re not perfect. Oh God. You know what I mean. No one’s perfect, are they?’
‘Not even Mary Poppins,’ a little voice to Hannah’s right shouted, and she looked down to see a snow-coated Jemima standing next to her.
Hannah snatched up the phone from the shelf but couldn’t take it off speaker with her marigolds on. She ended up having to hold it in one hand while trying to take a glove off with her teeth and mumbling, ‘Sorry, Harry, hang on a sec.’
‘You OK?’ he asked.
She finally got the glove off and held the phone to her ear. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise Jemima had come in. Look, I’d better go. It was nice to talk to you.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said.
‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’
‘Merry Christmas, Harry,’ Jemima shouted in the background.
Chapter Twenty-Three
In New York the snow was the heaviest they’d had in years. Roads closed, runways closed. People sloshed their way to work, trudged through the streets arms weighed down with bags of Christmas shopping and red cups of eggnog lattes.
Harry worked every night in the run up to Christmas Day. Now he knew he was leaving, he realised how much emotion he had tied up in his team. He had poured everything he had into that place and walking away wasn’t quite the walk in the park he’d imagined. They were his colleagues, they were his friends, they were his drinking buddies, they were his family. Christmas Eve he took the whole lot of them to the same bar he’d taken Hannah and picked up the tab. Some just stayed for one before heading home to their families, others brought their families to the bar, and a handful, including Harry, stayed almost till dawn drinking a thirty-year-old rum that the barman kept under the counter for just such special occasions.
The last toast was made to Christmas Day and then Harry stepped outside to where the sky was lightening and the coconut snow was falling in giant clusters, his feet disappearing into the carpet on the pavement as he walked.
He woke up just before midday. Sitting up in his bed with a yawn, then making a coffee and getting back into bed to drink it, it was the Christmas he’d always dreamed of. No presents. No tree. Nowhere he had to be. He read the paper on his iPad. He took a bath. He wore his jeans and a grey woollen jumper. He sat by his open window in the kitchen and ate the most perfect bacon sandwich he’d ever made, the snow flitting inside and landing on his boots.
His mum called from her cruise and he answered it, as he would on a normal day, while putting on his jacket and heading outside. He Facetimed his sister and the boys when he got to the Rockefeller Center and turned the phone around so they could see the big sparkling tree.
‘Are you OK, Harry, there all by yourself?’ she asked when the boys had finished oohing and ahhing and saying how unfair it was that they couldn’t go to New York for Christmas.
‘I’m more than OK, thanks for asking.’
‘Well that’s good. Happy Christmas. And thanks for the presents. Couldn’t believe it when the parcel arrived. Getting soft in your old age.’
‘Yeah well, makes up for all those crap last-minute ones I used to buy. Have a good one. Enjoy yourselves.’
‘Hey, Harry,’ his sister said, stopping him from hanging up. ‘Have you thought about Dad at all?’
‘Trying not to,’ he said, then paused and added, ‘A bit.’
‘I went to church last night,’ she said. ‘We all went. To midnight mass. It’s the first time I’ve gone since we were kids.’
‘And was it good?’
‘I have no idea. I bawled my eyes out all the way through. In retrospect it was really embarrassing,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I was all snotty and red-faced. The boys kept edging away from me. But I do feel much better now. And it’s always good, isn’t it? Belting out some carols. Yeah, I found it good.’
‘That’s good,’ said Harry, nodding at the screen. Remembering being in church with her when she was a kid, his job had been to stop her running up and down the aisles which he’d done by feeding her a non-stop supply of Quality Streets.
‘I used your tactic with them…’ she said, nodding in the direction of the boys who had hurtled off into the other room. ‘They were so wired on chocolate and sugar by the time we came out that we had a massive snowball fight in the street. It was brillia
nt. Really fun,’ she added.
Harry laughed. ‘And you’re sure you’re OK?’
‘Yeah I’m OK. You OK?’
‘Always.’
‘See ya in LA, Harry.’
He put the phone in his pocket and took a moment to look at the Rockefeller tree, glistening like a great, gaudy elephant. He stared at it for a minute or two longer than he’d expected, until the little lights merged and made patterns on his eyes. He thought of his dad. The absence of him yet still the great presence he had in his life. He thought of those moments in the garden on holiday when he talked into the night with his whisky and cigar. Saw him in his armchair concentrating on the crossword or shouting at the TV. Saw him walking in through the door, home from work, his mac folded over his arm. Then him lying in the hospital bed weak and pale.
Harry had to close his eyes for a moment.
When he opened them the big tree filled his vision in all its glory and he remembered the Brussels sprouts. The idea of his mum standing over his dad until he liked them. Until they became one of the staple meals. A favourite. And Harry huffed a laugh. Then he looked up at the huge white sky and shook his head, knowing immediately that stubbornness was hereditary and, left unchecked, could become the loneliest of the vices.
‘Be nice up there,’ he said to the snow-filled clouds. Then he paused. Looked down at his boots and back up again to the sea of white. ‘I miss you,’ he added, then he turned and walked away just as it started to snow again. Hands in his pockets, he felt it land soft on his eyelashes, on his cheeks, lips, ears, hair. Brushing it from his view he looked up as it fell. Catching it in his mouth. Smiling as it melted on his skin. And he walked and he walked. All through New York. Past the kids skating on the rink in Bryant Park, past shops on Fifth Avenue and their grand holiday windows, through Central Park where he detoured into the zoo, surprised to find it open, and stared at some snow monkeys and grizzly bears. When it got too cold he took a cab to Greenwich Village and found a diner where he ate hash browns and an omelette with a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie and then took himself to the cinema.
Harry was about to buy his ticket when he saw that Frozen was one of the other film options. He paused with his hand on his wallet. The woman in the kiosk coughed to remind him she was still there, the bell on her Santa hat tinkling.
‘I think I’ve changed my mind,’ he said.
‘That’s not a problem, sir,’ she replied with smile.
And as the curtains opened on the film, Harry sat back and got lost in the darkness of the room and the brightness of the screen, the salt of the popcorn and the sweetness of the Coke. Then he went home to bed. And closed his eyes on probably the best Christmas he’d ever had.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Christmas morning everyone crowded onto Hannah’s bed. Dylan made himself comfortable next to Jemima who snuggled next to Hannah and opened her stocking. Her sister, Robyn, lounged at the foot of the bed, doing her yearly lament about whether they were finally too old for stockings. Hannah sipped piping-hot tea while Dylan’s boyfriend, Tony, took his marginally less-awkward position on the chair in his silk dressing gown, a little more comfortable with the family with another year under his belt. Her parents burst in carrying stockings for them all and made themselves comfortable on the sofa, feigning wonder and amazement at the gifts in Jemima’s stocking that they had all been roped into buying as Hannah sat up sewing Jane’s outfit.
Hannah watched them all chatting and laughing. The same as every year. All the same. And all so different. This year the knot had gone in her stomach. The worry. She was getting there. Getting where she’d wanted to be.
She’d sewed with her mum until the small hours of the morning. At one point her mum had looked up and said, ‘Are you happy, Hannah?’
‘Yes,’ she’d replied, without really having to think about it. And she was happy. Her life was lovely. But there was a tiny part of her that felt like something was missing. Something she was aware of only because she had had it momentarily and then lost it. She missed Harry. She missed the flip in her heart that she felt when she heard his voice. And while she knew they were not to be, she missed the possibility.
Now, as she sat in bed, Robyn’s voice cut into the memory. ‘What’s wrong with Hannah? What’s wrong with you? What are you staring at?’
Hannah mentally shook herself. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I was just thinking.’
But then Dylan leant forward and said, ‘She’s mooning over some bloke.’ His voice a loud, conspiratorial whisper.
‘I am not,’ she said quickly.
‘Yes you are,’ said Dylan.
Her mum put her cup of tea down and said, ‘What bloke? Who? Are you seeing someone, Hannah? How exciting.’
‘No! I’m not seeing anyone. There’s no bloke.’ She sat back assuming that was the end of it and tried to focus on her stocking.
‘He thinks she’s like Mary Poppins,’ Jemima’s little voice piped up.
‘What?’ said Hannah, glancing around a bit confused.
‘What?’ said Dylan, delighted by the possible insight.
‘What a nanny?’ said Robyn.
‘No.’ Jemima shook her head. ‘Practically perfect in every way.’
As her family oohed, Hannah had to close her eyes and slide down under the covers.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The weather threw everyone into a spin for Jane’s wedding. Since Christmas the snow had been relentless. Roads were closed, gritters were out every night but could barely keep up. The planes were grounded. The snow was like white fog coming down thicker everyday. The forecasters announced the worst hadn’t hit yet, citing New Year’s Eve as the real snow day and people started crying off from the wedding, nervous to make the journey.
Hannah had arrived the previous evening with the outfit and stayed the night at Emily’s, not wanting to risk the possibility of getting stuck in the massive snowstorm they predicted. Jemima had gone to Dylan’s for the weekend. He had a huge aversion to the commercialisation of New Year and spent every one at home in front of the fire watching movies and playing board games. It was Jemima’s idea of heaven. Especially as Robyn was going as well and would French plait her hair and give her a manicure.
But as it happened, the morning of New Year’s Eve the snow stopped. Took a little pause to allow Jane and William to get married. Half the guests still didn’t make it to the ceremony because of the snow already on the roads, but they did start to arrive in dribs and drabs at The Duck and Cherry for the reception.
William was obviously a little disappointed and kept looking out the mullioned windows, saying things like, ‘It never snows in England. Or hardly ever. Never bloody snowed when I was a kid. Why does it have to snow now? On our wedding day?’ Jane, however, who’d been quite keen on a really small do, was secretly quite pleased. Everyone from Cherry Pie Island had made it and they were her best friends, so she didn’t mind at all.
The pub itself was lovely. There was a fire going to warm up damp guests who’d trudged through the snow in their finery and Barney the landlord had heated up some mulled wine and spiced cider. There were little canapés for starters, to be followed by a big roast dinner later in the evening.
Hannah was standing with Annie, Matt, Holly and Wilf who were admiring Jane’s outfit while Hannah was scrutinising it for faults – checking that it draped perfectly from every angle. Jane had forgone a dress in favour of a cream silk pantsuit that nipped in low on the hips and had slouchy trousers that tapered in at the ankle, all cool and relaxed. The fabric was Jane’s – hand-printed with pale-silver feathers that fell like snow on the watery silk and caught the light, iridescent like fishes, as she moved. They all agreed she had never looked more beautiful. But it was just as they were pointing out the red sparkling cherries that sat on the toes of Jane’s silver stilettos – a homage to the island – that the lights flickered, buzzed and then everything went dark except the red glow from the fire.
‘Sh
it,’ said Matt.
‘Don’t worry, chaps,’ Barney shouted. ‘Just a power cut. I’ll get some candles. Hold tight.’
‘Do you think the whole island’s down?’ asked Annie.
Matt went over to the window to peer out. ‘Looks like it. Streetlights are out.’
Hannah saw Emily creep up behind Annie and prod her in the back making her jump. Then she laughed and said, ‘It’s spooky, isn’t it?’
Annie sighed at her.
Barney came back out with an armful of candles and a flickering storm lantern. ‘Here, we’ll get these lit, no problem. All very romantic.’
And he was right. The little pub twinkled in the candlelight, catching the white snow on the windows. The island generator kicked in to light the streetlights so from the opposite bank, still completely without power, they were like one of the model Christmas scenes lit up in shop windows. A pocket of light in the otherwise pitch darkness.
Jane and William were chatting to the few guests still arriving. Thanking them for making it against the odds and ushering them to the fireplace where the pot of cider was being kept warm.
Out the corner of her eye Hannah saw Barney beckoning over to her and Emily. She nudged Emily and, along with Annie, they went over to the kitchen door where Barney had pointed once he’d got their attention.
The kitchen was lit by one lonely little candle.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Emily.
‘There’s no bloody food,’ said Barney. ‘The oven won’t work.’
‘Oh shit, yeah,’ said Annie. ‘Of course the oven won’t work.’
‘Have you got gas?’ Hannah asked.
Barney nodded.
‘Can you fry it?’ said Emily.
‘Roast chicken?’ Barney scoffed. ‘I don’t think so. And there’s all the potatoes.’
