‘Have they tried counselling?’ June asked.
‘They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t be able to stop blaming one another for long enough.’
‘There’s no one else you can live with, even for a little while? An aunt? Uncle? Grandparents?’
Holly shook her head.
‘Could you leave? Get a flat on your own?’
‘And leave Belle and Chloe behind? Never.’
‘Why are your parents still together? Wouldn’t it be easier on everyone if they just split up?’
‘They tried it once, for a week.’ It had been even worse, Holly told her. Her mother had insisted on taking Belle and Chloe and had gone to stay with a friend. Holly remained in the family home with her father, out of guilt, out of love, out of a combination of both. She’d rung her sisters every night and her heart had almost broken to hear the two of them so upset. She was the one who eventually made her mother come home, promising on behalf of her father that it would be different this time. It was different for two days. The fighting started again on the third day.
‘You poor kids,’ June said simply.
It had helped Holly just to talk about it. June rarely asked much, just a gentle enquiry now and again. She was very generous, though. If extra shifts were on offer, Holly was always the first one asked. And any leftover buns, bread and cakes always seemed to go to Holly too. ‘The girls might like them for their school lunches,’ she’d say.
A flurry of customers stopped their conversation for the next fifteen minutes. In the following lull, June walked over to the girls’ table, praised them both for making their frog cakes last so long – they’d both taken just small nibbles from the edge, working their way into the centre. She put four containers of sugar sachets in front of them, asking their help to count them. ‘There should be twenty in each bowl. Can you make sure of that for me?’
They started work immediately, counting aloud.
Back at the counter, June spoke to Holly. ‘So, any special plans for Christmas yet?’
Holly shrugged, about to say no, not really, when Chloe piped up. ‘Yes! A secret plan!’
‘We’re running away!’ Belle added.
Chloe pouted. ‘Belle! I was going to tell June! You’ve got a big mouth!’
‘They’re both joking,’ Holly said quickly.
‘We can tell June, can’t we?’ Chloe came over, all shining eyes and eager voice. ‘We won a competition, June. We’re going to a motel called Valley something. For three nights. There’s even a pool.’
‘Only two hours from here,’ Belle said, coming over too. ‘Holly’s going to drive.’
‘All five of you?’ June asked. ‘That’ll be fun.’
Belle shook her head. ‘Not Mum and Dad.’
‘No, Belle,’ Chloe said. ‘They can come and sleep in cardboard boxes, but only if they’re good.’
‘Well, that sounds lovely,’ June said, giving Holly a ‘kids and their imaginations, hey?’ look.
‘Mad as snakes, the pair of them,’ Holly said, busying herself arranging the puddings.
‘So what are you all doing for Christmas, if you’re not running away in a secret plan?’ June asked again, once Chloe and Belle were back busily moving the remains of their frog cakes around their plates.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Holly said. It was the truth.
That night it was quiet at home. Both her parents had gone out after dinner, separately, leaving her to babysit. There had been a brief argument between them about what had happened with the school pick-up that day, but Holly made sure neither Belle nor Chloe heard it. She’d kept them busy on the computer. Another email had arrived that day from the Valley View Motel. She hadn’t had the heart to put an end to their excitement yet, so she’d asked the girls to help her fill out the brief questionnaire someone called Lola Quinlan had sent. The girls had loved doing it, calling out their favourite drinks, food and carols. Another question had asked their age. There was no problem with the girls. But Holly couldn’t say she was seventeen. She picked a number at random, thirty-five, keeping up the charade that she was their mother. She answered the final question honestly, at least. Reason for spending Christmas at the Valley View Motel? Peace and quiet, she wrote.
She was about to go to bed when her mobile rang. It was June. Her boss rarely rang her after hours.
‘June? Is everything all right?’
‘No, it’s not. That’s why I’m ringing. Holly, tell me to mind my own business if you want, but I’ve been thinking about Christmas. Your Christmas. I can’t stop thinking about it.’
Holly stayed quiet.
‘Was what the girls said today true? Were you really thinking about running away?’
About to deny it again, Holly suddenly felt too tired. ‘Yes,’ she said. She told June what had happened, the three of them looking at the website together, sending off an email just for fun on Holly’s part, and then the excitement of finding they’d won a competition.
‘Oh, Holly. That would be a pretty tough Christmas, three kids away on their own like that. And your parents would be so worried, wouldn’t they?’
Holly stayed silent again.
June’s tone softened. ‘Holly, the three of you can spend Christmas with us if you want. We’ve got heaps of room. There’ll be heaps of food too.’
Holly’s eyes filled with tears. How many times had she wished that June was her mum, that June’s lovely quiet husband was her dad, that their three grown-up daughters were her big sisters, looking after her for once? But that wasn’t the way it was. ‘Thanks anyway. We’ll be okay.’
‘It’s not right. A girl your age worrying about Christmas because her parents are too busy fighting. I’d like to bang their bloody heads together.’
That made Holly smile. ‘I’d like to see you try. Thanks, June.’
‘It’ll work out, love.’
‘I hope so,’ Holly said.
Chapter Eight
The heat coming in through the open door of the charity shop was remarkable, like an oven on full blast. Lola fanned herself with the Senorita fan she’d unpacked that morning. It went very well with her outfit for the day – a Spanish-style ruffled top over what she believed was called a maxi dress these days, but she still preferred to call a kaftan. It was the coolest thing she owned, temperature- and style-wise. She’d have to raid the shop’s racks again if this weather continued. And it would, according to last night’s forecast. Another week of at least forty-degree temperatures was expected. At this rate, if it kept up till Christmas Day, she could just toss the prawns she planned to serve onto the asphalt and they’d cook in seconds.
It wouldn’t just be prawns she’d be cooking, either. The emailed questionnaires to her guests had produced excellent results – that morning she’d received four replies. A brief one from the gentleman in Broken Hill, saying he didn’t have any favourites. Perfect, she’d thought, a trouble-free guest. There had been a sweet note from the family of three, Holly and her two children, Chloe and Belle. Holly had put her age as mid-thirties, the girls were aged eight and six. They were very specific that their favourite cereal was Coco Pops, their favourite drink milkshakes and their favourite colours purple and pink. Martha in Melbourne liked seafood, fruit and New Zealand white wine. Lola had also heard back from the couple in Victoria – favourite food: simple and un-spicy, favourite colour: red, and favourite drink: white wine and beer. Unfortunately only two of her guests had answered her question about why they had chosen the Valley View Motel. Peace and quiet, the family said. A change of scenery, the couple wrote. No matter, she’d ask the others face-to-face when they arrived. It would make a great conversational ice-breaker.
She’d decided to keep all the information she was collating for her Secret Christmas in the most battered and innocent-looking notebook she could find, and carry it in her bag at all times. She most certainly wasn’t going to risk picking up her emails on the motel computer any more, either. Not with Geraldine sniffing about for enough
evidence to have her committed to an asylum or a nursing home, whichever had a vacancy first. Though perhaps Lola should be thanking her, rather than still feeling that strong desire to lock her in the motel coolroom for a few hours. At least everything about her and Jim’s plans were now out in the open.
She hadn’t told Patricia or her other friends the news yet. She knew they would be supportive and, if she told the story the right way, instantly outraged on her behalf against Geraldine. Perhaps they would be quick with suggestions, too. Patricia might offer a temporary room in her house. She had the space now that Luke spent most nights in Adelaide. Lola also knew that the sister in charge of the main old folks’ home in the Valley was a cousin of Kay’s, and would be very helpful with applications and the like. But it was too soon to talk about it yet. The truth was Lola still felt too shocked.
That was life for you, she realised. You could plot and plan and organise as much as you liked, but you never knew what was going to come flying out of nowhere and give you a big surprise or a nasty shock. She still hadn’t decided whether Jim’s bombshell news was one or the other. Possibly both.
Now, though, she had no choice but to put her living plans and even her Secret Christmas plans to one side. Today was all about the front window. She, Margaret and Patricia had already spent two hours removing everything from the display area. It had been so hot in there next to the glass they’d begun to feel like chickens in a rotisserie. Mrs Kernaghan was supposed to be helping too, but she’d rung five minutes before the agreed starting time to say that she’d been caught up at another unspecified and very important meeting and would be there as soon as she could.
Margaret passed over the last of the shirts from the display, leaving the shop’s only and very old mannequin naked. She wiped a sweaty lock of hair from her forehead and clambered over the small barrier that separated the front window from the shop. ‘It just needs a sweep now. If you pass me that broom, Lola —’
Lola shook her head. ‘Mrs Kernaghan will be flying in on hers any minute now. She can do it.’ So childish, but Lola was glad to see her friends giggle.
The door opened behind them, giving all three of them a minor fright, until they saw it wasn’t Mrs Kernaghan, but Luke. He glanced at the empty window and the piles of old display material in Lola’s arms and frowned. ‘I would have helped you do that. Why didn’t you wait till I got here?’
‘Because your time is more valuable spent in Mission Control back there,’ Lola answered. ‘And in any case, we’re doing this for the window display competition and the rules are strict. Displays to be mounted by staff only. Or volunteers, as in our case.’
‘Why? In case someone cheats and flies in the Harrods window dresser?’
‘Very funny. It’s to guard against sabotage, actually,’ Lola said. ‘Last year, don’t you remember, Len the butcher asked a group of high school students to do his display and it all went horribly wrong.’ Poor Len hadn’t realised they were all vegetarians. It took him days to scrape the Meat is Murder graffiti off the glass.
Luke held up a USB stick. ‘Okay if I go through? It’s the new program I promised I’d load up.’
‘The bridge game?’ Margaret’s eyes lit up. ‘Can I go first?’
‘You’ll be too busy here, Margaret,’ Lola said. ‘My poor arthritic knees have just started twitching a warning. I think our esteemed leader is about to arrive.’
Half an hour later, more than Lola’s arthritic knees were twitching. Her entire being was radiating with fury. She wasn’t sure exactly how it happened, but within minutes of arriving Mrs Kernaghan had somehow managed to find herself a seat in the coolest part of the shop, directly under the airconditioner. She’d spent the time since directing – ordering, in fact – Patricia and Margaret around like a pair of stagehands. ‘There’s no point me getting in the window area myself. I need to stand back to make sure my internal vision is being replicated.’
On the bright side, Lola thought, at least she hadn’t been asked to clamber up and down the ladder or over the barrier time and time again like an elderly Grand National horse. Her job description appeared to be official holder and fetcher. Mrs Kernaghan had arrived with a large basket of coloured chiffon and Lola’s role was to hand the lengths of material to Patricia and Margaret as instructed.
‘I might need a cup of tea soon, Mrs K,’ Patricia said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. ‘It’s very hot in the window.’
‘Good idea. A break will do us all good. Because I’m afraid we’re going to have to start from scratch. It’s just not looking as I imagined it at all.’
‘How did you imagine it?’ Lola asked. ‘On hallucinogenic drugs?’
Patricia gasped. Mrs Kernaghan simply ignored her. As Margaret gave a sigh and prepared to climb back over the barrier and take down all the red, yellow and green fabric strips she’d just spent more than an hour painstakingly arranging around the store dummy, Lola decided enough was enough.
‘Luke?’ She called his name so loudly she was glad to see Mrs Kernaghan give a little jump beside her.
Luke’s head emerged from behind the curtain. ‘Yes, Lola?’
‘You’ve helped me sort CDs here before, haven’t you? And moved the clothes racks for me as well?’
‘Well, a while ago. I’d have helped out more, but you know, with work and all the travel —’
‘Darling, I’m not accusing you. I’m praising you. Because of course that means you are a volunteer as well. Which means that you are legally permitted to assist with the window display competition. Come here and clamber about for a little while, would you? Before your poor mother and poor Margaret collapse in the heat.’
‘We were about to stop for a cup of tea,’ Mrs Kernaghan said sharply. ‘I thought it best to keep the momentum going until then.’
‘Splendid idea,’ Lola answered. ‘Luke, keep the momentum going with Mrs Kernaghan for a little while, would you? I feel a three-cup pot of Irish breakfast tea coming on. We’ll take breaks in shifts, Mrs Kernaghan, don’t you think?’
In the back room, Lola was surprised to be turned on rather than thanked by her friends.
‘Why wait so long to stand up to her?’ Margaret hissed. ‘What’s wrong with you, Lola? Once upon a time you’d have eaten someone like Mrs Kernaghan for breakfast. Now you’re letting her walk all over you and all over us.’
Patricia nodded. ‘And I still don’t have a clue what this display is supposed to represent.’
Lola gave an airy wave of her hand. ‘It’s about fire. Earth. Passion. Progress. I’ll stand up to her tomorrow. It’s too hot today. Lemon or milk, my dears?’
It was nearly four p.m. before Mrs Kernaghan pronounced herself happy with the way the window looked. They had attracted a lot of attention from passersby in the main street throughout the afternoon. Groups of schoolchildren giggling and laughing at Luke up a ladder covered in colourful chiffon. Several other onlookers from nearby shops. Mrs Kernaghan hadn’t been happy to see them. ‘Try and stand in front of it, Luke. I don’t want them stealing my ideas.’
Lola, Margaret and Patricia were now seated in a row as close to the airconditioner as possible. Whether it was dehydration – she still hadn’t stopped for a cup of tea – or a kind of creative mania, Mrs Kernaghan was now in full flight and, much as it pained Lola to admit it, proving to be an entertaining diversion on a hot afternoon. She was lucky that Luke had the patience of Job and also the fitness levels of a mountain goat. Anyone else would have snapped the ladder in two if they’d had to run up and down it so many times. Not to mention possibly suffocated Mrs Kernaghan in her own fabric creation.
Finally, she seemed happy. ‘I need to view it as the judges will, though,’ she said. ‘Everyone, follow me.’
Everyone did. Again, a blast of furnace air as the front door opened. Moments later, they were all lined up in front of the window, staring in.
‘Perfect,’ Mrs Kernaghan breathed. ‘It’s everything I dreamed.’
She’
d obviously been having nightmares, Lola thought. The previous window display of second-hand shirts, dresses, books and toys had been replaced with what looked like a snapshot from Dante’s ‘Inferno’. If this was a representation of Christmas, then Lola was, well, Lady Gaga. The display was a nauseating mixture of garish strips of material wound around their store mannequin. It looked like an Egyptian mummy with 1960s hippy leanings. Not only that, despite Mrs Kernaghan’s sternest instructions and Luke’s most patient attempts to follow them, the entire display appeared in danger of collapsing at any moment. Even their exit through the door had produced a current of air that was causing the chiffon to flutter and the dummy to teeter in a worrying way.
Before Lola could mention it, Margaret did. ‘I think we might need to put another support up there, Mrs Kernaghan. Or change the design a bit. Otherwise, it’ll wobble any time we open the front door.’
‘We’ll just have to use the back door. Another support will spoil the whole flowing effect and there is no way I’m changing the design. It’s perfect. Perfect.’
‘I don’t think it’s practical to use the back door,’ Lola said, as mildly as possible. ‘We’re a shop.’
‘We’ll just have to limit the times we open the door, then. Wait until there are a few people and bring them inside in groups.’
Lola was conscious of Luke staring at her, expecting her to bite back. She wouldn’t. It was her new approach. She was getting too interfering. She had to let others have their say.
‘Are you all locked out?’
Lola turned to greet the new arrival, a young plump-ish woman in her early twenties, with brown curly hair and a shy smile. She was wearing a blue dress that matched her eyes. ‘Emily, hello there! Don’t you look lovely in your new uniform?’
Emily blushed, the colour obvious even against her heat-flush. ‘Hi, Lola.’
‘You know everyone, Emily, I think? Margaret, Patricia, Mrs Kernaghan, this is my dear friend Emily, once one of the finest waitresses we ever had at the motel, and now the manager of the finest gourmet food store in Clare. And you already know Luke, Emily, of course.’
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