Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  He comes back carrying something wrapped in a glossy white carrier.

  ‘Very mysterious.’ I laugh, looking at the bag, which bears the name of an upmarket wine store on the square.

  ‘What, this? Nothing mysterious about it. Just a fairly decent cabernet sauvignon.’

  Oh.

  Of course.

  It’s for his dinner at Carol’s tonight. No ordinary supermarket tipple for her.

  Should I mention she only drinks white?

  ‘Lovely.’ I force a smile. ‘I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.’

  He looks uncomfortable for a second. ‘It’s a business dinner,’

  The word ‘business’ is left hanging in the air.

  My heart starts to hammer. Why is he telling me this? He’s standing so close, I can feel the heat from his body, and I sway slightly towards him.

  Then he grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of the helter skelter. ‘One more go. You know you want to.’

  I laugh. ‘Great minds think alike.’

  His hand enclosing mine feels warm and slightly rough.

  He might be having dinner later with Carol but right now, he’s having fun with me.

  After the helter skelter, he says we ought to be thinking about getting back.

  ‘Of course. It’s getting late.’ I try to look cheerful. ‘I’ve had a great time.’

  ‘Me too.’ He takes my hand again and squeezes it.

  He doesn’t let go as we start threading our way through the crowds towards the car.

  I decide now might be a good time to check whether Carol was telling the truth.

  ‘Did – um – Carol mention we haven’t actually won the council contract yet? That we’re still planning the presentation?’

  He grins. ‘Yes, she did, actually. She confessed she shouldn’t have given me the impression it was in the bag. But she just felt so sure she’d win it.’ He laughs. ‘That kind of confidence will take her far.’

  ‘When did she tell you this?’ I ask nonchalantly.

  He frowns. ‘Yesterday. Day before. Can’t remember. Why?’

  I shake my head and smile. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  So she told him after I confronted her, the sly cow!

  We’re halfway across the square when someone touches my arm and says, ‘Excuse me.’ It’s one of the two women who were looking over at us earlier. Her friend laughs and says, ‘Sorry! We don’t normally accost strangers in the street but my friend and I think we recognise you.’

  She isn’t addressing me, I realise. They’re both looking at Charlie.

  ‘It is you, isn’t it? We saw it in the papers at the time. And on TV.’

  Her friend nods eagerly. ‘You were so young when it happened. It must be – what? Ten years ago, now?’

  I glance at Charlie.

  He’s squeezing my hand so tightly it hurts and his mouth is set in a rigid line.

  ‘Sorry, ladies, you’re mistaken. You’ll have to excuse us.’ He drops my hand and starts striding away, and I have to half-run to keep from losing him in the crowd.

  Back at the car, we belt up in silence and he drives off.

  My insides feel cold with shock. I’ve never seen him so tense. What could have happened ten years ago that still has such an effect on him to this day? I can tell he’s brooding, lost in a distant world that doesn’t include me. He would have been nineteen a decade ago. Still a teenager.

  Halfway back, the fuel gauge starts pinging, which brings him back to the present.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he says with an apologetic smile when we park at the next petrol station. ‘Ghosts from the past. Never a good experience.’

  While he’s paying, I sneak the bottle of wine out of the bag and hold it up to the light to read the description on the back. It sounds lovely. It’s ‘a mature red, full of ripe berry fruit’.

  Suddenly I long to try it.

  To clink glasses with Charlie and savour that delicious ‘ripe berry fruit’. And perhaps get to the bottom of what happened tonight.

  He emerges from the shop so I shove the bottle back in its bag.

  Then I do that thing where, rather than having to beam awkwardly at each other for a century while he walks back to the car, you look around the forecourt ever so casually, as if you haven’t even spotted him, then give him a ‘gosh, it’s you’ smile at the very last minute.

  He smiles back but I can tell he’s still affected.

  When we draw up outside my flat, I take the bull by the horns and ask him if he wants to talk about it. But he gives me a hint of a smile and shakes his head.

  ‘Okay. Well, take care. And thanks.’

  I get out of the car feeling utterly useless.

  And alone.

  He raises his hand and drives away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Saturday night is normally ‘treat night.’

  I’ll get back from my walk to the big supermarket on the outskirts of town, unload my backpack and cook myself something special – moussaka, maybe, or pasta with prawns in a lemony sauce. Then I’ll curl up with a book or a DVD.

  I’m not a big fan of Saturday night on the box, especially in autumn.

  As soon as boots arrive in the shops and there’s a frosty nip in the air, the nation is encouraged to gather round their screens, warm their toes by a crackling fire and snuggle up to watch ‘Let It All Out TV’. Big shows where ‘ordinary’ people brave everything, even walking away from their job on the checkout, for a chance at stardom.

  ‘I don’t ever want to go back to my old life,’ they say, staring fervently at the camera, oozing vulnerability from every pore.

  All that desperation makes me queasy. Why put yourself through all that hope and agony for something that, in all probability, is never going to happen?

  Mum loves it, of course. Every single, soggy second. She will devour any newspaper story she can find about in-show rivalries and the murky pasts of the contestants.

  Generally, I like my Saturday night routine. It helps to define my week.

  Tonight, though, my heart isn’t in it.

  I feel restless and distracted. I stand so long staring out at the constellations in the clear night sky beyond the kitchen window that the pasta sauce burns away to nothing.

  I tell myself it’s no wonder I can’t settle when there’s still so much to do for the Christmas Fayre, only a week away now.

  For some reason, the wine Charlie chose for Carol has lodged in my head.

  He said it was a business dinner. He seemed quite keen to emphasise that. But I think he was just feeling sorry for me, alone on a Saturday night while he had better things to do.

  I picture him producing the wine and Carol apologising, saying she only ever drinks white. And Charlie, doing the manly thing, expertly removing the cork from one of her bottles of sauvignon blanc. Holding the glass out to her and proposing a toast.

  What will their toast be?

  To the business?

  To you?

  To us?

  Thinking about that makes me queasy.

  I need displacement activity! And fast!

  I grab my purse and run down to the nearest off-licence.

  It’s a posh one, this. They take the grape very seriously indeed. Beneath each pricey bottle, a neat label delivers a witty tribute to the wine’s unique personality.

  What, I muse, would Carol’s label say?

  Good body, long legs, tart on the palette with excessive volatility?

  And me? I suppose I’m more; fuller bodied with a shorter finish.

  I can’t see Charlie’s cabernet sauvignon so I choose something that looks similar but is a good deal cheaper.

  When I get back, I pour myself a large glass and stand by the window again, staring out at the stars. They really are astonishingly bright tonight. I’m a bit hazy when it comes to constellations, but I think that could possibly be The Great Bear over there.

  Suddenly, without warning, there’s a lump in my throat be
cause I’m wishing I had someone here to tell me if I’m right. Someone to point out more starry patterns. Someone to chink glasses with and share my Saturday night.

  I peer at the burnt sauce, which is now just a horrible, congealed mess, and dump the pan in the sink. When I turn on the tap, it splatters into the pan and shoots all over me.

  The phone rings and I dash to answer it, dabbing at my front with a tea towel.

  It’s Mum.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ she says, over brightly. ‘I was wondering if you were coming for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, no,’ I say carefully. ‘I was actually going to work.’

  ‘Really? But tomorrow’s Sunday.’

  ‘I know, but the Christmas Fayre is next week.’

  ‘So let me help.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘I mean it. I want to be useful.’

  ‘No, really, Mum. I can manage. Honestly.’

  I drew out the money and paid off her loan during the week. And I know she’s desperate to make amends but there’s no need.

  There’s a brief silence then she blurts out, ‘For God’s sake, Bobbie, can we at least talk about it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  She sighs. ‘Look, I mucked up big time and I want to put it right. Why won’t you let me?’

  I laugh. ‘Mum, I—’

  ‘No! Let me speak! Whenever there’s a problem in our family, you seem to think it’s your responsibility to solve it. All by yourself. You do that thing where you go off into your head and you shut everyone else out. I hate it! It drives me nuts!’

  I am genuinely baffled by this.

  ‘Did you hear me, Bobbie?’

  ‘Yes, I heard. But I don’t think—’

  ‘No, Bobbie, that’s exactly what you do! And it’s not nice for us, I can tell you. You have to let people help you! You have to let me in!’

  ‘Excuse me.’ I can’t help but sound frosty. ‘But it wasn’t me who took out the loan. Why am I getting punished?’

  Mum heaves another heavy sigh. ‘Please come for lunch tomorrow.’

  There’s a pause.

  Then she says in a small voice, ‘Tim misses you.’

  I frown down the phone. Blackmail!

  ‘Actually, he told me not to tell you that.’ She laughs. ‘So don’t say anything when you see him.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll come for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  She says it with such feeling, I’m pierced with guilt.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you really want to help, could you bake some mince pies for the Fayre? As many as you can.’

  I pitch up at Mum’s at eleven next morning.

  ‘Mince pies are boring. What do you think of these?’ she asks when I follow her into the kitchen.

  ‘Gosh. Very – um – colourful.’

  They are gingerbread men with a difference.

  ‘I’m not sure about the elves.’ She cocks her head to one side. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I’m not terribly sure either. The gingerbread Santas look fine with their red suits and curly white icing beards. But the four elves are well dodgy. They look like they’ve been apprehended on stage at panto and forced to take part in a police line-up. Red hats, lurid green stripy leggings and very shifty expressions (probably because Mum’s iced their black eyes far too close together). One appears to have had a lip enhancement procedure, presumably where her hand slipped with the red icing bag.

  Scary. Very scary.

  ‘We’re not there yet.’ Mum states the obvious. ‘But I’m perfecting them.’

  She turns to me and squeezes my hand tightly. ‘Thank you.’ Her eyes are suspiciously shiny. ‘You’ve no idea how good it feels to be useful.’

  She beams at me as if I’ve given her the Crown Jewels for Christmas.

  ‘Hey, don’t be silly.’ I give her a hug and grin at the elf mug shots over her shoulder.

  I suppose I do have a tendency to cut people off when I’m having a crisis.

  When it all went pear-shaped with the trading I remember being dimly aware of Carol following me from room to room, nagging me to talk about it. But I just didn’t want to share all the grim stuff I was feeling. I just wanted to be left alone to sort it out my way. How could I do that if people kept distracting me?

  She got really steamed up at one point and yelled that she’d had enough. She couldn’t get through to me anymore. I was totally self-obsessed and didn’t I realise I wasn’t the only one with problems?

  I remember thinking that was pretty rich. I mean, yes, okay, Carol had lost a small fortune, too – but family money would see to it that she wouldn’t suffer for long. Whereas I had no such back-up. The only one who could reverse my family’s fortunes was me – and I had failed on a monumental scale.

  Devastated at having to return home to Mum with nothing to show for my years since college, wasn’t I entitled to be just a little ‘self-obsessed’?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Carol is totally doing my head in.

  Almost everyone who calls the office these days wants to speak to me about the Fayre. With just a little over a week to go, the exhibitors are starting to realise they have to get their act in gear soon if they want to take part.

  Our tally of stalls is now up to twelve.

  Carol can’t stand the fact that I’m in charge. She’s forever buzzing about at my shoulder, like a freakishly large wasp, trying to earwig on my phone calls and peer at my computer screen. If it weren’t for the fact that Charlie has made it clear he wants me to do the organising, I’m certain she’d bowl right in and take over.

  She never mentioned the bad smell incident, although she must have suspected it was down to me. But relations between us have definitely taken a nosedive since then.

  It’s bad of me, I know, but there’s a tiny part of me that’s really rather enjoying having so much to do and lording it over her for once. Not that I’ve got much spare time on my hands these days to reflect on it.

  The venue is an old Masonic hall nearby which, funnily enough, is where Mum will be treading the boards in A Christmas Carol if Bunty (or ‘That Awful Woman’ as I have renamed her) has her way.

  A local farm is donating a Christmas tree. And in the absence of a suitable male, Shona has volunteered to be our Santa. She’s also going to be recording the event to get in a bit of video practice.

  Shona, Ella and Steph are being a huge help.

  I asked Steph and her fellow cleaners to mention the Fayre to our clients when they were out on jobs, in particular, the fact that we need donations for the bric-a-brac stall.

  Their response has been amazing.

  On Saturday, Steph collects me in a company van and we drive around the area, collecting all the promised goods. And it’s clear from how packed the van is on our return that many a drawer and cupboard have been turned out in aid of Tim’s operation. We stack all the boxes of stuff in the corner of the office, then sit in our coats drinking tea and congratulating ourselves on a good day’s work.

  ‘Look at these.’ I delve into a box and pull out a pair of hand-knitted red socks large enough to keep an elephant’s front feet snug all winter.

  Steph looks at me doubtfully. ‘Do we know anyone with feet that big?’

  I grin. ‘No, but they’d be great as Christmas stockings.’

  Aside from the ornaments, paperbacks and a large assortment of unwanted beauty products and bath oils, we’ve also brought back an antique tea set, a lovely old station clock and some gorgeous pieces of costume jewellery.

  Even crusty Mrs Savage, our oldest client, who sits in a chair with her legs apart and points at people with a stick when she’s talking to them, has come up trumps. She has dusted off her size nines and knitted a cheerful, stripy tea cosy, as well as the astonishing woolly socks.

  With only a week to go, I hardly have time to breathe as I am occupied from dawn till
dusk. And by Monday afternoon, the tally of companies taking part has risen to seventeen. Poor Fez is having to work practically round the clock, sawing and hammering, but he insists it’s great practice.

  On Tuesday morning, Shona and I create a ‘Santa’s Grotto’ – somewhere for Santa Shona to sit while she hands out gifts to the kids. We’re using an old-fashioned screen, three sections on hinges, donated by one of our clients. After gathering a pile of fresh greenery in the local woods, we tack it to a huge rust-coloured blanket, together with lots of artfully-placed tinsel and other festive decorations, then carefully drape the decorated blanket over the screen and stand back to admire our grotto. Steph is going to lend us her ‘Santa this Way’ sign and a freestanding Rudolph.

  ‘Some might say it’s more grotty than grotto,’ remarks Shona, with her head on one side.

  ‘Rubbish,’ I shake my head. ‘Gaudy and glitzy isn’t only acceptable at Christmas, it’s compulsory.’

  ‘Hope it survives till Saturday.’

  ‘Stop being negative,’ I beam. ‘It’s going to be great.’

  I really do believe that. It’s taken a huge amount of work and I’ve never been so exhausted in my life, but everything’s finally coming together. We’re actually having to turn exhibitors away now because there’s no space left in the hall.

  Fingers crossed, it’s going to be perfect day.

  Late on Monday afternoon, a giant box arrives at the office with ‘Finnola’s Fancy Dress’ stamped on the lid. The courier wants a signature so I automatically direct him into The Boss’s office.

  ‘Are you Miss Blatchett?’ I hear him say, handing the form to Carol. She purses her lips and points in my direction, and he cheerfully whips the form out of her hand and strides over to me, all manly biker leathers and body spray.

  When the courier’s gone, she comes through and slashes the box open with scissors, bringing them down like you would a dagger, which I find a little worrying.

  We all gather round to look at the costumes.

  All ‘Santa’s Little Helpers’ – which includes us four – are going to be in fancy dress and naturally, we want to get first pick, before Steph and the other cleaning staff get a look in.