Carol sits up. ‘What do you mean she ‘invites me’?’
I shrug. ‘For tea on Christmas Day.’
She lies back down with a sigh and closes her eyes. And after a while, I start to I think she might have fallen asleep. Then she pushes up onto one elbow. ‘Does she still do me a stocking?’
I laugh and shake my head.
‘I never have a tree,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t know why.’
‘Perhaps you should start.’
‘Maybe I will.’ She sits cross-legged and looks around, presumably for the ‘cordial’.
‘Hey, I know, why don’t you take this tree home tomorrow night, after the Fayre? You might as well.’
She looks at me as if that’s the best idea anyone’s ever had.
Then her face clouds over. ‘What’s the point of trying to resurrect the past? It’s never going to work. And anyway, the bloody needles all over the floor drive me crazy.’
She gets up, takes some red tinsel out of the box and starts winding it rather haphazardly around the tree.
‘So is Tim really having an operation?’ she asks over her shoulder. ‘Or is that just a publicity stunt? To show how wonderfully charitable we are?’
She leans round the tree to carry on the tinsel and almost falls over.
She hasn’t a clue. She actually hasn’t a clue.
‘Yes, he’s really having an operation.’
She whips round. ‘Is it that bad?’
I shrug. ‘If he doesn’t have it, worst-case scenario is that the curvature gets so bad it punctures a lung.’
‘I never knew that.’ She looks horrified. ‘Your poor mum.’
‘She tries not to show it.’ I hook my favourite gold star on a high branch. ‘But I know it gets to her. And of course she’s stuck in the house most of the time.’
‘How do they manage if she doesn’t go out to work?’
‘I help them out as much as I can.’
‘But how? You’re paying your own rent and bills and everything.’
‘I do my best.’
She turns and stares at me, trying hard to focus. Then she looks away.
We finish the tree without speaking but it’s not an uncomfortable silence.
I stand back to admire the results. ‘Let’s put the lights off to do the big switch-on.’
Carol gets in position to flick the fairy light switch. ‘Here’s hoping these buggers actually work.’
They do. And the effect is spectacular. The tree shimmers and glints and lights up the hall and we both breathe, ‘Oooh!’
‘He always loved Christmas trees,’ Carol says suddenly. ‘He was quite romantic in some ways. When he wasn’t being a complete shithead. He said I was a workaholic.’ She turns to me. ‘Am I a workaholic?’
‘Hang on, who was a shithead?’
She’s rambling.
That Awful Woman and her cordial have a lot to answer for.
‘Well, he wasn’t really a shithead. We just weren’t right for each other, that’s all. But you can’t choose who you fall in love with, can you?’
I suddenly realise she’s talking about Beau. ‘But you were never in love with him, were you?’
‘’Course I was.’ She laughs. ‘Probably still am.’
She swings round and points at me. ‘But don’t tell anyone!’
‘Why not?’
She gives me a sad little smile. ‘‘Cos I’m a total saddo. Still pining for the man who dumped me three years ago.’
‘But I thought you weren’t that bothered about him.’
‘Well, that’s probably because I’m good at showing I don’t care,’ she says, trying unsuccessfully to hook on a glittery green bauble, which keeps falling off. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’
I stare at her in amazement. ‘I never realised. About Beau.’ Where is all this coming from? Clearly, Christmas reminiscences combined with Bunty’s ginger cordial are a very deadly mix.
We sit in silence for a while, immersed in our own thoughts.
My head is whirling. If Carol still has these lingering feelings for Beau, that means she can’t be madly in love with Charlie. The thought makes me feel slightly giddy.
Carol groans. ‘God, I’m knackered. I’ve got to go home before I fall asleep right here.’
‘I’ll call you a taxi.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘No I’m not.’ She stares at me crossly.
When we go outside, the snow is still falling gently, although Carol doesn’t seem to notice. We slither up the path and – as if tonight hasn’t been weird enough – I find myself linking her arm to steady her.
‘I haven’t got any friends these days,’ she mumbles. ‘I’ve missed this. Talking about stuff. Chewing the cud.’
‘You mean the fat,’ I tell her. ‘Chewing the fat. We’re not cows.’
This makes her scream with laughter.
It’s just like the old days.
Chapter Twenty-Six
When the alarm wakes me early next morning, I am in exactly the same position I fell asleep in nine hours earlier and my head is thumping.
I push through it in the shower, telling myself that once today is over, I will finally be able to relax. I’m aiming to be at the hall for seven-thirty so I can help the stallholders set up and make sure everyone knows what they’re supposed to be doing.
By seven I’m at the office collecting last-minute raffle prizes and the remainder of the tickets. We’ve already sold quite a few, but the majority will hopefully be bought at the event from Santa’s Little Helper, Jean (dressed as a jolly Christmas cracker).
When I arrive at the hall, I park the van and walk round to the front, laden with packages.
I’m so intent on not dropping anything, I don’t actually notice the banner above the door until I’m almost upon it. And when I do, I think: How fab it looks! All those lovely Christmassy colours—
I do a double take.
What???
I stare intently, hoping against hope it’s my eyesight at fault.
The banner is huge, declaring our event to the world, in gloriously festive reds, greens and golds.
A gaggle of teenage girls in walking gear, carrying rucksacks, cluster behind me and guffaw themselves silly.
I swallow hard as the awful truth dawns.
There’s nothing wrong with my eyes; nothing at all.
Angry Alan has seen to it personally that our message catches the immediate attention of every passing goggle-eyed pedestrian and motorist.
I grab onto the hedge, feeling light-headed with horror.
Alan’s parting shot before he ‘buggered off’ to Australia is writ frighteningly large, in letters six feet high.
Feck the Halls with Boughs of Holly!
Oh.
My.
God.
I stare at the banner, frozen to the spot. I have to get it down before Charlie sees it. Otherwise he’ll realise he was a total idiot for trusting me. And if Carol sees it – well, that doesn’t even bear thinking about.
But how can I get up there? There must be a ladder in the hall but I’ve never been up a ladder in my life and quite frankly, the thought of climbing so high scares me to death. What if I fell and broke my neck? Mind you, I suppose if I did, the publicity would be huge.
Perhaps … perhaps the scientists are right and the act of looking at an object can actually change its molecular structure (or something like that; I remember being quite impressed when I read it). So if I stare at the letter ‘f’ molecules, maybe – if I concentrate really hard – they will turn themselves into nice, benign little letter ‘d’ molecules …
It’s not working.
Shit! I’ve got to do something before The Boss turns up and—
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
I spin round.
Carol is standing there in her Cruella De Vil thigh-slashed dress and impossibly high Christian Dior sparkly party shoes (
they’re a size too big but she couldn’t resist the bargain). The elegance of her attire does not extend to her face. Horribly pale. Puffy eyes out on stalks.
‘How the fuck did that happen?’
Without waiting for a reply, she hitches up her skirt, totters over and starts doing funny little jumps to try and grab the lower edge of the banner. In her agitation, she snags her hand on the brickwork and utters a very loud expletive concerning a female body part.
The teenage girls burst into a fresh round of hysterics.
I hurry over. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Does it look like it?’ she shouts in my face, holding her grazed hand away from her cream cashmere coat.
I notice a single drop of blood on her sleeve. She sees me grimace at it and looks down.
‘Oh fuck!’ she screeches.
‘You mean ‘feck’!’ shouts one of the schoolgirls, and the rest explode with laughter.
‘Either fix the typo or pull the whole fucking thing down!’ She clips away angrily but manages to get her heel caught in the hem of her dress and stumbles headlong through the door.
The teenage girls practically have to be resuscitated.
I go after her to make sure she’s all right and find her leaning against the wall, rubbing her forehead.
She scowls at me, all the bonhomie of last night forgotten. ‘You’re responsible for that typo disaster out there, so sort it out.’
‘It’s hardly a typo,’ I protest. ‘It’s deliberate. Alan’s revenge. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to wring him dry of any profit.’
She turns on me in a fury. ‘Correction. It wouldn’t have happened if someone had checked the proofs LIKE I TOLD THEM TO! Bloody hell, my head hurts. What the hell was in that ginger stuff last night?’
She tries to get up and I hold out my hand to help but she shrugs me off.
I suppose she has a point. If I’d spotted the ‘mistake’ at the proof stage, it would never have got this far. But does she always have to be right so loudly?
Shona arrives with her Christmas tree costume in a bag. I can tell from her pale face and slightly piggy eyes, devoid of make-up, that she’s been through the mill. But she waves away my concern and calmly asks me what we’re going to do about the spelling mistake. Then she goes backstage to see if she can find something to stand on and returns with a set of step ladders.
Between us, we manage to get the offending banner down.
Ella arrives just as we’re hauling it backstage, so I quickly brief her on the kiddies’ games we’ve set up – including my infamous ‘pin the tail on the donkey’, using sticky tape instead of pins.
Then the stallholders begin to arrive and there’s so much to do, dealing with everyone’s requests and helping them set up, that I don’t have time to worry that there’s no sign outside to advertise our presence. I glimpse Ella, looking glorious in her silver angel costume, and decide I’ll station her at the gate later to entice people in.
Soon after ten, people start drifting in.
Mum arrives with Tim and Bunty in tow.
‘Oh God.’ She stares around the hall, looking dismayed. ‘This place is huge.’
‘It’s not that big.’
She sighs. “It is when you’re expected to say your lines standing up there,” – she points to the stage – “and make your voice carry over to there!’ She indicates the back wall.
‘Does that mean you’re definitely doing the play, then?’
She frowns. ‘Got a bit tiddly last night and said I would, but now that I’m here, I know I can’t.’
‘Mum, you’ll be great.’
‘But I can’t project my voice! I’ll be hopeless. They won’t be able to hear me at the back.’ She touches her temple and winces. ‘God, my head hurts.’
I laugh. ‘Serves you right for quaffing so much vodka last night.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t the vodka, love. It was Bunty’s demon ginger wine.’
‘Only about seventy per cent proof!’ booms That Awful Woman behind me, making me jump.
No wonder Carol’s tongue was loosened last night. All that bonding was simply the alcohol talking.
Tim comes up to me with his friend, Ryan, which surprises me because he’s at the age where he ignores me in public places.
‘Did you do all this?’ He looks around then up at me with a kind of awe.
I grin at him. ‘Yes. You see, I’m not totally useless.’
‘Can you lend me a pound?’
‘What for? Not those horrible energy drinks Mum hates you having?’
‘No.’ He looks at me all wide-eyed. ‘Please.’
‘Oh go on, then,’ I laugh, fishing around in my pocket. ‘But don’t tell her I gave you the money.’
I watch them go with a lovely sense of achievement.
There’s a lot of good Christmassy cheer in this hall. And yes, I suppose it is mostly down to me. Everyone is milling around, having fun, sampling the produce, buying gifts. A group of mums chat over tea and mince pies by the Christmas tree, watching their kids being efficiently chivvied by an awesome silver angel with real wings.
All that’s missing is Charlie.
He would be impressed, I decide. And glad he put his faith in me.
Suddenly I spot Carol weaving a slightly unsteady course towards me. I have to admit she looks amazing as Cruella, but she’s obviously having problems with the heels. ‘Charlie says he’s on his way.’
‘That’s good.’
She looks at me oddly and sways a little.
Oh God, she’s on the cordial again!
‘You like Charlie, don’t you?’ She goes to prod my shoulder but misses and nearly drops the bottle.
‘You’d better give me that.’ I try to take it but she swings the bottle away and holds it aloft.
‘It’s very alcoholic,’ I warn. ‘Where’s the other one?’
She laughs and hiccups loudly. ‘This is the other one.’
Oh, shit!
‘Does your Mum know you’ve got a thing for Charlie?’
‘Charlie?’ Mum, who’s standing talking to Bunty, perks up at his name. ‘Was he that lovely chap who gave you a lift that time?’
‘When did he give you a lift?’ demands Carol loudly.
‘Ages ago. And I haven’t got a thing for him!’
A dozen or so people turn our way.
‘Ooh!’ Carol giggles. ‘I think we should tell him, don’t you, Mrs Blatchett?’
Mum looks uncertain.
I eyeball Carol and say in a low voice, ‘Can I talk to you a minute?’
I march her away from Mum, over towards the door.
Softly but urgently, I say, ‘How many times do I have to tell you? I do not have a thing for Charlie, so will you please stop saying I do!’ Panic is making my voice wobbly and a bit on the hysterical side. But what if Charlie arrives and she tells him?
How can I get the message through to her? There’s no point being subtle. She’s pissed as a fart and wouldn’t understand.
I grip her arm. ‘In actual fact, I think the man’s an arsehole!’
A draft of freezing air behind me accompanies my announcement.
And in walks Charlie.
In the heartbeat that follows, I hear a kid shout, ‘Hey, Mum, this Santa’s got boobies!’
Oh God, say something, say something.
‘Yes, that Jeremy Clarkson!’ I improvise wildly. ‘Never liked him. Complete and utter arsehole.’
I catch the look of surprise on Charlie’s face. Then I give him and Carol a fake smile and scuttle away.
Did he hear me?
I feel terrible, especially since I didn’t actually mean it.
I’ve always quite liked Jeremy Clarkson.
The day seems to be sliding from bad, to worse, to disastrous on a personal level.
But at least lots of people have turned up. And they seem to be enjoying themselves. So that’s something.
Ella, I’ve decided, ought to become a pr
imary school teacher. She’s presiding over the children’s games in a rather commanding (some might say ‘bossy’) way but the kids seem to be loving it.
And Shona, having done a roaring trade as Santa, is now wandering around, frightening people off with her camcorder.
‘Are you okay? Carol said you weren’t up to decorating the tree last night.’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ she says, stoically. ‘Barry told me it wasn’t really working. He loves me but he’s not in love with me.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? That’s exactly what you were thinking.’
She shrugs. ‘I suppose. It’s still horrible, though.’
To distract her, I nod at the camera. ‘Carol ought to get a professional in if it’s that important to her. Cheapskate that she is!’
‘I’m quite good, you know.’ Shona looks offended.
‘Oh, I’m sure you are,’ I say hurriedly. ‘It’s just – well, she shouldn’t put pressure on you like that.’
‘I don’t mind.’ She leans closer. ‘Although actually, I am a bit rusty. I haven’t done anything like this since Great Uncle Jack’s funeral.’
I stare at her. ‘You took a video camera to a funeral?’
‘Oh, yes. Great Uncle Jack was a bit of a – well, Jack the lad, really,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘He used to bugger off for weeks on end with some tart or other. Then of course he’d pop up again just when we thought he’d died of heart failure brought on by overexcitement or something.’
‘Gosh. Right.’
‘So anyway, when he finally did kick the bucket, Great Aunt Elsie was worried he might do his popping up thing again. So she wanted proof – on film at the crematorium – that the old bugger had actually gone through the hatch.’
She grins. ‘I’ll just do a bit more then I’ll get into my Father Christmas garb again for the next session.’
‘Er, yes. Great!’
She beetles off and I look around for the loose cannon. God, there she is, trying to muscle in on pin-the-tail and scaring the kids half to death. She’s hanging onto that cordial as if it’s the life force itself. I’ve got to do something.
I go over and try to lead her away but she shrugs me off crossly. ‘Mind your own business. It’s my life and I’ll do what I want.’
‘Carol, everyone’s staring,’ I murmur. ‘Give me the bottle.’
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 18
