Christmas Every Day

by Beth Moran

  She took a drink of water and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m going on a sunset hot-air-balloon ride. Not much chance of it wearing me out, but my body seems to be managing that by itself.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ Ashley said.

  ‘If I deteriorate much further, I might just throw myself out of the basket once we’re high enough.’

  ‘Frances!’ Ellen scolded. ‘How would that make the other passengers feel? Let alone the owners of the balloon.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she grumbled. ‘It was only a thought.’

  I had been in a place where life had seemed so black, so bleak, I could understand the appeal of throwing yourself out of a hot-air balloon. But my brokenness had all been in my head. To watch Frances, so proud, so alive, slip away before our eyes, knowing each day would be worse than the last, I couldn’t just sit there saying nothing.

  ‘How can we help you?’ I asked, fully expecting her to reject my offer.

  Instead she hesitated, and when our eyes met there was an openness there, a connection, one human being to another.

  ‘We could drop some meals off, make sure your freezer’s stocked up. I get sick of eating all the café leftovers myself,’ Sarah said quickly.

  ‘And we can do cleaning, or washing,’ I added.

  ‘You have enough cleaning to do with that scrapheap of yours,’ Frances said, but it was a half-hearted response.

  ‘To be honest, I’d appreciate the company,’ I replied. ‘We can just have a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘Neither am I, but I enjoy a drink with a friend. Especially one as fascinating as you.’

  Frances shook her head, refusing to meet our eyes. ‘I’ll think about it. Now, who’s next? This whole ruddy meeting isn’t about my slide into enfeeblement.’

  Ashley excitedly showed us a press clipping from a literary magazine featuring Hillary West.

  ‘“An unnamed source at her publishers, Hickleton Press, confirmed that the deadline for the next book was in February. ‘There’s not been a peep out of her, even a title. The editors are in full panic mode,’ our source reports. The word on the street is that the elusive writer is suffering from a serious case of writer’s block!”’

  ‘You seem weirdly happy about that, for the world’s biggest Hillary West fan,’ Sarah said.

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Ashley cried, twirling her shell necklace. ‘This is it! This is my challenge – to SAVE her!’

  Lucille looked as though Florence had farted under the table. ‘Give me strength.’ She shook her head. ‘How exactly are you going to do that?’

  ‘Once I’ve tracked her down, I can help her figure out all the issues with the current storyline. Who knows what makes a Hillary West story work better than me?’

  ‘Um, Hillary West?’ Jamie muttered. ‘Her publisher, editors, agent…’

  ‘Are you any closer to finding her?’ I asked.

  Ashley’s brow furrowed. ‘I started a list of possible houses. But then this article happened and I spent the rest of the time planning how to unblock the block. And I have sent a few emails to her agent offering my services.’

  ‘Please, no.’ Lucille groaned. ‘I dread to think how many “a few” means in Ashley world.’

  ‘No more than eight. Or twelve,’ she bristled.

  ‘And did the agent reply?’ Lucille asked, her smile sweet as vinegar.

  ‘They’re very busy people.’ Ashley’s face was turning blotchy.

  ‘Shall we move on?’ Ellen said. ‘Jamie?’

  Jamie brought out a cardboard box containing a selection of doughnuts iced with a variety of funny animal faces – frogs, cats, pandas. The penguins were my favourite.

  ‘These are brilliant!’ Ellen took an elephant. ‘My kids would love them.’

  ‘They’ve sold out both mornings Jamie’s made them for the café,’ Sarah said, her mouth stuffed with a ladybird. ‘He could make a proper business out of it if he could bear to give up saving the universe.’

  ‘I could bear to,’ Jamie mumbled. ‘It just takes time sorting all the paperwork.’

  Sarah hadn’t been on any more dates, but she’d been chatting to one guy for the past month who had managed to keep her interest.

  ‘He’s funny. And he calls me on my BS. And he’s, I dunno, sweet isn’t the right word. Kind? Honourable? Anyway, I’m thinking I might be up for meeting with him. We’ll see how it goes.’

  I glanced at Jamie. His eyes, fixed on the table, as always when Sarah was describing her romantic life, flickered up for a second and back down again. Was he banking on this new interest being as hopeless as previous dates?

  We waited for Ashley to take a drowsy Frances home before I finished off the evening by bringing out the box.

  ‘Anybody got any ideas about how to get into this? Jamie? I thought you might know a trick or two.’

  Jamie picked up the box and walked into the kitchen. By the time Sarah and I had got up to follow him, he had come back out.

  ‘Here.’ He put the box on the table.

  ‘Thanks.’ I slid it over to where I was sitting. Everyone looked at me expectantly.

  ‘You can open it now,’ Jamie said.

  The problem was, I didn’t want to any more. Not here, with all of them looking.

  I cracked open the top of the box until I could make out the hardback notebook on the top. The faded blue cover had wrinkles in the places where water had managed to seep in. There was writing in the centre, too smudged and worn to decipher.

  ‘Well?’ Lucille asked.

  ‘It’s a pile of notebooks. But they’re really damaged and if I take them out they’ll probably fall to pieces. The pages look stuck together.’

  ‘You could try tweezers,’ Jamie suggested.

  ‘Good idea. I’ll try when I get home, then.’

  There was a general groan of disappointment.

  ‘Sorry, guys. You’ll have to wait for next month’s instalment.’

  As soon as I arrived back at the cottage, after taking a moment to breathe a sigh of relief that I made it home intact, I carefully extricated the four notebooks from the box and placed them in the airing cupboard to dry out. Unable to resist, I did try opening the first one, but when the soggy page started to tear I hastily laid it back down again and left them to it.

  ‘Probably maths homework,’ I muttered on repeat as I thrashed about in bed that night. Because everyone locked up old homework in a metal tin and stored it in the attic. I didn’t think even my oddball grandmother would do that.

  The next morning, Saturday, the air was sweet and mild, the sky a startling blue. Having been relieved of my café job by Sarah’s mum, now back from her cruise, I decided to take a walk to Frances’ farm. After a brisk two miles through the woods, I arrived pleasantly worn out, tangly-haired and warm-cheeked.

  The modest white farmhouse stood at the end of a concrete drive surrounded by outbuildings, not a discarded plant pot or scruffy weed in sight. A willowy figure I assumed to be Frances’ farm manager was plodding up the edge of a field that rose steeply behind the house. I rapped the red front door’s brass knocker. Frances opened it the instant I took my hand away.

  ‘Jenny. Saw you out of the window and thought you must be heading this way.’ She was a little breathless, stooped over slightly, with deep purple shadows under her eyes, but her shirt was ironed and her hair neatly combed.

  ‘I couldn’t face another day sorting out the Hoard alone. Do you have time to share some lunch?’ I swung the rucksack containing sandwiches and a carton of soup off my back.

  She looked down her nose at me. ‘Don’t pretend this visit is for your benefit. I’m old and ill, not yet senile.’

  ‘Which is why you’re great company. Please don’t make me go back to scrubbing mouldy window frames.’

  ‘The house isn’t very tidy.’

  I burst out laughing at that until Frances, realising who she was talking to, had to crack a smile.

  We settl
ed in her conservatory, the French doors flung open to allow the summery air in, although Frances still huddled under a thick woollen blanket. We talked about this and that while we ate, I asked if she had known my grandmother, but she said she had only moved to the forest ten years ago, and Charlotte Meadows had already been something of a recluse by then.

  She told me stories about Big Mike, the years they’d spent travelling the world. Her job as a teacher, all the way from private schools in Hong Kong through to mud-shacks in Uganda. I told her about my own failed attempts to further my education, which she dismissed as simply not having found the right path yet.

  ‘What are you going to do once the house is finished?’

  ‘I don’t think I can see that far into the future.’ I shrugged.

  She sniffed. ‘You can’t keep running forever.’

  ‘Running from what?’ I put my plate down on the side table.

  ‘Your true self. It’s worth a little thought, isn’t it? What do you love? Where do your passions lie? What are you good at? Who are you, Jenny, and why are you here?’

  ‘Wow.’ I rubbed my face. ‘Are you trying to put me off coming over again? Truthfully, I have no idea who I am. That’s why I’m living in a derelict germ-pit in the middle of nowhere, hoping that as I sort through the mess and the muddle, I might find myself in the process.’

  She sat back, nodding. ‘Well, keep looking. You’ll get there.’

  Not long after that, she sent me off to make coffee, and when I returned she had fallen asleep, which was what I’d been waiting for. I spent the next two hours cleaning up Frances’ kitchen, scrubbing her bathroom and changing her bed. I swept the wooden floors and hung sheets to blow on the washing line, making a fresh pot of coffee just as she woke up.

  ‘Ah, thank you, Jenny. I fear I may have dozed off for a moment there.’

  ‘I took the liberty of giving things a quick once-over while you rested. I hope that’s okay.’

  She scowled at me. ‘No. It is not okay. But if you happen to be adrift next Saturday, you may share your lunch with me again.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Although Frances couldn’t look forward to Ellen, Sarah, Ashley, Lucille and Jamie calling in the rest of the week, because I wasn’t going to tell her. She’d figure it out soon enough.

  Sunday afternoon, I helped a young couple who’d responded to my Freecycle ad carry out several small pieces of furniture to their car. I nearly dropped the glass side table when I saw the Mini had returned. Almost dying from curiosity, I hastily loaded the table into the couple’s boot and tiptoed back past Mack’s kitchen window, feigning a casual glance inside.

  Two mugs sat on the draining board.

  Heart pounding, I scanned the room. A red and green handbag hung off the back of a chair.

  For a brief moment, I hated that handbag.

  Then I remembered that Mack loved his wife, ʼtil death did them part, and as Mack’s friend I was, of course, supposed to be happy for him.

  Still, it was an ugly bag. Pretentious. Too small to be of any genuine use. Hardly designed for forest life. I stomped on past and kept on stomping until I reached the Common. Then, realising I hadn’t brought my own sensible weatherproof bag, which also happened to contain my purse, I stomped back. After spending a while pricing up lamps for the car boot sale, while pretending not to be straining my ears towards next door, I turned some music up, loud, and logged into the Squash Harris website.

  There were three comments.

  One, from Sarah, quoting how much Edison loved it. She’d also shared the link on Facebook and a couple of people had responded.

  They loved the comic. One of them asked when the next edition would be posted.

  I nearly forgot all about the blood-red, bile-green handbag.

  A few more messages and it would be ready to show Dawson.

  I had another go at carefully unpeeling the notebooks, still crisping in the airing cupboard. The outer two thirds were dry, but I wasn’t going to risk opening them until they were completely ready.

  So when Ashley phoned, asking if I wanted to go Hillary West hunting with her, I was in my black jeans and hoodie before she’d pulled into the driveway.

  29

  It was fully dark by the time we pulled up alongside the wall of a vast property three miles from Middlebeck.

  ‘What now, boss?’ I asked, as we sat in the car with the lights out, about thirty yards from the gate.

  Ashley fiddled with her jacket zip. ‘I’m not sure. I thought we could look through some windows, or knock on the door and pretend to be lost, but I don’t think that’s going to work here.’

  ‘You could go for the bold approach, try buzzing the intercom and ask for Ms West.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that!’ Ashley gasped. ‘What if she invites me in? I can’t have her meeting me like this. I’m not even wearing lipstick.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s going to notice the lack of lipstick.’ I squinted at her. ‘But she’ll probably call the police if you keep that ski mask on.’

  ‘We should have worn civilian clothes, pretended to be dog-walkers or something.’

  ‘With no dogs? At ten at night?’

  ‘We could have borrowed Florence.’

  ‘I bet you could climb one of those trees and see into the grounds.’

  ‘Ooh! I did bring binoculars, like Jamie said.’

  ‘Why isn’t Jamie here?’ I whispered, as we tiptoed towards a particularly sturdy-looking willow tree, not too far from the wall.

  ‘I didn’t ask him,’ Ashely replied, the whites of her eyes round in the moonlight. ‘He’s far too scary. And this is my challenge. Can you imagine me stumbling along behind while he slips through the shadows like an assassin? I’d only go and get him caught, and he’s got a reputation to maintain.’

  ‘So, you’re going to get me caught instead?’ I smiled.

  ‘Well, I thought, being a civilian like me, you’d be more likely to… well, you might not…’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I giggled. ‘I don’t have any reputation worth maintaining. And I’m glad you asked me. Come on. Have a go at reaching for that branch.’

  I gave Ashley a clumsy boost, and she heaved herself up to where she could peer over the top of the wall. Afraid to take pictures using a flash, she instead hissed down a description for me to jot into a folder.

  ‘Three windows with lights on, two of them covered in blinds… the third appears to be a dining room…’

  She dictated two pages of notes about the house and what she could see of the garden, before sucking in a huge breath.

  ‘Another light has gone on. Behind a door. The door is opening. Something’s coming out!’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘A dog. Two HUGE dogs. They’re running, sniffing. Oh. Heading this way. And they don’t look happy.’

  She didn’t have to tell me any more. Ferocious snarls rapidly approached the other side of the wall, punctuated by a duet of deafening barks.

  The whole area suddenly lit up with at least a dozen perimeter floodlights, one of them directly above Ashley’s head.

  ‘Crapcakes!’ She froze, swivelling her eyes down to where I stood, caught between laughing, squealing and peeing my pants. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘I don’t know. What would Jamie do?’ I wheezed. Whatever we did, there was a very high chance we were both ending up dog food.

  A woman’s voice erupted into the night, bellowing threats. Most of which involved an avocado peeler, whatever that was. Ashley let out a squeak, dropped her binoculars and toppled right out of the tree, landing in a crumpled heap on a pile of rotting leaves. I hurried over, trying to keep hold of the folder while heaving her up. She grappled for purchase on the wet leaves, slipping and sliding, flinging one arm around my chest as I leant down.

  ‘Ow!’ she yelled, tipping over again as she snatched her foot off the ground and bringing me with her. ‘My dodgy ankle.’

  As we scrabbled back ont
o our feet, a mechanical whirring sound started up from the direction of the gates. The woman ordered her beasts to do something that would make the avocado peeler threat redundant.

  ‘If they find we don’t possess those body parts, maybe they’ll leave us alone,’ Ashley huffed, as I dragged her hopping, flopping body towards the car.

  Flinging open the passenger door, I gave her an almighty shove towards the direction of the seat, before sprinting round the back towards the driver’s side.

  If it hadn’t been a teeny-tiny car, I didn’t think I’d have made it. The dogs, who looked more like tigers crossed with hyenas crossed with velociraptors, launched themselves in a growling, baying whirlwind of fur and teeth and spittle at the door the second I slammed it shut.

  ‘KEYS!’ I screamed at Ashley, who pulled and flapped at her jacket pocket, her whimpers lost in the thuds of animals flinging themselves against the car.

  Several minutes, or what was probably more like five seconds later, she hurled them in my direction, where they sailed past my quivering legs into the foot well. Another panicked fumble and I had the keys in the ignition, engine on and foot firmly on the accelerator. We revved away, the dogs racing alongside us until we picked up enough power to pull ahead.

  ‘I don’t have my seat belt on!’ Ashley wailed, hands braced against the seat. ‘Slow down!’

  ‘I don’t want to give her time to record the number plate,’ I said, still trying to catch my breath.

  ‘Did she have a phone out? She could have taken a picture.’

  ‘I wasn’t looking at her!’

  ‘Jamie would have covered the plates. Or used a stolen car,’ Ashley jabbered.

  ‘Jamie would have karate-chopped those freaks in the neck, rendering them momentarily stunned but unharmed. Maybe next time we should bring a pork chop as a distraction.’

  ‘Next time!’ she squawked. ‘There will be no next time.’

  ‘But what if that was her?’ The adrenaline rush might have rendered me temporarily insane.