Christmas Every Day

by Beth Moran

  Not a problem for whom? I chuntered to myself, following him into the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ he said, sitting down at the table.

  ‘Grandpa, you have to say please or Jenny won’t let you have one,’ a lion growled as it crawled into the room. ‘ʼS rude not to.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Grandpa just forgot.’ I flicked on the coffee machine.

  ‘Because old people forget things,’ the lion rumbled, stalking round the table. ‘It’s cos more cells in their brains are getting dead every day.’

  ‘Um, I don’t think that’s quite how it is.’ I handed Fisher his coffee, pouring another one for myself, half wishing I could add a splosh of something to ease my nerves.

  ‘I heard your neighbour has moved on.’ He shook his head, smiling. ‘Things go from bad to worse out there in the woods for you. One disaster after another.’

  I gave the lion now clinging to my ankle a pat on the head. ‘I’d hardly call Mack not being around a disaster.’ A horrible thought crashed into my head. ‘Have you bought his house?’

  ‘Why?’ Fisher sat up then, nearly spilling his coffee. ‘Is it back on the market?’

  It was my turn to be surprised. ‘Was it ever off the market?’ What? Had Mack changed his mind and decided not to sell? What did that mean?

  Fisher sat back in his chair. ‘So, what about you? Still determined to hang onto that money-pit? I hope you’ve had it rewired. A primary cause of domestic fires, dodgy wiring. We wouldn’t want a tragedy, now, would we?’

  Before I managed to work out whether I’d been threatened, a loud roar erupted from the top of the stairs followed by what sounded like several elbows, knees and heads crashing down to the bottom.

  By the time order had been restored, Fisher had scooped up his briefcase and gone. The unpleasant disturbance in the atmosphere, however, lingered. I went to rejoin Hamish, Jonno and the lion, now nursing their bruises in front of a DVD.

  ‘Can I have Gummy?’ Jonno asked, face peeping out of a blanket.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked, scanning the living room.

  ‘We shooted him out of the cannon.’

  I trotted upstairs, poking my head in on Maddie to remind her it was homework time, before bracing myself to enter the pit of mess the triplets called their bedroom. Searching through the dressing-up clothes and piles of stuffed animals, I eventually spotted a pair of bunny ears under the bunk bed. As I got onto my hands and knees to reach it, my eyes landed on a thin green plastic folder. Thinking it looked more like something belonging in Will’s filing cabinet than a little boy’s bedroom, I pulled it out and flicked it open.

  Gummy forgotten, I sat back against the bed and started to read.

  41

  When Ellen arrived home a few minutes later I briefly filled her in on the day’s events and cycled home as fast as my shaking legs could pedal me.

  Unable to even think about eating, I studied the folder again. I was desperate to knock on Mack’s door and show this to him. If he wasn’t selling the house, this affected him too.

  Should I call? Send a text?

  I needed to know what to do, but there was no way I could talk to my other friends about it.

  After work next morning, bleary-eyed, head pounding, I washed down some painkillers with a swig of scalding tea and spent the day on my laptop, researching Fisher’s company and recent land acquisitions, then searching images of him at local events and press releases, trying to spot him with the phoney inspector.

  By three-thirty, the headache had been replaced with information so red-hot I needed oven gloves to scratch my forehead. I was still deciding what to do when Will arrived home.

  ‘Jenny! I’ve brought some leaflets and things you’ll find useful. And Ellen said you might be interested in work experience? Don’t worry about dinner – there’s pizza in the freezer.’

  Over the next hour Will patiently answered my questions, talked to me about different options for becoming a teaching assistant and, most important of all, poured encouragement and optimism all over my decision. Will was a crazily busy man. On top of running a school and being a husband and father of five children, he’d found the time to dig out all this information for me.

  And I’d spent the day searching for incriminating evidence against his father-in-law.

  I had to tell him, before my guts twisted up to the point of no return.

  ‘I found a folder in the boys’ room yesterday. Fisher had left his briefcase on the stairs, and Hamish admitted taking the folder to see if it was a treasure map. He wasn’t completely wrong. It actually contains plans to build a giant leisure complex in the forest.’

  Will leant back on the sofa. ‘Yeah, he had this idea a few years ago to convert the campsite by Hatherstone Hall – by Scarlett’s – into an upmarket eco-holiday village thing. Ellen’s sister, Erica, was going to run it. But he needed some Hall land, and they weren’t interested in selling.’

  ‘These plans were for the area to the west and south of the Common.’

  Will frowned. ‘I remember that land going up for sale a year or so ago. But nothing ever happened so I guess we all forgot about it.’

  ‘Fisher bought it.’

  ‘To build a holiday village? Wouldn’t he have to apply for planning permission? Have a consultation with the parish council or something?’

  ‘The main problem is access. According to the folder, he can’t submit a proposal until he has a way to get people in and out. The Common is protected land, so that’s a no-go, and the northern boundary is all Frances’ farmland, no public roads. South and west, there’s the river and the nature reserve.’

  ‘Looks like he’s made a bad business decision, then. No wonder he’s been so grumpy lately.’

  ‘There is one solution.’

  Will waited, realising we were about to get to the point.

  ‘He could use the private road leading up to my cottage, and build the entrance to the resort there.’

  ‘How would that work?’

  ‘Ownership of the road is tied up with the cottages. And there are clauses preventing it being used as access for a business, so even if Mack and I didn’t mind visitors driving up and down all hours, even if he didn’t have to route the road through my garden, bulldozing my shed and cutting through a public footpath, even if we didn’t mind eco-lodges and a restaurant, a pool and spa, staff buildings and a shopping complex being built right on our doorstep, if we wanted to agree to all this in return for generous compensation, we simply couldn’t.

  ‘But the thing is, if someone else bought the houses, and those clauses were to mysteriously disappear, given that no one else is likely to know about or protest against them, well, who knows?’

  Will digested this for a couple of minutes. ‘There’d be way too many objections and issues for a development that big here.’

  ‘The folder has a list of people, or businesses and organisations, likely to object. Along with how Fisher plans to persuade them, if necessary. I have to say it does also have a very compelling case about the boost to the local economy and jobs market, the fact that the whole development would be eco-friendly, carbon neutral, offset by some very generous donations in the right places.’

  ‘I always knew he was a toad.’ Will shook his head. Helped himself to a biscuit.

  ‘I was on the list.’

  ‘What?’ Will looked up. ‘Of course – he has to buy your cottage before he can even get started. And Mack’s.’

  Hands numb, I opened the folder to the list of names. Next to Jenny Birkenshaw, in neat black font, someone had typed ‘money – should buy off at reasonable price. Building regs, red tape, intimidation. Fire?’

  Below it was the name Mackenzie West. Beside his name, underlined, it said, ‘WIFE’.

  The front door slammed. Ellen was home. I wiped clammy hands on my jeans. Six months ago, I would have run at this point. But my time with the Camerons had taught me that they did things differently. ‘I’ll check on th
e kids, put the pizzas in the oven.’

  I forced down half a slice of pizza while the kids chattered to their dad about the teddy cannon, Dawson’s newfound interest in manga, thanks to a certain girl at art club, and the latest research findings in astrobiology. Mummy was tired and needed a rest, so had permission to skip dinner.

  Mummy looked even worse than I felt.

  ‘Don’t!’ She pointed at me, uncurling herself from the armchair in the tiny study. ‘Don’t you dare cry. If you set me off I’ll not be able to do this.’

  I sank into the spinny office chair. ‘Do what?’

  She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘Speak to Brenda.’

  ‘You’re calling the police?’ The tears, jostling at my eyelids, evaporated.

  ‘It’s the right thing to do.’ Will came in, carrying three mugs of coffee.

  ‘Are you talking to your dad first?’ I asked.

  Ellen shook her head. ‘It’ll only give him time to figure out a way to wriggle out of it. If he’s broken the law, paid people to vandalise your house and smash up your stuff and… and frighten you and hurt you, if he is really planning to set your house on fire…’ She shook her head again, harder this time, as her voice gave way.

  Will sat on the edge of the chair and took her hand. ‘We don’t think this is the first time he’s crossed a line to get what he wants. It’s the first time we’ve been sure, and it’s far worse than anything we suspected, but, well, we can’t turn a blind eye to this.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’ Ellen cried. ‘I always knew he could be ruthless and mean. But this? This is monstrous. No wonder Mum left. This is probably why she barely contacts us, because she’s all tangled up in his mess and doesn’t know what to do about it.’

  In the end, Ellen only got as far as arranging to see Brenda in the morning. She drove me home afterwards as steadily as if it were her driving test.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said as we arrived at the front of my house.

  Ellen turned off the engine. ‘You’d better not be apologising for my father running a campaign of terror against you.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m expressing my sorrow that it happened. I can’t imagine how hard this must be.’

  She wiped a strand of hair off her forehead. ‘Like I said, I’m not massively surprised. But, yeah, it’s still horrible. And I know the next few days, probably months, maybe years, are going to be horrible too. I can’t even think about how I’m going to tell my sister. And if he ends up going to prison… how do I explain that to the kids?’

  ‘I can’t imagine he’ll go to prison.’ My voice squeaked in alarm. ‘He didn’t hurt anybody.’

  ‘Maybe not physically.’ Ellen looked at me pointedly. ‘And who knows what else he’s done on that list of grubby threats? Is it any better if you’ve paid someone else to commit your crimes?’

  She sighed. ‘Either way, we’d better try and get a good night’s sleep before the volcano blows. I won’t be going in tomorrow, so you can take the day off.’

  ‘You’ll keep me posted?’

  ‘Of course.’ She leant over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘If you need anything. And by need anything, I really mean if you get scared, or sad, and want to talk, call me. Don’t worry if it’s the middle of the night. Most likely I’ll be awake.’

  I whispered it again: ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Now get inside before Will starts to worry we’ve gone to tackle Dad ourselves, Squash Harris style.’

  I didn’t call Ellen that night, when the fear and worry crept inside my head to dance with the darkness.

  I didn’t call my friend when I choked on the self-pity. Self-pity, and anger, at once again being the victim, a mere irritant to be trampled underfoot while others strode onwards to success.

  I called a different number. Three times, hitting the end call button as soon as the phone started ringing.

  I turned my face to the wall, and imagined him there, lying parallel to me, only a layer of brick and plaster between us, and I talked at the non-existent Mack until my throat grew hoarse, the streaks on my cheeks dried up, my eyes closed, and I passed over into blessed nothingness.

  It didn’t take long for the scandal to break. Three days after Ellen and I, and a whole load of other people, spoke to the police, Charlotte Meadows’ jewellery, Jamie’s oven and the old record player appeared in my living room. Having been working on teaching assistant applications in my kitchen at the time, rather than feeling spooked by the impressively quick and impossibly quiet delivery, I tapped off a quick message to Jamie saying thanks.

  Later, I found out he’d discovered them in Tezza’s garage. For some reason, Tezza never reported Jamie breaking in. But I did hear he had nightmares for months afterwards.

  And, according to Sarah, the mystery of the Beast of Middlebeck was now solved, thanks to Jamie’s undisclosed interrogation techniques. I seethed at the knowledge that I’d actually paid the Beast of Middlebeck to use his taxi service, in order to avoid encountering that very same beast. Thinking about him coming face to face with Jamie at crazy-o’clock helped, as did the fact that he’d been so easily dissuaded from repeating the performance after Brenda had made it clear she was keeping an eye on things. Knowing that no one in the village would be using Tezza’s taxi ever again helped more.

  In the midst of this whirlwind, caring for extra-excitable and anxious children four days a week, volunteering with the formidable Year Fives of Middlebeck Primary, stripping wallpaper, bartering with electricians and plumbers, coaxing soup into my agonisingly frail friend – in the midst of all this, like a pathetic, pointless soundtrack on a loop in the background, my heart ached for Mack.

  I repeatedly beat myself over the head with the truth that Mack being gone was a good thing. He was not mine to miss, or want, or love. Obviously the best thing was for him to go and enjoy his life with his wife, and leave me to get over it.

  I even let Sarah and Kiko sign me up on the Lovelife! dating app, spending a couple of half-hearted evenings flicking through profiles looking for men with eyes like hot chocolate and furrowed brows.

  But how did you stop loving the person you loved, when, as far as you knew, they were still lovely?

  I learnt there were good days, when the ache was nothing but a faint buzzing in the background. And other, not quite as good days, when it felt as if a lung were missing.

  On a particularly not-so-good day at the end of October, I sent him a text:

  Hi Mack. I hope you and Sienna are doing well. I have a dry-rot specialist coming on Friday. He asked if okay to check out your side too. Is it? Does someone have a key to let him in? Maybe the estate agent? Best wishes, Jenny

  I pressed send, pressed the other hand to my galloping heart, closed my eyes and counted to ten and strolled, fake-it-till-you-make-it casual, into the kitchen to find some empty calories to distract me.

  Right on time to see the genuine Hillary Mackenzie West wiping his feet on my welcome mat.

  42

  We stared at each other for what seemed like a long time but nowhere near enough. Drops of rain meandered down the side of his face and hair. He wore his old jacket. New jeans. No beard.

  I twiddled my perfectly adjusted glasses. Hoped he couldn’t tell that my skin was sparking like a poked bonfire, my throat swollen with all the jokes and the questions and the stories I’d whispered at the wall, longing to finally reach the man they were meant for.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, pushing his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I got your message,’ he said, still holding my gaze like an eyeball magnet.

  ‘Quick response,’ I managed to squeeze out.

  ‘Yeah, I was on my way round anyway. To let you know I’m back.’

  ‘You’re back.’ Wow, well deduced, Jenny.

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll be in working – writing – on Friday, so, the dry-rot guy can call in whenever.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Right. Well. I’ve got unpack
ing to do, so—’

  ‘I was about to make tea. If you want one,’ I gabbled, while my conscience shook its head in disapproval, wagging a finger at me.

  ‘That’d be great,’ Mack said, before I had a chance to take it back.

  ‘And Sienna, would she like one? Is she… here?’

  Mack frowned, finally taking one hand out of his pocket and wiping the remains of the rain from his hair and face. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ I poked at my glasses again. Still perfectly positioned. Tried to mentally will the excess blood to retreat from my face and neck.

  Mack filled the kettle. Lifted two mugs from the dresser and plopped a teabag in each one.

  Then he stood facing the counter for a few seconds before turning to look at me.

  ‘Sienna is no longer my wife.’

  I nearly choked on my own tonsils. Which, it turned out, sounded a lot like a giraffe retching. Mack poured the hot water, dunked the teabags and dropped them in the bin. Sploshed in some milk and pulled out a chair for me to sit on.

  I was now recovered.

  ‘That seems fast. I thought divorces took time.’

  Mack sat opposite me. ‘She started the process over a year ago.’

  I frowned. ‘But she invited you to London.’

  He grimaced. ‘She invited me to reveal up close and personal how irredeemably over our marriage was. And, spending time with her and her swanky new bloke, seeing the woman she’s chosen to become, for the first time I thought that was probably for the best. The weekend visits were to supervise the house sale. She didn’t trust me to squeeze out maximum profit.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ And in that moment, I really was. ‘I know it’s not what you wanted.’

  It was Mack’s turn to flush. ‘Well. It had become harder not to want that. Which may be why I held on longer than I should. The guilt of being offered an easy way out. I didn’t want to break our vows, but I realised she’d already destroyed them. I watched Sienna with this smarmy fool and knew she’d never loved me. Not really. I’d probably have tried again, anyway, if she’d asked. Found a way to make it work. But I discovered in London that we didn’t even like each other any more. So, out of respect I agreed to sell the house, so she could make a clean break.’