Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  But today, it seemed, she was ready to talk. As Hayley flitted past in her skimpy Miss Christmas outfit, Barbara pursed her lips and turned to him.

  ‘She will come round, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hayley. It’s one of her phases. She does this, when she feels trapped. She’s done it all her life. She runs away when things get what she considers to be boring. I was hoping she’d grown out of it, that having children would make her less selfish . . . I don’t know what I did wrong.’

  A look of bleakness shadowed her face.

  ‘Just give her time. She’ll come back. I know she will.’

  She turned away, and went to fetch a clean tea towel, obviously thinking she had said too much.

  Fitch didn’t know what to think. He looked over at Hayley, in her short red skirt trimmed with white fur, her stocking tops visible, her cleavage on display. She flitted from person to person with her book of raffle tickets, charming them, beguiling them, divesting them of their hard-earned cash.

  What did he want? he asked himself. Did he want her back?

  What he wanted was the old Hayley back. Not this tainted version, with her skewed sense of morality, who played games with him when of course she was the only one who could win.

  Charlotte was selling gingerbread men. She had made ten dozen, decorating them in funky bright colours, with squiggles, spots and stripes. At fifty pence each they were going quickly.

  For the past few weeks she had thrown herself into her work, desperate to bury the bitter memory of her visit to Ed. The house had come on in leaps and bounds in that time. Although to an outsider it would seem like chaos, as every single room was in turmoil - strips of wallpaper, dust sheets and pots of paint scattered everywhere - she could feel it taking shape. She worked long hours and weekends, and in her time off she curled up with a DVD rented from the post office. More often than not she fell asleep before the end, but Nikita was very lenient about when she finally returned them and didn’t fine her if she was a couple of days late. That, Charlotte had to concede, would never happen in London, where fines were draconian and the shopkeepers showed no mercy.

  She had taken Nikita on as an extra pair of hands when the girl had complained to her one day about not having enough cash to buy Christmas presents. Charlotte could only afford a very basic rate of pay, but Nikita was grateful and eager to help. And she turned out to be extremely dextrous and careful. Charlotte had thought she would only be up to the most menial of tasks, but in the end she had her doing the banisters and the newel posts on the staircase, a time-consuming and tedious task that nevertheless required precision. Nikita was painstaking and neat, taking pride in her handiwork. It meant that nearly all the woodwork on the staircase was finished while Charlotte could forge ahead with other tasks. If she’d had to do the staircase herself, it would have held her up for at least a week.

  Nikita was fascinated by what Charlotte did. During their coffee breaks she pored over Charlotte’s magazines. One day Charlotte got out her portfolio. Nikita leafed through it in awe, sighing over the wondrous settings: the palatial loft apartments, the elegant drawing rooms, the cutting-edge kitchens.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ sighed Nikita. ‘I’d love to do this.’

  ‘You could,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘I haven’t got any proper qualifications. Only art A level. Surely you could do that at college?’

  Nikita shook her head gloomily.

  ‘I’ve got to work, haven’t I? We can’t afford for me to go to college. Not with six kids.’

  ‘But they aren’t your responsibility,’ objected Charlotte. ‘They’re your mum’s. It’s your life, Nikita.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Not since my dad walked out on us. It’s up to me to see they’re all right.’

  ‘But if you got some qualifications, then you could get a better job.’ Nikita sighed. ‘That’s not how it works. ’

  ‘Night school,’ said Charlotte. ‘You could do evening classes. It would take you longer, but you’d get there in the end.’

  She jumped up and went over to her laptop.

  ‘Let’s have a look and see.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Nikita. ‘It won’t happen. Anyway, how would I get to college? We haven’t got a car. Bamford’s miles away, and there’s no regular bus.’

  It worried Charlotte that Nikita was so determined that she wouldn’t be able to succeed. She put up every barrier imaginable to Charlotte’s suggestions, even though she was obviously a very capable girl. Charlotte hated to see her potential go to waste. How could she accept her lot, working for a pittance in the post office and skivvying for Catkin Turner, stuck in Withybrook for the rest of her life? Yet at the same time she admired the girl’s incredible loyalty to her family. She never complained about her duty to her younger brothers and sisters. Charlotte decided not to give up. She would keep badgering her, encouraging her, enticing her. She might come round eventually.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ she insisted. ‘You can do anything you want with your life. It’s up to you.’

  Nikita just frowned and shook her head.

  Charlotte could see her now on the other side of the hall, with a clutch of her brothers and sisters, rooting through the jumble. The Fayre was wonderful. Every person in the village seemed to have contributed something, and everyone was here to buy. It was heart-warming, and certainly encapsulated the spirit of Christmas, unlike so many of the events she used to attend in London, which had been so commercial, all about profit. Although this was about raising money, it wasn’t for personal gain. Every single penny went to the local children’s hospice.

  Charlotte looked over at the big chart that displayed how much money had been raised so far. For a moment, she had a memory of the giant cheque that Ed had held up that fateful night, but she suppressed it. She wasn’t going to let her past spoil today. She was going to enjoy being part of the community, get into the spirit. She turned to her next customer and was delighted when they bought six gingerbread men. Another dozen and she would have sold out.

  Penny pushed her way through the crowds, increasingly anxious. She could see Megan in a quartet with some other villagers, churning out carols, lengths of garish tinsel wrapped around their music stands. But where was Daisy? The old lady had been there a moment ago. Had she wandered off? Then she spotted her, standing stock-still by a man selling holly wreaths and mistletoe. Penny pushed her way over.

  Penny had taken it upon herself to bring Daisy Miller to the Fayre. The old lady had nodded enthusiastically enough at her suggestion, and had been ready when Penny had knocked at the door. Maybe her dementia had been temporary, Penny thought hopefully. But as the afternoon went on, she realised that this wasn’t the case. Daisy became confused and muddled by the simplest things. She seemed to have quite forgotten the concept of paying for things, which led to some embarrassing interludes when she just helped herself to what was on offer. In the end, Penny had persuaded her to let her have her purse, and then settled up for whatever items took Daisy’s fancy. Which were curious items indeed: a plate for serving garlic bread, some slug repellent, a pair of earrings that flashed on and off, and a huge bag of coconut ice. Who was she to argue? thought Penny. No doubt there was some sort of logic to the purchases. Though deep down she knew that wasn’t the case. Daisy was losing it, big time, as Tom and Megan would say. The thought depressed her, and she realised that the time was getting closer that she would have to involve the authorities. Sadly, she had little choice.

  She stopped at Fitch’s stall and bought them each a glass of mulled wine. For a moment she debated the wisdom of giving Daisy such a potent brew, then decided what the hell. It couldn’t make her much worse. And Penny definitely needed a drink. Looking after Daisy was worse than looking after small children.

  At the end of the afternoon, Catkin drew the raffle.

  Charlotte won. The prize was Christmas dinner. A huge free-range turkey. A sack each of potatoes and carrots. A net of Brussels sprouts. A h
andmade pudding. Two dozen mince pies. And a cake.

  It was no use to her whatsoever. She was going up to London for Christmas Day, to see Gussie. And so she donated it to the children’s hospice, to a round of applause. They might not clap so enthusiastically, she thought wryly, if they knew who she really was, and what her husband had done. But it went a small way towards assuaging her still guilty conscience.

  Eleven

  Any idea that anyone in Withybrook had of going elsewhere for Christmas was put paid to on Christmas Eve morning, when snow started falling thick and fast out of the still skies, smothering the moors within minutes. It would be madness to attempt to go anywhere. The gritters never came this far. Most of the roads across the moor were blocked. Sheep were left to fend for themselves as farmers gave up the futile attempts to get their Land Rovers out with bales of extra hay. They just had to pray their flocks had the stamina to outlive the weather.

  The bells of the church rang out to its own flock for midnight mass. Charlotte could hear them, sitting in her little house, and suddenly felt the need for company, for the comfort of strangers. She had been planning to go up to Gussie’s for Christmas. It would be the first time she had returned to London since she had left, and she thought she felt strong enough to return and face her past. But now it was out of the question. She was stranded in Withybrook. Completely cut off. Maybe it was for the best, she thought miserably. Being in the bosom of Gussie’s exuberant, madcap family would probably only highlight the hopelessness of her own situation. And although Gussie had absolutely insisted they would love to have her, she would still feel like an outsider, the one who didn’t belong. And at least if she stayed here she wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into someone she knew and being snubbed.

  She slipped on her coat and shut the front door. She’d attached a holly wreath to the knocker, woven through with white organza ribbon, in a nod to the festivities, but she hadn’t bothered with a tree. And she’d had no cards. After all, no one knew where she was. She wondered if any had arrived at their old house in Parsons Green. There might have been a few misguided souls left in the country who hadn’t heard the scandal, and had sent her and Ed season’s greetings. She imagined the new owners consigning them to the bin. The thought depressed her, and she tried to shake it out of her head as she made her way up the high street to the church. The snow crunched satisfyingly underfoot. It had remained crisp and hard and white, not yet reduced to the greying mush that London snow soon turned to. She turned in through the gate, and walked through the churchyard, surrounded by the proudly erect tombstones of former villagers, many bedecked with floral tributes left by relatives heedful of the time of year as Christmas pricked at their conscience.

  Inside, the church was warm, glowing with candlelight, the organ gently wheezing out ‘It Came Upon a Midnight Clear’, while the congregation stamped the snow off their feet and compared notes on the weather. It was surprisingly full, given that only those within walking distance could make it, but the inclement conditions had brought out a sense of community in the inhabitants of Withybrook. They felt the need to come together and bemoan their lot.

  Charlotte spotted Sebastian, lolling in a pew at the front, tucked up in a preposterous Afghan coat and a pair of mirrored sunglasses that gave him the air of a dissolute seventies rock-star. He patted the seat next to him when he saw her.

  ‘This is the family pew,’ he said. ‘But I’m the only bloody one here. Catkin’s stuck in London. She went to some terrible C-list party last night and couldn’t get down the M5 this morning. Or so she claims. She’d probably far rather spend Christmas with her showbiz friends than be stuck down here with me.’

  Charlotte slid onto the pew next to him and stroked the arm of his coat admiringly.

  ‘Excuse the stench,’ he grinned. ‘It was my mother’s, when she went through her hippy phase. It stinks of patchouli. But it was the warmest thing I could find.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your scene,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Sebastian pushed up his sunglasses and looked at her. ‘I love it. I’ve been to every midnight mass here since I was born. I’d never spend Christmas anywhere else.’

  This was true. He loved the ritual. The way the service never changed, although the vicar might. The one thing he wished was that his parents were here. Really, thought Sebastian, he was a sentimental old fool, the polar opposite of the public’s perception of him. But this was where he belonged. He still couldn’t quite understand how his mother and father preferred to be in Barbados at this time of year, though he knew the weather suited them much more than the icy Exmoor drafts.

  Charlotte spotted Fitch coming in the door, in a Russian hat and a greatcoat. She waved him over, and he slid into the pew next to her, reaching out to shake Sebastian’s hand. They’d chatted in the pub often enough on a Sunday night, and Fitch had fitted some granite work surfaces in Sebastian’s studio.

  ‘I never usually come to church,’ he whispered, ‘but I suddenly felt the urge for company.’

  Charlotte touched his arm in a gesture of sympathy. She knew that Hayley and the girls had flown off to Dubai two days before, and that he must be missing them dreadfully.

  Sebastian was craning his neck to see who else was in the church, and spotted Penny coming in, tentative and anxious. He waved her over too.

  ‘All God’s little lost lambs,’ he said happily, as she hurried over, grateful for a friendly face.

  ‘Bill was supposed to drive the kids back down from Bristol this afternoon,’ she explained. ‘He couldn’t even get across the Downs. Looks like I’m stuck on my own for Christmas.’

  ‘Join the club,’ said Sebastian. ‘We’ve all been abandoned by our nearest and dearest.’

  As the organist struck up ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’, Sebastian gave a little smile. He might not have his family here, but his pew was filled with friends. And having Charlotte near him always lifted his heart. He thought of his studio, filled with her likeness, then turned to look at her profile. Had he done her justice? That little nose, sprinkled with freckles? Those frank, green eyes with the long lashes? She turned to look at him, slightly disconcerted by his attention, and he looked down at his hymn-book. He wasn’t a weirdo, a stalker, but he’d have to be careful not to behave like one.

  After the service ended with a rousing ‘Hark the Herald Angels’, a couple of ladies from the village served mulled wine from a big punch bowl, and passed around mince pies. Charlotte, Sebastian, Penny and Fitch huddled together at the top of the aisle.

  ‘Well,’ said Fitch, ‘if we’re all on our own for Christmas Day, why don’t we get together? I’m happy to cook. You’re welcome to come to me for lunch.’

  The four of them looked at each other. Nobody wanted to spend the day alone.

  ‘I’ve got crates and crates of booze,’ said Sebastian. ‘What do you want - Bollinger? Veuve?’

  ‘You can have my turkey,’ offered Penny. ‘It’s not huge, it was only going to be for me and the kids, but it’s going begging. And I’ve got a pudding.’

  ‘I’ve got some things I was going to take up to my friends,’ finished Charlotte. ‘Christmas crackers. And loads of nice cheese.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Fitch. ‘Shall we say midday?’

  He felt a huge sense of relief. He had been dreading a silent, lonely day in the house, waiting for the phone to ring. Now he had a project, and company, and something to think about when he went to bed later.

  As Charlotte left the churchyard, she saw Nikita kissing a lanky young lad of about seventeen by the gate. She deduced it must be Brindley. Then she watched as three of Nikita’s little brothers and sisters swarmed round, and the five of them set off for home, mittened paws in gloved hands, pom-poms bobbing. Who was she to meddle with the status quo and tantalise Nikita with the promise of a better life? The girl looked quite happy as she was, bossing her siblings about, arm in arm with her boyfriend, greeting the rest of the villager
s she’d grown up with. She was safe and secure in this environment. There would always be someone to watch out for her. That was the advantage of a tight community like Withybrook. They looked after their own. Not like people in London, who turned on you like a pack of dogs when something went wrong. She was lucky to be here, she decided.

  The next morning, Charlotte slept in. She had left the heating on all night because of the snow, and was so warm and snug she didn’t wake until half past ten. After all, it was Christmas Day and she didn’t have to work, so her body had allowed her to relax. She walked over to the window and looked out. It was so silent, a gentle snow still falling, the flakes drifting towards the ground aimlessly. The snow in the road was pristine; no one had attempted to drive through it yet. It was ridiculously pretty; a Christmas-card cliché. It was hard to believe there was anyone else awake in Withybrook, but Charlotte presumed there must be by the tell-tale plumes of smoke. She imagined children emptying out stockings, tearing at wrapping paper, squeals of excitement, and felt the usual tug at her heart.