by Jules Wake
‘What time’s your parcel arriving?’
‘Any time between twelve and four.’
‘I don’t think I can fit it in. I might be able to get here for three-thirty.’
‘Three-thirty, no earlier?’
‘I’m taking Dad to the airport and then I’ve just got time to come straight back home, drop the car back at Mum’s and get to the school for two.’
‘What are you going to be doing?’ she asked.
I shrugged. ‘I’m not entirely sure. Probably just helping with the musical arrangements and the singing. I’ve been invited to meet the class tomorrow because they’re starting rehearsals. I’d said I’d go.’
‘Oh, God, poor you.’ Bella cringed. ‘Cue crying tots because they all wanted to be Mary. And a dozen disgruntled shepherds because who wants to wear a tea towel on their head?’
‘Thanks, Bel, because that’s really cheered me up.’
‘Oh, well, it will be light relief after a trip to Heathrow.’ Bella shook her head. ‘Couldn’t he have got the tube or the Express from Paddington?’
I pulled a face. ‘Mum said she needed me to take him. She wasn’t happy about him travelling on his own with luggage.’ I shrugged. ‘He is seventy-five.’
Bella snorted. ‘He’s travelling long haul and jaunting about the States at the other end. I think he would have managed just fine.’
So did I. My dad still runs a mile every day and you’ve never met a fitter, healthier seventy-five year old – he actually looks more like sixty-five – but Mum had used the magic word on me: need.
‘Oh, well, I said I’d do it. And I’ll time it so that I pick him up to give myself enough time to get to the school.’
‘Well, I think the school thing is taking the piss. Surely they can’t make you … Sorry, Laura –’ she turned to her sixteen-year-old daughter ‘– forget I said that. Taking the Michael.’
‘It’s work. I can’t say no,’ I said.
‘Extracting the urine,’ said Laura, suddenly interrupting with a cool stare at her mother before going back to her book, despite having earphones in. She sat at the opposite end of the huge island counter, perched on one of the white stools. Despite the seeming impracticality, what with having three children and a dog, everything was white: the cabinets, the composite material worktop with its touch of glitter and the tiled floors.
Bella went to say something to her eldest daughter and realised it was a waste of time. Laura, with teenage flippancy, now held the book in front of her face, while her two younger sisters, Rosa, eight, and Ella, five going on ninety-five, were both darting around the kitchen in matching lurid pink fairy costumes, throwing pinches of flour into the air and making wishes with fairy dust. At least it wouldn’t show on the floor.
She turned to me. ‘You can say no. Is it part of your contract?’
‘I don’t know but I’m sure there’ll be something in there about reasonable requests to appear on behalf of the LMOC. Like I said, I don’t really have much choice.’
‘You always have a choice,’ said Bella, groaning and rubbing her shoulders. ‘Here, you have a go. Rosa, Ella, stop that now.’ Her mock glare just brought giggles.
I took the mixing bowl from her while she continued. ‘Tell them you’ve got family commitments. We all need you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ She looked over at the calendar. ‘Thank God Dave will be home for Christmas; this latest contract feels like it’s been forever.’
Her husband, Dave, was a civil engineer who worked on big overseas projects and was currently in Finland building a new bridge.
‘Keep going.’ She nodded at the bowl. ‘I’m really hoping I’ve got it right this year and all the fruit doesn’t sink to the bottom,’ she said, rolling her shoulders as I manfully stirred the thick cake mix.
I looked with longing over at the Kenwood Chef on the side.
‘It’s not the same,’ said Bella, catching me. ‘Christmas cake should always be hand stirred. It’s tradition. And you’re doing a great job.’
‘I thought it should always be baked at the end of October,’ I said, my shoulder twinging with a sharp pinch of pain. We were at the end of November. I pushed the bowl back over the table towards her. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be feeding it with brandy by now? Here, you’ll have to take over; my shoulder hurts and I’ve got a performance tomorrow.’ I wasn’t going to push it for the sake of bloody Christmas cake, especially when I knew from experience that on Christmas Day both sisters would turn up with a cake each, because the recipe made enough mixture for two cakes (and no one in the entire family seemed to have the power to divide by two) which, added to the extra one Mum always gave me, meant I would end up with three un-iced cakes. I wouldn’t mind but the icing was my favourite bit and I’d still be eating it by Easter.
We always had Christmas at Mum’s, even though my Aunt Gabrielle’s place was definitely bigger.
Bella took the bowl back and, with a calculating expression, turned to her daughter. ‘Laura, do you want to have a go? You can make a wish.’
Laura sighed and shook her head. She wasn’t stupid either. ‘Nah, I’m all good.’
‘I thought that was Christmas puddings,’ I said.
‘Was worth a try.’ Bella grinned shamelessly at me. ‘You can make yourself useful and pour us a glass of wine.’
‘OK, but I can only stay for one.’
‘Really? But the girls wanted you to read them a bedtime story, didn’t you, girls?’
I shot her a quick cross look. Low blow, Bel.
‘Yes. Yes. Yes, Aunty Vila,’ said Ella. ‘Jesus’s Christmas Party.’ She was already waving the book in the air and had come around the island to nudge at me in my black dress with her flour-coated tutu.
Then Bella added in a quiet voice, ‘I could really do with half an hour or so to myself.’
‘All right then,’ I said, rolling my eyes at Bella, taking the battered book from Ella.
‘You’ve only got yourself to blame,’ she said. ‘You bought them the book; they love it.’
‘I know,’ I said with a rueful smile as I opened the front page.
I finally escaped from Bella’s at half past eight, having been conned into reading several other stories while, funnily enough, Bella holed herself up in the lounge with another glass of wine to crack through her Christmas card list. I hadn’t even bought mine, let alone started writing them.
Chapter 4
‘Which terminal is it, Dad?’ I asked as I spotted the sign for the slip road for Terminals One, Two and Three.
He began fumbling through the travel folder on his knees. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure,’ he said in a chatty, conversational way, completely unmoved by the fact that I needed to make a major directional decision in the next thirty seconds.
‘Do you think you could find out quickly, because if it’s Terminals One, Two or Three I need to come off the motorway in a minute.’
I heard the shuffle of paperwork and tried to breathe slowly – in, out, in, out.
‘Any time soon,’ I said, looking in my mirror, taking preparatory action by indicating and trying to get into the left lane, just in case.
‘I think it might be Four. Or it might be Five. It was Four last time.’
Damn, the Range Rover in the lane next to me was speeding up; he wasn’t going to let me in and the car behind me was getting closer and flashing its lights. I floored the accelerator and, to the accompaniment of the angry blare of the horn of the Range Rover, I nipped into the almost non-existent space between him and an articulated lorry as we reached the first countdown sign to the slip road.
‘Dad! I need a decision.’
‘Four,’ he said. ‘We definitely flew from Four last time. Oh, no, it was Five. It was the new one. Do you know, it’s the largest building in the UK and is big enough to hold fifty football pitches?’
‘That’s interesting,’ I said with a sigh as I put my foot down on the accelerator and sailed past the slip road.
>
‘Well, I’ll be there in perfect time,’ he said, checking his watch, oblivious to the sharp manoeuvre of the Range Rover, which wheeled out from behind me to overtake and when the driver drew alongside he made his displeasure quite clear with a few choice hand gestures. ‘My flight’s not until three-thirty and I’m checked in.’
‘Great,’ I said through gritted teeth, looking at the traffic on the other side of the M4 already starting to back up. I’d planned to drop him at twelve-thirty, which would leave me plenty of time to battle the traffic back into central London, but he’d faffed about trying to decide whether to take a front door key with him and then decided that he ought to have another book on the flight, which he’d packed in his suitcase. By the time we’d left my parents’ apartment, just ten minutes from my flat, it was half an hour later than I would have liked. And then the traffic was horrendous on the M4 because a lane was closed.
Just as we approached the slip road – I’d moved over in plenty of time – my dad suddenly said, ‘Of course, last time I went to Atlanta I flew British Airways.’
I risked a quick glance at him as he turned an apologetic face my way. ‘We’ve still got plenty of time. I’ve checked in online. I only have to drop my case.’
I gritted my teeth. I had to get back to Notting Hill, drop the car and get to the school in time for two and it was already ten past one.
‘I’m flying Virgin Atlantic this time,’ Dad announced, apropos of nothing. There was a silence in the car. ‘Not British Airways.’
‘Does that mean that it might not be Terminal Five?’ I asked, my fingers almost strangling the steering wheel.
‘I think –’ Dad drew out the syllables as I negotiated a roundabout, following the signs to Terminal Five ‘– that’s for British Airways flights only.’
‘Oh, for … sake,’ I ground out under my breath as I did a hasty left signal and pulled back into the main stream of traffic going around the roundabout. ‘Are you definitely flying Virgin?’
‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘See here.’ He held up the paperwork just under my nose as if I could calmly take my eyes off the road and peruse the details at my leisure.
‘Dad, do you have any idea where Virgin fly from?’
‘Terminal Four?’
‘Do you know that or is it a guess?’
‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If BA flies from Five, Virgin would fly from Four.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said, driving for the second time around the roundabout, past the turning for Terminal Five. ‘Is there any way you could look it up on your phone quickly? I can’t keep driving round and round this roundabout.’
When I started the third circuit, I took an executive decision and took the turning for Terminal Four.
‘I might have got it wrong, you know. I think Terminal Five is for all flights to America, so that would mean Virgin do fly from there,’ said Dad, looking back over his shoulder at the roundabout as he lifted his phone to his ear.
‘Who are you calling? I asked, glancing over at him.
‘Your mother; she might know.’
I raised my eyes heavenward before I spoke. Dad was a gentle soul; getting cross with him would be counter-productive … but seriously.
‘Mum isn’t going to know. You’re the frequent flyer. Just look it up on your phone.’
‘Phyllis, it’s Douglas. No, I just had a cup of coffee. They’ll give us lunch on the plane. I know, but I didn’t like to bother you.’
‘Dad …’ I ground out through gritted teeth.
‘Yes, Viola’s fine. Driving a little too fast.’ I shot him a furious look but he was oblivious, picking at the twill on his tweedy trousers. ‘No, we’re not there yet. I don’t suppose you know which terminal the flight will go from? No, I thought Five but then I’m flying Virgin Atlantic … Yes, I know, I always go BA; I’m not sure why they changed it this time.’
‘Dad!’ I yelled. My shoulders were level with my ears and any second steam was going to hiss out of my ears. When he jumped and gave me a mild-mannered look of reproach I felt doubly guilty, but seriously, he was driving me mad. ‘Clues would be good here; otherwise we’re going to be driving round and round in circles.’
‘Viola needs to know which terminal it is. We thought possibly Four, but then it might be Five … You think it’s Three? Gosh, never thought of that.’ He leaned my way, any sense of urgency completely lacking. ‘Mum thinks it might be Three. I don’t think that’s very likely, do you? It doesn’t sound right to me.’
I closed my eyes for a very brief second, wheeled the car into the left lane and followed the signs to Terminal Five, my hands gripping the steering wheel like claws. I pulled up in the drop off zone and hauled the car into a space, slamming the brakes on, almost sending Dad through the windscreen, and yanked my phone out of my pocket.
‘Well, we’ve just arrived at Terminal Five … I’ve no idea.’ He unbuckled his seat belt and went to open the door as I stabbed at my phone, typing into Google.
‘Dad!’ I yelled, grabbing his arm as he started to get out. ‘Wait, I’m looking it up.’
He turned back to me, all mild-mannered and totally reasonable, as if I were the crazy person. ‘It’s all right dear; I’ll just go and ask someone.’
I looked through the windscreen at several stern-faced police officers, their hands resting on large black guns. ‘We’re not allowed to stop here; it’s just dropping off.’
‘They won’t mind. I’ll just …’ I leaned over and tried to grab at his seat belt, catching the eye of one of the police officers who was looking at the registration plate and talking into the radio just below his shoulder.
‘But,’ said Dad, opening the car door and putting one foot out as the policeman advanced. God, he was going to get us arrested.
‘It’s Terminal Three,’ I hissed as the answer magically appeared on my screen. ‘Virgin Atlantic fly from Terminal Three.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Dad, hauling himself back into the car. ‘It must be just next door.’
‘As the crow flies and if we were allowed to drive across the runway, yes. But by road it’s twenty minutes back round.’ Holding my phone up, I shoved it towards him to show him the map on the screen.
‘You seem a bit tense, Viola. It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of time. In fact, I could have got the tube, you know, or the Express from Paddington. You didn’t need to drive me.’
I bit the inside of my cheek and didn’t say a word.
‘You’re very late,’ observed the receptionist, once I’d spent another five minutes on the laborious sign-in process, waiting for my escaped prisoner photo printed badge. When had schools become like Fort Knox?
‘Traffic,’ I said tightly.
‘I understood you were local,’ she said, reading the address on the DBS certificate I’d handed over. She didn’t seem in any kind of hurry to let me through the big glass maglock doors.
Finally I breached Security and was led into the big assembly hall. The wall bars and ropes, the parquet wood floor and the blue carpeted stage with the piano in the corner immediately brought back memories of my own primary school days.
‘That’s Mr Williams,’ said the school secretary, gesturing towards a familiar figure standing on the stage surrounded by small children. At the sight of him, my heart did its funny flutter thing again.
‘M-Mr Williams?’ I stuttered. I certainly hadn’t expected to see him here today.
‘He’s our parent volunteer, also helping with the nativity. And there’s Mrs Roberts, our head. I’ll introduce you.’
He glanced over, just as handsome as ever, my imaginings over the last week had not let me down, but there were no smiles this morning; he was too busy gripping a clipboard with grim determination. Even so my heart did another one of those salmon leaps of recognition and stupidly I suddenly felt a lot better about this whole nativity project.
‘Miss Smith.’ Mrs Roberts strode over on long thin legs, looking a lot more g
lamorous than any headteacher I remembered, to pump my hand. ‘What a result. We’re so delighted the London Metropolitan Opera Company –’ she pronounced the name with great delight ‘– is helping us like this. Our nativity is one of our biggest and best events of the year. And when our usual teacher, Mrs Davies, went down with appendicitis, we thought it was all going to be a disaster but now you’re on board and can take charge …’ She clapped her hands and beamed at me.
‘Er … um. Right.’ Take charge? Me? That wasn’t quite what I’d signed up for.
‘Of course, Mr Williams here, one of our dads and a governor, will be here to assist you. And Mrs Davies had made a good start. She’s allocated most of the parts already and started the script. This morning Mr Williams is taking the children through the opening scene with the armadillo, Joseph, Mary and the flamingos.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a meeting.’ And with that she hurried off.
Armadillo, Joseph and flamingos? What the …?
I went over to stand near the stage, feeling a touch like Alice in Wonderland. Who needed Mad Hatters when you had armadillos and flamingos?
‘You’re late.’ He barely looked up from the clipboard at me. ‘Right. Can I have Jack, the flamingos and Mary and Joseph to run through the first scene?’
The five children, two of whom were identical twins, shuffled on stage, four of them in school uniform grey shorts and skirts and green sweatshirts sporting the school logo, a golden tree. They all carried a single sheet of A4 paper which I assumed was the script. The fifth child wore a Buzz Lightyear outfit stretched lumpily over his school uniform.
