Nina
Sunday, 9 December
My alarm rings at six o’clock.
I hate being woken at this time.
The rain hits the windowpane, a rattling sound I love at night whilst falling asleep, but on a morning it suggests that today’s shift will be pretty miserable.
Why don’t I have a normal job in a warm office or a sweet-smelling salon? I shouldn’t complain – after I flunked my GSCEs it was a good job that Boss Fielding took pity on me and gave me a work trial.
Living in a small village like Baxterley, everyone knows your business. The amenities consist of the pub, a beautiful church and acres of surrounding countryside to keep the inhabitants entertained. Dad and I rarely mixed with the locals as we didn’t need anything from them. We didn’t need their company or the latest gossip. In fact, we probably were the local gossip. No one crossed our threshold apart from the Fielding twins.
My cottage is a chocolate-box type, with a low roof, quirky whitewashed walls and a dainty front garden with a privet hedge. I was born in the front bedroom, played tea parties with my dolls upon the summer lawn and, now, can’t bear to sell. Some homes creak and breathe, hum or murmur – the cottage has always been silent. I’ve spent my entire life listening to her silence, and yet this last year, it has become much louder, deafening. Surprising given that I’m the sole occupant.
Friends rarely drop by, or rather they’ve stopped dropping by. If Bram and Zach did drop round nowadays, apart from being shocked that they’d made it past The Rose, they’d see I’ve let the place go to pot.
I need to get a grip sooner rather than later, but, hey, who am I pleasing here?
I pull the duvet tight beneath my chin, as a huge tear rolls down my cheek and slides sideways into my hairline.
How did I allow this to happen?
I’ve left everything as it was the morning he was taken into the hospice, though I knew he wouldn’t return home – the kindly staff said as much.
How has a year passed? How has Christmas come around so soon?
And yet, it has.
*
Angie
My head is banging nineteen to the dozen.
What the hell?
I struggle from beneath the duvet, and make my way to the kitchen dressed in an oversized tee shirt, my eyes closed for the entire route for fear that daylight may burn my retinas and cause untold damage. Unlike the half bottle of vodka I drank alone, having arrived home after my first date with Nick.
I struggle to force the paracetamol to pop through the silver foil. I quickly swallow two down and note the time. It’s seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, frigging hell! The only day of the week I get to lie in and yet I ruin it by waking early, go figure. But that sums up my world.
I flick the switch on the kettle and lean against the counter top, lazily eyeing up the half-bottle and the single glass on the breakfast bar. Not good, Angie, bad habits lead to more bad habits. I turn away, as if that solves anything. It doesn’t.
Sunday mornings with Nick were lazy lie-ins, tea and toast on a lap tray and a snuggle under the duvet amongst the discarded newspapers.
I let out a sigh; even that hurts my pounding head.
Right now, I’d give my back teeth to be warm in bed, beside a sleeping male, knowing that I can turn over for another hour’s kip or excite him purely by breathing heavily upon his bare back.
I look round the two-bedroom rental apartment. I moved in just eleven months ago, and the best thing about it is that I can do as I please, twenty-four hours a day. But the promise of freedom has faded rapidly in recent weeks. If I had the choice, right now, I’d be wrapped in Nick’s arms, beneath his warm body, hoping Alfie was OK making his own way to football practice.
The kettle boils, and I pour the steaming water into a mug drenching the teabag.
The vodka bottle mocks me. An all-seeing, all-knowing buddy, who was once a passing acquaintance but now is my best friend chosen over others any night of the week.
I should have gone straight to bed, but I didn’t because, despite my desire to be held in his arms right now, last night, Nick annoyed me.
‘So, you’re saying your son wouldn’t welcome you dating a new woman?’ I asked.
Nick frowned.
‘What I said, was that my son would be very dubious about me dating the same woman,’ he said, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘Especially if that same woman hurt both me and him. He’s been affected by the split, Angie. You seem to forget that.’
‘But surely Alfie would gain security by having two adults return to the marital home?’ Did Nick know that I was talking about us?
‘Not necessarily.’
It was my turn to frown.
‘It’s been tough, I can’t stress that enough… the lad’s at an impressionable age and to have you, his mother, sorry, I forgot the first-date rule, to have my marriage break down in such a manner… it has left him…’ I watched as he searched for the right word.
‘Yes?’ I wanted to hear this little gem.
‘Vulnerable.’
‘Bollocks, has it! He never knew if I was there or not. He was never in, always out playing football with his mates, off down the skate park with the gang… From the age of ten, he’s treated our place like a hotel, coming and going whenever he chose. With me acting as taxi driver every time a distance needed to be covered for collection or delivery to a stadium, pitch or activity further adrift. I’m surprised he’s noticed there’s only two of you living in the house!’
Nick sipped his pint, and smirked.
‘As this is our first date, I’m unsure how you know such details about my home life.’
‘Sod off, Nick.’ Play it your own way.
And he did. In no time, Nick was in full flow telling me how his teenage son hardly leaves the house after school, rarely goes out at weekends, and as for having his boisterous mates crammed into his bedroom to play computer games, they’ve faded away to a sporadic door rap on youth-club nights.
‘He’s angry, he’s hurt, but most of all he feels rejected. His confidence has nosedived, Angie.’
I snatched up my vodka, emptying the remains in one gulp. There was nothing he could tell me about the child I’d carried, birthed and raised.
I clear the mocking vodka bottle away to underneath the sink, put the dirty glass into the dishwasher and pretend to rewrite events, imagining that I went straight to bed on arriving home.
I glance at the wall clock. I’ll give it an hour or so, then I’ll give Alfie a call and see if he wants to come and choose a Christmas tree with his mum. I bet he jumps at the chance despite Nick’s twisted opinion. I know my boy.
I instantly feel better. That’s what I’ll do: we’ll nip to the farm to buy my tree, purchase new decorations, then return to transform my lounge. Afterwards, have a bite to eat at that posh little deli on Long Street. That’ll show Nick, and next time we talk about our children on a date, he’ll have to report back differently. If there is another date, that is.
*
Nina
‘Nina, can I have a word, please?’ asks Boss Fielding as I trudge towards the snug for my eleven-thirty coffee, or the late break, as we call it. Each day staff change breaks so that we’re never on coffee all together but everyone gets fair dibs at the biscuit barrel.
‘Sure.’ I follow his lead towards his office, another log cabin that blends into the woodland theme without causing too much offence. The same can’t be said of the Pogues’s Irish lilt streaming ‘Fairytale of New York’ from the overhead speakers.
The boss’s boots thump up the wooden steps before he stands aside to let me pass.
‘Take a seat, Nina.’ He settles behind his desk. He’s a huge guy, with a greying beard, outdoorsy kind of fella. I’ve always imagined Boss Fielding could give Bear Grylls a run for his money, surviving in the open air with just a knife and plastic sheeting.
I can’t remember the last time I was invited to take a seat. Boss Fielding didn’t invite me in for a chat when I returned to work last January – surely a family bereavement was the right moment for a quiet chat. On my return, several of the farm staff sidestepped me, hid behind log cabins or simply ignored my absence. Strange that. But I suppose it makes it easier for them, when they don’t know what to say or, worst still, if they make you cry.
Kitty and Shazza didn’t ignore me. And it goes without saying that Bram and Zach were with me every step of the way. That was all that mattered to me, back then.
‘Nina, now, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way…’ The boss stares beyond me as he speaks, his grey eyes not meeting mine.
Never a good opening line for a conversation. Don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re fired! You’re being replaced! You’re no longer required on sales but we think you’d be good on wholesale deliveries. You’re… I can’t predict another line ending so sit and stare.
‘Yeah, I’m listening…’
‘Look, pet, we’re worried about you. Me and Jackie… we know things have been tough, what with… you know. But, well, what I want to say is… is… that… Should there be anything you need this Christmas… you only have to…’
I burst into tears.
I rummage inside my tabard pocket for a tissue – nothing.
His expression drops. His words falter. From experience I know this is the worst possible thing to do to Boss Fielding. He’s raised two rough and ready boys, on a harsh diet of farm life; their upbringing consists of strict orders, hard graft and calloused hands. He’s as emotional as a tree trunk, yet here I am snotting and snivelling in his office without the assistance of a female for twenty yards. After nine years of employment, I know that the boss is officially out of his depth.
‘Right, so, sorry to have made… you know… but a chat was necessary.’
Have we actually conversed during the time we’ve been seated? Or have my emotions thrown him that far left from his comfort zone that he is having a male meltdown at the prospect of offering comfort?
The cabin door bursts open.
‘Hey, Dad… they’ve found a bunch of empty cider cans and the remains of a campfire down at…’ Zach barges in without care or concern. He glances between us, halts at seeing my tear-stained face and an emergency registers in his brain. ‘Hey, Nina, what’s up?’
Boss Fielding watches in awe as Zach kneels at my chair, produces a tissue in a heartbeat, and awaits my response.
‘Your dad just wanted a quiet word and I… I… I…’
‘Shhhh.’ His father looks on, baffled by the ease at which his second son gives comfort.
‘Zach, would you pull up a chair, lad?’ He nods towards the spare office chair, which Zach hastily pulls beside mine.
‘As I was saying…’
I dab my eyes and try to focus.
‘Yes, well… Jackie and I… we were wondering if there’s anything you need… for over the Christmas period… you only have…’ He stops talking, shakes his head. ‘Zach, help me out here, lad.’
‘What he’s trying to say, very badly, is… shout if you need anything, yeah?’
‘Yeah!’ confirms his father, grateful for having his son throw him a line. ‘You’re welcome to join us for Christmas dinner… if you choose.’
My tears have dried but my voice has turned into hiccups. So I nod instead. I’ve made a big enough fool of myself this break-time without adding to it.
‘So, all done?’ asks Zach, as his father hastily shoos us from his office. ‘Excellent! Come on, let’s get you a hot chocolate and an additional ten-minute break.’
Zach stealthily guides me from the chair, out of the door and down the steps towards the snug without any fuss or further embarrassment.
‘Thank you,’ I say as he settles a large mug into my hands and I sink into a faded old beanbag.
‘My pleasure.’
‘He started to talk and I simply burst out crying.’
‘Kitty mentioned she’d just seen you following Dad towards his office – I knew it would end in tears. I tried to act blasé on entering, but probably failed.’
‘He was trying to be kind and it went wrong… but there’s nothing I need.’
‘You just need to ask if there is. As he said, you are welcome on Christmas Day if you fancy sharing our turkey,’ said Zach. ‘I was heading over to tell him that the cutting crew have found a pile of empty cider cans and a burnt-out campfire on the far side of the woods.’
‘The kids have scaled the fence again?’
‘Mmmm, maybe not scaled it but found a hole or cut their way into the south fields… I might ask Shazza what her brother has been up to lately.’
‘Zach, you can’t accuse and she would never grass on her brother.’
‘Why?’
‘Zach, they’re teenagers, what harm are they doing?’
‘Trespassing, Nina… if they have an accident it could be serious. Don’t worry, I’ll word it carefully, but Shazza needs to mention it at home.’
Most small villages have a specific spot where teenagers choose to hang out. In Baxterley village, some teenagers ignore the park benches favouring the thrill of a midnight cider fest amongst our Christmas trees.
‘You know that wasn’t his intention, don’t you?’
‘Your dad? Oh, yeah… but still, I’ve made a right tit of myself, again.’
‘It’ll give the workers a laugh when he starts twitching in about twenty minutes. Bless him, he gets so jittery when he tries to do anything that’s not chopping down Christmas trees.’
We both start to giggle. This is why I love Zach so much. He’s sensitive, caring… the total opposite to Bram. But, I love Bram just as much. It’s moments such as this that define how our triangular friendship has developed into such a tight bond. We support and provide for each other like no other friends I have. Even Kitty and Shazza – as kind and as caring as they are – don’t compare to the twins.
‘What?’ asks Zach.
‘Nothing.’
‘You looked like you were about to say something…’
*
Holly
‘Holly!’ hollers my mother outside our bedroom door.
It isn’t the nicest sound to wake up to on a Sunday morning but, given that I spent most of the night dreaming of Alfie, I willingly accept the yin-yang balance of life.
‘Holly, up now, before you make us all late and we have to do battle with the rest of Warwickshire.’
Hannah silently watches me from her bed; her mat of blonde curls framing her face in a cute tousled manner.
‘How comes she’s not moaning at you?’ I ask Hannah.
‘You’re the eldest, you should know better,’ she jokes, adding, ‘What’s the fuss about you on FB?’
I shake my head.
‘Something about Costa and a spoon…’ she grins. There are days I love my sisters, all six of them, but right now sharing a room isn’t one of the joys. How I long for privacy and a room to call my own.
The bedroom door bursts open, my mother storms in fully dressed in her usual black leggings and big shirt combo, a tea towel in hand, looking as if she’s been up for hours. My mother never does anything at a normal pace. Her internal gears are quick march or lightning speed. If we seven girls ever move as fast as my mother when we’re older – there’ll be no stopping us. We could have the Forth Bridge painted in two days, Buckingham Palace windows cleaned inside and out in under three hours and Big Ben’s tower washed, scrubbed and repaired by lunchtime!
‘Up the pair of yah! Your father’s screaming blue murder down there having to wait – he wants to get a tree and be back home before the footie starts.’
I don’t have time to answer – my brain doesn’t function as quickly as my mother’s.
*
Angie
I queue behind a family of nine and balk in horror at the sight of such a lively brood. How can one couple produce so many children? I scan the crowd for a male child, but there isn’t one. Once they’ve stopped skipping and bouncing they huddle round the two older girls. I can’t help but listen to their babbling conversation, as the parents stand aside talking spruce heights and prices.
I watch the youngest child wave her hands around happily as the sister jiggles her on her hip. A lump lodges in my throat as my innards tighten. I never wanted a girl; Alfie was perfect. But I’m suddenly overcome by the sight of so many young girls. I hate hormones sometimes.
The small freckly sales girl with the mousy hair isn’t about. I can’t understand why we’re queuing. The boss’s wife is buzzing about like a mad ass and I can see one of the twins, but the other is nowhere to be seen, which is strange. Maybe this year has brought about change amongst the farm staff too, though Noddy Holder’s traditional ‘It’s Christmas!’ yell from the overhead speaker system seems unaffected.
I want a six-foot-tall Blue spruce. In previous years, Nick always said ‘no’ to one, but this year I can do as I wish. I have it all planned out. I’ll purchase brand-new decorations to complement its natural colour; garlands, baubles and the star will be sparkly and fresh. This year, I can please myself.
Except Christmas is not about me. It’s about Alfie. My expectant joy disappears for a second as I remember his words on the phone this morning…
‘Why now?’
‘Alfie, please don’t speak to me like that.’
‘Seriously, Mum, why now?’
‘I just thought it would be great to spend some time together. We could visit Christmas Tree Farm and purchase my tree… then decorate together like we always do.’ I was taken aback that my son would question my motive.
‘Did! Anyway, I’m busy.’ His tone was flat.
‘Alfie?’
‘Mum?’ he retorted.
‘Is this really necessary? I’m trying to make arrangements for a pleasant day with my son and you flatly refuse me, as if I’m the wicked witch of the West.’
‘You phone up at the last minute, expecting me to drop my plans for the day in preference for yours, you mean?’
‘What’s so important that it can’t wait?’ It was bound to be a teenage thing that could wait until another day. Teenage things usually could. He simply didn’t realise yet.
‘I could ask you the same, Mum.’
Life was so much easier when he was three years of age and would gladly agree to any of my suggestions in a heartbeat. What had happened to Mummy knows best?
‘Look, Mum, the last thing I need right now is to start organising date-night with my mother. I’ve got mock exams coming up, I’ve got football trials and…’
‘And, what?’ What could be more important?
‘Well, Dad.’
Shoot me, why don’t you? I shouldn’t have interrupted him; that answer was pure karma… my punishment for not respecting my teenage son’s growing independence.
‘OK. So, when, Alfie? It’s been weeks.’
‘Months actually, Mum.’
‘Yes, OK… longer than I’d planned.’
‘I break up from school on the twenty-first, so…’
‘Alfie, I was hoping for before then. Tonight perhaps?’
‘No can do. Sorry. I have an English essay to write and then I’ve promised Dad we can do a box set of…’
A bloody box set – was I hearing him correctly? My only son would prefer to sit and waste his life on a sodding box set with his father than see me?
‘If that’s your attitude, I honestly don’t know why I bothered.’
‘Probably because I’m your son, Mum. And you should have been bothering about my welfare for the last eleven months but you haven’t… you skipped out and—’
‘Enough!’ My patience broke.
‘OK. Enough. Let me know when you’re free, Mum, and I’ll see what we can arrange, but dropping on me at such short notice really isn’t the best.’
‘Tuesday night? I could be home early, pick you up from school, cook us a nice meal.’
‘Tuesday is youth club, Mum. Thursday would be better for me.’
Thursday? Sod it; I had a late meeting at work. I couldn’t imagine my bosses at ASAP Parcel Delivery accepting my apologies; given it was our busiest time of year. Knowing the budget for overtime payments, they’d expect the payroll department to be present…
‘Can I help you?’ asks the young woman, her eager bright blue eyes staring at me amidst a smattering of freckles. I jump in surprise. What happened to the Von Trapp family of girls?
‘Sorry, in a world of my own,’ I apologise, before pointing at the Blue spruces a stone’s throw away from where we are standing.
‘Any particular height? We have three, four, five or six foot.’
There’s only one size for me and that’s six foot. Six-foot-tall, dark, lean and… Nick would always head for the Nordman fir while I lingered beside the Blue spruce hoping he’d change his mind just one year. He never did.
I follow the girl towards the designated spruces and watch as her neat little steps stride ahead. I really shouldn’t call her a girl any more – she’s obviously grown over the years and I’ve failed to notice. She is, in fact, a young woman with a pretty smile and sparkling blue eyes. Her mousy-brown hair pokes from beneath her bobble hat, she’s clomping about in heavy boots and a padded jacket but she’s fresh-faced, willing to please and attractive in a very natural way.
This wisp of a woman is as strong as an ox: she drags, stands upright and presents the spruce to me before lugging it across the busy yard towards the cashier’s log cabin. I feel quite embarrassed, as I’d have struggled, but I suppose she’s used to it after all these years.
‘Thank you,’ I say as we reach the cashier’s cabin.
‘You’re very welcome. Do you need an aftercare leaflet?’
I shrug, unsure if we were ever offered such a leaflet when purchasing a Nordman fir.
The young woman dashes to a wooden box, grabs a leaflet and returns, offering it to me.
‘Here, follow the instructions and the spruce will retain its needles for a lot longer.’ She gives a cheery smile and a nod before darting off to help the next festive customer.
How am I going to carry the spruce back to my car without Nick’s assistance? This will be a definite first.
*
Holly
Any family outing always ends in an argument. Whether it be a flying visit to McDonald’s, a family appointment at the dentist or buying the Christmas tree – Mum and Dad will spend the afternoon in silence having rowed about something, or in some cases nothing at all. Dad wants a six-foot tree that fills the Christmas tree corner spot while Mum wants a table-top-size one so that my youngest sister, Hope, doesn’t drag it from its perch now that she is walking, unlike last year when she was a cry-baby in arms.
It is embarrassing to stand watching your parents bicker back and forth as both hold onto their respective tree sizes and the young farm worker stands between them, patiently trying to help them decide. I jiggle Hope about on my hip bone, willing them to hurry up.
‘Shellie! Come on, babe,’ pleads my dad to my mum, lifting his Norway spruce up by its netted, pointy top. ‘This is a proper tree.’
‘Steve! You come on! It’s no joke when a toddler pulls it over ten times a day, believe me. I’m the one at home picking up the glass baubles before they get smashed, or eaten, or trod on, or…’ says Mum, holding a small Fraser fir, or so the label says.
I sigh. How much longer will they conduct this stand-off? My money is on Dad – he usually wins the arguments despite Mum’s silent treatment, which can linger for several days.
Ironically, ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ plays overhead as a gentle reminder that we’re supposed to be counting our blessings.
‘Shellie, we’ve always had a Norway spruce… it’s a proper Christmas tree.’
‘OK, the Norway spruce but a table-top version… three foot, four at the most.’
‘Shellie?’
I watch the other families mull around and drift away from my parents.
I know what people think. You can see it in their eyes as they view our clan, count the heads, configure the gender ratio and then look shocked that the two adults have continued to breed – that’s what it feels like sometimes. I’m not entirely sure that we seven girls will be the end of nappies. I’m sure my parents, at thirty-four, haven’t given up the idea of having a son. Personally, I’d have given up the ghost after Hayley, and definitely by Helen but, no, they continue to dream, and bonk. I used to worry when I was little that if they ever had a boy, we girls might be turfed out to an orphanage and the little prince would be their sole responsibility. Now, I realise that won’t happen, but, should they ever produce another ‘Y’ chromosome for the household, I’m sure my dad will throw a street party bigger than the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.
‘Holly, come on!’ shouts Mum. Her disgruntled tone confirms that Dad is triumphant, dragging his six-foot Norway spruce towards the cashier’s cabin. I vow to hide in my room the first time Hope pulls it over because Mum will scream blue murder until Dad gets home.
I follow my clan, hitching Hope higher onto my hip. Hope waves her arms around and shouts gibberish to the group of families as we walk by. I hear the ‘oh’ and the ‘ah’ from females as we pass – Hope’s cute, there’s no denying it, but it’s really not reason enough to keep producing offspring. Dad’s dragging his huge tree, Mum is moping after him and a smattering of little girls traipse after as I trail behind.
‘Out the way!’ a male frantically shouts just as a mass of beige fur charges through the middle of the busy crowd. I step aside and freeze, clutching Hope to my chest, as the massive curly horns of the goat are flung from side to side, instantly clearing a gangway amongst the happy families.
‘Arthur!’ The cry fills the air as several farm staff come running from all directions, armed with carrots, ropes and a yard broom. Two young men lunge and grab at the animal as it takes centre stage. Both men are identical in looks, uniform and mannerisms as one clasps the ever-moving horns and the other stands astride its back, clutching handfuls of fur. A young woman runs across and ties a rope about the goat’s neck as the crowd look on, relieved, before the trio calmly walk the creature towards an open barn.
‘Naughty!’ shouts Hope, wagging her chubby finger at the disappearing goat.
‘Yes, naughty…’ That’s when I spot her: Paris Williams, with her parents. She’s too busy yapping to notice me. She’s animated and gesturing to a woman, who I presume is her mother. She looks like a kind lady, warmly smiling as Paris chatters non-stop. A mum like any other, in a puffa jacket body-warmer, tight jeans and with blonde highlights. Her dad looks pretty ordinary too. Short back and sides, nice jumper and loafers. I hoped they were demon parents who treated her badly, which would give her an excuse to be so mean to the likes of me and mine. But they’re not. They are Mr and Mrs Pleasant, from Any Street in Normalville. Paris has no excuse to act the way she does; she’ll have been raised to have manners. I near, and Paris sees me from the corner of her eye. Paris continues to chatter, casually turning to look over her shoulder and, shock horror, it’s me and my clan. Her mouth drops wide. Her mother watches her sudden reaction, follows her gaze and silently deciphers her daughter’s expression. I smile as we come shoulder to shoulder. Paris scowls.
‘Paris?’ Her mother’s voice is curious but questioning.
‘What?’
‘Stop it. Please!’ mutters her mother, her brow furrowing before an instant smile is sent in my direction.
I continue to walk, focusing ahead yet straining to hear their conversation.
*
Nina
As soon as Boss Fielding gives permission to leave, the others dash home. I head towards the north gate so that I can walk amongst the Blue spruce along the gravel pathway to the water’s edge. It’s just a ten-minute walk, but each step removes me from reality; gone are the sales yard, the hustle of co-workers and even the heaviness I drag around each day.
Acres of silent Christmas trees stand in rows behind me as I stare across the farm’s natural lake that arcs before me. The water blackens as twilight falls. Ghostly clouds drift above against a darkening sky, throwing strange reflections upon the surface. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the sweet moist air. And, slowly exhale.
I love this spot. I’ve spent all day promising myself that I’ll come here for a few minutes to enjoy the solitude and clear my head.
Nothing bad ever happens here. In fact, nothing bad ever happens at Christmas Tree Farm. The funniest moment of today’s shift was Arthur’s poor attempt to dash for freedom – thankfully we caught him in seconds and no one was injured. The worst thing that ever happened was when Gertrude the donkey escaped for a weekend to roam free amongst the fifty-five acres. Even that ended well when she eventually came home hungry for carrots.
To my right, a flash of red catches my eye. On the nearest Blue spruce sits my fat robin, a fiery redbreast upon spindle legs, his head twitching inquisitively as he watches me.
Instantly, I feel calmer.
‘Hello,’ I whisper. I’m not one for superstitions or urban folklore but he frequently appears when I’m alone, be it here or in the sales yard. I probably sound stupid talking to a tiny Robin but… I’ll do anything to feel better for a few minutes each day.
Slowly, I reach out my hand, my fingers quivering with excitement. Nothing.
Who am I kidding? The robin sits and bobs on his spruce branch, peering at my hand before flying off in the direction of the holiday rentals; six sturdy cabins nestled amongst the mature spruce edging the lake.
In the distance, an embankment creates a secluded landscape, hedged with immature Fraser firs. When the wind is blowing in the right direction their distinct spicy fragrance drifts towards you, but not today. I select a flat stone from those scattered at the water’s lapping edge and skim it across the surface, just as my dad taught me as a child. The stone flies ahead and bounces four times before it disappears into the murky depths.
I’m losing my touch. As a youngster I could do at least five, if not six bounces.
A year ago, I stood here and endured a torrent of rain. My face stung with the relentless pelting, Mother Nature masking my sobbing tears for my father.
I can’t do that today, despite the rain being imminent. I’ve clocked off, the boss will be closing the site shortly to return to the farmhouse, and so I need to derobe my layers in the snug before heading home.
Dad’s never coming back. I know that. Tuesday sees the start of my two free days from work and I’ll make a start by organising his possessions. Tonight, I might remove his boots from the hallway, his mug from the coffee table and even empty his ashtray. Might.
*
Arriving home before the rain begins feels like a personal accomplishment for the day – overshadowing the couple of hundred spruces I sold.
The village streets are a blaze of flashing fairy lights and inflatable Santas decorating each cosy home. My cottage looks bare in comparison.
Dragging my jacket from my shoulders, I struggle to find a hook on the full coat rack, so hang it from the newel post. My shoulders ache, my stomach rumbles. I’ll eat and have a shower later, if I manage my first task. I step over and around each pair of his boots and with some trepidation head for the lounge.
Buzzing around the lounge, I repeat the winter’s night routine from my schooldays, when dad was still at work, and I’d arrive home first. I switch on the standard lamps and switch on the TV; the curtains are already drawn. ‘In for the night’, was how he’d term it. Just the two of us, cosy at home for the rest of the evening. How I wish I could return to those days of just him and me. Evenings at home spent moaning about the rubbish on TV, our disgust and sometimes tears at viewing the day’s news from around the world while we balanced dinner trays on our laps and chomped our evening meal. Who’d have thoughts that our shared irritations of life would be the thing I would want to relive and not the Christmases, the birthdays and milestones of life. Isn’t it crazy what the grieving heart desires?
I stand by the hearth staring at his coffee table. My aim is to complete my task quickly and efficiently. I won’t think about anything or anyone. I won’t imagine him seated on the sofa, will ignore his voice replaying in my mind, and his deep throaty laugh. I’ll simply pick it up, walk to the kitchen, empty and wash the ashtray. I have a choice regarding drying. I can either wipe with a fresh dry dishcloth or leave it to air dry, bottom side up, on the draining board – a sight that had greeted me most days of my life. Despite my slovenly cleaning habits, I can’t bring myself to wipe it dry on a clean tea towel.
My vision blurs as tears cascade over my lashes.
‘I can’t do this,’ I mutter to the empty lounge.
I glance at the end seat of the sofa where his frail body used to rest.
We denied Dad’s MS in our daily world, ignored the medical advice, the group sessions and offers of support or help, to ease and rectify the suffering. We got up each day, we went to bed each night and MS stood quietly watching from the corner of the lounge biding her time.
It’s now or never, as nothing good ever came from keeping a pile of grey ash.