Chapter 7
18th December
Dad made everything look so easy. He took a dozen sheets of newspaper, rolled them up into long sausage shapes and then tied them in a double knot before placing them on a bed made from the remaining sheets of my local free paper. He topped that with a couple of small logs and broke two firelighters in half, strategically placing them under the logs before setting them alight. Once the small logs had started to glow red, he rolled them on to their sides and put two slightly bigger logs across at right angles. Within fifteen minutes a decent fire was crackling in the grate, adding to the warmth already created by the radiators, now set to come on and off periodically throughout the day. All very simple when you know what you’re doing. It’s just as well he has got the heating sorted as it’s turned even colder outside. There was a very heavy overnight frost as I discovered when I went to fetch my Christmas tree in and found that the water in the bucket was frozen solid.
‘Do you think it will be okay, Dad?’ I asked, when he arrived to give me a helping hand.
He had given me a weird look.
‘Just think about what you’ve said, Carol, and then think about where fir trees grow in the wild. It’s the heat inside our houses they’re not so keen on, which is why you need to remember to keep this stand topped up with water.’
When you consider that I’m a teacher by profession, I can sometimes be incredibly lacking in common sense.
He’s currently adjusting the stand for me, to stop the tree leaning to the left, before heading off home to a roast beef lunch while I tuck into a carton of supermarket own-brand tomato soup. I don’t mind; I like tomato soup and I’ve got some yummy rosemary focaccia rolls to warm in the microwave to have with it.
‘Nice job with the painting, love,’ he says. ‘Great colour choice for the front door. Very stylish.’
I decide not to tell him about the Royal Purple fiasco.
‘Thanks. I think I’m going to leave the kitchen for the time being. There doesn’t seem to be much point in tarting it up if I’m going to put an extension on the back.’
‘You’re not thinking about doing that straightaway, are you? It’ll cost a bit and winter is never a good time to be knocking down outside walls.’
‘No. I can live with it for now while I decide if I’m going to do something similar to Matt and Sally’s next door. I had dinner with them last night and what they’ve done is perfect for the size of the cottage.’
‘It’s nice that you’ve already made friends with your neighbours. Your mum and I have been worried about you being lonely, you know, not having a boyfriend or even a lodger for company.’
Ouch! I’m sure my dad didn’t mean to be quite so brutal.
‘I’m fine, Dad. I’m actually enjoying having my own space and coming and going as I please. Not that I’m ungrateful for the roof I’ve had over my head,’ I add quickly as I see Dad’s expression. ‘It must be nice for you two to have the house to yourselves.’
‘Well, it’s certainly different. Right, there we are, a perfectly upright Christmas tree. Did you say you’ve got some fairy lights? Do you want me to help you put them on?’
‘It’s okay, Dad, you’ve done enough already. You’d better be getting off or your lunch will be spoiled.’
‘You’re right,’ Dad says, dropping a kiss on the top of my head. ‘Your mum told me to say that it’s not too late to change your mind if you want to come back with me. She said there’s plenty to go around and I can always bring you back later.’
I’m almost swayed by the thought of Mum’s fluffy roast potatoes and bloated Yorkshire puddings but I stick to my resolve.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I want to get the tree finished and then I might paint the back bedroom in the same grey as the hall. I’ve only used about a third of the tin so it will make good use of the rest and at least the room would look nicer if anyone wanted to stay over.’
‘Well, we’ll see you on the twenty-third then and we’ll take you back with us so we can drive over to Noella’s together on Christmas Eve like usual.’
‘Or maybe you and Mum could stay over on the twenty-third?’ Clearly my earlier hint wasn’t direct enough. ‘We could go to Noella’s from here. It’s closer, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe next year, love, when you’re a bit more organised.’
He’s already halfway down the path so he won’t have seen my disappointed expression.
The soup tasted surprisingly good and, once fortified, I went to fetch the box of second-hand decorations from my spare bedroom. Actually, on closer inspection, they don’t look as though they have ever been used, unless Annie was particularly fastidious about taking care of them. I remove the top layer of tinsel to get at the lights, which always go on the tree first in my parent’s house. My mum will stand on the other side of the room directing my dad until she’s happy that the lights are evenly spaced. I don’t have anyone to do that for me so I’m up and down like a yo-yo, turning the lights on to check the colour distribution and off again if I need to move anything. I don’t know why I’m being so particular when there is no-one to please but me. I had initially thought that Annie’s colour choice was random but now that I’ve unwrapped all the baubles I can see she had a colour scheme after all. The lights are five colours; red, blue, green, yellow and clear and she has almost mirrored that in the baubles, swapping in gold and silver for the yellow and clear. Same with the tinsel, except there is no silver, she had selected the string of silver beads instead.
Once I’ve finished draping the tree with the fluttery tinsel, saving a couple of strands for the mirror over the fireplace and the picture in my bedroom, the only one I have on the walls so far, I reach for the star to crown my creation and that’s when I notice. The first time I saw the red envelope, I had paid more attention to the card and its desperate message within so I hadn’t really noticed the writing on the front, but now a shiver has run down my spine. There, in distinctive handwriting which I immediately recognise as the same as on the pink envelope currently propped up on the shelf in my hallway, is the name Leanne Sykes, with my address underneath. I check the postmark, which is 11th December the previous year. Annie must be Jake’s abbreviation of Leanne and it looks like he’s sent her another Christmas card a year on from the last one. I have an overwhelming feeling of sadness in my heart. I had hoped that her disappearance was as a result of her forgiving him for whatever he had done wrong and that they were now living happily ever after but it looks like I’m wrong. Just to be absolutely sure, I fetch the pink envelope from the shelf and sink on to my sofa, a card in each hand, comparing the two. There’s no mistake. I desperately want to know what he has to say this time but it’s a bit different reading a card that has already been opened and tampering with someone else’s mail. I could probably go to prison for that.
The light is fading as I sit debating with myself what I should do. Half of me thinks I should stick with Plan A: ring Rob at his office tomorrow morning, to see if I can get Leanne’s parents’ number and tell them about the card. But even if I get it, what if they just want to protect their daughter from further heartbreak and they tell me to throw the card in the bin? Leanne may never be made aware that Jake has tried to contact her again. Plan B is that I should steam open the card and see what Jake has to say this time. Maybe he is over her and just wants closure, but somehow, I doubt it. What I need to ask myself is what I hope to achieve by interfering? Do I seriously believe that I can act as some kind of counsellor and get the two back together? That’s ridiculous, I decide, and put the card back on the shelf in the hall. Plan A it is. It’s none of my business.