A Christmas Wish by Erin Green (11)

Flora

The church clock striking woke me with a start – freezing cold, yet fully dressed on top of the tufted bedspread with a trail of dribble sliding down my right cheek.

It took a moment to figure out where I was.

I hadn’t wanted to face the visiting in-laws downstairs in the pub; I’d spent all afternoon perched in the alcove while the locals politely smiled in my direction before daring to ask their questions. Thankfully Annie kept them at bay with her frosty looks and threats to send them home.

She invited me to share a Christmas dinner with her and Mick – which was kind of them. I helped her where I could by peeling sprouts and chopping parsnips but I was in the way most of the time. After closing the bar, Mick sat in their lounge watching a rerun of ‘The Wizard of Oz’.

At six o’clock the polite chatter began to wane.

‘You’re more than welcome to join us for the evening, we’ll probably veg in front of the TV until Mick’s family pop around for a drink later,’ offered Annie, as we washed up the pots.

I chose to stay in my room instead; it had been a long day.

I’d felt guilty asking for a plate of cheese and biscuits and a couple of glasses of wine. If the truth were known, I needed peace and quiet. It wasn’t as if this was a planned holiday, I’d simply upped sticks and dashed off, be it out of instinct or a morbid curiosity, but now I needed a plan.

‘Sorry to cause such a fuss,’ I’d said, when Annie arrived at room five laden with a tray.

‘Nonsense lovey, it’s my pleasure, it’s not as if I’m a busy mum running about after a couple of teenagers,’ she replied, turning from the mirrored dresser, now my makeshift dining table. ‘I brought you a bottle rather than two glasses, at least that way it survives my trudge up the stairs – I’d have knocked two glasses flying in the blink of an eye.’

I’d laughed. She’d laughed.

And then we’d stood in an uncomfortable ‘what now?’ moment. I’d filled the silence with another round of ‘thank you’s’ for being so nice, for making my Christmas meal and for asking her friend to open up her local boutique. How the locals would have stared had I still been wearing last night’s dress. Annie batted each comment aside like a Wimbledon pro on centre court.

I like her. I feel she likes me.

‘You’ll shout if there’s anything else you need, won’t you?’ she’d said, promptly leaving me in peace to contemplate the events of the day.

Within minutes I have cleared my plate and began sheepishly answering my texts in a poor attempt to reassure my mother that I was still alive and not jumping from some ridiculously high bridge into a freezing river.

I’d repositioned the room’s TV enabling me to lie on the double bed, stare at the aged comedy and think, while supping my wine. My fingers instantly took comfort at plucking the tufted bedspread while downstairs the constant drone of muffled laughter suggested that Mick’s family had arrived.

Somewhere within a radius of this pub was my biological mother. I found it hard to believe that this was the nearest I’d been to her since that October morning. Did she know I was here? Had someone mentioned me to her whilst visiting family? What had been her reaction? Shock? Horror? Delight?

I presume the former, as Darren had been the only one to dash through the pub doors to embrace me. How amazing was that? Though how funny was him saying ‘you’ve grown’?

Joel seemed the decent sort, and despite the busted nose, a tad good looking for an officer of the law – though his duty partner wasn’t bad either. Or was that fascination because he’d slapped cuffs on me and taken control of my freedom? Was the Stockholm effect purely for kidnappings? I shake my head and giggle.

I grab my mobile phone from the bed beside me: twelve thirty.

I have a text message from my parents:

I reply with a row of kisses.

Bless her. Mum never fails to be a loving mum twenty-four hours a day.

Boy, it’s quiet.

I suddenly become aware of the strange eeriness. I know Christmas day is different but do village pubs kick out early? Will it always be so quiet this time of night? On an ordinary night back home, the pub and club scene would still be buzzing. Many a night me and the girls hadn’t left home much before midnight to head towards the action, this time of night the fun was starting and yet here, silence.

In seconds, I was pacing the floor.

I’m right to be doing this. I know I am. This might be my only chance to focus on me. No new man to distract my thoughts or time. No Julian to fawn over. This is my time to focus on me. Lisa had her mad tattoo phase and crazy hair dye stage – we all accepted that. Steph had her gap year shag jolly round the globe – we all accepted her decision, after we’d plied her with an endless supply of condoms. This right here, right now, could be my phase. My I-want-the-truth-and-I-want-it-now phase – others will have to accept my decisions and be grateful for knowing where they came from.

I continue to walk in circles.

I need fresh air.

I scramble for my killer heels from party night, sensible replacements were not available in the local boutique and so I slip them onto my feet, before grabbing my room key.

My heels resound on the staircase as I fly down and emerge in a surprised fashion into the now low-lit, empty bar.

‘Hi there, you OK?’

I’m startled to find Mick, Annie’s husband, lying flat out on the floor behind the bar.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, as I couldn’t ignore his predicament.

‘Don’t mind me, my back’s giving me jib… is there anything I can get you?’

‘Nothing thanks. I wanted some fresh air,’ I point toward the pub doors. ‘Are they open or do I need a key?’

‘Open, just push… will you be long?’ he calls after me, as I head for the exit.

‘Twenty minutes at the most,’ I shout, as the door chime dances.

The Peacock’s door swings closed behind me. The cold air hits me like a sledgehammer, I regret having left my blanket in my room.

The Square is silent, not a soul in sight, just me and an arrangement of orange neon lamplights illuminating a series of empty benches set round the community Christmas tree. The church spire punctures the inky black canopy glistening with diamonds.

I don’t think. I simply walk towards the church. My ankles taking a battering upon the aged cobbles as my heels slip between the stones.

I’m not religious. I’ve never truly embraced the concept but like-wise never consciously rejected the values taught at Sunday school. I suppose I cherry pick the nice stories. I adore the Nativity scene each Christmas, repeat the ‘Amen’ in services and cheekily seek St Anthony’s help when I’ve lost anything from car keys to a lottery ticket. I was christened. I have Godparents. And given that I was once named after its angels surely no one can complain if I seek solace inside. Right now, it’s where I want to be. It might even be a place my mother once went.

I tiptoe along the pathway towards the arched doorway of St Bede’s, beneath the glare of huge floodlights and silent angels.

My hand reaches for the large iron ring. Twist. Locked!

‘For the love of God!’ I spit. ‘The only moment of my life when I’ve actively sought comfort inside a church and it’s locked – thanks a bunch!’ I traipse back along the pathway, disgruntled that even the church rejects me. Ironic, or what?

There’s only one place to go.

I take a left turn as I step from God’s path and head towards St Bede’s Mews, the only other spot I can claim to know. The archway is before me, the ornate railings are highlighted by the lamplight and the pavement before the Mews has a huge pile of orange sand spread thickly to cover where a police officer was attacked.

The small row of houses replicates glossy images from Homes and Gardens magazine.

I tightly wrap my fingers around the wrought iron gateposts and stare. The downstairs lights are dowsed but a homely glow exudes from the edges of bedroom curtains. I imagine the occupants snuggled up and warm issuing each other goodnights and blessing sweet dreams on anything that snores in a style similar to the Walton’s goodnight routine.

My phone vibrates in my handbag. After a rummage, I withdraw it to see one message from Julian.

I instantly delete it.

How would he know? Does he even know my parents are away on holiday? Who the hell does he think he is?

I return the mobile to my bag and focus on my own quest.

Why couldn’t I have been born inside a house like this? Started life with a pink painted nursery crammed with Disney characters? Instead I got a crappy bath towel and a bare arse.

My throat constricts as warm tears trickle down my cheeks.

*