A Christmas Wish by Erin Green (22)

Flora

‘Morning Gene,’ I say, coming down for breakfast, surprised to see him seated at the bar.

‘Morning,’ he answers but instantly stands up, taking his half-eaten breakfast into the private living quarters of the pub.

I stare along the bar at Annie querying what I said wrong?

‘Don’t worry lovey, a bad night in their house so he’s kipped here, but don’t you worry about that pair… fiery relationship if you ask me. Here’s your morning tea – do you want a cooked breakfast?’

I nod, as I settle in my alcove.

‘Has Melanie kicked him out?’

‘Nah, nothing like that, just another stupid row… it’ll blow over,’ she produces a fake smile. ‘But have you seen your display board?’

I stare up at the alcove wall, taking in the multitude of new pins and flags.

‘It’s coming along, isn’t it?’ she adds.

‘It is but there doesn’t seem to be many connections – it’s great knowing where people lived, but it’s the relationships, the fall outs, the drama and gossip that I need.’

Annie’s face drops.

‘Is it not helping?’

‘Yes and no. I spoke to Doctor Fowler yesterday but it was all very factual and precise about me being found. I know the basics – I’ve read the article a million times. What I need is a gossipy old lady who hasn’t got Alzheimer or dementia, who I can take to tea for a good old chin wag about the olden days.’

‘Less of the olden days, thank you!’ laughs Annie.

Mick comes from their living quarters through into the bar.

‘Morning Flora… the young officer left you a note last night, here,’ says Mick, handing over a slip of paper.

I quickly unfold the paper and read aloud.

I look up to see Annie and Mick grinning at each other.

‘What?’ I ask bashfully, folding the note.

‘What? she says… like she hasn’t got a bloody clue,’ says Annie, snuggling up to Mick.

‘Bloody women, us guys make it as obvious as we can and you still give us the run-around.’

‘Hey Mick, do you remember that programme Runaround with Mike Reid… I used to love the way he shouted it,’ says Annie, dipping from beneath his arm.

‘Runaround!’ bellows Mick, before darting into the gap made by the open hinged bar and holding onto the bar edges. Annie runs about and yet goes nowhere. I haven’t a clue what programme they’re on about but both are laughing and acting like big kids.

‘See what you’ve started – everyone’s drifting back to the Eighties since you arrived.’

Yes, but not too many are linked to my birth mum.

The pub door burst open sending the chime swinging on its tiny hook. Mick and Annie’s laughter ceases as Melanie storms into the bar, her face like thunder.

‘Where’s Gene?’

‘In the back enjoying a quiet breakfast,’ answers Mick, thumbing towards the living quarters. ‘So please don’t…’

‘I don’t give a shit what you lot think!’ she shouts, pointing at Mick. ‘I’m not the mother of that baby… and if I have to keep defending myself till my dying day, I will!’

‘Excuse me?’ I call from the alcove.

Annie shakes her head slowly.

‘Sorry… no offence but you aren’t looking for me – despite what folk say,’ shouts Melanie. ‘One day this village will apologise for the hurtful things you’ve all said about me. I’ll be gracious and accept their piteous attempts but I’ll never forgive them for the damage they’ve caused.’

I watch as the heat of her anger subsides into tears.

‘Melanie,’ says Mick, starting to walk towards the quivering form.

‘Don’t!’ she yells, refusing Mick’s hug. ‘And now Gene’s gone on another of his sulks.’

‘It’s what blokes do when it suits ‘um,’ adds Annie. ‘Get used to it, Mel.’

Is this what my search was costing the local community? I want the ground to open and swallow me whole.

Melanie turns on her heels and flees from the pub, leaving three stunned faces exchanging silent glances. Gone was the Runaround laughter, the joviality of the morning dashed as the door chime swung back and forth.

*

I wolf down my breakfast in record time, as the day had suddenly gained importance thanks to Joel’s note. I dash back to room five, apply a dab of make-up, not much because I haven’t that much to hand.

I reread his note, there wasn’t a stipulated time but surely any reasonable person would know or at least assume that I’d be up, dressed, breakfasted and waiting by nine o’clock. Surely?

No.

I sit for a short time in the bar impatiently, Annie craftily involves me in glass cleaning and polishing so when the church clock strikes eleven and the door chime sounds I am quite absorbed.

‘Hi,’ smiles Joel, crossing the bar in a spritely manner.

His bruising looks horrendous: a double blob of deep purple and green like a tainted superhero mask.

A chorus of ‘Hi’ rises from Annie and myself, though I notice she quickly disappears into the back leaving us alone – as subtle as a brick, Annie.

As he waits for me to collect my belongings my phone vibrates on the table.

I smile as the screen illuminates: ‘cheating bastard’.

‘Nice, have all your contacts such descriptive names?’ asks Joel, nodding towards the vibrating phone.

I blush, at such a juvenile stunt.

‘No, but he deserves it.’

Joel gives a nod.

‘Could I request ‘decent chap’ or even ‘Friday night date’ as my name?’

I’m taken aback, being so brazen didn’t appear to be his style.

‘You’re not in my phone.’

‘Maybe I should be.’

My cheeks are burning; I’m not used to this flirting.

I simply stare and watch his eyes search mine.

‘Either name will do, alphabetically it’ll place me after him,’ Joel grins at his own smartness.

I can’t think of a clever answer so fumble with the phone before quickly putting it away.

Within minutes we’d shouted our goodbyes, left the bar and were striding across the yellow slush piles of The Square towards St Bede’s Mews.

‘How are we?’ he asks, zipping his jacket against the cold.

‘I’m fine, the display board has exploded with new information but nothing that connects or suggests a name.’

I pull my coat collar up, having gratefully borrowed yet another item of clothing from Annie.

Joel smiles.

‘That’s where I come in… my Grandpop has lived in Pooley all his life, he’s got a memory like an elephant and can talk for England.’

‘Just what I need!’ I can hear the excitement in my own voice.

‘Exactly, so I figured he was an invaluable source.’

‘Are we meeting up?’

‘No, he doesn’t walk too well and doesn’t like visitors either, so…’ Joel pulls a notebook from his inner pocket. ‘I called round last night, which was why I didn’t pop down to The Peacock, and took notes so we have plenty to work from.’

I choke back a wave of gratitude before I can even begin to look at him, let alone thank him.

‘Thank you so much… this is exactly what I need,’ my voice trails as his dark brown eyes bore into mine. Stop staring and finish your sentence. ‘I owe you one, big time!’

A broad smile crinkles the sides of his bruised eyes and a vigorous nod confirms it.

‘And I’ll hold you too that, come on let’s start at the church.’ He strides off, I remain in situ. ‘Come on, don’t lag… and change your face, I know your story isn’t linked except by nickname – but you need to know what was once the heart of this community. Now, hurry up.’

I trot behind him, my feet squelching in a pair of borrowed boots. I must purchase some of my own tomorrow; I can’t keep switching between party shoes and Annie’s generous nature.

In minutes, we are treading the pathway that I’d tried a few nights before.

‘It’ll be locked up. I came over the other night.’

I watch as Joel confidently twists the iron ring on the oak door: open sesame.

‘Depends who you know, doesn’t it?’

He pushes the door wide open and stands aside, allowing me to enter first.

‘But… but…’

‘Father Maguire is waiting for you, go through,’ he whispers, nodding towards the depths of the church.

Annie’s boots resound on the mosaic floor, as my eyes take in the rainbow of colour in the stained glass.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I gasp.

‘I know.’ Was his only comment, before he nods towards the large crucifix and crosses himself before striding the length of the aisle between the dark wooden pews towards the altar.

Am I supposed to do that?

I perform an awkward nod but nothing more, then stumble along the carpeted aisle in pursuit of Joel.

At the altar, Joel takes a right turn cutting across the front pew, which is empty but for a pile of fabric covered hymn books, and heads towards an arched doorway.

‘Joel wait!’

He doesn’t answer me, I simply follow.

The door opens into a huge changing area where various coloured robes hang on individual hooks set into the stone walls. An array of boots and black shoes are slung beneath the long benches on the far side. On the black and white tiled floor there are open boxes of candles in various shapes and sizes, some red, some blue.

‘The floor tiling is amazing.’

Joel scrunches up his brow and peers at me.

‘What?’ I point at the geometric mosaic of tiles. ‘I’ve never seen this area of a church before.’

He ignores me.

‘Father?’ calls Joel, beckoning me through another doorway. ‘Father Maguire?’

‘Is this where he lives?’

‘Shush, please!’

Cheek. I was only asking.

I pout.

Joel turns his back to me; repeating his call towards the connecting oak door.

‘Joel, my boy…’ the second door swings wide revealing a rotund man in his later years, wearing dark robes, his outstretched hands clasp Joel’s hand warmly and shakes it before pointing to his bruised face. ‘Ouch, that looks nasty.’

Great, even the church knows about the accidental head-butt.

‘Hello Father Maguire, nice to see you looking so well.’

‘The pleasure is mine, my lad. And who is this?’

‘Father this is Flora… the lady I called about earlier.’

‘My, oh my… the very lady herself. We’ve heard a lot about you this last week.’

Really?

‘Hello.’

‘You’ve got everyone’s tongues wagging, hasn’t she, Joel?’ says Father Maguire. ‘Anyway, come through, I’ve arranged for a tea tray in my study.’

He turns, leading us through the second doorway, Joel waves me past and falls in line at the back of the procession.

My eyes grow wide as I’m led through a network of stone corridors: high ceilings, flagstone floors and decorative windows before we reach another impressive carved door through which we arrive into a carpeted hallway.

Father Maguire enters, changing his shoes into slippers waiting beside the door. I glance at Joel – that’s the sort of thing my dad would do.

‘Is this where he lives?’ I silently mouth.

‘Yes, the presbytery!’ mutters Joel in the same mouthing manner, though I could tell his tone of voice would have been snappy had it been louder.

It’s not my fault, I don’t know what I don’t know. Obviously, he’s been brought up with all these traditions and routines, especially as he’s been called ‘my boy’ and ‘my lad’.

‘Joel was one of our finest choir boys when he was a youngster, weren’t you?’ says Father Maguire, as his slippers flip-flop along the hallway. ‘One of the best we’ve had here.’

‘Joel hasn’t mentioned that little detail,’ I say, beaming a sneaky smile in Joel’s direction. He slowly shakes his head.

‘Not quite, Father. I can sing but I’m sure there are plenty of good choir boys in this village.’

‘Name me one better than you, Joel?’ teases Father Maguire, his blue eyes shining.

I watch as a slight flush comes to Joel’s cheeks.

‘As I thought, you can’t,’ continues Father Maguire. ‘He’s a decent sort young lady, so mind you tread carefully… I wouldn’t want to see him hurt again.’

‘Father,’ appeals Joel in haste.

Father Maguire smiles before leading us into his study.

‘Come through, take a seat.’

The roar of the coal fire warms my cheeks as I enter.

Within seconds I’m sitting in a comfortable fireside chair, Joel sits opposite me, Father Maguire is on the adjacent couch besides which awaits the tea tray and a huge plate of biscuits on a side table.

‘Shall I?’ asks Joel, indicating the tray.

‘Please, I can get to know this young lady and maybe help in her quest.’

Joel busies himself pouring tea.

‘What is it you’d like to know?’

I remove my coat and drape it across the arm of the chair.

‘Absolutely anything to be honest, Father… I know nothing apart from my discovery on the doorstep,’ I explain. I venture further mentioning that Darren has been in touch, that Betty at the library showed me pieces from subsequent newspapers and that the display at The Peacock grows by the hour but so much seems to be missing or unconnected.

‘I see, and me being the old goat that I am could hold a vital piece that starts you on the right track?’

‘Something like that or at least your confessional box could,’ says Joel, handing me a quivering china tea cup, before handing Father Maguire one.

‘Thank you… I would prefer a large mug, but I bet she hasn’t laid one out, has she?’ he mutters.

‘No, just biscuits,’ laughs Joel, returning for the plate of goodies and his china cup.

‘More’s the pity,’ he mutters. ‘You understand that I can’t break the faith of the confessional?’

‘Of course, she wouldn’t want you to but maybe you remember something of that time to point her in the right direction,’ says Joel, settling himself after offering the biscuits around. ‘For instance, I remember when I was at school Rosie Bradshaw stood on an art room table to announce that she was expecting a baby with Steve Hopkins… it wasn’t true but it showed they’d played about and I’ve never forgotten the look on his face as he stood staring up at her – the teacher was furious but the damage was done. I haven’t seen Steve for years and yet, I remember that moment.’

‘I see.’

Father Maguire pauses, eats two bourbons and slurps his tea.

Joel smiles in my direction as the silence stretches. I sip my tea and nibble at a custard cream.

‘Eighty-six you say?’

‘Correct,’ confirms Joel, watching his wizened features.

‘We were raising money for the new roof back then,’ he mutters. ‘It took so long it became a community joke – St Editha’s in the next village beat us in no time.’

I screw my face up at Joel.

This bloke seemed great but on second thoughts.

‘Shhh,’ mouths Joel in my direction. ‘What was that, Father?’

‘Eighty-five was a bad winter for us here at St Bede’s… you won’t remember, Joel – you were just a babe in arms but the roof leaked terribly. We had plastic buckets all over the place catching the dripping rainwater. Enough was enough when it poured through the ceiling on the McNally wedding – shame that… a beautiful service totally ruined. Anyway, the church council finally agreed we needed to raise funds so we had one of those ghastly fund raising boards pitched out the front beside the trees. Each week the W.I. ladies wanted to up-date it… they drove me potty adding a millimetre of red paint to show the week’s new total… foolish really but they insisted that it would boost donations. I let them do it but really, I despise such carbuncles in front of my church. Ridiculous really given that by the following December some bugger had stripped the new lead from the roof and we had to ask the church council for financial support. But maybe…’

I stare intently at Joel.

What the hell?

Joel bares his teeth at me.

‘And how might that be important, Father?’ I ask, not sure that I wanted to hear more W.I. fairy tales.

‘I have long thought that the charity fund raising for a new lead roof might have played a part…’

‘Why?’ asks Joel, before I could utter my confusion.

‘The teenagers… they used to… you know… behind it.’

I wait for him to finish his sentence, nodding encouragement.

‘You know… copulate behind it.’

Joel spits his tea down his shirt and into his lap.

‘Father!’

My face went into a spasm of shock, my mouth gapes and I flush deep crimson.

‘Fear not young man… we had to take it down because it was becoming quite an issue for us.’

‘Father Maguire! Flora are you OK?’ asks Joel, mopping his lap with a paper serviette.

‘The ladies of the W.I. put up a great fight but we couldn’t ignore the situation any longer. The young folk showed such little respect back then, and once the hoarding was erected, well…’ he peers over at me. ‘I have always wondered if your dear self was a result of…’

‘That’s quite a revelation,’ laughs Joel.

‘You were born in October, yes?’

I nod; words were currently not my strong point.

Father turns to Joel, as though man’s talk was about to occur.

‘New Year joviality and then…’ he waves a hand in my direction.

‘I see.’ Joel gives a nod.

‘Great, so you’re suggesting I was conceived behind your raise the roof hoarding!’ I gasp.

‘Flora, you’re missing the point… it’s not the billboard hoarding but maybe the New Year revellers included youngsters enjoying… teenage kicks.’

‘Great, it gets better… I was the result of a teenage fumble… a drunken one at that… oh, isn’t it great that she deposited, sorry abandoned me in sight of the church and my conception spot. Am I supposed to be thrilled about this or deeply ashamed that the beginning of my sodding existence is such a mess and is getting decidedly tacky and dirty as the days go by?’

The flood of tears stops my rant as my voice subsides to miming and mouthing. I crumple in the armchair.

A pair of arms are around my shoulders in an instant, I look up to view a blurred vision of Joel kneeling before me.

‘My dear, your beginning isn’t what defines you… believe me. Our Lord was born in a stable.’

‘The teenagers gather where they can for some laughs and teenage kicks,’ adds Joel, stroking my hair.

‘The youth club used to be located on the far side of the archway, so the drunken antics of the young spilled into The Square,’ adds Father Maguire.

‘Where many an adult fumble has occurred after a few too many in The Peacock,’ adds Joel, conjuring a white tissue from his pocket to wipe a tear from my cheek, and stroking his thumb gently along my jaw line to collect the line of dripping tears.

‘Thank you,’ I hiccup, as he stands and resettles in the chair opposite.

‘I don’t think anyone understands how upsetting this is. My birth mother is out there, somewhere close by and all I want is to meet her, speak to her and get answers… if she doesn’t want to see me again after that, fine. I’ll respect her wishes. I’ve come this far without her and… although my life is a mess. I’ve done OK for myself. I’ll cope whatever her reaction but at least I’ll know her name. I’ll have seen her face… even if she refuses to see me afterwards.’

‘And will that be enough?’ asks Joel, his gaze fixed upon me.

‘Honestly, I’m not asking anything more of her than to answer some basic questions. The rest is up to her… I’ll leave here and go back to Bushey.’

‘I hope not,’ mutters Joel.

What did he say? I look up, his expression looks hurt.

‘What?’ I ask, unsure that I heard correctly.

Joel wets his lips but remains silent.

‘He said, I hope not… make of that what you will!’ says Father Maguire.

A million words pass between us in a few seconds of silence before Father Maguire interrupts.

‘Anyone for more tea?’