Chapter Thirteen
"So, it is Kit Carroll you're meant to save." Don crunched his chocolate digestive and eyed me thoughtfully. "What are you going to do about it?"
Mum nudged him. "Don't encourage her, for God's sake. She's daft enough."
"I knew you wouldn't believe me," I said, somewhat annoyed. I gestured appealingly to Don. "See what I have to put up with? You believe me, don't you?"
Don glanced at my mother, as if asking permission to give affirmation. Mum stared at him a moment, then burst out, "Well, don't look at me. You're allowed an opinion, even if it is stark staring bonkers."
"I'm not entirely sure I believe you," Don said slowly. "I did say, when you first mentioned the idea that you'd been brought back to save someone, that I thought it were, well ..."
"Bollocks," I reminded him, helpfully.
"Aye, well." He looked a bit uncomfortable.
"You were right," Mum said. "I've never heard such rubbish in all my life." She narrowed her eyes at me. "This isn't like you. You're a real cynic. This is more like Olivia. She's the one with her head in the clouds. Is this her idea? Has she been watching that film again? The one with the useless angel and the miserable old bugger in the wheelchair?"
Don let out a shout of laughter. "By heck, I've never heard It's a Wonderful Life described like that before."
"Knew what I meant, though, didn't you?" she pointed out.
"One of the best films ever made," he said. "If not the best."
"I prefer Santa Claus, The Movie," she confessed, leaving him to splutter in horror and cough chocolate digestive crumbs all over her sofa.
"Thanks very much for this fascinating discussion on popular culture, but what am I going to do about Kit Carroll?" I demanded, too het up to remember to call him Christopher—something I'd rigidly stuck to as a point of principle, in spite of his frequent pleas for me to call him Kit. "He's going to bring the factory to its knees, at this rate, and he's turning everyone against him."
"Gutted about Miller's," Don admitted. "You can't beat their spicy chicken wings. Highlight of my culinary calendar, is that."
"Why don't we go one evening?" Mum suggested. "Just the two of us?"
His eyes lit up. "Ooh, sounds grand. I'll book it. Shall I see if I can get Christmas week?"
As she nodded enthusiastically, I sighed in exasperation. "Hello? I need your help, people. Crisis here."
"Look, Marley, if you've really been sent to save him, shouldn't you have all the answers? You're the one who died, after all. Surely, if you'd been given a mission, you'd have been told what to do."
"That's not how it works, at all," I said crossly. "No one told Clarence how to save George Bailey. He had to figure it out for himself."
"Then, maybe you need to figure it out for yourself," Mum said, "and not involve us with all this crap."
"I dunno, love," Don said thoughtfully. "Maybe she's got a point."
"Oh, please. Seriously?"
He stroked his chin, as if considering the matter. "I'm not saying Marley is an angel, or anything like that. I'm not even saying she was saved for this reason—or any other reason, come to that. I just think it were right lucky that Kit Carroll happened to be in that pub, at that moment, and knew what to do. Like, fate, you might say. And, you know, they have got history, after all."
"History?" Mum laughed. "She had a crush on him in primary school. It's hardly Antony and Cleopatra, is it?"
I winced as my nails dug into my palms.
"Should hope not," Don said. "We all know what happened to those two. But the point is, Kit's clearly struggling. He may own the factory, but he doesn't seem to have any idea how to run it. He's doing his best, but let's be honest, his people skills are crap."
"And Marley's aren't?" Mum eyed me knowingly. "Match made in heaven, if you ask me."
"There you go!" Don winked at her. "You said it."
"Oh, for God's sake." I stood up. Even I thought that was pushing it. "I'll try to figure this out for myself. You two are useless."
"Well, if you're sure."
There was a definite light in my mother's eye. Clearly, she wanted to spend time alone with Don. It was a weird feeling, knowing Mum had fallen for another man, but there was no more denying it. Even with their obvious disagreement over my mission, there was something between them. An easy familiarity, an affection, a bond. They were made for each other.
Like David and Olivia, I thought wistfully.
"I'm sure,” I said. “I'm going to see Great Uncle Charles. Make sure he's still getting better."
"Did his shopping arrive all right?" Mum followed me through to the kitchen and opened the back door for me. In spite of the fact that it meant walking around the side of the house to get to the street, no one ever used the front door. It would just have felt weird.
"Oh, yes." I rolled my eyes. "Not that he appreciated it. Said I'd sent him a load of rubbish that he didn't even like, and what was wrong with the budget brands? I don't know how he dare complain. It's not as if he paid for it."
My mother's eyes widened. "You bought his shopping?"
I blushed. "Well, he needed food. He had nothing in, and I had no access to his account so ..."
"And hasn't the tight old bugger offered to pay you back?"
I shook my head. "He's not been well, though," I added quickly, wondering, as I did so, why I felt the compunction to defend my miserly relative. "I'm sure he will, when he's back to normal."
We looked at each other. I wondered if my mother was thinking what I was thinking—Great Uncle Charles returning to normal was unlikely to result in him handing out any money, whether he owed it, or not.
I sighed. "It doesn't matter. I'll see you later, Mum. Have a good afternoon."
It was her turn to blush, and noting the pink on my mother's cheeks, I wondered uncomfortably exactly what her plans were for the rest of the day.
Ugh! I didn't think I wanted to know, on second thoughts. Was my mother finally ready to take the next step with Don? Don!
Double ugh! I didn't want to think about that, either.
Hastily, I waved Mum goodbye and dashed out of the house.
***
Great Uncle Charles seemed much more like his old self, greeting me at the door and telling me I'd better not be planning on staying long because he had a book to read.
"Really? What is it?"
"Fifty Shades of Paint and How to Watch Them Dry. Still more riveting than a chat with you."
"Ah, I see you're feeling well again," I said. "Cup of tea?"
"Go on, then," he said, shuffling into the living room. "And don't put too much in the pot! That stuff you bought is strong enough to strip varnish. Waste of money."
"My money," I muttered. Heading into the kitchen, I pulled a face on seeing the quantity of dirty dishes sitting in the sink. "I'll wash the pots first," I called through to him.
"Suit yourself," he replied, without so much as a hint of gratitude in his tone.
I rolled up my sleeves and began to sort out the dishes. Why couldn't he get a dishwasher like everyone else? Not that I had one myself, mind. No room for it in my poky little kitchen.
Looking round, I realised there was no room for it in his kitchen, either. Not without ripping out the units and starting again, which was just what I'd do when the house was mine. The kitchen must have been in situ for at least thirty years, I thought. Maybe even longer. It was horrible. I would have cream glossy units, when Fox Lodge belonged to me, and I'd get rid of that tatty wooden back door, and the manky old dresser beside it, and install French doors opening out onto the garden.
The garden was another thing, I thought, filling the bowl with hot water and adding a squirt of washing up liquid. It would need completely digging up and starting again. A few gallons of weed-killer would be on my shopping list, too. I imagined it completely finished, with new fencing, neat turf, borders of flowers, and a large decking area with superior garden furniture—not the cheap, plastic tat Mum had in her garden. I could have summer barbecues and buffets, and invite people round to admire the fully-refurbished house.
I tried to ignore the thought that, really, who would I invite? Olivia, David, the boys, Mum and Don? Wow. Hardly worth opening a pack of deluxe top-quality venison burgers for, was it?
"Took your time." Great Uncle Charles put down his paper and reached for the cup I held out to him, over half an hour later. "I could have croaked it in here, for all you knew."
"I had to wash up, and clean the kitchen. It was quite disgusting in there," I said.
"I've been ill, remember?" Although, it had to be said, cleaning wasn't something an old man of his age should be expected to do, anyway, ill, or not.
I glanced round, noticing, as if for the first time, the amount of dust in the place. "I'll come back tomorrow and clean up for you. Do you have a Hoover?"
"Of course I have a bloody Hoover." He sipped his tea. "Mind you, not sure if it still works. Don't think I've plugged it in since nineteen-eighty-seven."
I wasn't entirely sure he was joking. "Okay, well, I'll bring rubber gloves and disinfectant and polish. We'll soon get this place looking decent again."
Great Uncle Charles had a distinct gleam in his eye, which made me rather nervous.
"What is it?" I said warily.
He put his cup on the table and smirked at me. "Who said it was anything?"
"I know that look. You look pleased with yourself, which means it's bad news for me, or some other poor sod. What have you been up to?"
He nodded over at the ancient television set that stood in the corner. "Top of the telly. Someone shoved it through the letterbox this morning. Made most interesting reading."
Frowning, I went over and picked up said envelope from atop a television set that could have been a talking point on The Antiques Roadshow.
"To the homeowner," I read aloud, then opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. As I scanned the letter inside at record speed, my heart thudded, and I read it again, more slowly that time, making sure I'd taken it all in. "You're kidding me! Who are these people?"
"No idea," he said with a shrug, which belied the delight in his voice. Clearly, the whole thing amused him greatly. "Food for thought, though, eh?"
"No way!" I sank into the chair. "You're not serious?"
"Why not? Think about it. You've said yourself—many times—that Fox Lodge is way too big for me, and this couple want it. They're keen to buy in this area, and they have two kiddies, so the house would certainly be more suitable for them than me. Or you, come to that. If it's too big for me, it's going to be too big for you, too. Maybe I should call them. Ask them how much they're willing to pay."
My mind was in turmoil. He wouldn't, would he? Fox Lodge was at the centre of all my plans. I'd got so many ideas for it, knew exactly how it would look when it was completed. I could picture it so clearly. I loved this house. It already felt like mine. He wouldn't. "You'd get peanuts for it," I said desperately. "Look at the state of it! It needs complete refurbishment."
"They want a project," he reminded me, nodding at the letter. "Says they've been looking for a renovation project for ages, and they think this place is perfect. Just what they're after. I don't know. Who am I to stand in the way of their dreams?"
"What about my dreams?" I demanded, too upset to monitor what I was saying.
"What about them?" His eyes narrowed. "I knew you were counting on it. Told you so, didn't I?"
I bit my lip. He had me there. I couldn't deny it.
He seemed to consider me for a moment, then shrugged again. "Haven't made my mind up yet. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. No rush to decide, is there?"
So, he was going to leave me guessing? No doubt, he'd enjoy torturing me. I felt a gloom settling on me that even the knowledge I'd used triple tea in the pot against his wishes couldn't dispel.
Great Uncle Charles leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. I thought, for a moment, that he'd fallen asleep, until he suddenly asked, "How's your own project going?"
"My what?"
"Your project. You know, to save someone. That whole guardian angel thing. Found who you're supposed to save, yet?"
"Maybe. One thing I know for sure, it isn't you."
"It's far too late to save me," he said. "I'm beyond redemption."
"No one is beyond redemption," I protested, wondering how he managed to make me feel sorry for him just by not arguing with me, for once. "Well," I added as an afterthought, "most people aren't, anyway."
He opened his eyes and peered at me. "You've found them."
Seriously, he was almost supernatural, sometimes. I’d have sworn he could read my mind. "I may have done. I'm hoping I'm wrong," I admitted.
"Oh? Why's that?"
"What do you care?"
"I have a very boring life. Indulge me."
I supposed he did. Almost as boring as mine. Draining my tea, I replaced my cup on the coffee table and folded my hands on my lap. "I think," I confessed, wondering even as I said it why I was confiding in him, of all people, "that I'm meant to save Christopher Carroll."
I waited for the explosion of laughter, the sarcastic comment. Instead, he stared at me for a moment, then said, "And why do you think that?"
Rather nonplussed, I tried to put my thoughts into words. "He's been thrown in at the deep end with the company, and he's making a complete hash of it. And he doesn't seem very happy. Besides," I added lamely, "he was the one who saved me from choking to death. Maybe it was fate."
Great Uncle Charles drummed his fingers on his chair arm, lips pursed, his beady eyes fixed on me, as I squirmed uncomfortably. "So, it was Edwin Carroll's grandson who saved you? I didn't even know he was back."
"Oh, yeah." I nodded. "I forgot to mention that bit. I hadn't realised who he was, but then he turned up at the factory the following Monday, and said Jack had swanned off to America for a holiday and that he was in charge."
"You never said."
"You don't like to talk about the factory," I reminded him, "so I generally try to avoid discussing it."
"Hmm." He frowned, thinking to himself. "Why would Jack Carroll bugger off to America with no warning?"
"The general consensus is that he's exhausted and needs a break, and he's desperate to spend more time with his family, since he's been working so hard."
"And you agree?"
"I have no idea. I don't see why else he'd go. Mind you," I added, "I was pretty annoyed. Still am. I'm his PA, and he said nothing. I just turned up at work to find Kit in charge. Kit, of all people!"
"Who's Kit?"
"Christopher. He calls himself Kit these days. Must be trying to impress someone." I tried hard to keep the bitterness from my voice, but my great uncle clearly wasn't fooled.
"You sound less than keen."
"He's—he's not a nice person."
"Oh? Why?"
I shrugged. "Just, you know, a bit mean."
"There's more to it than that, isn't there? Christopher Carroll, eh? After all this time."
"What do you mean, all this time?" I could feel my face burning.
"Always had a thing for him, didn't you? First love is very powerful. You never really get over it. Or so I've been told."
"How could you—?" I gaped at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Your grandad told me all about it," he said. "He seemed to think this Christopher lad was good for you. I wasn't so sure. No good ever came from trusting a Carroll. Told him it would end in tears and, evidently, I was right. I would guess it ended when you were around eighteen, judging by the change in you then."
I was speechless. It was impossible. Grandad would never have told Great Uncle Charles, of all people. I'd confided in him, when I hadn't even told my own mother, or sister. Grandad was the only one. Surely, he hadn't broken my trust, too?
"I was his brother," Great Uncle Charles said, leaning forward and eyeing me sternly. "I know what you're thinking. You told him in confidence, didn't you? But the thing is, he only had me, and what else were we going to talk about? You were the light of his life, the only thing that kept him going. He trusted me, and he was right to. I said nothing, did I? I kept your secret, even after your grandad died. I never knew what happened between you and the Carroll boy, but I guessed it had ended badly. You were a different person after that." He frowned. "What did happen?"
"I found out what he was like," I murmured. "Simple as that."
He waited, clearly expecting me to say more. When I didn't, he sighed and leaned back again. "Yet, you think your destiny is to save him."
"I think," I said slowly, "that if I'm meant to save anyone, it must be him. He definitely needs it. Everyone else I know is doing fine. Olivia and David and the kids are happy. Mum and her new man are getting on well. You don't want to be saved, even if it were possible, which I sincerely doubt. It only leaves him. Mind you, I've a good mind to let him get on with destroying his life. Why should I save someone like him?"
"Things not going well for him, then?"
"No."
"So, what do you intend to do about it?"
"I have no idea," I admitted. "How do you go about saving someone, anyway?"
"You can only save someone who wants to be saved," he said.
"I know. You've made that quite clear."
"I wasn't talking about me," he said. "The truth is, people follow their own path, no matter what. You may think he's on the wrong one, but how do you know it's not the one he's meant to take?"
"Because he's miserable, angry, and very mean-spirited!"
"Maybe that's what he's supposed to be. Maybe that's his life now."
"No!" I shook my head, appalled. "Of course it's not."
"How do you know? You said yourself that you'd found out what he was like. So, what was he like? Miserable, angry, mean-spirited?"
I wasn't sure how to respond to that. The old stick had thrown my own words back at me, and what if he was right?
I shook my head again. "No, he's not supposed to be like that. I know he isn't."
"But how do you know?" he persisted.
"Because—because he used to be fun! He used to be kind! He used to be gentle and generous and loving. This isn't Christopher."
"But maybe it's Kit?"
I felt faintly nauseous.
Great Uncle Charles smiled at me—a twisted, sneering sort of smile, but a smile nonetheless. "You see, the truth is, maybe Kit is going to grow old alone. Maybe he's the sort of man who doesn't need people. Maybe he only cares about money."
"Like you?" I gasped. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"Yes, you did," he said calmly. "That's what I am, after all. And maybe Kit is destined for the same. So maybe, just maybe, you should leave well alone, and let him grow to be the man he's supposed to be."
I realised I was gripping the cushion of the chair and made a conscious effort to let go. "He's not supposed to be that sort of person. I can't leave him alone. I have to save him from that."
"So," he said, "how do you intend to do it?"
"I don't know," I wailed. "I can't exactly summon an angel, or three ghosts, can I?"
"Maybe you don't need to," he said thoughtfully. "What those ghosts—and the angel, come to that—did, was remind Scrooge and George Bailey of what they once had. You said Kit was different when you were together?"
"Well, yes, until ..." My voice trailed off. I couldn't tell him everything. It was far too painful.
"But when you were with him, until it went wrong, he was different. He was happy, decent? Your grandad liked him, so he must have been all right."
"So what if he was? How does that help?"
"You need to remind him of that. You need to show him what his life was like back then, so that he can begin to realise that it could be like that again. Remind him of the good times. Remind him how to be happy."
I gazed into the distance. "But how? How do I do that?"
"Take him back to where it began for you both," he said. "Can you do that?"
"You know what? I actually think I can." My face broke into a smile. "Thank you! I think I know where to start now."
"Thank God for that," he said, picking up his newspaper and opening it with a flourish. "Now fetch me a packet of biscuits from the cupboard, and then bugger off home."