Chapter Twenty-Seven
I knew David would call in the favour I owed him before long, and sure enough, I was roped in for babysitting duty.
"You made me dress up as Santa," he reminded me, when I pulled a face. "The least you can do is watch the kids, while me and Livvy go out and have a nice meal."
"How cosy," I said. "Just the two of you?"
Olivia looked a bit awkward. "We're going with Mum and Don. You don't mind, do you? Don's managed to change his booking at Miller's to a table for four instead of two. We thought it would be nice to have a bit of adult time before Christmas, without kids hanging around."
I felt a pang of jealousy. I was being pushed out, all because I was single. Seeing Olivia's anxious face, though, I smiled. "’Course I don't mind. I don't fancy spending an evening watching Don and David pig out, anyway. Bad enough every day in the canteen. Enjoy yourselves."
Tommy was in bed, fast asleep, but I'd been lumbered with Sam and Max, who were so hyped up about the rapidly-approaching big day that they wouldn't have slept even if I'd put sleeping tablets in their cocoa, which, of course, I would never do. Mind you, I did think it would be worth a prison sentence at one point, as they clambered over the sofa, squealing and fighting and demanding biscuits and drinks, a look at the Argos catalogue, a game on my mobile phone, and a piggy back ride around the living room. The Christmas tree nearly went over twice. My nerves were in shreds.
"Don't you two ever get tired?" I demanded, slumping in exhaustion onto the sofa, after having deposited Max safely back on the ground.
Sam shook his head. "Nope. Can we watch a film?"
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" I said grumpily. "I'd love some peace and quiet."
"If you let us watch a film, we'll be quiet, won't we, Max?"
Max thought about it for a moment. "Maybe."
I had to admire his honesty. "Okay. One film, then bed. Seriously. What do you want to watch?"
They considered the matter carefully. Each made several suggestions, which the other dismissed. Finally, Sam shrieked, "Willy Wonka!"
Max jumped up and down on his knees. How did he find the energy? I felt drained just watching him. "Yeah, Willy Wonka!"
Seriously? I had to sit and watch a film about a sodding chocolate factory and its weird and wonderful owner? Great.
"If I let you watch it, you promise to go straight to bed afterwards?"
"Promise," they said, all solemn-faced, wide-eyed and innocent, as if chocolate wouldn't melt in their mouths.
Doubting they meant it, but having no choice, I duly obliged and pushed the disc of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory into the DVD player. At least it might give me around an hour and a half of peace and quiet.
No such luck. Sam and Max chattered the whole way through, sang along to every song, and bombarded me with questions.
"Marley, you work in a chocolate factory, don't you? Like Mummy and Daddy," Max said.
I nodded gloomily. "For now," I muttered.
"Do you have Oompa-Loompas there?" he queried.
I shook my head. "No Oompa-Loompas."
"Daddy said you had Oompa-Loompas!" Sam shrieked. "Where have they gone?"
I shrugged. "Sacked for being naughty," I told them. "There was a lot of fuss about it. The Oompa-Loompa union almost went to the papers."
Clearly, my wit was wasted on them, because they stared at me in bewilderment.
"I think," I said gently, "that your dad was having you on. No Oompa-Loompas at Carroll's."
"Then, who makes the chocolate?" demanded Sam.
"The factory workers. People like your mum and dad."
"And you?"
I gave him an icy stare. "Certainly not. I'm a PA. I work in the office."
"You know the sticks of rock you make," Sam began, "how do you put the words inside them?"
"It's an interesting process," I said. "You have to make the letters individually, and you should see how big they are to start with."
"How big are they?" said Max, sounding curious.
I held up my hands to show him the rough size of the letters. They shrieked with laughter.
"Don't be silly," Sam said. "That would never fit inside a stick of rock."
"Ah," I told him, "but you have no idea how big the sticks of rock are at first."
Their eyes widened. "Show us."
I held my hands apart and said, "Longer than this. They're enormous. You'd never believe it."
"Then how," said Max, "do they end up so small?"
"They're put into machines and rolled. The rock comes out the other end like a long sausage, and then it goes onto a table and is rolled and cut by hand. It's still quite soft then, but it hardens up very quickly, so you have to be quick."
They looked at each other, clearly not certain that I was telling the truth.
"Cross my heart, hope to die," I assured them.
They turned back to the television, where Augustus Gloop was currently stuck halfway up a pipe.
"Do you have a chocolate river at your factory?" Sam asked.
"No. Afraid not."
"You don't have much there, do you?" he said.
"I want to see the rock being made," Max shrieked.
I covered my ears with my hands and winced. "Shush, Max, for goodness sake. If you wake Tommy, I'll cry."
"I'd like to see the geese that lay the Easter eggs," Sam admitted.
"No geese, either," I said, feeling more and more like the Grinch. "Your mum and dad make the Easter eggs, and they're very clever at it."
"Really?" They both looked quite impressed.
"I want to work in the factory when I grow up," Sam said.
Max yawned. "Me, too."
It was on the tip of my tongue to tell them that, surely, they could think of a better career than that. As I watched them, though, their little heads bobbing as they fought off sleep, blond hair tousled, all neat and cute in their Batman pyjamas, I had second thoughts.
I looked around the cosy living room. The Argos catalogue lay open on the floor, the pages ringed with all the toys the boys had requested. The Christmas tree was strewn with a jumble of shop-bought and handmade decorations, pride of place going to a Santa made from a cardboard tube from the middle of a toilet roll—Max's contribution from nursery. There were dozens and dozens of cards pinned on every wall, and covering every available surface, and tinsel draped over the huge, framed photograph of David, Olivia and the boys that took up most of the chimney breast.
David and Olivia had achieved all of it by working in the factory. It wasn't a designer home. It wasn't a large home. It wasn't even a particularly tidy home. But it was a home, and it was full of laughter and noise and love. What more could I hope for, for my own nephews? What more—when it came down to it—could anyone hope for?
Feeling the pang of loss all over again, I wondered if it would ever really go away.
Sam closed his eyes, and I gently ruffled his hair. "Come on, sweetheart," I said, scooping him up in my arms. "Time for bed."