Chapter Eight
Kit ended the phone call and leaned back in his chair, feeling drained. He needed some air. He didn't mind how cold it was. He felt stifled, unable to breathe properly. He pulled on his jacket, grabbed the keys, and left the house, not even sure where he was heading.
He'd been longing to talk to Jack for days, but when it came to it, he'd barely said a word. He'd let his brother ramble on, giving him all his news. How could Kit interrupt him, for God's sake? It wasn't the time to tell Jack that he felt like he was suffocating—that he was drowning in panic. He hadn't felt any better when the call ended, either. If anything, he felt worse. And then he'd felt guilty, which only made things seem even darker.
He walked, head down, barely noticing where he was going. It was only when he almost collided with someone's dog that he looked up and realised he was standing at the top of Bay Street in Kearton Bay. Bloody hell, it was freezing. Why was he heading towards the sea, in this weather?
Kit hesitated a moment, then thought that maybe the beach was just the place he needed to be. As a kid, he'd loved visiting the sands. The lapping of the waves, the cry of the seagulls, the salty tang in the air—they’d seemed like the perfect remedy for any problem. Who knew, maybe it would clear his head, put things in perspective? Maybe things weren't as bad as he imagined. Maybe Jack would come home soon. Maybe there would be good news all round. Maybe.
Rubbish. He was kidding himself, and he knew it. ‘Dire straits’ was how Colin had put it. There might just be enough money left to cover January's wages.
He strode down the steep road that led to the beach, his hands buried deep inside his jacket pockets. His breath came out in clouds of steam ahead of him, and he was beginning to wish he'd worn a scarf and gloves.
The street was almost empty, although he could see people huddled inside some of the shops. The fish and chip shop was the only one with its door wide open. The tempting aroma of fried food and vinegar made his nose twitch and his stomach growl, and he realised he hadn't eaten all day.
Ten minutes later, bag of chips in hand, he continued his journey toward the beach, walking down the slipway and stepping onto firm sand. There were a few hardy souls around, which didn't really surprise him. They were a tough bunch round here. He sat on a rock, ignoring the moss and seaweed that adorned it, and tucked into his chips, eyeing a nearby seagull warily. He knew how aggressive they could be, and they loved chips. To his relief, it flew away, clearly tempted by something more accessible.
Glancing around, he remembered childhood holidays spent playing on that very beach. He could almost hear the laughter, as he and Jack had hunted for crabs in the rock pools, plodded up and down the sands on donkeys, and dunked each other in the rolling sea. Kit shivered at the thought. He wouldn't be going anywhere near the sea today, that was for sure. It looked pretty threatening, and he'd bet it was icy cold.
Maybe, he thought, he'd go into the local pub and have a pint. The ancient white building stood atop the sea wall. The Hare and Moon pub. He remembered it served a good selection of local beers—at least, it had the last time he'd gone in there. Although, that was … what, seven years ago? He remembered the landlady. Very attractive. Very sympathetic to a young man in his early twenties, who'd just lost his father and didn't have the first idea how he felt about that. She'd straightened him out, somehow. Made him see that he had nothing to feel guilty about. Yes, he decided he'd go in there for a pint, after all. He deserved it.
Finishing his chips, Kit closed his eyes and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with sea air. Even now, he didn't feel any grief over his father. What he did feel, in spite of the voice of common sense telling him he was being an idiot, was a kind of fear: the fear that, somehow, his father knew he'd messed everything up, and that he'd been proved right at last. Christopher Carroll would never amount to anything. He was too soft, too stupid. James Carroll had always insisted that his eldest son wasn't fit to be in charge of Carroll's Confectionary, and, it seemed, his warnings had been justified at last.
Screwing up his chip wrapper, Kit stood and headed back up the slipway, dropping the paper into the nearest bin. It was odd how, during all those years when his father had ranted at him to toughen up, to work harder, to be better, he'd hated the factory with a passion. His one consuming thought had been to get away from it. His hatred for the place had given him the courage he’d needed to defy his father and walk away from his university course, leaving everything—and everyone—behind. When his father died, and his mother swanned off to Italy to live in her swanky new home, he'd been relieved to hand the reins over to a willing Jack and disappear. It had taken a lot for him to come home, to step inside that factory and brush aside the ghosts of his father, and his equally domineering grandfather.
Yet, now.... He shivered. Now, the factory was facing disaster. He might actually be the one to lose it, just as his father had predicted, and suddenly all he wanted to do was save it. It wasn't just his future in jeopardy, after all. He could go back to his old life any time he wanted. Funny how that no longer seemed appealing. He would give anything to put things right at Carroll's and give all his employees a secure future.
Trouble was, he couldn't see it happening. Not now. Life was looking pretty bleak from where he was standing. As bleak as the North Sea in December, and that was just about as bleak as it got.
God, he needed a drink.
As he moved towards the steps that led up to the bar, a tall, dark-haired man walked around the corner from King's Row, arm in arm with a woman with pink-streaked hair. Just in front of them ran a little girl, pigtails flying, face bright red, eyes sparkling.
"Slow down, sweetheart," the man said. "You'll fall. if you're not careful."
The little girl stopped and pointed up to the pub door. "Want to see Father Christmas!"
Kit glanced up and saw, for the first time, a notice pinned to the door, advertising a personal appearance by Santa, himself, that afternoon. So, Father Christmas enjoyed a pint, too? Interesting.
"Hurry up!"
"All right, all right, we're coming. Give me your hand, while we go up those steps. No, Violet, come back here! Give me your hand now."
The little girl duly obeyed and took her father's hand, and watching them, Kit felt a sudden lump in his throat.
Turning away, he began walking back up Bay Street. The last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by children. He would find another pub. God knows, there were plenty of them around here. If he wanted to drown his sorrows, he was spoilt for choice.
***
David opened the door, looking bleary-eyed and scruffy, his fair hair sticking up on end as if he'd only just got out of bed. I looked him up and down suspiciously. "Have I interrupted something?" I said warily. "You weren't—you know—busy?"
He looked incredulous. "Are you kidding? Chance would be a fine thing. Tommy's been sick all night, so it's been a bit of a bugger, to be honest. We're both knackered. Meanwhile, Tommy's now right as rain and demanding chocolate biscuits, so there you go." He shook his head and opened the door wider. "Sorry. Come in."
I hesitated. "It's not anything contagious, is it?"
He shrugged. "Well, Sam and Max are fine, and me and Livvy haven't thrown up, so it's up to you. Take your chance, or run, but hurry up and decide, because Liv's just dishing up dinner."
"Dinner?" I stepped inside, and David closed the door behind them. "Bit late, isn't it? It's nearly three o'clock."
"We've been a bit preoccupied." He tutted. "All right, we fell asleep. Sue us."
Olivia was at the cooker, looking harassed. Her brown hair was escaping the confines of its ponytail, and her face was bright red, likely due to the steam pouring from various pans on the hob. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, not looking at all pleased to see her precious big sister.
"Charming." I placed the bag containing the Christmas decorations on the table. "I come bearing gifts."
"What sort of gifts?" David rummaged in the bag and held up a silver cherub. "Er, thanks."
"They're the ones I bought for Mum," I explained, pulling out a chair, in spite of Olivia's obvious disapproval. "You won't believe this, but—”
"She decorated the house yesterday." Olivia reached into the top cupboard and pulled down a colander. "Sorry. I meant to phone you."
"You knew!" I sighed. "I don't get it. Since when did Mum bother with decorations?"
"Since this new bloke went round last night and helped her do it."
My eyes widened. "He did? That explains a lot. Who is he? Have you seen him?"
"Nope. Don't even know his name, do you?"
I realised I hadn't even thought to ask. "He's thirteen years younger than her, did you know that?"
David grinned. "Good for her. She's got sixteen years of sex to catch up on, after all."
"I know how she feels," Olivia muttered.
David looked appalled. "I was tired! Give me a break."
"Oh, please, just stop," I begged. "Honestly, what with you and our mother, it's disgusting."
"Jealous," Olivia said. "Are you staying for dinner, or do you have to get off?"
"Talk about hinting." I rattled the bag. "You haven't even looked at these."
"I'm busy. Have you eaten?"
"No," I admitted, "but don't go to any trouble for me."
"I always make too much, anyway," Olivia assured me. "Tell you what, you put the kettle on and make us a cuppa, while I dish this lot out, okay?"
I removed my coat and handed it to David, who promptly opened the hallway door and threw it on the stairs.
"You really must get a coat hook," I rebuked him.
"We have. We've got two, actually. They're in the cupboard under the stairs. The drill's broken."
Tutting, I switched on the kettle and busied myself making tea, while Olivia dished out shepherd's pie and a rather soggy assortment of vegetables in a haphazard manner. After pouring gravy over the lot, she slammed down the jug and yelled, "Dinner, boys!"
I winced. "Do they want juice?"
"Ask them," was Olivia's retort, as she carried plates over to the table before pulling Tommy's highchair over.
Sam, almost five, with his father's fair hair and blue eyes, peered round the door. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he ran to my side, throwing his arms around me. I stood there, rather nonplussed, then ruffled his hair awkwardly. "What's wrong with him?" I demanded. Sam was always an affable child, but this was a bit over-the-top.
"Dunno. Hope he's not getting whatever Tommy had," was David's response.
I stepped hastily away from Sam's clasp. "You feeling all right, Sam?"
He nodded. "Auntie Marley, have you bought my Christmas present, yet?"
Ah! It was beginning to make sense. I exchanged knowing glances with David. "No, not yet. Why?"
"Cos there's this super cool new toy on telly, and I want it."
"Sam, what have we told you?" Olivia placed the salt and pepper pots on the table and eyed him sternly. "You've already made your list, and it's gone to Santa. Too late for any more additions."
"But Auntie Marley buys us presents, too," Sam protested.
"Says who?" demanded David. "All presents come from Father Christmas. You know that."
Sam shook his head. "No, they don't. Auntie Marley told me last year that she paid a fortune for my Spiderman, so I wasn't to break it."
My cheeks burned. Hell, I had, too. Although, to be fair, I'd got it from Rochester's toy department, and I'd been rather miffed to discover that I could have got it a lot cheaper in the sale at Toys R Us. Even so, how had a kid of Sam's age remembered that? Typical. "Okay, I do like to buy you a little something, just to top up Father Christmas's gifts. That doesn't mean I'll get you whatever you want, though. Anyway, I don't even know if you're on the naughty, or nice, list, yet. If you're on the naughty list, I'm not allowed to get you anything."
Sam looked horrified. "Nothing?"
"Nothing."
"Who says?"
"Father Christmas," Olivia said firmly. "Now sit yourself down and tell your dad what you want to drink, while I fetch Tommy and Max, since no one else seems to have offered."
"Oops." David shook his head. "Bad books again."
I sighed and placed the bag of Christmas decorations under the table.
As David filled plastic beakers with blackcurrant cordial, Olivia came through, carrying two little blond boys, one resting on each hip. "Glued to the Disney channel again," she said, putting Max down next to Sam, and strapping Tommy into the highchair.
"You really shouldn't let them watch so much television," I reproached her. "And," I added, as David placed the beakers on the table, "they shouldn't drink cordial. I hope it's sugar free."
Olivia visibly gritted her teeth.
"It's a once-a-day treat," David assured me. "Usually, they drink milk, or water."
"You don't have to explain yourself to her," Olivia snapped. "When she's got three kids under five, then she can start lecturing us on good parenting."
There was an awkward silence, broken only when Max knocked over his drink and let out an anguished wail.
"Oh, for God's sake." Olivia jumped up and pulled sheets of kitchen roll from the holder on the worktop, frantically mopping up the rapidly-expanding pool of blackcurrant.
After lecturing David on his failure to give the younger boys beakers with lids, making Max a replacement drink, and throwing the soggy kitchen roll in the bin, Olivia finally sat down, and the meal began. Personally, I thought the shepherd's pie was a bit dry, and the vegetables were practically puréed, but I decided it would be wiser to say nothing, given the mood my sister was in.
Sam started an argument with Max over cauliflower, of all things, and Tommy hurled mashed potato onto the floor, in spite of Olivia's valiant attempts to catch it before it landed.
"Told you we should get a dog," David said, grinning. "You wouldn't have to worry about mash on the floor, if we had a dog."
"Can we have a dog?" Sam said, eyes wide with excitement.
"Did you put it on your Christmas list?" Olivia asked.
"No." He looked crestfallen.
"Too late, then." She beamed at him and shovelled sprouts into her mouth.
Sam considered that for a moment, then said, "But Auntie Marley—”
"Forget it," I said immediately. "Maybe remember to put it on your list next year, Sam?"
"He can try," Olivia said darkly.
I said nothing more as the meal progressed, feeling it was wiser to stay out of the various arguments surrounding Christmas presents, dogs, the lumpiness of the gravy, why Sam couldn't have salt on his meal, and why people had to eat vegetables, even though they were apparently disgusting and smelled like dirty socks. Really, it was like feeding time at the zoo. I wondered, yet again, at Olivia's ability to cope with it all every day. I just couldn't imagine being able to deal with so much chaos. Maybe it was a good thing motherhood had never happened for me, after all.
As David cleared the more-or-less empty plates away, Olivia leaned back in her chair and gave a sigh. She looked worn out, and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. "I'll do the dishes," I promised.
Olivia smiled. "Thanks, Marley, but no need. David and I decided not to buy presents for each other this year. Instead, we clubbed together and bought a dishwasher. Didn't you notice?"
I hadn't, but then, why would I? "A dishwasher? Not a very romantic present, is it?"
"That's what you think," David assured me. "It's saved a lot of arguments, and it's a real blessing. Who needs a games console, anyway?"
Olivia scowled. "You said you didn't mind."
"I don't," he said quickly. "I was making the point that I prefer a dishwasher any day."
"Hmm." She looked unconvinced, and I didn't blame her. If that hadn't been a blatant hint, I didn't know what was.
"So, do you want these Christmas decorations, or not?" I said to change the subject. I lifted the bag from under the table and handed it over to my sister, who peered inside dubiously.
"Are they for our tree?" Sam had buried his head in the bag, making his voice sound muffled. He looked up, his eyes eager. "Are we putting our tree up tonight, Mum?"
"Definitely not." Olivia shook her head. "It's only just December."
"You said Grandma has got her tree up," he said sulkily.
"So she has, but that's got nothing to do with it."
"Have you opened your advent calendars today?" I asked, changing the subject yet again. I was finding this family meal extremely stressful. Talk about touchy.
Sam and Max looked at each other and wailed. "Mum, where's our advent calendars?"
Olivia glared at me. "We haven't bought them any, yet."
I stared back. "Why not?"
"I've been busy. Thanks for that, Marley."
David rolled his eyes. "Not having much luck today, are you?"
"Sorry." I bit my lip. I should have thought, really. I could have bought the advent calendars myself. They were only a couple of quid each, and the boys were my nephews, after all. "I'll nip to the supermarket tomorrow and drop you some off. Promise."
The boys looked mollified, and Olivia sighed. "Okay. Thanks." She handed the carrier bag back. "Sorry, but these aren't really our thing. Besides, we've got loads of decs in the loft, and the boys will be making stuff at nursery to stick on the tree, so ..."
Feeling a bit huffy, I decided it was time to leave, but the boys begged me to stay, so I ended up sitting with the whole family in their messy living room, watching some weird children's programme on the television. Olivia and David were quite right, I realised. Every commercial break was packed with advertisements for some toy, or other. It was shocking, really.
Before long, the boys were dragging out the Argos catalogue, and showing me every present they'd selected. Sam had even made his mother write the prices down, along with the catalogue number, just to make things easier for Father Christmas, even though Olivia had assured him that the elves made all the presents, and Santa wasn't given to shopping in Argos.
It was clear that the eldest two, in particular, were beside themselves with excitement at the rapid approach of Christmas, and I saw Olivia's eyes soften as they babbled on about the forthcoming Nativity play, and Max warbled Away in a Manger, which he'd apparently been learning at nursery, while Tommy banged his fist on the Argos catalogue as a musical accompaniment. It was all very charming, but I thought my sister and brother-in-law should hand out complimentary paracetamol to their guests. I definitely felt a headache coming on.
When Olivia wandered into the kitchen to make another drink, I followed her, desperate for a respite from the excitement. "How do you stand it?" I said, feeling quite awestruck that she wasn't on tranquillisers.
Olivia unscrewed the lid of a coffee jar. "You get used to it," she assured me. "Sometimes, I want to put on my coat and run, but most of the time, I just feel blessed. They're a handful, but I love them to bits. I couldn't be without them."
"Really?"
Olivia laughed. "Really. I'm happy, Marley. They're my family. You should try it one day. It's different with your own, honestly."
I felt a familiar lurching in my chest. Was it different, as she’d said? I would never know, would I? I forced myself to sound dismissive. "No thanks. That's not what I want, at all."
Olivia paused, a spoonful of coffee hovering over the open jar. "So, what do you want? What's the great plan?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Own my own house, one day. Go on some decent holidays for a change. Buy a Jenny Kingston handbag." I grinned, but Olivia didn't grin back.
"Don't you think that's all a bit shallow?"
"I don't see why. At least it's peaceful. I couldn't cope with this racket every day."
"I think you'd be surprised by what you can cope with. Don't you want children? A husband? A real home? I don't mean a show house. I mean, a home."
"Not really." I thought about Fox Lodge, and how beautiful I could make it look. I certainly didn't want piles of children's clothes and toys cluttering up the place, the way they cluttered up Olivia’s three-bedroomed semi. I'd had a lucky escape in that department.
As for a husband.
A pair of glittering dark eyes flashed into my mind, and I almost gasped at the shock of it. Where the hell had that image come from? "I'm happy alone. No one to please but myself."
Olivia sighed and collected milk from the fridge. "Makes me wonder why you were given a second chance."
"Second chance?" I blinked. "You mean, when I—”
"When you died, and came back from the dead. Like Lazarus," Olivia said, not at all over-dramatically. "And to be saved by Kit Carroll, of all people."
"Christopher," I corrected her automatically.
"Kit," she repeated firmly. "He hates Christopher, as he's mentioned several times. I mean, in films, people only get brought back to life for a reason, don't they?" She shrugged. "I reckon you were saved for a purpose."
I nudged her, almost causing the milk to slop over the top of the carton. "Don't be so daft. Saved for a purpose! Have you been watching It's a Wonderful Life again?"
It was my sister's favourite film, and always made her philosophical and a bit soppy.
"Not yet. You know it's my Christmas Eve treat," Olivia said. "But the kids wanted to watch A Muppet Christmas Carol this morning, and it did get me thinking."
I tutted and reached for my mug of coffee. "You're barmy," I said. "A Muppet Christmas Carol, indeed. Well, when I find my divine purpose, I'll let you know. These Christmas films have such a weird effect on you. I was only dead for a few moments. I'm not a ghost. Nor am I an angel. You'll be calling me Clarence next."
A tinkling sound filled the air, causing me to stare, open-mouthed at my sister. Olivia giggled and nodded, indicating something behind me, and I spun round, to find Max standing there, holding a little silver bell in his hand. "Can we keep this one for our tree, Mummy?" he enquired.
I swallowed, as Olivia winked at me.
"If you like, Max," she said, putting the milk back in the fridge. "I'm sure we've got room for just one special decoration." Turning back to me, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. "That was a sign, if ever I heard one. Maybe it's time you earned your wings, sis. Told you so."