Chapter Nine
I flicked through my glossy magazine, only half concentrating on the television, which I'd switched on to mask the ticking of the clock, which hung on my living room wall. It was an old-fashioned sort of clock, I thought. Time to get a new one. I'd seen some rather classy ones in Rochester's, come to think of it.
"Mankind was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business. The deals of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business."
I glanced up at the television. A Christmas Carol. Again. How many film versions had been made of that book, I wondered. The one showing was a rather obscure one, and I had no interest in it, really. Still, it was nice to have something on in the background, and at least it was festive—apart from the fact that it was in black and white, and everyone in it looked thoroughly miserable.
As my eyes grew heavier, I yawned and dropped the magazine to the floor, too tired to read any more. I pulled up a cushion, propping it on the arm of the sofa, and lay down, resting my head on its plump warmth. I ought to have visited Great Uncle Charles, really. I hadn't seen him all week, and he had no one else. No other visitors. I wondered if he would get me anything for Christmas. Not likely, I supposed. He wasn't one for presents.
It occurred to me that I hadn't asked what he was doing for Christmas dinner. I hoped he wouldn't be alone. I couldn't do anything about it, if he was, as I was going to Mum's. I always went to Mum's, as did Olivia and David and the kids, and there was no way my mother would want Great Uncle Charles there. I sincerely doubted he'd accept such an invitation, even in the unlikely event one would be issued.
I closed my eyes. A short nap would do me good. I'd visit him later.
"You fear the world too much .... I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off, one by one, until the master passion, Gain, engrosses you ..."
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. How long had I been asleep? My heart was thumping. Vague memories flashed across my mind—images of Great Uncle Charles and my father, and coffins and ghosts, and a tall, hooded figure that said nothing, but merely pointed accusingly at me, until it threw back its hood and revealed a pair of dark eyes that were no longer soft and melting like black treacle, but hard and cold like onyx. Accusing eyes. Scornful eyes.
"It was always said of him that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us, every one!"
I shivered, and stared at the television set as the credits rolled. What on earth was that dream about, and why had it left me with an overhang of dread? I was being ridiculous! It was just a nightmare, brought about by falling asleep while watching A Christmas Carol, and thinking about Olivia's stupid comments the previous day. I needed to put it all from my mind and pull myself together.
Even so, I couldn't shake the thought that—just maybe—Olivia had a point. It was hard to accept, but as I glanced around my tiny but elegant living room, I realised my life was going nowhere. I'd been treading water for a long time, and things seemed to have come to a grinding halt. Certainly, I had a decent enough job in the factory, and an adequate, if unimpressive, flat in the village, but that was basically it. My social life consisted of visiting my sister and brother-in-law, or my mother. My evenings were mainly spent sitting in the living room, watching some programme, or other, on the television, to the point I was in danger of becoming a Netflix addict. If I had died that evening in the pub, would anyone have known, or cared?
Well, obviously, my family would have cared, but who else? I had no one, really. I was going nowhere. And that being the case, why had I been given a second chance at life, when good, decent people like Grandad hadn't?
Chewing my lip, I contemplated the possibility that Olivia was right. Had I been saved for a purpose? And if that was true, what purpose? It didn't make sense that I'd been saved just to carry on wasting my time, when Grandad had made the most of every day, yet had had his life snatched away from him so cruelly, and at a comparatively young age, too.
Sighing, I padded to the kitchen and opened the fridge door. Too much thinking and puzzling was making me hungry.
My gaze fell upon the bar of Carroll's Coolmint Choc Bloc, sitting on the shelf where I'd placed it after Great Uncle Charles had rejected it.
It occurred to me, suddenly, that maybe my great uncle was the reason behind my stagnation. I hated to admit it, but I had kind of put my life on hold. With the promise of Fox Lodge and Great Uncle Charles's money dangling before my eyes, I hadn't really pushed myself to take a better job, or improve life for myself. It was all about waiting. Waiting for an old man to die.
Feeling bitterly ashamed of myself, I closed the fridge door. I would go and see him, as I'd promised myself I would. Not because I wanted anything from him, but because he was family, and he deserved better from me—however much he enjoyed winding me up.
***
As I stood at the gate of the large, red-brick, Victorian detached villa, some half-an-hour later, I eyed the house with a frown.
It was Sunday afternoon, but the curtains at every window of Fox Lodge had been drawn.
After clicking the gate shut after me, I walked down the short drive and tried the front door. Locked. Well, of course it was. I lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped loudly, then put my ear against the door, listening for sounds of life. Nothing. I opened the letterbox and peered inside. The hallway was dark and gloomy. I swallowed nervously. Oh, God. What if?
Fragments of my dream flashed across my mind. A coffin, an open grave, an accusing hand ...
"Uncle Charles?"
Silence.
I stood up and rapped frantically again, then I crouched down and pushed open the letterbox. "Uncle Charles? Are you there?"
In the quiet that followed, I could feel the blood pounding in my ears.
Just as I was wondering if I should call the police, an ambulance, the fire brigade—hell, even the coastguard, if necessary—I heard a faint call from upstairs.
"What did you say?"
"I said, bugger off."
Feeling outraged, I straightened, all my guilt and compassion forgotten. I lifted the door knocker and hammered it loudly against the peeling, green paint of the wooden door.
After a moment, or two, I heard a window opening above me, and stepping back, I looked up, unsure any longer whether I felt relief, or fury, on seeing my great uncle leaning out. Judging by the thunderous look on his face, it was fury he was feeling.
"Stop banging that bloody door. My head's thumping."
"Well, let me in, then," I responded, suddenly noticing that he was wearing pyjamas, and his wispy white hair was uncombed. Most unlike him. "Are you all right?"
"If I was all right, would I be in bed at this time of the day?" He sneezed, and I frowned up at him.
"Have you got a cold?"
"Give the girl a paper hat," he said. "No flies on you, are there?"
"Well, let me in, and I'll make you a nice hot drink and something to eat."
"I don't need anything to eat."
"Yes, you do. You have to look after yourself at your age. Bet you haven't even got the heating on, have you?"
"Don't need it on. Got blankets, haven't I?"
"Blankets? I hope you're joking." I shook my head. Who used blankets nowadays? Was the old goat too tight even to buy a duvet? "Look, let me in. I'm worried about you."
"Sure you are. Bet you could hardly contain your disappointment when I opened the window just now. Bet you thought I'd finally croaked it, and all your dreams had come true."
"Stop it." I felt a prickling of guilt, remembering my earlier thoughts. "You're a horrible old man, but you're my great uncle, and you're not well. And you shouldn't be hanging out of the window in this freezing weather, when you're full of cold."
"Oh, bugger off home," he retorted, then gave way to a fit of coughing.
I glared up at him. "Right, that's it. Let me in, or I'll break the window."
"You wouldn't dare," he wheezed.
"Watch me."
He hesitated, then tutted. "Round the back. Key's under the plant pot on the step."
The window slammed shut, and I rushed round to the kitchen door. Moving the terracotta plant pot, I discovered the key lying there, plain as day. Had he never heard of burglars?
After unlocking the door, I hurried into the house and rushed straight upstairs. Great Uncle Charles was sitting in his bed, propped up by pillows, and I was relieved to see he did have a duvet, after all.
"You said blankets," I said, nodding at the bed.
"Blankets, duvet, it's all the same."
Standing closer to him, I was alarmed to see how unwell he actually looked, and his voice was definitely croaky. "It's freezing in here." As I spoke, my breath misted the air, and appalled, I pulled the duvet higher over him. "I'm putting the heating on."
"No need for that," he said. "I'm in bed, aren't I?"
"I don't care," I replied. "The cold air isn't going to help your chest. The heating's going on, and that's that. Now, have you eaten today?"
He leaned back on his pillows and sighed, suddenly looking rather pathetic. "Not very hungry."
"I'll make you something," I said. "Hungry, or not, you need to eat. Keep up your strength. I'll bring you a nice hot drink, as well."
He didn't reply, and I hurried onto the landing, to the airing cupboard, where I knew the boiler was situated. Flicking on the central heating, I waited a moment until I heard the click of the boiler kicking into action and the sound of water gurgling in the radiators, then I headed downstairs and back into the kitchen.
Rummaging around in his cupboards, I was dismayed—although not surprised—to find them mostly bare. It occurred to me that I had no idea if he did his own shopping, or if someone else shopped for him. God, I was a horrible person. I really should make more of an effort with him.
Finding a tin of chicken soup, I decided that would suffice for now. Chicken soup was supposed to be good for ill people, wasn't it? He had half a loaf in a bread bin—maybe he could manage a couple of slices to dip in his soup. I made him a cup of tea—weak and disgusting, just the way he liked it—put everything on a tray, and carried it upstairs.
For a moment, I thought he'd fallen asleep, but as I put down the tray, he opened one eye and said, "Took your time, didn't you?"
"Yep. I did it on purpose, just to piss you off," I informed him. "Can you sit up? Do you need any help?"
"I'm not a bloody invalid." He was clearly struggling to get comfortable, but I knew that if I offered to help again, he would only snap at me, so I stood patiently waiting.
"All right, I'm up. Are you going to hand me that tray, or do I have to beg?"
I scowled and handed him the tray.
"What's this?"
"Chicken soup and bread, plus a cup of tea, made just the way you like it. Got any complaints, put them in writing, and I'll file them under who gives a crap."
"You're all charm," he muttered, but lifted his spoon just the same. "Don't just stand there watching me. If you want to make yourself useful, get me a hanky. Nose is running. Top drawer."
He nodded over to the ugly, dark chest of drawers on the far wall of his bedroom, and I clamped my mouth shut to prevent the rude retort escaping my lips. He was ill, I reminded myself. He was old, vulnerable. He needed looking after. Or shoving in a home.
I didn't mean that, I thought quickly, and yanked open the drawer, pulling a face at the sight of Great Uncle Charles's underwear neatly folded up. What an awful day it was turning out to be. I reached to the back of the drawer and pulled out a handkerchief, plain white with a navy blue CWJ embroidered in the corner, just in case he forgot his name. As I went to close the drawer, I noticed a silver frame sticking out from underneath the pile of pants.
With curiosity winning out over revulsion, I lifted the underwear to reveal a framed photograph of my grandparents.
Carefully, I removed the photo from the drawer. "Why don't you put this out on display?"
Uncle Charles paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. "Huh? What are you on about now?" He clearly registered what I was holding in my hand, because his face darkened, and he scowled. "Put that back now."
"But why? Why have you hidden it away in the drawer?"
"What's the point of looking at it every day? They've gone. They've all gone." He dropped his spoon back into the bowl, causing chicken soup to splash onto his tray. "You've put me off this now."
I carried the photograph over to him. "It would look lovely here," I said, placing it carefully on his bedside table.
He glared at me. "Are you deaf? I said, put it back."
"But he was your brother!"
"Was. Not anymore. Gone. Dead, in case you'd forgotten."
"Of course I haven't forgotten. How could I? I loved Grandad. He was the best man in the world. And Grandma was lovely."
Great Uncle Charles studied me, silent for a moment, then he sighed. "They were good people."
Surprised, I nodded. "They were."
"Not like your father. God knows what went wrong there. He was a real shit."
"I can't argue with you about that."
He raised an eyebrow. "Can't you? Makes a change. Pass me that hanky, for God's sake. This soup bowl's filling up more with every minute."
I hastily handed him the handkerchief. "Shall I take the soup away?"
"Nah. Waste not, want not," he said. He blew, quite ferociously, into his hanky, then rubbed his nose rather vigorously, leaving it alarmingly red. "Got in touch with me a couple of years ago."
I was so grossed out at the thought of the chicken soup with snot seasoning that I didn't register what he'd said for a moment. "What? Who did?"
"Your father." He said it so casually, as if his nephew still lived in the village and popped round every day.
"Dad got in touch with you?"
"That's what I said."
"But when? Why?"
Annoyingly, Great Uncle Charles chose that moment to break off some bread, dip it several times in the soup, then shove the lot in his mouth, which he took his time chewing, paying no heed to me, as I stared at him impatiently.
"Well?"
He swallowed the bread and smacked his lips together. "Well, what?"
"You said Dad got in touch with you? What did he want?"
He shrugged, then coughed. I struggled to feel sympathy as I watched his shoulders heaving. Finally, fearing he was never going to stop, I reached over and banged him on the back. As his coughing finally subsided, he glared at me. "What the hell was that for?"
"I was trying to help."
"What? By breaking my backbone? Nearly shoved my lungs through my chest." He took a sip of tea and leaned back against his pillows.
"I'll go to the chemist tomorrow and get you some cough medicine, if you like."
"Waste of money. Tot of whisky will do the job."
"So, you were saying?"
"Yep. Tot of whisky. Haven't got any honey. You can buy that, if you're in a generous mood."
"I mean about my dad! What did he want? He never got in touch with us ..." My voice trailed off. He hadn't, had he? At least, he hadn't got in touch with me. Olivia would have told me if she'd heard from him, surely? But what about our mother? Would she have kept it to herself?
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "Save yourself the bother. He won't have got in touch with your mother, or anyone else in your family. Nothing in it for him. Unless one of you has won the lottery and kept your trap shut about it to me."
"Money? He wanted money?"
"What else would he want?" He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief again. "Cheeky devil had the nerve to turn up on my doorstep, asking for a loan. A loan! Like I'd ever get that back again."
"What did he need money for?"
"Who knows? Who cares? Some woman, probably. He got nothing from me, I can tell you that much. Told him to sling his hook and get a job. Can't believe he dared show his face around here, after the way he behaved. Your poor grandad was heartbroken. The shame of it. Said he was glad your gran hadn't lived to see it. Mind you, your mother didn't make things any easier, blaming your grandad like that. As if he could be held responsible for what his son did. Your father was a grown man. Disgusting."
"She was devastated when Dad left," I murmured. "In shock. She was looking for someone to blame."
"And turned her back on a good man, who had no one left in the world! How was that fair?"
It hadn't been, and I knew it, but I didn't want to be disloyal to Mum, even though having to keep my relationship with my grandfather secret had seemed desperately unfair at the time.
Grandad hadn't really got on with Dad, and family visits to my grandparents' house had always felt forced and rather strained. After Nan died, my parents rarely took me round to see him, at all, and when Dad left, Mum cut all ties with his family, and expected us to do the same.
Olivia hadn't seemed bothered. She'd not formed the bond with Grandad that I had, somehow, always being keener on Mum's side of the family, who lived in Whitby. Without even thinking about it, I'd kept my visits to Grandad a secret.
"Did he say where he was living? Dad, I mean."
Great Uncle Charles sucked in his cheeks, as if he'd just drunk vinegar. "No," he said eventually, "and why would you care?"
"He's my dad."
"Was your dad. May as well be dead now. As dead as your grandad."
"Thanks."
"No point sugar-coating things. Everyone goes in the end. Everyone leaves."
"Except you, clearly."
"I hang on just to spite people," he admitted. "Mind you, the way I'm feeling right now, this might be your lucky day."
"Don't say that," I protested. "You're awful to think like that."
"Am I?" He eyed me knowingly. "So, you're not just waiting for me to pop off, eh? Like your father."
"My father?"
"Well, he's next in line, isn't he? Said as much when he visited. Reckoned he'd got it all worked out. He thought it would all come to him, anyway, so why shouldn't I give him an advance?"
I gasped, appalled. "He said that?"
"As good as." Great Uncle Charles settled back on his pillows, a smug look on his face. "Soon put him straight, though. Told him I'd changed my will when he buggered off, and there was no way he was getting a penny. Quite glad he went. Never liked him. Gave me a good excuse."
"Well, I'm so glad things worked out for you," I said angrily. "Never mind what we went through. What Mum went through."
"Your mother was a fool. If she'd opened her eyes, she'd have seen what he was from the start. He was always the same. Sly, devious. Must have got it from your grandma's side."
"Oh, my God! How can you say that?" Anger flashed through me at him being rude about Grandma. She'd been a lovely lady. Great Uncle Charles was a devil.
"Don't take it personally. Nothing against your grandma. Just that genes will out, and there was no one as rotten as your dad in the Jacobs family."
"What were you? Adopted?"
"That," he said, wagging his finger at me, "was extremely rude."
"You shouldn't insult Grandma, then. Is there anyone you actually like?"
"Not really. Not anymore." He sighed. "All gone. Everyone I ever cared about. Dead."
Noticing the sudden look of sadness in his eyes and the wistful tone in his voice, I tried hard not to feel offended. It must have been hard to be alone. To lose his parents, and his brother.
"You still have me," I pointed out. "And you'd have Olivia and Mum, too, if you were a bit nicer."
"I wouldn't even have you, if you didn't want this place," he snapped, all wistfulness vanishing. "I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I'm better off alone."
I watched him crossly. He really was an old miser. Just like Ebenezer Scrooge. I felt goose pimples breaking out on my arms at that thought. "You know the other week, when I said I'd died?"
He stared at me. "What of it?"
"Olivia thinks I was brought back to life for a reason."
He rolled his eyes. "She would. One sandwich short of a picnic, that girl. Why else would she have three kids in three years?"
"Stop being nasty for just one second. My point is, I was trying to figure out my purpose—the reason I was saved."
"Saved?" He cackled. "Bloody hell, talk about delusional."
"I was saved," I continued firmly, "for you. I think I have to make you see the error of your ways."
For a moment, he simply gaped at me. Then he burst out laughing, which led to a prolonged, and rather alarming, bout of coughing. When he'd finally finished, he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and shook his head. "You're completely cracked. So, you're some sort of angel, are you? You know who you put me in mind of?"
I bit my lip. I had a feeling that whoever it was, it wouldn’t be anyone nice.
"My cousin Sis."
"Sis?"
"Christine, her name was, but we called her Sistine after the Sistine Chapel, which is nearly as holy as she was. She was a nut-job, too, just like you. Had a near miss with a Bourbon biscuit in nineteen-sixty-four and found God. Poor bugger clearly wasn't hiding from her well enough. After that, she thought her mission in life was to convert us all to her beliefs."
"What were her beliefs?"
"Basically, she believed in anything that made you bloody miserable."
"I'd have thought you'd have converted immediately. Sounds like a religion tailor-made for you."
His eyes narrowed. "You think I'm miserable?"
I spluttered with laughter. "Are you kidding?"
"You should be flattering me. You'll never get anything from me at this rate."
"Ah, so you do intend to leave me something in your will?"
"I do. I've left you my handkerchief collection. Then you'll have something to cry into when you discover you're going to be skint all your life."
My heart sank. "Why can't you just tell me?"
"Because where's the fun in that? I may have left you everything. I may have left you my handkerchief collection. I may not have mentioned you, at all. Ooh, exciting, isn't it?"
"You're absolutely awful. I can't think why I imagined I was here to save you. You're beyond saving. You'll never get to heaven, at this rate."
"Stuff heaven," he said, picking up his mug of tea. "I'm off to Hell. At least I won't have to pay the heating bill. Take my advice, if you really are barmy enough to believe that you were brought back to life in order to save someone, look elsewhere." He smirked at me. "Someone, somewhere, needs your help. Who can it be? The suspense is killing me. But not fast enough, eh?"
I looked away from his smug face, too annoyed to answer. If I had been given another chance, it wasn't for Great Uncle Charles's sake, he was right about that. But, if not him, who?
A little voice popped into my head. Olivia's voice. Olivia's annoying, over-dramatic, watched-far-too-many-Christmas-films voice. And to be saved by Kit Carroll, of all people.
If Christopher was my reason for being brought back from the dead, my debt to the universe would just have to go unpaid. Besides, what did someone like Christopher need me for? He'd never needed me before, had he? Far from it. Why should anything be different now?