Christmas Every Day Read online

  ‘She’s gone.’ Mack spoke quietly, handing me my glasses. He stretched the stiffness from his limbs and strode over to retrieve the bike, nodding to a pile of dock leaves. ‘Rub it on the nettle stings.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I ignored the leaves, taking hold of the bike.

  ‘So you keep saying.’ Mack didn’t let go of the handlebars.

  ‘We’d better get a move on. I wouldn’t be surprised if Sarah does call the police.’

  ‘We can walk back to the village and get a taxi.’

  ‘After all that shouting, no one will still be hanging around.’

  ‘I’m more concerned with whether you’ll be terrified into another panic attack,’ he whispered.

  ‘I said. I’m okay.’ I tugged on the bike until he let go, and started wheeling it across to the exit. Mack soon caught up with me. ‘Do you want to hold my hand or something?’

  ‘Why, are you feeling nervous?’ I shot back. ‘I’ll go with the or something, thanks.’ Right then, feeling queasy at how lovely it had felt to have him touching me – albeit between two layers of clothing – I couldn’t have meant it more.

  ‘Just trying to be a good friend,’ he muttered. ‘But I guess that moment’s over.’

  But it wasn’t, though. Far from it. And that was a much bigger problem than being chased through the woods by phantom cacklers.

  We kept silent for the rest of the way, Mack alert and watchful, me wondering when my tongue grew so big I couldn’t swallow properly, while trying – and consistently failing – not to flinch at every rustle from the other side of the fence. I was suitably distracted from my inappropriate Mack-related feelings enough to thank him, politely, as he waited patiently for me to unlock my door.

  ‘I told you,’ he huffed. ‘It’s in my own interest to hunt down monsters running about in these woods.’

  ‘And you thought they might be hiding in the Camerons’ front garden? I thought we were past all that pretending not to be nice to each other.’

  He grinned, his eyes glinting in the moonlight.

  ‘Do you want me to come in and do a quick search for beasties?’

  I opened my mouth, working hard to make sure the right words came out…

  ‘Let me guess. You’re fine, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Night, then. Try not to have nightmares.’

  Mack waited while I went inside and shut the door. I dragged my confused, shattered body to bed and fell asleep before I could worry about nightmares.

  25

  PC Brenda popped round the next day to tell me they’d not found anything to be concerned about, and while they’d keep checking in on the woods she was certain it was kids messing about. She did suggest I rethought travelling alone at night all the same. ‘You could break your neck on a branch. Or skid on a patch of mud and go head over heels, impale yourself on a fence post. Believe me, Jenny. These things do happen.’

  Nice.

  I messaged Mack to say Ellen would drop me home.

  He replied the next day: Car ready. Key in ignition. Petrol tank full. Be careful.

  And when I replied by asking how much I owed him for the battery, I got the longwinded reply of: £45.

  I tested the Mini out on Friday morning by driving to a large supermarket, seven miles away, almost reaching the speed limit on the quieter roads. I danced up and down the aisles (which seemingly stretched on forever in endless rows of wondrous variety) splurging on items never to be found in Middlebeck (luxuries like avocados, cinnamon bagels and winged sanitary towels), feeling deliriously wild and carefree enough to toss a bottle of wine and a chocolate cheesecake into the trolley.

  I drove home, brushed my hair, practised my casual, but of course we’re just friends smile and knocked on Mack’s door. Phoned him, still standing on his doorstep. Knocked again. Went home, sorted out a suitcase full of tatty old maps into the ‘useless rubbish for recycling’ pile and called round again. This time he answered.

  ‘Oh! Are you ill?’

  Mack eyed me. His beard, which had reached the point where it could be classified as a separate life-form, eyed me too. Pale-faced, hair like a toilet-brush, smelling nearly as bad, in a T-shirt I had almost certainly seen in the women’s section of French Connection: Ouch.

  ‘I brought wine, and cheesecake. To say how grateful I am for the loan of the car. Oh, and the money I owe you.’ I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and offered an envelope.

  He took it. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But perhaps now’s not a good time?’ I let the question die away…

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you, um, want the wine and the cake anyway?’ There was probably a law about not offering alcohol to a man in that state, but I didn’t know what else to say. Mack rubbed a hand through his hair, looked as though he was trying to remember how to speak in full sentences. ‘Maybe another day.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I considered whether this time I could force my way inside, and offer some sort of intervention. Intervention against what, exactly, I wasn’t sure…

  ‘Yes. No. The car… brought back memories. I’ll be fine in a few days.’

  ‘Mack, if the owner of the car has, um, passed away, you should have said. I’d never have accepted it if I thought it would upset you this much.’

  He shook his head, irritated. ‘I’m not that upset.’ Then his eyes widened, and a look of utter dejection and misery fell across his face. ‘And they haven’t died.’

  So. Wife: alive. Location: still unknown. Mack: still in love with her.

  I tried not to feel too weirded out at driving Mack’s missing wife’s car. Or at how his dealing with the car had resulted in seriously bad personal hygiene and women’s clothing. Instead I kept my head down and tried not to rev the engine too much every time I bounced down the unpaved road.

  School, and therefore my work, had a week’s break at the end of May. The Saturday, 2 June, was my birthday. Way back in January, Will and Ellen had required my date of birth as part of their background check, and, being two of the kindest, most optimistic people ever, they had noted it on their calendar even back then.

  ‘The kids are throwing you a party,’ Ellen had told me. ‘It’s not going to be the height of sophistication. Balloon animals, a bouncy castle and rainbow jelly are involved. Oh, and Dawson is preparing a magic show. But hopefully a firepit, summer cocktails and Kiko’s karaoke machine later in the evening will bring us back from the brink of full-on kids’ party hell.’

  ‘It sounds perfect.’ I cleared my throat, blew my nose and tried very hard to pretend I wasn’t crying about being thrown a children’s birthday party.

  When I was very young, every birthday had been shared with Zara. Unsurprisingly, the attention, choice of activity, number of friends (and therefore number of presents) had not been an equal split. Later on, they had been spent visiting Zara at boarding school, where I’d tried to appease her irritation at having to share her special day by remaining as insignificant as possible. Birthdays as an adult had been worst of all, sitting alone in the apartment while Zara had gone off celebrating. I had pretended I wasn’t bothered about birthdays, but the truth was I had managed to convince myself that nothing about me or my life was worth celebrating.

  For the first time, that was starting to change.

  And then, three days before my party, it started to rain. And rain. And then it rained even more – a power-shower of rain, hammering on my repaired roof and racing down the window panes, filling the yard with puddles. By Friday the puddles had merged into a lake. Several inches of water lay between me and the Mini, hidden away from Mack’s memories in the shed. I could only hope it kept the water out better than it had the rats. Pulling on boots, I sploshed to the road, and then round to the footpath. I was up a creek without a canoe, let alone a paddle.

  Head down against the downpour, arms tightly folded to keep out the chill, I smacked straight into Mack as I turned back towards the house.

  ‘Oomf.’


  I bounced off him, managing to stay upright, and just stood there, too miserable to do anything else.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, holding his umbrella out so it covered both our heads.

  ‘Hi.’ I tried to smile. My mouth wobbled.

  He peered closer at me. ‘Are you crying?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘The roads aren’t safe. We’ll have to wait it out.’

  I nodded. He frowned. ‘The rain will have stopped by morning. It’ll be clear a day or so after.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Do you have something you need to do? Because, really, it isn’t safe to try to leave.’

  ‘Yes, I have something to do.’ I sniffed. ‘For the first time ever I was going to spend my birthday with other people. People who I think might like me. Love me, even.’ My voice cracked. ‘The kids have baked a birthday cake. Maddie has made pass the parcel, and Dawson has been practising his tricks. There’s pancakes with bacon and maple syrup for my birthday breakfast, and I’ve made a giant chocolate trifle.’ Okay, Jenny, bring it down an octave… ‘And without meaning to sound presumptuous there might have been a present and some cards and singing happy birthday and fun and happiness.’ I gulped in a huge, honking sob. ‘There would be happiness.’

  Mack looked slightly alarmed.

  ‘And now, once again, I’m spending my birthday with a bowl of soup and my own sodding company. I can’t even get to the Common to buy a decent coffee. What is this place? Why would anyone choose to live here?’

  I took a deep breath. Mack carefully stretched out one hand, took off my glasses, wiped them on a tissue and handed them back to me. I breathed in again, tried to suck in some of his calm.

  ‘What are you doing out here, anyway?’

  ‘I saw you leave. Thought you might try to swim it.’ He blinked. ‘Ellen invited me, but I had plans this weekend, too.’

  I sighed. Pulled my thoughts back into line. ‘I’m sorry I called you a hermit.’

  ‘Don’t be. I have been living a hermit-like existence the past few months.’

  ‘And I’m sorry for ranting on like a madwoman. It’s a bit of a thing for me, birthdays. Though not quite as bad as Christmas. At least on my birthday the rest of the world aren’t celebrating while I’m feeling crap. Now Christmas, I really hate.’ I gave a small shudder.

  ‘You hate Christmas?’

  ‘I don’t hate Christmas in principle. I just happen to have hated every Christmas so far.’

  ‘Now that is really sad.’

  ‘I need to get into some dry clothes.’ We waded back towards the house, where I trudged inside, had a long hot bath and, in blatant disregard to it being eleven in the morning, crawled into my softest pyjamas and pulled the duvet over my head. For the rest of the day I wallowed in self-pity, left a fake-cheerful message for Ellen, cried, giggled, gasped and oohed at the Hillary West book I’d bought myself as a birthday present, and ate over half the trifle. The rain died to a drizzle as dusk fell, and I went to sleep praying for a birthday, road-clearing, miracle.

  On reflection, I’m rather grateful God said no to that prayer.

  26

  I woke up to the sun streaming through my window, accompanied by the sound of music. Rubbing the sleep from my face, I listened harder and realised it was the Shakin’ Stevens’ Christmas classic, ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’.

  I fumbled to put my glasses on and leapt out of bed, for one glorious moment sure a miracle had indeed occurred, or simply that Mack had been wrong about how long it would take for the water to recede, and the Camerons had come to collect me for the best birthday in the history of the universe, ever. Who else would choose to play Christmas music in June but those crazy Cameron kids? Flinging on a T-shirt, feeling like Noah after his millions of days in the ark, I ran to the window, expecting to see a row of little faces beaming up at me.

  Water. A bird huddled on the shed roof. More water. No Camerons.

  The music got louder. And could I smell coffee?

  Tentatively, thinking rattled thoughts about chocolate-trifle-induced delirium, I opened the bedroom door.

  The music grew louder, the coffee smell stronger.

  Mannequin Diana was wearing a Santa hat.

  I crept down the stairs, selecting a walking stick from the stand by the front door. Somebody was in my kitchen. Whistling.

  I pushed open the door. ‘Happy birthday, Jenny.’

  Mack, too, wore a Santa hat. And a jumper with a reindeer on it. The table was set for two, with red and white snowflake napkins. Fairy lights adorned the window frame, and a jug stuffed with holly and ivy sat on the dresser. His coffee machine gurgled merrily on the worktop.

  ‘I’m a bit confused.’

  ‘Nobody should hate Christmas, so this is your birthday present.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’m giving you a happy Christmas. It won’t make up for all the terrible ones, but it might help you feel better about the next one.’

  I stood there, speechless.

  ‘Sit down then.’ Mack waved a spatula at the nearest chair.

  I sat. Then stood up again, walked over to where he stood by the mini oven, and, before I could chicken out, kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded, a smile peeking out from his whiskers. ‘You’d better eat a lot of pancakes, because dinner isn’t going to be a feast.’

  We both ate a lot of pancakes. And bacon, and a sticky old drizzle of syrup from the back of Mack’s cupboard.

  And then we took our drinks into the living room.

  I nearly dropped mine on the floor.

  ‘How did you do this?’ I gaped at the tree, standing in a pot of earth, the old baubles and tinsel I’d discovered weeks earlier dangling from its branches, the magical scent of fresh pine-needles wafting over everything. There were more fairy lights, more decorations I didn’t recognise. But what got me most was that half the contents of the room had disappeared. The piles of stuff and ugly, scratched furniture were gone. The boxes still waiting for disposal. The dusty ornaments and dingy, faded pictures of farm animals. One sofa now sat against a wall, a throw covering the threadbare cushions, a chair that didn’t completely clash with it to the side. There were a few end tables, a larger coffee table and a couple of bookcases. And that was it. Apart from the fireplace.

  Previously hidden behind all the junk, the (hideous) electric fire tucked inside now bathed the room in the most delicious orangey glow.

  ‘I can’t believe you did this.’ I was agog. Utterly blindsided.

  ‘Neither can I. But once I’d started I sort of had to finish. Else it would have been really weird.’ He went over and turned the fire off. ‘Sorry, that was for effect, but until it’s been tested I don’t want to risk burning the house down.’

  ‘What time did you start?’

  ‘About three. I woke up when the rain stopped.’

  ‘I’m not crying.’

  ‘You’d better not be.’

  ‘I think my sinuses are having trouble adjusting to the dust-free environment.’ I laughed. ‘No. I am crying. Mack, you have no idea. Nobody, ever, has ever… Nothing like this.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never done anything like this before. I was half expecting you to freak out because I’d let myself into your house again and messed about with your stuff. But, well, it’s Christmas. Sort of.’

  I flapped one hand at him. ‘Oh, I’m so over getting annoyed at that.’

  We collapsed onto each end of the sofa and simultaneously took big sips from our coffee mugs.

  ‘What were Christmases like, when you were a kid?’ I asked. And, to my surprise, Mack told me. Nothing special – parents, two older sisters, grandparents, a dog, arguments over food, films, presents.

  ‘What about once you got married?’ I asked.

  The Mack portcullis clanged shut.

  I sat there, watching him stare very hard at the switched-off fire.

  ‘This might sound pathetic, but I’ve never had a prope
r friend before,’ I started, my voice hesitant. ‘Until I moved here. I have no clue about boundaries, or hanging out, or even what friends talk about. You’ve met Sarah – she told me all her dirty secrets the first time I went for dinner. And Ellen shares about anything. So, if I ask a question that’s too probing, or personal, please bear with me, just tell me and don’t get all, y’know, inside yourself.’

  I coughed, and adjusted my position on the sofa. ‘Having said that, I don’t think it’s beyond the realms of acceptable conversation to ask why your friend’s wife is never there.’

  Mack slowly put his mug on an end table. ‘My wife is currently in London.’ He went quiet again.

  ‘Was that your other plans? Were you hoping to see her?’

  ‘I was hoping to bring her home with me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I need to start dinner.’ He stood up.

  ‘Can we cook and talk?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s your turn. I need some meat, and at least half that trifle, before sharing the mess that is my marriage.’

  ‘Okay. But you might have to settle for a third of the trifle. Quarter.’

  So we cooked – a chicken breast and one roast potato each, a hotchpotch of vegetables cobbled together, instant gravy and a disastrous attempt at home-made stuffing. And I told Mack about my family, including Zara, right up until the day I moved to Edinburgh.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nah-ah.’ I shook my head. ‘Food is ready. We eat, open this bottle of wine, you tell me about your messy marriage. Then I’ll tell you about Edinburgh.’

  I had to consciously slow down and not scoff my dinner like a warthog, I was so intrigued and excited to finally hear more about the mystery wife – but not in a gossip-hungry way, just a looking-forward-to-getting-to-know-you-better way. I think. And definitely not in a tell-me-all-about-your-awful-marriage-so-I-can-feel-less-guilty way either. I hope.