Christmas Every Day Read online

  And of course, by the time I’d put the bike in the shed, stomped inside, dug out some clothes that I didn’t mind getting paint-and-water-splattered, and then swapped them for alternatives that I didn’t mind Mack seeing me in, made two cups of tea and come back out again, half the graffiti was gone.

  Mack had washed off all the horrible bits, leaving a wall of meaningless pronouns and words like ‘next’ and ‘of’. And, for some reason, that little piece of thoughtfulness, rather than the torrent of threatening abuse all over our houses, made me want to weep.

  He took the tea, brow furrowed. ‘Why don’t you go inside? I’ll finish it off. It’s nearly all done anyway.’

  ‘No chance.’ I wrenched the washer out of his other hand, rather more forcefully than planned, pressing the release button as I jerked it back.

  It wasn’t me who ended up needing to get changed.

  But, hey, at least it was detergent, not paint.

  And I didn’t stop smiling until every last letter had vanished, which I was half wondering might have been his plan all along.

  In fact, the grin didn’t leave my face until the estate agent’s car pulled up and she, and her hipster clients, got out and started nosying about. I stuck the washer in the shed and went inside, nodding a polite hello as I passed them. Hillary didn’t need to worry about me sabotaging her and Mack’s attempts to sell the house. The sooner she stopped being my neighbour, the better.

  And I still wouldn’t have done what I did next, if it hadn’t been for what happened the following morning.

  33

  I’d had another appalling night’s sleep, fretting about who had vandalised the cottages. I knew it was personal. And someone local. Who hated me. Or thought it funny to write threats across my house.

  That morning, while still feeling about three inches tall, I answered the door to Hillary West, queen of love, romance and utter gorgeousness.

  ‘Hello?’ I tugged at my vest top, as if that could hide the fact that I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms at ten in the morning.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear the viewing was a crapbucket.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you going to let me in? This Northern mizzle ruins my hair.’ She stepped in before I could correct her geography, pushing me backwards into my own kitchen. So that was where Mack learnt how to do it.

  ‘Is that my fault too?’

  She ignored me, tweaking at her fringe while using her phone as a mirror.

  I waited, curious to see how long it would take for the insults to start.

  ‘We have a viewing today at four.’ Pausing, she fiddled with her jacket collar. My goodness, if Hillary West looked uncomfortable this was going to be a humdinger.

  ‘Okay.’

  We waited a bit longer.

  ‘So, if you wouldn’t mind, we’d prefer it if you stayed out of the way.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I would have laughed, had I not been standing there in my faded pyjamas after having three hours’ sleep.

  ‘The estate agent indicated you didn’t make a very good impression yesterday.’

  ‘I said hello as I walked past. What would have made a better impression? Ignoring them? A hug and a kiss?’

  ‘You were dressed… erratically. And your tracksuit bottoms had wet patches in critical areas.’

  ‘I’d been using a pressure washer!’ I snorted. ‘Did you see how wet Mack got?’

  ‘Yes, I did see your pathetic attempt at flirting. Pretending you can’t control a jet-wash to get a man’s attention. It made me nauseous.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ I asked, no longer laughing. ‘You think I’m after your husband?’

  ‘You work it out,’ she snarled. ‘And, either way, do both of us a favour and back off before making an even bigger fool of yourself.’

  ‘I’m in my own kitchen! How can I back off?’ I yelled, as she swept open the door with a flourish.

  ‘And I don’t know if this—’ she waved one hand up and down in the direction of my outfit ‘—is supposed to be lounge wear, but, trust me, it’s not.’

  She slammed the door before I could think of any retort more advanced than blowing a raspberry while flicking two fingers. So I did both, at the wall.

  And then I called Ashley and left a message on her answerphone.

  I wasn’t proud. But I wasn’t ashamed, either. That came later, once Ashley had finally got around to listening to the message.

  Monday morning, Kiko strode up to the school gates like a samurai heroine. I barged my way past the gossip-hunters to give her a hug.

  ‘The adventurer returns!’ Sarah crowed. ‘You look fantabulous, woman!’

  ‘I feel it.’ Kiko flung back her head and closed her eyes. ‘It was so scary. So tough – so-o-o-o-o tough! – I thought I must have lost my mind. Missing the girls felt like a fish-hook snagged on my ribs the entire trip. I have never known pain and exhaustion like it. And that includes childbirth. For the first two days, anger and frustration and guilt powered me up those slopes. And then I realised, up there with just me and some very intimidating team-mates, a million miles of clear skies and blisters the size of walnuts, I was angry and upset at the wrong person. It was all my fault.’

  Sarah started to protest.

  ‘No!’ Kiko said, in a voice she must have found in Nepal. ‘It was. It is. I let my life become this. I let myself be this weak, walked-over, wishy-washy excuse of a woman. I didn’t fight for me or my children when Adam’s poor choices stole our precious time with him. I empowered him in shirking his responsibility. I chose to put everybody first and myself last, like it was the noble thing to do. What a load of drivel! How is neglecting myself, pretending I have no needs, or feelings, or worth outside of what I do for other people, in any way helping my daughters to grow up to value themselves? To expect to be treated honourably in a relationship? I was raising my children to think that women, wives, mothers, are worthless! Or, at least, worth less.’

  She took a deep breath and smiled. ‘Well, I’ve apologised and promised it won’t happen again.’

  ‘You go, girl,’ Sarah whispered.

  ‘What did Adam say?’ Lucille asked.

  ‘He said he’s very happy to have his wife back,’ Adam said, pushing through the huddle, Hannah strapped in a sling on his chest. ‘And I wasn’t talking about the past three weeks.’

  ‘He’s taken a sabbatical,’ Kiko told me and Sarah later, once the bell had rung for school and the crowd had dispersed. ‘Three months off to get our family back on track.’

  ‘And the charity is okay with that?’ I asked.

  ‘They’re probably grateful not to have him sticking his nose in all the time, trying to do everybody’s jobs for them. He managed to get about four days’ work done while I was away, and they coped fine. He’s got a great team who will relish the challenge.’

  She watched him pointing out a robin to Hannah a few metres away.

  ‘I don’t know what happened while I was gone. I might never ask. Especially why the living room has a new carpet. Or how the cat’s ginger splodge is now on the opposite ear. But they’ve survived. Had maybe started to thrive. And I’m guessing you two had something to do with that. So, for all the help I don’t want to know about, thanks.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’

  If our incredible friend didn’t want to know about the pasta bakes dropped off, the lessons in braiding hair, the frantic texts that had, to be fair, dwindled to a trickle, that was fine with us. We were so darn pleased for her we could skip down the street singing ‘The Sound of Music’.

  So we did.

  And when Tezza shouted rude comments from his taxi window we sang even louder.

  ‘I’m done being invisible,’ Kiko yelled after him.

  ‘Amen to that, sister.’ We laughed. ‘Amen to that.’

  Once I’d removed the spam, the nonsense and the weirdos, the new Squash Harris post had seventy-four comments. Heart pounding, mouth as dry as Squash’s
sense of humour, I set my laptop up in the Camerons’ kitchen.

  ‘Before I show you this, I need you to remember it was done with your best interests at heart. It was kind of sneaky, but I knew you wouldn’t let me if I asked, and—’

  ‘What?’ Dawson scowled at me. ‘What’ve you done now?’

  ‘Just keep an open mind, because it’s worked out really well.’

  He made one of those grunts that reminded me he’d be a teenager in a couple of years, and glared at the table.

  ‘Here.’ I tapped my mouse, bringing the Squash Harris page to life.

  We sat there for a very long time. The only sounds were Dawson’s occasional mouse clicks and the distant rumble of Hunt and Destroy from the garden. I think I held my breath the whole time.

  Eventually, Dawson shut down the computer and sat back. ‘A risky move.’

  ‘I knew everyone would love it.’

  ‘Not everyone.’

  I’d kept the handful of less than awesome comments to prove authenticity.

  ‘There isn’t a single piece of art in the world that everyone loves. But the fact that some totally objective and unbiased strangers do love it is amazing.’

  The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Dawson’s mouth. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So you aren’t mad?’

  ‘Are you going to let me take over the site? I need to answer the comments. And do a questions page and news updates. And why did you pick that picture for the home page? It’s rubbish. And couldn’t you find a decent scanner? The colours are all wrong.’

  ‘Are you going to add some information about the author and illustrator?’

  Dawson picked at a fingernail. ‘I thought we were trying to get people to like the comic, not hate it.’

  ‘Half of Middlebeck Primary already love it. They aren’t going to change their minds because it’s you. But it might help them get to know you a little better.’

  ‘Loads of authors use a fake name.’

  I considered this. ‘You’re right. It’s up to you. We are telling your mum and dad, though.’

  The back door flew open and a herd of hollering buffalo streamed past. When the dust settled, I said, ‘And if your brothers find out, it’s going to be almost impossible to keep it secret.’

  Dawson frowned.

  ‘But I won’t tell them if you don’t.’

  ‘Can I have my computer time now, so I can do some stuff on it before dinner?’ He glanced at me. ‘I mean, what you did was okay, but…’

  ‘Go for it.’ I wrote down the login and password. ‘If you want help figuring anything out, just ask.’

  He skidded off to where the family computer sat in the living room, appearing at the kitchen door again three seconds later. ‘And, yeah. Thanks.’

  Dawson vanished before I could get a reply past the lump in my throat.

  And I realised then, this whole thing was not about getting people to know and like Dawson. It was about helping Dawson like himself.

  I had spent more than a few anxious evenings counting pennies and finding out what I could about rewiring and damp-proofing, poking about in nooks and crannies and catastrophising about what the council’s report would say. One morning, unable to bear the wait any longer, I called the Environmental Health department and asked for Darren Smith.

  ‘Darren who?’ the receptionist asked.

  After several back and forths and toings and froings, we established that Darren Smith had never worked for the local council, or any neighbouring councils, in any way, shape or form.

  ‘Sorry, duck. Sounds like someone’s having a joke.’

  I wasn’t laughing.

  The next morning, I found Jamie back from his latest mission and flipping heart-shaped pancakes in the café.

  I explained about the mysterious Darren Smith. Jamie slid one more pancake onto the steaming stack and handed them to Sarah.

  ‘I can think of a few explanations. The most likely one is that he was scoping it out. In which case, he would’ve been back well before now.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have seen anything worth nicking. Apart from my laptop, and every house has one of those. Even the TV is ancient.’

  ‘So maybe he’s moved on.’

  ‘And the other explanations?’

  ‘Were you with him the whole time?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. And there honestly wasn’t anything on show worth taking.’ I shook my head. ‘He genuinely seemed bothered about the house. Could he have been hoping to get some work out of it? Like, have come from a local building firm?’

  ‘Has anyone contacted you offering to do work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe he wants to scare you into a cheap sale.’

  That got my attention.

  ‘I’d keep an eye out for anyone making you an offer. And if you want, I can look at your security. Are you sure no keys are missing?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’

  I helped myself to a pink cupcake from a plate on the counter-top. That helped, slightly, so I had another one.

  ‘What’s your gut telling you?’ Jamie asked, working on his next pancake order.

  ‘Well, I know someone who’s very keen to buy my house. Although this seems a ridiculously elaborate charade considering what it must be worth. And well beneath a respectable and successful businessman.’

  ‘Are we talking about Fisher?’ Jamie looked at me, eyes sharp.

  ‘Yes. Why? What do you know?’

  ‘I know he’s neither respectable nor successful these days. I’ve got a few things on in the next couple of weeks, but leave it with me.’

  ‘Thanks, Jamie. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Jamie said, as I grabbed a third cake and stuffed in a scrumptious bite of lemony lusciousness.

  ‘Mmmf?’

  ‘Stay watchful, for now. Lock your doors and make sure your phone’s charged. Oh, and talk to that bloke next door. It can’t hurt to have another pair of eyes on it, and he seems to be looking out for you. And, well. Be careful.’

  34

  As it turned out, before I got a chance to call in on my neighbour (who I might have been avoiding since my call to Ashley) he messaged me:

  What time do we leave for this wedding?

  We?

  I stared at my screen. We?

  Was Mack coming with me to the wedding? In all the stress of the past week or so I’d barely had time to think about it beyond trying to find a dress to wear. I’d asked Ellen, but I drowned in her one posh dress that had avoided being chopped up when the triplets decided to make parachutes.

  Hesitant to ask Sarah, a good couple of sizes bigger than me, when I mentioned it to Kiko she snorted. ‘No chance. You’d be better off wearing your grandmother’s old dressing gown than one of my monstrosities. Each and every one of them designed to suit a nothing, on-the-road-to-nowhere fuddy-duddy, via Blandsville, Frump-land and a 1998 factory outlet shop.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ It looked as though I would be wearing one of my sister’s cast-offs. To her own wedding. And if she made any comment about it (and really, it was a when not an if) and if I felt defensive and stressed (again, when not if) I might be forced to make a similar remark relating cast-offs to her choice of groom. Which would not end well.

  I couldn’t afford to get arrested again.

  I had way too much to do.

  On Saturday, I took a lasagne and a load of ironing round to Frances’ farmhouse, only to find the village grapevine had beaten me to it.

  ‘The bedroom beside the bathroom, look in the wardrobe. There’ll be something that fits. Let me see you in it before you decide. I’d love to see those glad rags again but my legs aren’t friends with the stairs today.’

  I left the lasagne in the oven, and went to find a dress belonging to an eighty-five-year-old farmer that might fit me. I thought it went without saying that I was praying I wouldn’t.

  But I’d forgotten, this particular farmer had travelled the world, once upon a tim
e. Rubbed shoulders with the rich and successful. Cherished quality, craftsmanship, excellence.

  I swept down the staircase in the first one I tried. A silk 1950s tea-dress. Frances then insisted I try a load more (it didn’t take much persuading, to be honest). We ate our lasagne dressed like extras from Downton Abbey, hair coiffed, jewellery twinkling, silk gloves getting in the way, the air rich with memories of fabulous days gone by.

  So, when Mack’s message buzzed through as we delicately nibbled at our tartes Tatin, feeling more than a little giddy in my beaded bodice and string of pearls, I replied like the suave, sophisticated socialite I was masquerading as:

  Starts at 11, so leave 6.30.

  ‘Your face has gone an alarming shade of raspberry,’ Frances remarked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, not sounding at all fine. ‘Mack messaged about coming to the wedding.’

  ‘You invited Mack?’ Frances looked at me sideways, eyes shining like the silver candlesticks she’d insisted I set out.

  ‘No. He offered. And I thought I’d said no.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that? And sensible chap for overruling you. I’m all for making up one’s mind and sticking to it, but why on earth turn down the chance to spend the day with an attractive man with lovely manners?’

  ‘He’s married.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Frances’ wispy eyebrows shot into her hairline.

  ‘Well, he’s been separated for eighteen months. But his wife has been around a bit lately. I think they’re working things out.’

  ‘Well, they can’t be working things out very well if he’s coming to a wedding with you. If he considers that appropriate behaviour it might explain why his marriage failed in the first place.’

  ‘No, it’s not like that. He offered to come as a friend, when he heard that… well. It’s complicated.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Frances was not convinced. Neither was I. But the pull to have Mack with me… Seeing me looking half decent, rather than covered in mud, cobwebs or bobbly old pyjamas, was almost irresistible.