Going Home

‘You all right, old girl?’

‘I’m just fine, Michael darling.’

‘I’m pretty tired,’ said Dad. He took my mother’s hand and held it. ‘Look at the sky,’ Mike said. ‘It’s clear as you like, look at the stars.’

Mum turned off the overhead light. I always forget how many more stars you can see outside London, and there was a new moon, the thinnest sliver of a bright white crescent in the sky. ‘It’s Christmas Day,’ she whispered. ‘Happy Christmas, everyone.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ we murmured back.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she said, and padded out of the room. As I turned away from the window, I caught Rosalie gazing at Mike. I’ve never seen such naked, all-consuming love on anyone else’s face. It lit hers, but there was something unsettling about it, which I couldn’t put my finger on. When I told Tom on our way up to bed, he said, ‘But they’ve just got married. Of course she’s in love with him, you strange girl.’

But that didn’t explain why it had been scary.

I stopped by the old bookshelf, picked out a Georgette Heyer I hadn’t read for years, then went to my room, undressed and got into bed. How lovely it was to sit in bed, to feel my feet push down, along the clean, smooth sheets, to feel as snug and warm as anything in my new fleecy pyjamas, and not to have to worry about work, about crazy Jaden, about my boiler, which was on its last legs, about tidying the flat, about making sure Ash at work was all right. It was Christmas Day. I was at home. All I had to do was enjoy being here, in my bedroom, which smelt of lavender, with the presents I’d half wrapped scattered across the floor and Devil’s Cub on my knee.

I started to read: ‘There was only one occupant of the coach, a gentleman who sprawled very much at his ease, with his legs stretched out before him, and his hands dug deep in the capacious pockets of his greatcoat…’ But my eyes were growing heavier and heavier, and I must have fallen asleep, because in the middle of the night I woke up and had to turn the light off, and the book was still on my lap.

FOUR (#ulink_bf05250f-3262-5cd4-a255-e2fe27015bfe)

When I woke again, bright sunlight was flooding into my room and I could smell cinnamon. I pulled back the faded curtains and my heart leaped. It was a bright blue day, and the view to the village was as fresh and clear as it was on a spring morning, but coated with the glittering frost of winter.

I showered and dressed in the clanking old bathroom, singing ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ very loudly, and rushed downstairs, eager for some pre-church bonding with my family. But everyone was already in the hall, putting on their coats.

Mum appeared with a plate and thrust it under my nose. ‘Grab one of those muffins and let’s move it,’ she said, then pulled on her gloves like a member of the A-Team. I declined: I’m of the strong opinion that, when it comes to breakfast, if it doesn’t have Marmite on it, it ain’t worth it.

Jess came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. ‘Come on, Jess, we’ll be late,’ said Mum testily.

Every year my relatives get themselves into a frenzy about being late for church. I have no idea why. It’s a twenty-minute walk, and we always leave with half an hour to spare. Now, short of a hurricane, driving snow, frogs dropping from the sky, we would be sitting in our pew with ten minutes to spare while every other member of the congregation rocks up fifteen minutes late, and stand in the aisles chatting and exchanging pleasantries.

Old habits die hard, and we set out straight away, crunching across the terrace flagstones. Dad opened the gate and Gibbo appeared barefoot in the doorway, trousers trailing on the ground, hair whipped up into a storm around his face. He wasn’t coming to church, he said. It made him fall asleep. ‘Bye, you guys,’ he called, and waved, a piece of toast in his hand.

‘What’s he going to do?’ asked Jess, a little enviously.

‘He’s a great cook,’ said Chin. ‘He’s sorted it with your mum. He’ll start the Christmas lunch so it’s all ready to go when we get back.’

I doubted that Gibbo could start a fire with a can of petrol and a match, let alone a Christmas lunch for ten people, but I kept quiet.

It was a beautiful walk, along the well-worn path through the fields. We owned the first, and the rest of the land before the church was the village common, a long sloping expanse of meadow with a stream at the bottom. This morning it was frozen at the edges, though a little water trickled through the centre and a forlorn-looking robin hopped from branch to branch.

Mike was just ahead of me, humming, Rosalie’s arm tucked through his. They made a comforting picture, his checked wool scarf wound tightly round his neck, Rosalie in her beautiful pale coat, little heels clicking on the hard ground alongside him. The crown of his head showed beneath his thinning hair and I felt a rush of affection for him, with a kind of protectiveness. He and Rosalie stopped and turned. I caught up with them and Mike put his arm round my shoulders. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘God, it’s nice to be home again, you know?’

‘It’s great to have you back,’ I said. ‘I wish you’d come over more often. Can’t you go part-time and supplement your income with bar work over here?’

‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘Bar work. Haven’t been back for ages, you know.’

‘A year,’ I said.

‘Pah! Not a year – I came back at Easter.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You were going to, for Dad’s birthday party, but you had to cancel.’

Mike appeared to be in the grip of some unpleasant memory. ‘You’re right, Titch. Matheson deal. Phones ringing off the hook. Screaming. I don’t think I left the office for three days…’

‘Ooh, Mike,’ I said, ‘you’re so important and hardworking, aren’t you?’

Mike had been supposed to make the speech at Dad’s party, which had also celebrated my parents’ silver wedding anniversary (I know! You do the maths…) but, typical Mike, at the last minute he had to cancel his trip and Chin made the speech. The party was good, but Chin was a bit of a flop, drunk and rambling. And, besides, she wasn’t Mike, who would have told a story, played the kazoo, got the audience to sing along, then probably slipped over and lain, with aplomb, on the floor unconscious for the rest of the evening.

‘Well, you’re back now,’ I continued, seeing that he was looking rather depressed.

His face twitched into a smile. ‘And I can’t imagine how I stayed away so long. I could give it all up and live in the shed in the garden just to be near the old place. Does that make sense or sound completely crazy?’

‘No, it makes sense,’ I said, because I’d been thinking that more and more often lately. ‘But you can come back any time. You know it’s always going to be here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Mike, darkly. ‘Your dad might sell it and move to a bungalow on the coast.’

‘Or form a nu-metal band,’ I said.

‘Or join the Rotary Club,’ Mike replied, jamming his trilby on his head and smiling.

‘Or the Steven Seagal fan club. Why did you meet David for a drink in New York?’ I asked suddenly, hoping to catch him off-guard.

‘Ah.’ Mike stopped and looked down at me. ‘Did Rosalie say something? I’ve met up with him a couple of times, actually. Since…er…you two…He’s a nice bloke.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said.

Mike corrected himself: ‘Sorry. He’s Satan’s master-worker, and I hope his eyeballs dry up, but that aside, he’s a pretty nice bloke.’

We were approaching the village. Mike patted my arm.

‘I’m sorry, Lizzy, my love, I should have told you but it isn’t a big deal. Look at it this way. He doesn’t have any friends, he’s been ostracized from normal society, so that’s why he doesn’t mind meeting up with me.’

I released Mike’s arm. ‘Does he ever ask about me?’

Mike looked alarmed, as if this was some kind of test and he didn’t know the answer. Then he said, slowly, ‘He’s mentioned you, but I’ve told him not to. He’s a great bloke in many ways, but he’s weak. The way he treated you…Bit crap, really. So we just don’t…Well – you know. It’s over, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘Dear girl, have I said the wrong thing?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ I replied. ‘In fact you’ve said absolutely the right thing. Don’t worry.’

Mike was saved by Jess running past. ‘Come on, people,’ she called. ‘We’re nearly there – and it’s Sandringham time.’

Every year we play Sandringham Church, a game Jess invented when she was a teenager and obsessed with Hello!. We all pretend to be a different member of the Royal Family walking to church on Christmas morning, waving to the crowd of well-wishers, though to those who choose to wait outside in the freezing cold on Christmas Day to see Prince Edward I say, Think about what you’re doing and whether you need medical assistance.

Anyway, Mike is brilliant as Princess Anne, while I always get landed with someone totally duff. This year I’d got Sophie Rhys-Jones, Tom was Fergie, which is great (mad eyes, shunned by the others and sucking a finger as a toe-substitute), and Mum was an impressive Prince Philip, shouting at imaginary foreigners. We had to keep stopping to laugh and help Rosalie with her portrayal of Mrs Simpson (she offered).

The organ was playing and there was a buzz of excitement, and Mum, Dad and Kate paused to kiss people and chat. Tom, Jess and I grabbed two pews and watched our parents gesturing to Rosalie, smiling and explaining about Mike’s new wife as something they were all over the moon about. Rosalie was loving it all, you could tell the words ‘quaint’ and ‘cute’ were hovering on her lips as she gazed at the stone carvings, the little gargoyles above the arched windows and the pretty stained-glass picture of the flight into Egypt.