Chapter 22

At quarter past nine Luke knocked on Charlie and Robin’s door with a jaunty rat-a-tat-tat.

“You up?” he called.

“We are. Just give us five minutes,” replied Robin. “Charlie’s on the toilet. He’s reading Persuasion.”

“Oh, tell the world,” Charlie shouted through the bathroom door.

“It’s only Luke, not a Daily Mail reporter,” Robin barked back at him. He took a tablet out of the orange bottle and was standing waiting like a sentry, hand extended, when Charlie exited the bathroom.

“Is this the one that makes things taste of fish?” asked Charlie.

“Yes, but you have to take it,” Robin insisted.

“Well, I’m not. It’s not an essential one, is it? Not like the ones in the green bottle.”

“No, it’s the orange.”

“Robin, I don’t want to eat turkey and Christmas pudding and have that off-salmon flavor infiltrating my taste buds.”

“Charlie, it’s a pain relief.”

“I know what it is but I’m not taking it. And you can’t force me. I’m not a suffragette for you to stuff it up my nose.”

Robin’s hands flew to his hips. “Whatever do you take me for, Charles Glaser?”

Charlie’s hand came out to rest on Robin’s arm; his voice was soft when he answered. “Someone who cares deeply, that’s what I take you for. I know how much you want to make this… this stage easy for me, but I’m not taking that one in the orange bottle anymore. It ruins my pleasure in eating. I can put up with a little pain if it means I can immerse myself in the full Christmas epicurean experience, otherwise I might as well have been hooked up to drips in a hospital.” Charlie smiled. “No point in having the appetite of an elephant and not being able to enjoy stuffing my face.”

Robin huffed with frustration, “It’s your funer—” He sliced off the word, shook his head at his verbal blunder.

“Yes, my dear Annie, it is my funeral. Eventually. Not yet. Don’t let my last meals be fishy flavored. Please.”

Robin, purse-lipped, put the tablet back into the bottle. He would guide but never bully. If Charlie felt strongly about something, then he had the right to run his own show; they’d agreed on that from the start.

The one stipulation he had managed to adhere to was Charlie’s insistence, after his diagnosis, that they continue as normal wherever possible. Let them carry on with their merry bickering; and Robin had carte blanche to be his usual nagging self, as long as it all fit within the parameters of normal, because this was what would help Charlie deal with it mentally more than anything. But normality was an eggshell veneer, a shimmering illusion, and Robin could feel the cracks in himself destroying it a little more each day.

The fishy tablet had stopped working anyway, though Charlie hadn’t said anything, not wanting to cause concern. He’d been spitting it into his hand out of Robin’s sight for a few days now, so it was time for a little honesty, but not too much. He had begun to ache everywhere, a bone-deep nag that was becoming more difficult to disguise and made it harder for him to sleep properly. Except, it had to be said, for the last two nights here in the Figgy Hollow Inn. He’d slept solidly like a milk-drunk baby and the pain was a mere low murmur in the background. He felt, this Christmas morning after a solid, restful sleep, as close to feeling fresh as a daisy as it was possible for someone in his condition to feel.

He put the book down on his bedside cabinet for later. Becoming reacquainted with the characters in Persuasion was like the cherry on his cake.

“Right. Let’s go and see if Santa’s filled my stocking,” he said, clapping his hands together. He grinned at Robin, who thought again how his grin never aged, how it lit up his blue-gray eyes and let him glimpse once more the Charlie Glaser he had fallen in love with three full decades ago. How would he ever be able to exist without this man?

---

It was funny how simple pleasures were often the best ones, thought Bridge, who had put on her panties warm from the radiator, then remembered how she used to always put them on the radiator whenever she stayed over at her posh schoolfriend Jane’s house. Jane lived in a semidetached on an estate, but they had central heating, which her dad used to leave on during the night, and their tiny box bedroom had a piano in it, which Jane’s mother called “the music room.”

Other snapshots of that portion of her past wriggled to the surface of this surprise memory pool, dislodged from the settled silt by the sensation of warm underwear against Bridge’s bum. Jane’s mother had a tea service in a glass cabinet that was called Eternal Beau and was used only on special occasions, and she only ever drank Italian champagne called Asti Spumante that she bought at Marks & Spencer. Bridge hadn’t thought about Jane in twenty years, but here she was, large as life, swimming in the waters of her mind. Jane’s mother split up their friendship in the end, deeming Bridget Winterman too common. And Bridge had really wanted Jane’s mum to like her enough to think about adopting her.

“Bridge?” Mary’s voice prodded her, burst the bubble of her reverie. “You nearly ready?”

“Sorry, Mary. Two ticks,” Bridge replied, pulling on her jeans, zipping herself into them. “There, now I’m ready.”

Mary smiled excitedly. “Isn’t this all crackers?”

“It’s certainly that. I’m not sure if I’m in a bad dream or a good dream,” said Bridge, lifting her shoulders in a gesture of WTF, but really knowing that while it might have all started off as a nightmare, she had the exact giddy feeling about going downstairs that she should have had as a child on Christmas morning. And not because she wanted to rip into her own stocking—her expectations of what might be in it were low—but because she wanted to see him opening his present. Not something one would find in Harrods, but she reckoned she’d gotten it right on the button.

“Okay, everyone, you can come out now,” Luke said from the landing.

A ripple of anticipation tickled down Mary’s spine as Bridge opened their door.

“Happy, happy Christmas everyone,” said Charlie.

“And happy, happy birthday, lovely Mary,” added Robin, putting his arms around her and squeezing her.

“Yes, of course, happy birthday, Mary,” said Bridge, annoyed that she’d forgotten.

“Happy birthday, Mary,” said Jack, not quite sure if it was appropriate to accompany his words with any physical gesture, and missed the boat as Charlie moved in smoothly for a hug.

“A double celebration,” said Luke. “Let’s not waste another second.”

They filed downstairs in jolly expectancy. In the lounge, the Christmas tree lights were already on, the radio was playing on low volume, the logs spitting and crackling a Christmas morning coziness in the hearth.

“Aw, who did all this?” said Charlie. “How thoughtful.”

“Santa, obviously,” said Luke.

“I feel as if I’ve just walked into a Christmas card,” said Bridge, wondering if Luke had sneaked down earlier to set the scene for them. It was the sort of thing he’d do. He was always full of the small, considerate gestures.

“Happy Christmas, everyone,” said Radio Brian from the speakers. “I hope you’re all enjoying opening your presents on this beautiful snowy morning and are safe at home with your loved ones. Here’s the magic voice of Sammy Davis Junior singing ‘It’s Christmas Time All Over the World.’ ”

Luke wished he were at home with his loved ones. He’d prayed to God before he’d gone to sleep, told him that though he hadn’t believed in him since school, if he could make sure Carmen was safe and well, he’d take that as a sign that maybe his atheism was cock.

The lounge looked beautiful and Christmassy: the hearth, the tree, the decorations, even a contribution from the three front windows, framing a triptych of snowy scenes like paintings in a gallery.

“Are we having breakfast or presents first?” asked Charlie.

“Presents!” came a hearty, synchronized chorus by way of reply.

“Come on, everyone, and sit by the fire,” said Mary.

“Let’s open them one by one,” suggested Bridge. “Left to right.”

“Oh yes, let’s, because that makes mine first,” said Robin, and picked up his sock, peered inside. “Ah, how lovely and traditional. An orange and some nuts.”

Mary’s brow creased in puzzlement. She hadn’t put those in there.

Robin tipped the nuts in their shells and the clementine into his lap, not expecting to find anything else until the tiny package fell out. He unfolded the tissue and there was a cell phone number written on a slip of paper, along with Mary’s friendship bracelet. He knew exactly why she had given it to him. A token of true kindness. And friendship.

“Oh, Mary, this means so much to me already,” said Robin, leaning over to plant a kiss on her cheek, then asking her to fasten it immediately onto his wrist. The small blocks each bore a letter standing for call me when you need a friend. He would be calling her, because he would indeed need to.

“Me next,” said Charlie.

Robin passed his sock to him; his also had been stuffed with an orange and nuts. One of them must have come down and done this. The same thoughtful person who had built the fire and switched on the radio and the tree lights.

“Keep going,” urged Robin when Charlie thought he had emptied the sock of all it had. He reached into the toe and found the rectangle of paper. On it was drawn an imitation check, signed by Robin Raymond.

I promise to pay the bearer half an hour of my time to use as you will.

Charlie looked squarely at Robin to make sure he had understood correctly.

“Half an hour of your time?” he asked.

Robin nodded slowly, emphatically.

Charlie’s hand came out to his, grasped it firmly, and his eyes became glassy.

“Thank you, Robin. Thank you.”

“What’s this? Is it saucy?” asked Luke.

“Sexier than you could imagine,” said Charlie. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“It’s obviously hit the spot,” said Jack, hoping his gift hit the spot, too. Inside him, two fingers crossed as Mary picked up her sock.

“More nuts and an orange,” said Mary. “Who put these in here?”

“Elves,” said Jack, who suspected either Luke or Robin as the most likely culprits, if it hadn’t been Mary.

“I do hope it’s a Chanel handbag. I know that’s what you were hoping for,” said Bridge mischievously.

“Somehow I don’t think so, but that’s okay,” replied Mary, pulling out a slim red datebook, House of Quill stamped in gold at the bottom. No prizes for guessing who this was from because she’d opened the parcel in which it had arrived. Jack had ordered it to give to Mrs. Chikafuji as a present. It cost over a hundred pounds and was absolutely beautiful. For a datebook.

“House of Quill,” said Charlie with a whistle. “Very nice.”

“To whoever bought me this,” began Mary in the spirit of “secret” Santa, “thank you, it’s beautiful. I shall treasure it.”

She tried not to look disappointed, tried to see something other than a glorified datebook. A typical Jack present, a complete gift mismatch to the recipient, at least when the recipient was her. Her formal Christmas present from him, given to her the day before they set off for Tynehall, had been a tartan headscarf, shopping bag, and a box of jellied fruits. Presents from a person who didn’t know her at all and had no intention of ever getting to know her. The datebook was functional and practical and reliable and boring. This was how Jack saw her: an office thing.

“You shouldn’t treasure it, you should use it,” said Charlie.

“Oh, I most certainly will.” Mary maintained her bright smile for the benefit of her new friends; she couldn’t look at Jack, though, because her eyes would have made a lie of her words.

“Me next,” said Luke, with more excitement than a roomful of Labrador puppies finding a stash of toilet paper. He picked up his stocking, shook it. More nuts and a small orange. And a matchbox. He opened it to find it was full of ash.

“Ash?” A present from Bridge, he knew. No doubt she couldn’t find a piece of coal to give him, as Santa rewarded the kids on the naughty list.

“Well, cheers, whoever you—”

“It’s symbolic. I’m going to give you Sabrina’s ashes,” said Bridge, interrupting him. “I know as gifts go it’s a bit weird, but I also know you’d treasure them.”

Luke, for once, was speechless.

“A dog or a cat?” asked Charlie gently because he could see how taken aback his new friend was.

“Dog,” Luke and Bridge answered together.

Bridge had kept their dog’s ashes because she could. Luke had asked if he could have had half of them, to bury in his garden, grow a rose over the spot. She’d refused just to be assy, even knowing how much such a concession would mean to him. She’d confused kindness with weakness before she’d grown up to realize there was a dignity and strength in the quality. She had kept Sabrina’s collar; Luke should have the ashes in their entirety.

“This means a lot, Bridge,” said Luke, swallowing a ball of emotion lodged in his throat.

“I know it does,” she said as she reached for her own sock, which was the fullest of all of them. She scooped out the nuts and the small orange before pulling out a can of plum tomatoes. Then she laughed.

“Memories,” she explained for the benefit of the bemused others. Her eyes drifted to Luke and stayed there. “Happy memories.”

“We were very happy once, believe it or not, Bridge and I,” said Luke, addressing them all, before his eyes locked with Bridge’s.

They’d chopped up the tomatoes and heated them in a pan on the fire because they had no coins for the electric meter. They’d stirred it with loads of salt and pepper and dipped cheap white bread from the bargain shelf in the local shop into the pan and it had tasted like a feast. Neither Bridge nor Luke had ever been able to unlink the sight of a humble tin of tomatoes from that night, however much water had gone under their bridges since. It was a symbol of what they once were to each other. What they had needed to be to each other in order to be what they were now.

“Thank you,” said Bridge, the two words holding a bucketful of emotion.

“Okay, Jack, your turn,” said Robin.

Jack picked up the sock, did a quick calculation, and realized that whatever was inside must have come from Charlie.

“I hope there’s a diamond in here,” Jack said, addressing no one in particular.

“There is, in a fashion,” Charlie said. “It’s certainly one of the most valuable things you’ll ever have.”

Jack was intrigued.

There was a small, thin notepad in the bottom among the fruit and nuts. One of the Figgy Hollow Inn pads that they all had in their rooms on the dressing tables, with an accompanying complimentary pen. On the cover, in spidery handwriting, the title: Rules of Life by a Man Who Lived Well.

Jack flicked through the book; each mini philosophy took up a page.

“Follow that and you won’t go far wrong in life,” said Charlie.

Jack read aloud: “ ‘Say good morning and good night to your cleaners. Treat kings and commoners with respect.’ ”

“That is a sterling piece of advice, and one I was given many years ago by my first employer, a very rich man who had survived a concentration camp in the war. He came to London with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. A man who had seen the worst of life and its best.”

Jack turned to page two.

“ ‘Never let an unsaid thank-you sit in your heart undelivered.’ ”

“Everyone underestimates the power of a simple please and thank-you,” Charlie explained. “You can change someone’s life with the smallest act of gratitude.”

“I never knew you were so wise,” said Robin, playful smile on his lips.

“I was wise enough to let you into my heart,” said Charlie, and tapped his temple. “That should tell you that I have an adequate number of marbles in here.”

“That’s debatable. Anyway, do you want your half an hour now or later?”

“Now,” said Charlie. “Then we can get on and enjoy our Christmas.”

“Come on, then,” said Robin, rising from the chair with a loaded outward breath. “Let’s get it over and done with so I can stuff the turkey.”

“Woo-hoo!” exclaimed Luke.

“Cheeky boy,” said Charlie, and winked at him.

Mary gave Robin and Charlie enough time to get to their room and then she beckoned Luke and Jack to lean in close.

“I think I know what Robin’s present is,” she said in a low voice. “He wants to give Charlie the opportunity to say… uncomfortable things. I should tell you, Charlie isn’t a well man.”

“Really?” said Jack.

Bridge and Mary nodded together.

“Oh hell,” said Luke. Both he and Jack looked rocked by Mary’s revelation, slapped from the side by an unseen hand. “Thanks for letting us know so we don’t say anything else inappropriate.”

“How ill is he?” asked Jack.

Mary gave the slightest shake of her head, which said everything. A few moments of contemplative silence ensued and then Luke smacked his hands together.

“Then let’s give him the best Christmas we possibly can. All the bells and whistles we can muster,” he said. “Right, Jack, let’s go and peel some spuds.”