Chapter 28
“Well, it’s stopped snowing… oh, hang on, no, it hasn’t, but it’s very fine.”
Robin stood by the window, curtain pulled back, looking out. “I doubt Aviemore in its prime could give us this much snow. It’ll be interesting to…” His voice trailed off as he turned back to Charlie and noticed how still he was.
“Charlie?”
Charlie was lying on his back, a faint smile on his lips. Still. Charlie was never still.
“Charlie?”
Nothing.
Robin crept over to the bed, his heart increasing in tempo with every step.
“Charlie, wake up.” Robin shook him rudely by the shoulders and Charlie’s eyelids sprang open.
“What? What’s the matter?”
Robin sat on the bed, his spine seeming to collapse.
“Thank God, I thought you’d shuffled off.”
Charlie closed his eyes again.
“Would it be such a bad thing to have gone in my sleep?”
“Yes. I’m not ready for you to go.”
“If you think I’d have gone and missed that marvelous-sounding Boxing Day breakfast, then you don’t know me at all.”
“I do know you, you stupid old bugger.”
“I had planned to croak on a ski slope in Aviemore doing a black run slalom.”
Robin allowed himself to smile at that. “I should have known you wouldn’t miss any food. I’m half expecting you to turn up for the buffet at your wake.”
“If you promise to put on creamed asparagus vol-au-vents, I’ll be there like a shot. And I want loads of mince pies. Add that to your notes.”
“There will be Greggs sausage rolls and not much else.”
“Ooh, I love a Greggs sausage roll,” said Charlie, squeezing himself with glee.
Robin looked at him with open-mouthed shock. “When have you had a Greggs sausage roll?”
“Dotty brings me a secret one every Tuesday morning when you’re out washing the car.”
Robin’s jaw snapped shut. “Does she indeed?” he said. “I’ll be having words with her when we get home.”
Charlie stretched. “This bed is so comfortable, Robin. I haven’t slept as well for months.”
Neither of them had slept well for months, that was for sure. Charlie’s sleep had been disturbed by dull aches, Robin’s by bad dreams. Sleep quality was even worse in the overnight hospital stays, as plush as the private suite was. Charlie had called a halt to all that; he said he wasn’t going to spend another night away from home, apart from the hotel in Aviemore. When they got back after this trip, their bedroom would start looking more like a hospital, though. The palliative care team would be coming to assess Charlie and their regime would begin. Daily visits, twice daily, three times daily… more.
Charlie swung his legs out of bed with a new ease. He stood up, then leaned over and touched his toes ten times. He hadn’t been able to do that for weeks. Robin applauded him.
“Very good, Olga Korbut. I thought you’d be worse for wear this morning. I bet Jack’s head is spinning. He was pissed as a fart.”
“Au contraire. I feel as if I could run a marathon,” Charlie declared. “I imagine I’ll feel even better after my shower.”
“I’m delighted for you,” said Robin, leaning across himself to rub his shoulder. Charlie came over, massaged the nag of arthritis for him. The first crumble, as Robin called it.
“Mmm, that’s better,” said Robin with rapture. “You have such a magic touch.”
“I know. I’m a man of many talents. I’m going to have a word with Bridge today, Annie,” said Charlie.
“Oh, and why’s that?”
“Because I can spot a fake when I see one, that’s why,” said Charlie.
“Breakfast in five minutes, folks.” Everyone heard Luke’s voice travel up the stairs.
“I’m not sure I dare go down,” said Mary. In her head she held the memory of standing outside carol singing with Jack, looking up at him with a “kiss me” expression on her face, which he totally ignored. Minds being what they are, hers had distorted this to her standing there for minutes with her lips puckered. Even if the recollection was mostly false, there definitely had been an unmistakable long second when electricity had arced between them, and then absolutely nothing had happened. How much more of a fool could she make of herself? Because, as she told Bridge last night, it was hurting now. She might have made up her mind to leave Butterly’s and work for Bridge when she was the worse for wear from the mix of drinks, but her decision was still the same in the sober light of day. She’d tell Jack when they got back; she didn’t want to make things awkward, especially on the drive home. She’d just have to bear keeping the words unsaid until then.
“Mary, listen to me,” said Bridge, putting her hands on the younger woman’s shoulders, looking at her straight in the eye. “You made a big decision yesterday; your new life starts here if you want it to. But I know we were pretty hammered last night, so if you made a choice influenced by alcohol and have changed your mind, I’ll understa—”
“I didn’t,” cut in Mary, her voice unwavering. “I do want to work for you.”
The prospect of no longer having to worry about what Jack thought of her was as delicious as a glass of cold lemonade on a dry throat. But lying there in the core of her heart was also a sadness that felt like a rock. The end of an era was nigh. She loved the scone industry, took pride in the differences she’d made to the business, even if she’d never been formally credited for them. Yes, time to move on. Time to make a difference somewhere else where her efforts would be recognized. She was doing the right thing, she knew.
“Fabulous timing,” said Luke when Mary and Bridge walked downstairs. The fire was blazing in the grate, everyone else was seated at the table, while Luke was spooning out portions of chopped Christmas dinner, bound together with buttery fried onions and mashed potatoes, from a huge frying pan.
“Morning, everyone,” said Bridge brightly.
“Sleep well, girls?” asked Robin.
“Oh yes,” replied Mary, and Bridge added, “Out like a light. You?”
“The beds are like clouds, aren’t they?” said Charlie.
“Did you sleep okay, Jack?” asked Bridge.
“Perfectly, thank you.”
Luke knew that was a lie. Jack had been rotating as if he were on a spit and mumbling unintelligibly. He’d been impressed that Jack hadn’t woken up clutching his head and crying for ibuprofen.
“There’s a vegetarian option for anyone who wishes to give it a go. The first draft of a new addition to the Plant Boy range, the Boxing Day mash-up,” said Luke, indicating his creation, which sat in a second pan.
“So this is a sort of festive bubble and squeak, then?” asked Jack.
“Bauble and squeak,” Luke said with a roar of laughter at his pun. He dropped a large dollop onto Jack’s plate, which landed with a thud. Jack studied it dubiously before picking up his fork. It looked like a train wreck of food.
“I’m going to try the vegetarian option,” Bridge announced.
“Certainly, madam,” Luke said.
“This is good, this is really good,” said Jack, sounding surprised.
“It’s absolutely divine,” said Charlie. “I shall be diving in for seconds. Pass the gravy, please, someone.”
“Cholesterol!” barked Jack, who was decidedly jolly this morning, Bridge noticed. She raised her eyebrows at Mary, but Mary’s expression remained blank. Jack was on a quick-defrost setting. Shame it was too late now. His loss would be Bridge’s gain.
“So Christmas is over for another year, then,” said Bridge with a sigh of lament.
“Absolutely not,” said Charlie in protest. “This is only the second day of Christmas. It doesn’t end until epiphany. The twelfth night. The Christmas season is getting shorter and shorter and it should be illegal. I always think of the poor workers forced into shops today to sell goods.”
“This weather will be a blessing for them in that case,” said Robin.
Jack didn’t say that he would have been in the office by now had he not been snowed in. He knew how sad that would have made him sound.
“I think we need to hear from Radio Brian,” said Mary, getting up from the table. Bridge saw how Jack’s eyes followed her all the way across the room. Interesting, she thought. Mary, oblivious, switched on the radio and Brian’s dulcet tones emerged midsentence.
“… had a lovely Christmas. I was talking to my friend Malcolm this morning, and they’re having a Boxing Day leftover breakfast fried up in a pan with some butter.”
“So are we, Brian,” Jack called over to him.
Robin gave him a sideways glance. Was this really the same stiff suit he had been introduced to only three days ago?
“The weather outside is indeed frightful, but the other BBC is telling us that a thaw is on its way, starting tonight. So if you’re going to go out and make a snowman, you’d better do it today,” Radio Brian continued. “There’s a lot of snow to melt, isn’t there, so I expect to hear flood warnings.”
“Oh my goodness, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Charlie. “All this snow has to go somewhere, doesn’t it?”
“Snow, floods, what’s next—locusts, boils, frogs?” Robin asked the air. “I tell you, the end of the world is nigh. We’d better paint a red cross on the door.”
“Oh, shush and eat your breakfast, Robin. You’re putting me off, talking about boils,” Charlie admonished him, tucking in with the zeal of someone not put off in the slightest.
“… reports of intermittitent phone lines working…”
“Intermittitent,” echoed Bridge with a snigger at his mispronunciation.
“Bless him,” said Robin.
Jack responded to that nugget of news like one of Pavlov’s dogs switching on anticipation at the ringing of a bell, but then again his phone was upstairs and he decided he’d check later, if he remembered; he was in no rush to leave the table. No sooner did he think that than there followed a freeze-frame moment in which he marveled at himself for having thought it.
I don’t want to get back to reality, said Robin inwardly. He felt protected here in this odd little inn. It was as if it was enchanted, like the Beast’s castle when Belle walked in and found all the luxury food waiting for her. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if clocks and candelabras had started dancing around the room singing “Be Our Guest.” Charlie had been like his old self; they’d located sunshine again in Figgy Hollow after months completely smothered by shadow. If it meant Charlie could be well, he’d stay in this spot forever, letting it be Christmas every day, even if it meant an eternal diet of cold turkey and cranberries.
“My friend Malcolm’s just been around to his neighbor’s, he says, for a carrot, because they used all theirs up yesterday and his grandson needs one for the nose of his snowman and no one’s got any. He’s had to use a beet.” Radio Brian began to laugh heartily as if he’d told the world’s funniest joke.
“I think he’s been on the mulled wine again this morning. Either that or he’s read your cracker jokes, Luke,” said Bridge, nevertheless infected by Brian’s laughter.
“I haven’t made a snowman since I was a boy,” said Charlie. “I want to make a snowman. I know, let’s have a snowman-making competition today.”
“I’m up for it,” said Luke.
“There’s a shocker,” replied Bridge.
While Mary and Robin were tidying up around the fire, and Bridge and Charlie were in the kitchen washing up, Jack slipped upstairs and into the middle bedroom like a special forces soldier on a mission. Mary had made his job easy for him because the red datebook he had given her was on the dressing table. He opened it and scribbled, “Dinner with Jack, Firenze,” for January 11. His mouth was dry with anxiety and his heartbeat had migrated into his eardrums. Firenze was the most fabulous restaurant in the whole of Yorkshire; there was nothing subtle about this move. Then he put the planner back where he had found it and returned downstairs with no one any the wiser that he had taken the first step out of the prison of his own making. Maybe Mary would ignore it, save them both a pie-in-the-face moment, or maybe she wouldn’t.
Jack felt the ship in his comfort-zone harbor jerk upward on the anchor.