21

The plan had been FOR MIRIAM’s parents to come to them. She’d consulted as to what, and when, they would like to eat, done the ‘big Christmas food shop’ and sketched out a schedule. Bing was detailed to collect them at eleven o’clock, in time for coffee and mince pies. She was, to her surprise, looking forward to playing hostess and had taken great care with the decorations and the tree – a Norwegian spruce which scraped the ceiling.

Her father phoned on Christmas Eve as the street lights were coming on. As soon as she heard his voice, she knew what he was going to say.

‘It’s about tomorrow.’

‘All set?’ she said, determined not to make it easy for him.

‘It’s your mother. Her nerves are playing up. We think coming to you might be a bit much for her.’

‘In what sense too much? It takes ten minutes, tops, to drive from there to here. And you don’t even have to do the driving. All you have to do is sit by the fire and watch Paul and me rushing around.’

‘You know how she is,’ he said.

Miriam ploughed on. ‘If you stay there, she’ll end up having to cook.’

‘Yes. Well. I’ve been thinking about that. Why don’t you bring everything to us? It’ll come to the same thing. We can watch you rushing around here.’ He laughed. He was enjoying this.

‘What exactly is wrong with her?’ she said. ‘Does she need to see a doctor? Or a rabbi? D’you want me to take her to A&E?’

‘Calm down, Miriam. All I’m saying is your mother’s feeling out of sorts. She’ll be more comfortable in her own surroundings.’

‘You make her sound like an endangered species.’

‘She is, in a way. We both are.’

Headlights shone through the kitchen window as Bing’s car pulled up behind hers. She’d been looking forward to the moment when he came in from work and they could shut out the world and indulge in their own little Christmas celebration. And now this.

‘I’ll ring you back. Paul’s just come home. I’ll have to discuss it with him. It’s his Christmas too you know.’

She thumbed end call and hurried to the front door. Before he had taken his coat off, she was telling him about her father’s attempted blackmail, her words tumbling out in a torrent of frustration.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘it’s no big deal. Your dad’s right. It’s not a nice thought but this may be their last ever Christmas. If you can cope in their kitchen, why don’t we go along with their suggestion?’

‘But I so wanted to spend our first Christmas together here, with our own tree and our own decorations. Besides the turkey will take at least four hours. I’d have to be at theirs by eight o’clock. I wanted to have Christmas breakfast here with you.’

‘We’ll cook it here. I’ll set the alarm for five and it’ll be cooked by ten. Think of the fun we can have when we come back to bed. We needn’t stay late. They’ll have had enough of us by seven. Eight hours isn’t long in the scheme of things.’

‘You’re so much more patient with them than I am,’ she said.

‘I don’t know about that. I simply don’t think it’s worth getting steamed up about.’

Theoretically, Christmas had nothing to do with them, nevertheless Harold and Freda Edlin embraced it with great gusto. Cards dangled from red ribbon looped along the picture rail and an array of candles, wicks still pristine after donkey’s years, were dotted along the mantelpiece. The tree was ‘first generation’ artificial and the decorations had seen better days, but that was no different from half the households in the country. They drew the line at a crib – that simply wouldn’t have done – but Miriam’s mother had managed to sneak a string of glittery camels along the top shelf of the dresser.

All things considered, the turkey transfer went smoothly. They forgot the brandy butter and Christmas crackers, and the festive tablecloth which Miriam had bought when she last visited Naomi. But, having caused the disruption, her parents were in no position to criticise her failings. And they didn’t. They seemed, if anything, invigorated by the modified arrangements, quipping about ‘meals-on-wheels’ and ‘flying doctors’.

After lunch, they exchanged gifts – ‘smellies’, chocolates, diaries – making obligatory noises of surprise and delight. Miriam and Bing had left their gifts to each other under their tree to be opened when they got home.

Whilst the men were inspecting the slipped tiles on the garage roof, Miriam took the opportunity to ask her mother if she were feeling better. ‘Better?’ she said. ‘That’s a funny question.’ And a funny answer – unless her father had been mischief-making again.

The phone rang and, in a flash, her mother was there, grasping the cumbersome old handset with both hands. ‘Who’s speaking, please?’

And seeing the frail figure, expectant, voice wavering, the penny dropped. They wanted to be at home in case Danny called.

Her mother’s face slumped into a disappointed frown. ‘Who is that?’ Miriam held out a hand, offering to resolve the mystery, but her mother shook her head. ‘Frankie? Sorry, dear. I didn’t recognise your voice. It’s very noisy at your end. Of course it would be…. Merry Christmas to you too…. Yes, we’re having a lovely day.’

Miriam waited, expecting her mother to pass her the phone but instead she turned away. ‘Thank you for your card, and the letter. We always enjoy your letters.’

Letters? Always?

The tête-à-tête continued. ‘She’s with us if you’d like a word…. Alright. I will. I’ll let you go. You must be rushed off your feet. And don’t forget. Anytime. Goodbye dear.’

‘Frankie sends her love,’ her mother said as if holding a long conversation with her best friend were the most natural thing in the world.

‘She writes to you?’ Miriam said.

‘Now and again. She knows we like to hear what she’s up to.’

Miriam had heard from Frankie only once since her visit. She was living in Birmingham where her ex-sister-in-law was managing a pub. It seemed she had a room and job there, doing a bit of ‘this and that’ which ‘would do for the time being’. (She hadn’t mentioned the two hundred pounds which Miriam had sneaked into her suitcase.)

Her parents’ acceptance of Frankie Slattery had always baffled her. Initially, they’d discouraged the friendship. Frankie embodied everything that alarmed them. Smoker, truant, with self-inflicted tattoos and one outrageous hairstyle after another, she came from the kind of chaotic family they despised. But her humour…or candour…or sheer exuberance had eventually breached their defences. At the time, Danny had been occupying a great deal of their attention and perhaps they’d lacked the energy to police two wayward offspring. Later, when Danny was long gone and the thing with Bing came to a head, had they allowed her Frankie as a consolation prize?

The men came in from the garden, shucking off muddy shoes and asking whether it was time for a cup of tea. When she finally got a few moments alone with Bing, she hissed her exasperation at her father’s determination to have things his way. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Mum. What the hell’s the matter with him? Why does he always have to call the shots?’

‘I understand why you’re cross with him,’ Bing said, ‘but you have to remember he spent years and years running the show. Suddenly everyone’s telling him what to do, how things should be. He feels emasculated. Mind games are all he has left.’

‘I’m his daughter, not his chess opponent. And I don’t know why you’re so chipper. What if he starts playing his mind games on us? Don’t laugh. It could happen.’

She glanced at her watch. Three more hours and they could go home.

Leon and Bente would be with them for barely twenty-four hours – and in bed for eight of those. A walk along the ridge overlooking the town would take care of a few more hours. It was the bits in between that bothered her. ‘What if we have nothing to talk about?’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Bing said, ‘as long as we all rub along.’

They arrived on the dot of midday bearing potted hyacinths, wine and chocolates. Bing had shown her recent photographs of his children, but only when Leon was standing in front of her did she realise how like his father he was. Not only his face but his voice and the way he stood, head tilted to one side. It was as if she were looking at Bing when he was a boy – although Leon was thirty-two. They stood in the hall, muddling through introductions, covering their awkwardness with prattle about routes and road conditions. Eventually they managed to get themselves out of the hall and into the kitchen, where Bing poured glasses of sherry and everyone relaxed.

‘Your kitchen, I like it. It’s so homely.’ Bente’s perfect English had just enough Scandi twang to make it appealing. Miriam had pictured her as a fresh-faced, big boned girl – patterned jumper and fur-lined boots – unshaven legs. She couldn’t have been wider of the mark. Bente was petite and dark-haired with brown eyes behind round spectacles. She wore jeans, a black polo neck – cashmere by the looks of it – and elegant ankle boots, no bigger than size four. In fact not far off her mental picture of Eloise – a photograph of whom she had yet to see.

‘I’ll show you your room,’ Bing said, ushering their visitors into the hall.

She put the pan of minestrone on the hob and counted out the cutlery. Overhead she could hear the rise and fall of voices. Footsteps moving from room to room. Easy laughter as if they were all more comfortable when she wasn’t there.

Throughout lunch, Leon was civil enough, yet he didn’t seem interested in her, directing most of his conversation to Bing. She’d worried that he might subject her to the third degree but, if anything, it was the opposite. Was he embarrassed? Whatever his reason, it cast her as the odd one out. As the meal progressed, she detected an underlying competitiveness between father and son. A dig here, a jibe there – sparring – testing each other. Maybe this behaviour was unavoidable as one generation gave way to another and the balance of power changed. Her father and Danny had been at each other all the time. But that was in an era when children were expected to defer to their ‘elders and betters’, something which Danny had refused to do.

After lunch, the breeze got up and the mist which had hung around all morning cleared. Bing suggested a walk along the towpath but Bente had forgotten her walking boots and, as Miriam’s footwear was several sizes too large for her, it was decided ‘the girls’ would stay at home.

‘It’s a shame you had to miss the walk,’ Miriam said as they settled in front of the fire with cups of coffee.

‘Yes, but it’s good that Leon spends time with his father,’ Bente said. ‘They don’t talk enough. Men are bad talkers, don’t you agree?’

She nodded, not entirely sure what she was agreeing with. Now she had Bente to herself, she had a chance to find out more about Bing’s family but the young woman was canny and she must tread warily. ‘Tell me about you. I know you’re a surveyor but that’s all.’

‘Me? I was born and raised in Roskilde. You know it? We have a big music festival every year. My parents work in the biomedical research unit at the hospital. What else can I tell you? I’m thirty-seven. I have an older brother – Mads – he’s a dentist.’

Bente didn’t beat about the bush and this encouraged Miriam to continue. ‘So how did you and Leon meet?’

‘Friends of friends. They thought we would get along. Not so romantic, perhaps, but better than looking for a partner on the internet.’

‘You have perceptive friends. How long have you been together?’

‘Two years.’ Bente pulled her knees up to her chin. ‘Now it is my turn. I think you and Paul were childhood sweethearts?’

‘Yes. Well. We weren’t children. We were in the sixth form.’

‘Ahhh. It was puppy love. And then you grew out of it. I understand.’

‘I don’t think you do. We didn’t grow out of it. It was simply a matter of meeting the right person at the wrong time.’

‘You believe there is a “right person”?’ Bente hooked the air with her fingers.

‘Don’t you?’

Bente shrugged. ‘It makes no sense. There are seven billion people on the planet. What are the chances?’

‘Leon isn’t the right man for you?’

‘It’s good with us now but when it stops being good we will shake hands and call it a day.’

‘That sounds a little… clinical.’

‘No. It is realistic. We’re not robots. Time passes and, naturally, we will change. The important thing, is to identify what is right for us as we are, not as we once were.’

‘That sounds, dare I say it, rather selfish.’

She shrugged. ‘It is the truth.’

Bente’s forthright words felt like a reproach and Miriam was compelled to defend herself. ‘Paul and I were young but what we had was very special. But there was a lots of other stuff going on – particularly in my family. We were students, and living in different cities made things difficult. We’d go months without seeing each other and keeping in touch was much harder then. A few things went wrong. There were misunderstandings. People interfered. I won’t go into details but we allowed it to slip through our fingers.’

‘That is sad,’ Bente said, ‘but maybe not unusual. Then what happened?’

‘A man – a family friend – asked me to marry him. He was kind and funny. He cared more for me than I did for him but he didn’t seem bothered by that. We had a reasonably happy marriage. I didn’t forget Paul but I’d made choices, and promises and, after my daughter was born, life without him became easier.’

Miriam took the poker and jabbed at the fire, sending sparks spiralling up the chimney. ‘My husband died a couple of years ago. It was a tough time. In fact I had a breakdown. I was quite ill. A year ago a friend told me Paul was divorced and living back here.’

‘You must tell all this to Leon,’ Bente said.

‘I’m not after Paul’s money if that’s what he’s afraid of. All I want is to spend the rest of my life with him. We messed up first time around. We deserve another try.’

To her dismay, she was crying.

Bente fished a pack of tissues from her bag. ‘Here.’

She blew her nose and tossed the tissue on the fire, watching it blacken and burst into flame. ‘I don’t know what they’ve been told but we were out of contact for forty years. Not one single letter, or phone call, or message. Nothing. That sounds unbelievable but it’s true.’

‘All those years. Were you not interested to know what happened to your “right man”?’ Bente raised her phone which had been on the arm of the sofa. ‘It is very easy to find out.’

‘Of course. But I had a husband and a daughter to consider. It wasn’t their fault. I couldn’t risk destroying their lives.’

Bente was silent for a while. ‘I’m flattered that you tell me this but I do not wish to get involved. Leon is a grown man. Pascale and Camille are grown women. It’s up to them to sort this out with their father.’