Voices hopscotched up the stairs – one of them loud and cheerful, the other soft and small.
Dad? Had he made it home for Christmas?
Bleary-eyed, I groped for my cardigan and ran downstairs.
Halfway and I realised: not Dad; the louder voice belonged to Mrs Joseph. Too late to disappear, though: she stood in the doorway, Mum beside her, clutching a gift and a tin of Quality Street.
‘Come on over,’ Mrs Joseph was saying, offering mince pies and Christmas cake, perhaps a glass of sherry.
‘I’d love to,’ said Mum politely, ‘but we’ve company.’
We didn’t. She was making it up.
Besides, who would come?
Mum was an only child and both sets of my grandparents had died. I had a single memory of a vegetable patch and a kind woman teaching me how to plant beans.
It was Dad who’d had the family – one of six boys. A succession of men of varying sizes, chucking my cheeks and handing me sweets. Dad was lost in the middle of the age order and wasn’t close to any of them – even Jack and Eddie who, according to Mum, were the ones he’d followed into crime. They lived in London. Family gatherings: small houses, noisy discussions, rooms so full of smoke, I lay on the floor to breathe.
Usually, by now, I’d be dressed and on my way to church with Mum. Afterwards, we’d prepare dinner while Dad was having a swift half in The Dog and Duck. It was my favourite time, Mum and me chatting and listening to carols. When Dad came home staggering, Mum laughed instead of minding since she’d been at the sherry herself.
Now Mum had no intention of going to church while Mrs Joseph was clearly on her way, wearing a smart red coat and scarf.
I put her gift under the tree and felt the other packages, squeezing them gently and checking the labels. I tried to be excited but the feeling wouldn’t come.
There was a parcel from London. I pulled the string and unstuck the thick brown tape. Inside was a book of astronomy and a signed photo of Barry. It was typical of Dad to give me a gift he’d like for himself – although tucked inside the book was a pound note and a message instructing me to spend it at Dave’s.
I found Mum in the kitchen. She sat at the table, head in her hands, a pile of parsnips left untouched. Fingers grasping the roots of her hair, as if tearing the sadness away.
Instinctively, I left her alone, backing out of the room. Upstairs, I threw myself down on the bed. What was the point of Christmas without Dad? I lay brooding and then got dressed and crept out into the empty streets.
A mist had fallen, blurring the edges of the houses and the trees. My breath swirled dirty white in the freezing air as I headed for the orchard. Here, the ground was slippery with dark mud. A wintry light struggled through the branches of the old apple trees while the mist curled eerily around the trunks. A crow called out. I walked, feeling separate from the rest of the world. I was separate. Always different. I stamped my feet trying to keep warm. Every step reminding me of being here with Dad.
A crackle of twigs underfoot and I turned. It was Mr Evans with Nip. Seeing me, Nip strained at the lead, yapping, and I bent to scratch his head, sank my hand into his warm fur. Mr Evans said, ‘Merry Christmas,’ but Nip, distracted by a movement, pulled him onwards and they disappeared into the mist.
He was always in the orchard, creeping around in his long coat. Maybe he was a pervert like that flasher I’d seen years ago. Or a peeping Tom. There’d been one of those on the new estate. A woman had reported him to the police and it had been on the local news.
Thinking about the estate made me think of Rachel. We hadn’t spoken since the trip to London. At school the distance between us had widened rather than closed. She remained fast with her friends, aloof and untouchable. I wondered how she was spending Christmas. Had she gone to London or stayed at home with her dad? I had a sudden crazy idea of going to her house and inviting myself in.
I let the fantasy play out for a while longer before I gave up on it. Even so, there’d be no harm in going there, just to see.
The house was identical to the rest: chalet windows, a paved path and a white, wooden porch. On the front lawn were piles of slates and breezeblocks and bags of cement. No van since Mr Wright had never replaced it.
The place was quiet, curtains closed.
I dared myself to knock, but what excuse would I give? I could say I was passing and had felt ill and then I could collapse, really collapse. Mr Wright would catch me in his great big arms. Rachel would appear and say, You all right?
I stamped my feet and blew on my hands. A few more minutes passed and then it happened. Rachel opened the door. My stomach dropped and I stepped backwards, stumbling from the kerb. She must have seen me from the window, watching the house. What must she think?
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ I replied, righting myself and then taking a few steps forwards, trying to look normal.
She wore an old-fashioned pink embroidered dressing gown and she was holding a present, gold paper tied with a red bow. For one second I thought it might be for me. I was considering whether it would be possible to dash straight home and find something suitable in return when she said, ‘I got this for Melissa.’
Right. Of course she hadn’t bought me a present. What was I thinking?
‘I wondered if you were going to London soon,’ she added.
I recovered my calm and stepped onto the path. Dad had hinted I could visit after Christmas, but he hadn’t said for certain when. I told her I didn’t know.
‘Oh.’ Her face fell.
‘But I don’t mind taking it when I do,’ I said quickly.
She smiled. ‘Would you?’
‘But aren’t you going yourself?’ I hoped so. Being at the flat would be better if she were there.
She shrugged. ‘Don’t think so. Not for a bit.’
I was curious. ‘Why?’
She shrugged again and tightened the cord on her dressing gown. Maybe it was because she wanted to be loyal to her dad. I thought of Mum earlier, sitting sadly in the kitchen, and felt my own twinge of guilt.
Holding out the package, she gave me another smile before producing a card from her pocket addressed to ‘Charlotte’. I looked at it, blinking. Did she call her mother by her first name? I couldn’t imagine Mum allowing me to do that. I shifted on the spot, took the package and the card. The warmth of the house and the smell of Christmas dinner seeped seductively through the door. The hall was darkly lit and I glimpsed a thick carpet and pink pinstripe wallpaper. If only she’d invite me inside.
There was no chance of that.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
I grinned back stupidly, tongue-tied.
‘See you around then.’ She hesitated and then pushed the door and was gone.
Dad rang in the afternoon.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said so quietly I had to ask him to repeat it. ‘Thanks for my present,’ he added.
I’d sent him a cushion I’d made in needlework, embroidered with music notes and the word Dad written in cross stitch.
‘Thanks for mine.’
In the background, I could hear Melissa laughing and Mrs Wright’s voice and then the sound of music. He must have bought a record player. It didn’t sound like disco. Country and Western. ‘Stand By Your Man’.
The conversation didn’t last long. Dad asked about my other presents and whether I’d watched any good programmes on TV. Then someone called his name and he said he had to go.
‘When can I come to London?’ I said quickly.
He hesitated. ‘I’ll get back to you, Lizzie. We’re going to Norfolk for a few days.’
‘Why?’
‘Um … you know … Charlotte’s parents.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t be for long, and then you can come. How about at the beginning of January? We could go somewhere. Madame Tussauds. Fancy that?’
‘All right,’ I said. But my eyes brimmed with tears when we said goodbye.
I found Mum on the settee in front of The Generation Game.
She didn’t ask what Dad had said. I sat next to her and we stayed there, hardly speaking, right through The Sound of Music and Mike Yarwood.
When True Grit came on, I wished I was the heroine riding out to avenge her father. I’d gallop to London, picking up Dave as my own John Wayne. I’d clatter up the stairs of that big old house in Plaistow and snatch my dad away.
Later, I stood at my window. Through the gloom, I could make out shapes: the bushes and the cherry tree, its spiky branches pointing, accusing me. Of what? Driving Dad away?
Clouds sped across the moon and the garden dropped into darkness. Laughter drifted from a garden further along the line. Next door, on Mr Evans’ side, I heard a sound. A door opening. Squinting, I could see him on the path. Motionless, absorbing the moonlight, waiting for Nip to finish his business, before turning around and going back into the house.
Earlier, Rachel had been watching me from her window. My cheeks burned at the thought. Pleasure and embarrassment combined. She hadn’t asked why I was there and I hadn’t said.
I fetched the present and the card she’d given me. I was sad that I wouldn’t see her again in London but pleased she’d trusted me with this task. For now, I slipped them both into a drawer in my room. However glad I was about being the messenger, I didn’t think Mum would feel the same.