Читать книгу A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018! - Emma Heatherington, Emma Heatherington - Страница 11

Eight Days before Christmas – One Year Later

‘Stop talking about me like I’m not here, please. I can hear you, you know.’

The squeal of the wipers on the windscreen, the whirr of the engine, the boom from the stereo . . . I feel drunk but I’m perfectly sober, sick but I’m in physically great health, invisible but I’m very much in person here in my colleague’s car on our way out for pizza on the evening of the first anniversary of my father’s death and I feel hot and claustrophobic. I knew this was a bad idea.

‘I’ll take her home once I drop you all off at the restaurant,’ says Gavin to Bob who looks across at Nora, and then Gavin catches me in the rear-view mirror, his head tilted in pity.

‘I’ll be okay when we get there, I promise,’ I say to Gavin who’s in the driving seat. It’s our once-a-month-after-work evening out to Caprino’s, when we usually promise to be home by twelve, but almost always end up crashing at mine and staying up at least three hours later than we should do on a school night.

An uncomfortable silence follows with more staring, more head tilting, more blurring in my head.

‘You’re on a different planet there, Ruth,’ Bob says.

At just twenty-seven, he’s the youngest of our group of workmates but sometimes I do believe he is the wisest of all.

‘She needs to go home.’

‘She’s allowed to cry if she wants. Bawl your eyes out if you have to, Ruth, or stay at home if you have to. No one is forcing you into this, you know. Your dad—’

‘Go easy! It’s not even five in the evening, it’s only a bite of pizza and a few drinks then home again. Hardly like we’re taking her out on the razz, is it?’

I have no idea who is saying what. All I can hear is their voices, muddling up, swirling around in my head.

‘It’s a tough time of year, Ruth, that’s all I’m saying.’

Wise young Bob this time . . .

‘Caprino’s will be here next month and the next and the next and I’m sure you can catch up again on Gavin’s nonexistent love life and Nora’s never-ending marriage problems. It’s not like you’ll miss anything new if you want to go back home instead.’

‘My never-ending marriage problems?’ says Nora. ‘Tell it like it is, why don’t you, Bob! At least I have a man!’

‘Not to mention Bob’s latest hypochondriac moaning,’ says Gavin, never one to let Bob off with too much. ‘What is it tonight, Bobby? Back trouble? Ingrowing toenail? Dumped again by the man of your dreams?’

‘Sore back if you must know,’ says Bob. ‘I swear I’ve been in agony all week. Why does no one ever believe me? You believe me don’t you, Ruth? Don’t you?’

I can’t even answer my friend, so I lean my head on the car window from where I stare out at the white lines racing by, trying desperately to convince myself that a bite to eat with my workmates is just what I need to make me turn a corner and distract me from the day. It’s my everyday job to understand other people’s problems, so a night at the pizzeria, listening to each of their moans, won’t be any different to what I usually deal with. I can do this. My dad would want me to do this.

A bus passes us with my smiling face emblazoned on the side panel and no one bats an eyelid, nor do they when we pass a billboard with my giant, very airbrushed, may I add, larger-than-life features. My ‘Ask Ruth Ryans’ column in Today is by miles the most popular weekly feature and I’m a true expert at shelling out advice on City Radio every Sunday evening on family issues, relationship problems, health and lifestyle issues, you name it. I can advise them with my eyes closed, yet I can’t seem to manage my own issues at all, these days. I just can’t seem to take my own advice when it comes to this overwhelming grief that just won’t go away.

‘It’s time for her to get out of the house more. It can’t all just be about work and stupid dates and reality TV. She needs to keep busy, keep her mind off things.’

And I know they are right and I have tried keeping busy; I have focused on work and tried to see the positive in my life; I have talked to everyone who will listen, but here I am, a full year after my father’s death, and I can’t even take this baby step forward to join a few friends for pizza.

‘She could be depressed. Do you think you might be depressed, Ruth?’

They just keep talking but I can’t find the words to answer.

Maybe I am depressed? Or am I just sad all the time? Is there a difference? Mornings are dark and evenings are dark at this time of year and the last thing I need to be doing is sitting at home alone, thinking about the past twelve months and how agonising it was to watch my father, once a strong, handsome, intelligent man wither away before my eyes.

‘He didn’t even remember my name,’ I say aloud and then I do exactly what I had promised myself that I wouldn’t do tonight. I heave and sob, gently turning to Bob whose strong arm draws me into his shoulder and lets me ruin his good shirt with a mix of makeup and tears as I cry for the man who was my hero in every walk of life.

‘I’ll take you home,’ says Gavin. ‘Maybe we’ll all go to yours and order a takeaway again instead? Would that be better, Ruth?’

I don’t answer, but they know I mean yes. I rub my forehead, looking out at the traffic and we pass another billboard with my smiling face.

Ruth Ryans will solve your problems, it reads and I feel a pang of guilt when I think of all the people out there who are awaiting a reply from me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper into myself. ‘I don’t know if I can help anyone any more. I can’t even help me. I’m sorry, whoever you are.’

Marian Devine

Marian Devine hadn’t left the house in twenty-one days.

Every other year, by now she’d already have all of her shopping done, a juicy turkey ordered, a prizewinning cake made, her house decorated to within an inch of itself with trees and sparkling lights and enough cinnamon candles burning to make the house smell like a Christmas haven. But this year she’d just about managed to get in an online shop from one of the big supermarkets who delivered and that was only for the stuff she’d bought every other week. No wine, no fancy crackers and cheeses, no cranberry sauce, no Christmas crackers with plastic bits inside that she’d find down the side of and under the sofa for weeks after. There was no point any more. Her breath caught in the back of her throat in a forceful gasp when she realised that this year she’d have no one to pull a cracker across the table with. How sad. How unbelievably sad compared to the Christmases she used to share with her family.

Marian told herself that she’d try and stay positive and keep going. She had to. Wasn’t it great that there was such a thing as online shopping for things like milk and bread and tins of soup and all the other little things like those meals for one that you could get delivered to your door in this day and age?

Her daughter, Stephanie, had made sure that Marian was well-tutored on the internet to do the basics like shopping and she’d set her up an email account so that they could keep in touch from Stephanie’s travels to exotic places that Marian couldn’t even pronounce and had certainly never heard of. Rebecca, her eldest girl was in Africa working as a doctor – yes, a doctor – a fact that she and her late husband Billy had loved to boast about, yet these days, to Marian, it really didn’t have the same appeal now that Billy was gone and she’d no one to boast to since she couldn’t bring herself to face the outside world any more. Rebecca hadn’t been home for Christmas in a few years because of the demands of her job, of course, but this was Stephanie’s first time missing it, and although she’d begged her mum to try and reconnect with some friends and not be on her own, for Marian it wasn’t as simple as that; not when she couldn’t find the confidence to walk to the garden gate any more.

But today she’d give it another go and try and reach the shops before they closed in just thirty minutes. It was dark outside, but the streets were safe and were lit up, plus she’d made that trip a thousand times and it hadn’t bothered her until lately.

She fixed her lipstick in the mirror, fixed her favourite maroon woolly hat around her ears, and tried to see some hope in a face that had experienced plenty in its sixty-eight years in this world. She had once been fit for her age, mostly down to the walking club that she and Billy formed as soon as they both retired and the golf lessons they took, yet now the thought of joining Gladys and Cyril, Martin and Patricia and all the other couples who had signed up to do day trips to places like Donegal and even as far as Kerry, scared the life out of her, plus she’d put on weight with all her moping around. Why would they want to look at her being all miserable for anyhow? She’d turned them down so many times that the phone had stopped ringing and the doorbell had stopped too. The only people she managed to utter a few words to was Tim, the grocery delivery boy, who at twenty-seven years old didn’t really have much interest other than telling her he’d had to replace her Pink Lady apples for Granny Smiths, or that they’d run out of her favourite cottage cheese with chives or Derek the postman, who always had a strong waft of alcohol on his breath and a scrunched up, bright-red face that never really smiled much these days. His conversation was minimal too and he never could wait to get away once he’d handed over what he had to. If she dared to say anything more than ‘thank you’ to Derek, he’d run down the path like a scared rabbit. Bit of an oddball was Derek.

Marian took a deep breath, popped an extra-strong mint in her mouth and told her reflection that today would be the day that she would walk as far as the post office, put two Christmas cards in the mail to her daughters and maybe even stop at that nice coffee shop on Hope Street for a macaroon and a coffee to try and lift her spirits.

She could do this. She was going to have to before she drove herself to distraction looking at the four walls and talking to herself or to the television.

On her way past the table in the hallway, she lifted the photo of Billy, the one in which his blue eyes were dancing and his face was tanned and healthy, so full of life, in his victory pose at the top of Slieve Donard mountain where they’d taken their very first walking expedition with the group just over three years ago. Marian was in the photo too, with her arms wrapped around his waist and her head resting on his strong chest, but she didn’t recognise herself in it any more. She had been a different person back then, surrounded by love and family and friends, but now, even though she looked the same if a little bit chubbier, she didn’t smile like that any more.

‘Oh, why did you have to go so soon?’ she asked his picture, just like she did every day when she tried to leave the house. ‘Why did you all have to leave me so soon?’

Then, just like she’d done every other day for the past twenty-one, she pulled her maroon woolly hat off and dropped it on the floor, wiped her lipstick with the back of her hand, and cursed herself for being such a coward.

It’s Christmas,she tried to remind herself. Snap out of this! You’re not doing yourself any favours.

‘Go easy, Mum,’ she heard her daughter’s voice echo from before. ‘These things take time. Just take your time.’

Marian let out a deep sight of defeat. She was getting sick of taking her time. How long was it going to take to do something as simple as walk to the bloody post office?

She’d make a coffee and try again tomorrow, she thought, just as she did every day. Her heart lifted when she remembered that she could check her emails also and who knows, maybe the girl from the newspaper, Ruth Ryans, might even have replied to her by now. She’d always loved Ruth’s column – and if the truth be told, she wouldn’t even buy the newspaper if it wasn’t for that. For some reason she felt that she knew Ruth Ryans, the girl with the warm, Italian looks and curvy, friendly nature who seemed like she was everyone’s best friend.

‘How desperate have I become, Billy?’ she mumbled to herself, pinching tears from her eyes as she waited for the kettle to boil. ‘Writing to a young agony aunt for advice on how I’m going to get through Christmas and actually wishing for a reply. That’s what I’ve come to now.’

She sat down at the kitchen table and, with her hands shaking, she opened her laptop, hoping, as she had done every day since she’d written, for a reply from Ruth.

Maybe today would be the day. It was almost Christmas and Marian was running out of time to know how she was going to get through it all alone. She needed Ruth to answer and she needed her to answer quickly.