Читать книгу Notting Hill in the Snow - Jules Wake - Страница 11

I threw another piece of crumpled paper across the room. This was impossible. I wasn’t a scriptwriter. How the hell was I supposed to shoehorn the Noah’s ark of animals into the story of Jesus’ birth?

Bella walked into her kitchen clutching a large glass of white wine and topped my glass up. ‘Not made any progress?’ she asked with a smirk.

‘No, I bloody have not.’

She sniggered, much like she’d been doing ever since I arrived for our usual Sunday evening get-together. For once she’d left me to it while she bathed the girls.

I came most weeks to escape the silence of my flat and the heavy quiet of solo living, which I still hadn’t quite got used to. On good days when I’d been busy and out working, I told myself that I was embracing the silence and the independence of single life. The paint colours on the walls were all mine, the chocolate and crisps stayed put unless I’d eaten them and no one hammered on the door when I took an hour-long bath.

But on Sundays the quiet was overpowering, almost suffocating, especially when everyone else seemed to embrace that night before school need to stay home.

‘It really isn’t funny,’ I said, sitting back and looking at the cast list and the only existing page of script.

‘I think “to affinity and Bethlehem” is inspired,’ she snorted again.

‘You would; you don’t have to finish the rest of the story. I mean, seriously, how do I get a unicorn and a narwhal into the story? I’m pretty sure there’s not much sea between Nazareth and Bethlehem.’

Bella had all but spat her wine all over the pristine white surfaces in her kitchen when I’d arrived and first told her about the rocking crocodiles, hissing snakes and the armadillos and flamingos. Like Nate, she had grave reservations about the costumes.

‘I’m going into school tomorrow; I’ve got to have something,’ I said, despair starting to grip. ‘I can’t think of any dolphin songs or yak songs or unicorn songs for that matter. I’ve been racking my brains all weekend for anything suitable.’

‘I might be a tad old-fashioned but what’s wrong with Christmas carols?’ asked Bella.

She had a good point.

‘Why don’t you take a break?’ she suggested. ‘While I shove the pizzas in the oven and knock up a quick salad. You could go and read the girls a story.’ The latter was added with a sly smile.

I threw my pen down. ‘I think I will. Where are they? In the lounge?’

‘I said they could watch ten minutes of Blue Planet.’

Ella and Rosa were rosy-cheeked and smelled of lavender when I sat down between them on the sofa. I felt a tug at my heart at the sight of them in their matching dressing gowns and little fluffy slippers.

‘Who wants a bedtime story?’

‘Jesus’s Christmas Party,’ said Rosa, suddenly producing it from underneath a cushion.

‘I read that last time.’

‘Read it again,’ piped up Ella. ‘It’s our favourite.’

Picking up the book, I read it, the three of us joining in with great gusto at the innkeeper’s roared refrain, advising his never-ending stream of visitors to go to the stable.

Halfway through the story, it hit me. As soon as I reached the words ‘The End’ I bundled the two girls upstairs, calling to Bella to put them to bed, and dashed into the kitchen to pick up my pencil.

By the time Bella came back downstairs, I’d completed a very rough script.

For some reason, even though not one of them was over five foot tall, a surge of fear shot through me and my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. They were all looking up at me with wide-eyed interest as I stood at the front of the large hall.

There was absolutely no sign of Nate Williams, even though when he’d texted back last night he’d said he planned to be here. We’d had a brief text exchange and when I’d told him of my executive decision, he’d agreed that it was for the best and that he would back me a hundred per cent.

‘Oak and Apple class, say good morning to Miss Smith,’ said the teaching assistant in a high-pitched, here kitty, kitty sort of voice. She’d been allocated to help me, for which I was very grateful, otherwise I’d have been completely on my own.

‘Good. Morning. Miss Smith,’ intoned the class in a deadened robotic rhythm that threatened to suck all of the life out of me. Honestly, it was like facing a crowd of Dementors. I had no idea how they were going to respond to the news that Noah’s Christmas Ark was no more. The children, all in their green and grey uniforms, were sitting cross-legged in front of me on the polished parquet floor, which had probably had thousands of children’s feet pass across its surface over its lifetime.

I took in a breath and said in a voice designed to counteract their joyless greeting, ‘Good morning, Oak class. Good morning, Apple class.’ I beamed at them like Mary Poppins on acid. ‘Shall we try that again? Good morning, Oak class,’ I bellowed in a loud voice. ‘Good morning, Apple class.’

‘Good morning, Miss Smith,’ they bellowed back with a lot more energy.

Energy was good. I could work with that. I checked my watch. Where was Nate?

‘That’s better. I’m looking for people with good loud voices. Do I have any here?’

A sea of hands shot up, waving like little sea anemones. Better and better. Things were looking up. I could do this.

I was on the hoof, making things up as I went along. Actually, that wasn’t true at all. I’d planned today with meticulous attention to detail, dividing up the duties between myself and Nate. It was vital we made a good impression as we had to sell them a complete change of plan. I’d decided it was best to be honest and explain that Mrs Davies was too poorly to finish the script, so we were going to start afresh with a new lot of auditions. I’d hoped to palm that job off on Nate but as he still wasn’t here and I couldn’t stand in front of the children looking like a complete lemon, I got on with it.

Despite a few minor groans most of the children looked interested when I explained that we were going to have new parts and that there’d be fresh auditions today.

‘But I still want to be an armadillo,’ said Jack, a touch of belligerence in his square plump face.

‘There isn’t an armadillo in this story.’

‘I want to be an armadillo,’ he repeated, folding his arms, giving me an implacable stare.

‘There’ll be other parts. New ones.’ I smiled gamely at him as he continued to stare at me.

‘I’m not happy. I’m not happy.’ He shook his head and I was pretty sure that he was parroting someone else’s words.

I gave him a vague smile and moved on. Today I had to get my cast together and teach them the new songs I’d chosen. I needed a loud confident boy to play the innkeeper. A bossy know-it-all to play his wife. A serene Mary. A careful, thoughtful Joseph. Three bouncy kings. As many rustic shepherds as I could get away with. A herd of cows, a flock of sheep, oh, and an angel.

If I could hand all that over to Nate, I could get on and start teaching the children the Christmas carols.

I looked at the door again. Where was he? I looked back at the children, watching me with expectant interest. I was on my own.

‘Does anyone know any Christmas carols?’ I’d already decided on most of them but I was hoping this little bit of democracy would make the children feel more involved and hopefully forget about marmosets, narwhals and flipping unicorns.

Again the hands shot up, several with that me-me-me fervour you only find in little children. Right under my nose, one little boy waved his hand madly, almost bouncing up and down on the spot trying to get my attention. It would have taken someone with a heart of cold, hard stone to ignore him.

‘You there, young man?’

‘Do you like football, miss?’

His mate next to him nudged him and giggled.

‘George,’ the teaching assistant shadowing me cut in, ‘if you can’t be sensible, you’ll have to go and sit in Mrs Roberts’ office.’

George looked as if he might have spent a fair bit of time there before because he gave an irrepressible grin and carried on staring at me.

‘Anyone else?’ The forest of hands shot up again and this time I picked another child, a demure-looking girl with plaits and a green headband which matched her regulation green sweatshirt with the logo of a brown and green tree on the right breast.

‘Away in a Manger,’ she said in a proud little voice.

‘Excellent,’ I said in the sort of voice that suggested she’d just discovered how to sequence the genome. Actually it was perfect and, unbeknownst to her, already on my list. I turned and wrote it on the whiteboard behind me. I’d already decided I needed five carols to break up the action and to extend the performance.

I picked another waving hand and then realised it was Grace, Nate’s daughter.

‘You’re Daddy’s friend,’ she said in an accusing voice. The teaching assistant coughed and put her hand over her face. And for some ridiculous reason I blushed bright red, which probably confirmed her assumption.

‘I’ve met your daddy,’ I agreed evenly, with a carefully blank face, ‘when we talked about the nativity. Do you have a carol for me?’

She shook her head. ‘My daddy’s very handsome. Don’t you want to be his friend?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t really know him. I only met him that day.’

And there, as if by magic, he was standing at the back of the hall, a look of unholy amusement on his ‘very handsome’ face.

‘He’s very nice,’ pressed Grace

Aware of the pinkness of my cheeks, I gave her a perfunctory, ‘I’m sure he is.’ I could see his shoulders shaking even from this distance, the dratted man. I ignored him and turned to the teaching assistant, who had managed to recover from her fit of coughing and thankfully intervened. ‘Perhaps we can stick to the Christmas carols, thank you, Grace?’

Grace huffed, folded her arms and pinched her mouth together in an expression of too-adult disgust which had me trying not to laugh as she watched me with continued suspicion.

‘Anyone else?’ God, how did teachers do it – keep up this bright, sparkly, I’m so excited voice? I pointed to another boy whose hand had shot up dead straight like an arrow in flight.

‘Hark the Harold Angels.’

I bit back a smile. ‘Perfect. Because we’re going to need an angel.’

Several eager little girls looked excitedly at each other and started whispering. I looked towards the back of the hall, waiting for Nate to join me, but he was finishing a conversation with Mrs Roberts. Hopefully, he was explaining to her why we’d decided to rewrite the script. I’d emailed it to him the previous evening and he’d agreed to speak to her to let her know we’d decided to take a new direction. He’d also agreed he’d be here to help me this morning.

When I looked up a second later Mrs Roberts had disappeared. I gave Nate an expectant look, waiting for him to cross the hall floor and join me. Instead he waved his phone, mouthed, ‘Text you,’ and bloody disappeared!

I glared at the empty doorway. This was not what I’d signed up for.

Resigned but with low simmering anger, I turned back to the task at hand. It took some time but eventually I had five carols, all of which would fit perfectly within the story and included O Little Town of Bethlehem, We Three Kings and Silent Night. I was starting to feel a slight sense of euphoria.

‘OK, now I need some characters for the nativity. Some really good actors. Could you put your hand up if you would like to say a few lines?’

Jack’s hand shot up. ‘I want to be the armadillo.’

I gave him another smile – there was no way I was putting an armadillo into my nice traditional script – and turned to some of the other children. I could have predicted that George would be one of them, although I could already see quite a few children sinking back into their little bodies, trying to make themselves invisible and as unobtrusive as possible. ‘No one has to say lines if they don’t want to,’ I added more gently, smiling at some of the anxious faces. ‘You can sing the carols with everyone else.’

I had a good thirty children keen to show their stuff. I gave the doorway one last look. It really did look like I was on my own. Thankfully, the teaching assistant, who was pretty capable, agreed to take half the children over to the other side of the hall and she started practising the words to Away in a Manger with them, while I tried to get the measure of the children who wanted parts. I looked enviously at the piano. Teaching carols was much more in my comfort zone.

Come on, Viola, you’ve just got to get on with it. At least I had a script that made some sense now.

I’d shamelessly stolen the story of Jesus’s Christmas Party, writing the script with a fair bit of padding of my own, while taking complete advantage of Bella’s hospitality as she’d put the girls to bed and cooked pizza. During that time I’d created what I hoped was a half hour play and then used her printer to print out the lines for the innkeeper and his wife and other key parts for audition.

When the break bell rang the children all scattered like marbles, racing off at varying speeds towards the long corridor down to their classrooms.

‘Well handled,’ said the teaching assistant. ‘They can be a tricky bunch.’

She didn’t know how close I’d come to giving one of the boys a Chinese burn, but I don’t think you’re allowed to do that.

‘I’m more worried about whether Mrs Roberts will approve. This isn’t quite as flamboyant … and I’ve heard the previous productions have been …’ I waved my hands to illustrate all-singing, all-dancing.

She snorted. ‘Yes. They have.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Load of crap. It’s all Emperor’s New Clothes. Crocodile Rock! For Pete’s sake, what’s that about? Whatever happened to good old Christmas carols?’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘Don’t you fret, pet. The parents are going to love it. I’ve read the script. It’s funny, although you’re going to have to put an armadillo in it.’

‘There isn’t going to be an armadillo,’ I said firmly with a grin, but her face was deadly serious.

‘You don’t know Jack.’

‘You look like you need a large slice of cake,’ said Sally, when I marched with quick, jerky strides into the Daily Grind at eleven o’clock, my coat flapping behind me. I’d just picked up Nate’s text.

Meet you later. Coffee. Couldn’t make rehearsal. Had a call I had to deal with.

‘And the rest,’ I snapped, feeling the tension riding in my jaw. ‘I don’t suppose you do gin at this time of the day?’ I glanced around the room, a frown on my face. Where was he?

The morning mums crowd were long gone and there were only a few people dotted about at tables, most hiding behind laptop screens, absorbed in what they were doing.

‘Bad morning?’

I heaved out a juddering sigh, feeling my furious pulse finally starting to slow. ‘It started well but I was let down.’

‘Ah, one of those,’ sympathised Sally, snatching up a white china cup and saucer. ‘Cappuccino?’

‘Oh, God, yes, please. And cake.’

‘Coffee and walnut?’

‘Perfect.’

‘And where would you like it?’ she asked, her eyes sliding over my shoulder with definite meaning.

I looked over at the same time that Nate Williams lifted his head from his laptop. I glared at him.

As I approached his table, he pushed his laptop to one side. ‘Morning, you got my text then.’

‘About two minutes ago,’ I snapped.

‘Ah, sorry.’ At least he had the decency to look a little sheepish.

‘It’s fine … What could be better than managing sixty children on your own?’

He winced. ‘How did it go? I … I’m sorry I didn’t make it. I’ve had a couple of …’ he rubbed at one of his eyes ‘… things to sort out this morning.’ Studying him properly, I realised he looked tired. One eye was quite bloodshot and there was a grim set to his mouth. ‘How was this morning? You did a great job on the new script … for someone who’s not very artistic. I love that you’re telling the story from the innkeeper’s point of view.’

‘Thank you … not my idea, though. I pinched it from a book. Jesus’s Christmas Party.’

‘Well pinched, though. So how did it go down with the children?’

‘Good.’ I softened. He did look a bit crap. ‘And I got through quite a bit this morning. Recast everyone. Your daughter is now the very bossy innkeeper’s wife.’

He laughed. ‘Typecasting. She can be quite bossy.’ Then he sobered, his expression pensive. ‘Some of the time.’

‘And I’ve found the most perfect innkeeper.’

‘That’s great. Sounds like you’ve made good progress.’

‘I’d make more with some help,’ I said pointedly.

He winced. ‘That might be problematic, this week. Svetlana, she’s our nanny, her mum’s very ill. She had to catch a train home this morning.’

‘A train?’ I’d assumed, with her name and accent, home would be a flight away.

Nate let out a mirthless laugh. ‘She comes from Wigan. Been here since she was seven. But I’m really stuck without any childcare. I can work from home … while Grace is at school but it’s almost impossible when she gets home. I’m going to have to maximise those hours when she’s at school to get stuff done.’

‘Great,’ I groaned.

‘It’s not exactly a picnic for me, trying to juggle everything, but Svetlana says she’ll be back in a couple of days.’ He glanced back at his computer screen.

‘Sorry I interrupted you. You’re working.’

He let out a short laugh and turned the screen around to reveal a webpage with the heading, Simple Gingerbread House Recipe – BBC Good Food.

‘Interesting; I didn’t have you down as a baker.’

‘I’m not.’ He lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘Nothing like. I’m realising just how far from it I am. I was just trying to get ahead of myself. Elaine was a total perfectionist. Christmas in our house has always been the magazine perfect Christmas. I don’t want to let Grace down but … there’s so much to do. She’s had a lot of change in her life and she’s desperate for Christmas to be just like it was before. She’s already fretting about this.’ He nodded towards the screen. ‘Elaine made one every year and it’s Grace’s abiding memory of Christmas. But it won’t be the same if we don’t make it.’ His mouth twisted and his eyes clouded, lost in memories.

Oh, God, I hadn’t considered that he might be a widower and the shock of the idea made me ask, without proper preparation or tact, ‘Is your wife … erm … dead?’

Nate looked up sharply. ‘No. Not dead. Just er … she’s erm … taking some time out from family life.’

My rubbish poker face semaphored startled surprise. What the hell did that mean?

‘That must be tough,’ I said, trying not to sound the least bit judgmental, but who takes time out from family life when they have a seven-year old?

‘Yeah, it is, especially on Grace.’ And on him. Now I could see it. Those deep groves on either side of his mouth, not so much chiselled features but worn down, weary features. A weariness around the eyes.

He rubbed at his cheek. ‘But we just have to get on with it.’ Like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, I saw Nate in a different light. What came across as upright and confident hid a brittleness about him. A stiffness, like someone holding themselves back, retreating from human touch, for fear of a bruise being inadvertently touched again. He held himself aloof. Shutting down quickly when emotion escaped him. Hence the mixed messages that first day I’d met him.

I wanted to ask more questions about his wife but it seemed far too intrusive.

‘Maybe Svetlana could make the gingerbread house,’ I suggested. ‘When she gets back.’

Nate laughed. ‘Svetlana is great at many things, but she’s no baker. I think asking her to make this –’ he looked at the picture on the screen ‘– would be an ask too much. But Grace is desperate to make one; apparently Cassie De Marco has one every year. I feel like I’m failing her.’

He looked so disconsolate I wanted to help.

‘I’ve had quite a bit of experience with gingerbread houses,’ I suddenly blurted out.

‘That’s not something you hear every day.’ There was cool appraisal in his face and I could almost see the barriers going up.

‘I have two cousins and between them they have five daughters. I’m dragged in on a regular basis to adjudicate as to who is winning in the best mummy stakes … and to help. I blame Martha Stewart or Aldi. I don’t remember gingerbread houses being a thing when I was a child. Do you?’

He relaxed slightly. ‘You’re right. They weren’t. Why Aldi?’

‘Because they started doing those kits one year, but of course no self-respecting domestic goddess would use a kit. They have to make their own from scratch. And my cousins are experts.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Forget houses, think palaces, and I’m already signed up to help one of my cousins after school this week. And I’ve already stirred two Christmas cakes.’

He looked confused, so I quickly explained the situation, finishing with, ‘Basically I’m like the family fairy godmother, parachuted in to help whenever they need me.’

‘I wish I had one of those. My parents live in Portugal and … Elaine’s mother, Friend of the Opera House, is not the doting granny type.’

Before I knew it, I’d opened my mouth. ‘I could help you.’

To my slight chagrin, Nate didn’t immediately accept my offer. Instead he sat there, toying with his coffee cup, weighing up the off-the-cuff offer.

‘That’s very kind of you …’

Turning pink, I batted the air with my hands. ‘Don’t worry. That was probably a bit forward. I’m sure you’ve got it covered.’

‘No … it’s not that.’ He gave me a pained smile. ‘I’m … I’m a bit wary, I guess. I don’t like making promises to Grace and then having to let her down. Elaine used to do that a lot. Say she’d do something and then she’d have an important meeting or something would crop up and she’d have to take a conference call in the study for an hour. Grace got used to being disappointed. I don’t want that to happen to her again. I’ve worked hard this year to avoid it.’ His smile was sad. ‘That’s why I said I’d help with the nativity originally and now I can’t even do that. I feel like she’s always being let down.’

‘I can understand that,’ I said, feeling for Grace. My parents’ jobs had always taken priority when I was a child. There were plenty of times when I’d felt as if I was an inconvenience. I came into my own when I was old enough to manage things by myself.

‘And … well, you’ve got a high-powered job too.’

I laughed. ‘I don’t think of it as high-powered. But my hours are set in stone. I know pretty much from month to month what they’ll be,’ I said, but I wasn’t about to beg him for the job.

‘If you want some help, I don’t work on Sundays. And, apart from performances on Saturday evenings and the odd matinee, I’m free most Saturdays during the day.’

‘Sorry. You’re offering to help and I’m being pretty churlish. Grace would love it if you could come and teach us how to make a gingerbread house. Could you come over this Saturday morning?’

‘We’ll need supplies,’ I said.

‘What sort of supplies?’ he asked, getting out his phone to open up the notes app.

‘Sweets, boiled for the windows, chocolate buttons, chocolate fingers, icing sugar decorating tube, icing sugar.’

His face dropped with dismay.

‘Would you like me to bring the supplies? I can probably raid one of my cousins’ cupboards.’

‘Would you? I’ll pay you for any expenses.’

‘It’s probably easier that way. OK, text me your address and I’ll see you on Saturday at about nine-thirty … or is that too early?’

‘I have a seven-year-old. It’s quite usual for me to have a six o’clock wake-up call complete with cold feet on a Saturday morning.’