Читать книгу The Island Escape - Кэрри Фишер, Kerry Fisher - Страница 15

Christmas Day wasn’t a day for unexpected visitors, so when the doorbell rang, I assumed it was carol singers and left Jonathan to deal with them while I organised the Christmas pud. I’d poured the brandy over it and Polly was about to take centre stage lighting it, when Jonathan shouted through to me.

‘Roberta’s here. And Alicia.’ Jonathan didn’t do gushing welcomes.

I came out into the hallway, squeezing past Jonathan and all the anoraks breeding away on the coat hooks. Jonathan clearly thought he’d covered the social niceties and disappeared back into the dining room. I hugged Roberta. ‘Happy Christmas. Hello Alicia, darling. Come on in. Have you had a good day? You’re early. I thought we were walking at four.’

Before she could reply, Polly shouted from the dining room. ‘Mum! Mum! When are we going to light the pudding? Charlie says he’s doing it, but I want to.’

‘I’m coming. Just a sec.’

I turned back to Roberta. She was silent, flicking at the tassels of her scarf. My smile faded.

She stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry to do this to you on Christmas Day. I know you’ve got your own issues to deal with.’ She didn’t get any more out. Just stood there, silent tears running down her face. Alicia was wary, her face buttoned-up and defensive. I did an inward sigh.

‘Not more trouble with Scott?’

Roberta nodded.

Polly shouted again.

I took Roberta’s arm. ‘Oh God. Shit, just let me do the Christmas pud with Polly, then I’ll be right with you. Come through.’

‘It’s OK. I’ll sit in the kitchen. You finish lunch. We don’t want to get in your way.’ Roberta looked gaunt. I wanted to bring her in and warm her up with chunky soup and beef stew.

I ushered her down the hallway. ‘Make yourself a cup of coffee. Alicia, there are some little chocolates on the side, lovey, help yourself.’

I dashed into the dining room and sat back down next to Polly. Jonathan raised his eyebrows. Turning away so Mum couldn’t see, I pulled a ‘yikes’ face at him. As Polly snatched up the matches, I put my hand out for them. ‘Here, let me show you.’

‘I can do it. I’m not a baby.’ She scraped away until the match snapped.

‘Isn’t Roberta coming in to say hello?’ Mum asked.

‘Not just yet. She didn’t want to interrupt our lunch.’ Roberta wouldn’t need Mum’s tuppence-worth today.

‘It’s very rude to leave her in the kitchen.’

I cut Mum off, leaving her pursing her lips and muttering about common courtesy. I turned back to Polly.

‘Right, darling. Have another go. Strike it gently, but quickly.’ I was itching to put my hand over hers and hurry her along, conscious of Roberta sitting next door with her life going up the Swanee while we were faffing about with the finer points of pyrotechnics.

Tongue out in concentration, Polly raked the match across the box until, to everyone’s relief, it finally burst into flame. I pushed the pudding across to her. The brandy lit with a whoosh. Polly beamed. I glanced through the hatch at Roberta. I wondered if she wanted to stay the night. Jonathan had already given me the belt-tightening speech, as if I needed it. He wouldn’t be sharing out his dinner too eagerly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Polly lean forward to sniff the brandy that was licking about over the pudding in a purple haze. I managed to say ‘Careful’ before a flame burned its way up a length of her brown hair. She screamed. Jonathan grabbed a serviette and his glass of wine and belted round the table, sloshing and smothering. I shot out of my chair, patting at her with the edge of the tablecloth.

Polly started crying, ‘My face, my face.’

The room smelt as though I’d let a pan of rice boil dry. Jonathan dashed into the kitchen, shouting at Roberta to get some ice out of the freezer. Immi came flying round and clung to me, shock pinching her face. I cuddled her while I inspected the damage.

A chunk of hair had burnt off about halfway up, the charred ends black against the pale brown. A red welt ran vertically up her cheek.

Jonathan raced back in with a bowl of iced water. Polly was shaking as we bathed her face. Jonathan held back her hair, shushing her gently. ‘It’s going to sting for a bit, but you’ll be OK.’

‘What about my hair? They’ll all laugh at me at school.’ Her little chest was heaving up and down.

‘We were going to get it trimmed anyway. The hairdresser will sort it out.’ I leaned towards Jonathan. ‘Do you think she needs to go to hospital?’

I thought I’d whispered, but Polly wailed, ‘Hospital? I don’t want to go to hospital.’

Jonathan frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. Let’s see what it looks like in a few minutes.’ He carried on holding Polly’s hand and telling Immi not to worry. Charlie had already decided that Polly was being a drama queen.

Roberta’s head appeared through the hatch. ‘Is she OK?’

I nodded. ‘I think the skin might blister a bit but it’s not too bad. You’d better stay out there.’

Roberta nearly managed a smile. At the sight of anything worse than nettle rash, Roberta was a great one for fainting to the floor like a Victorian duchess.

While we held Polly’s cheek in the water, I murmured to Jonathan that Roberta might need to stay the night.

‘On Christmas Day?’

I must have looked incredulous that Roberta’s whole world was going tits up and Jonathan was quibbling over a clash of diaries.

‘Go and deal with them. I’ll look after Polly,’ he said, pulling her into a cuddle.

I called Alicia through and persuaded Charlie, with a bribe of cheesy footballs, to show her how to play Rugby League Live on the XBox. Alicia perched on the footstool, straight-backed. She always looked as though she was doing you a favour by sharing the air in the room. I could see why my children found her hard to warm to.

I grabbed a bottle of Shiraz and another of Chablis, and went to join Roberta. Wine cutbacks would have to start another day.

‘What’s happened now?’ I poured us both a huge glass of wine.

‘I’ve left him. I hope I’ve done the right thing.’

An uncharitable suspicion that she’d be back with him within the week stopped me dancing an immediate jig. Instead I tried to take a neutral stance though I was dying to say, ‘About bloody time! Arsehole! Hoo-raaaah!’ Overt hostility to Scott had led to Roberta practically severing contact with her family. She’d drawn a definite line in the sand many years ago about how much criticism she would tolerate from me.

So I kept quiet as she told me bits about her day, including him thinking that a quick shag would sort everything out.

I hoped his balls had blown up.

She was just filling me in on the Maître d’ hovering with intent when there was a knock on the door. Stan leapt up barking, nearly overturning the kitchen table.

Christ. I’d already had a jobless husband, a husbandless friend and a hairless child to contend with. I wondered what I was missing. I threw the door open.

Of course. The wifeless wanker.

‘Octavia. Hello. Happy Christmas.’ Scott had that honey-voiced thing going on. He was all charm, head tilted on one side, big white smile dazzling away.

‘Hello.’ I anchored my feet, wondering whether I would be able to stop him barging in.

‘Where’s Roberta?’

‘She doesn’t want to see you.’ I concentrated on sounding matter-of-fact.

‘Come on, I just need a quick word to sort things out.’ He stepped forward slightly.

I stood firm, but my adrenaline was flowing. ‘I’m sorry, Scott. I can’t let you in. She’s exhausted. She can’t deal with you right now.’

He gave my shoulder a friendly little squeeze, as though he was going to produce such a winning argument I couldn’t possibly refuse him.

I didn’t move and I didn’t reply.

Then the charm was gone. He leant over me, chest jutting, chin out.

‘Christ, you piss me off. You always think you know best. Sticking your bloody beak in where it’s not wanted. Telling me when I can see my wife. Just get her out here so I can talk to her.’

I had my hands on the wall barring the door. I concentrated my weight in my heels to stop my legs shaking. And then, praise the Lord, Jonathan arrived. ‘Everything all right?’

I wasn’t certain that Jonathan was the ideal peace negotiator, given that the two men had failed to bond at the hundreds of social occasions we’d shared over the years. Jonathan thought Scott was a knob and I was pretty sure that Scott had an equivalent anatomical description for Jonathan.

On the other hand, if Scott lost his temper, Jonathan’s ability to stay calm might avoid bloodshed, given my tendency towards the hotheaded end of the spectrum.

‘I need a little chat with Roberta.’ Now he was using a completely different tone, as though he’d popped round to borrow the latest Ian Rankin.

‘Sorry, mate. Go home and cool down. Talk about it tomorrow.’

‘Johnny, just get her out here for a minute, will you?’

Jonathan hated people calling him Johnny. He put his hand on the door and made a slight movement to close it. ‘Time to go. She’s not going to speak to you today.’

Scott stood with his hands on his hips. Builder’s hands. Great big shovels that could take the side of your face off with one swipe. He stepped forward to lean on the doorjamb.

Jonathan ushered me backwards. ‘You go in, Octavia. Scott and I will sort this out.’

Lamb and slaughter sprang to mind, but I darted behind him. Jonathan put his hand on Scott’s forearm. He must have heard me gulp. Scott shook him off but backed down the steps. ‘I bet you two love this. A big drama in your sad little lives. It’s pathetic. Forgot to say, I was really sorry to hear you got the push, Johnny, mate. Shame.’

Jonathan slammed the door shut, flicking the ‘v’s. I hugged him, weak with relief. He’d get another job. Scott would always be a wanker.