Читать книгу Christmas Cracker 3-Book Collection - Lindsey Kelk, Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 20

Crossing the road into the cul-de-sac, I head towards the retirement complex overlooking Mulberry Common. Two floors of net-curtained, brand-new sheltered housing, where each resident has their own self-contained flat. It’s amazing: there’s a communal lounge with an enormous flatscreen TV, onsite medical centre, a minibus to take the residents down to the supermarket and back – but best of all, Dad has company; he’s not sitting alone in the tired little studio flat on the sink estate where he used to live. The council condemned the block when somebody discovered asbestos, so now he lives here, and he was lucky enough to get a ground-floor flat – so he has a pretty garden and was allowed to bring his black Labrador, Dusty, with him too.

After saying goodbye to Annie and reluctantly returning the Loubs, I collected the present from Kelly, a gorgeous bunch of hand-tied russet and plum-coloured seasonal flowers with a card saying:

I’m going to make you a HUGE star! Love Kelly x

I’m not really sure how I feel about being a star, to be honest. Writing the column is more my thing. And yes, it was pretty exciting walking onto the shop floor and being part of it all, but the thought of seeing how they actually portray me on TV this time is utterly petrifying, especially if the pilot is anything to go by. I’ll be a laughing stock all over again, I’m sure of it. Eddie can’t wait, of course, and sent me a text suggesting he comes over to my flat on Wednesday evening so we can watch the first episode together.

I hoist the flowers further under my arm. Mum would have loved them, which gives me an idea – maybe Dad and I could put them on her grave, it’s still early. I’ll suggest going after lunch before it gets dark. I’m sure Dad will want to. I take the card from the cellophane and stow it inside my handbag, there’s a newsagent’s near the entrance to the cemetery where I can buy another one just for Mum.

Heading up the path, I see Dad coming towards me with Dusty bouncing along beside him, and he looks really well. Sort of sprightly and more energetic than when I last saw him a couple of weeks ago. He’s standing taller, not stooping like before, and I’m sure his hair looks darker and less grey – maybe he’s been at the Just For Men. Well, good for him, it’s nice seeing him garner back some self-respect, and Dusty looks good too, her coat is super-shiny. She wags her tail on recognising me and nuzzles my gloved hand affectionately; I respond by stroking her silky ears.

‘Georgie! It’s so good to see you love, and you’re looking well. Have you changed your hair? It was on your shoulders last time I saw you, it looks much longer now – how can that be in the space of a week or two?’ Dad asks, confusion creasing his forehead as he kisses my cheek and slings an arm around my shoulders, drawing me in close, the spicy fresh scent of his woolly scarf comforting and reminiscent of my childhood, before everything changed and he went to prison. I remember visiting him a couple of times, but it wasn’t the same. In there he just smelt of boiled cabbage and institution. We carry on walking side by side.

‘Hair extensions, Dad,’ I explain.

‘Well I never.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Oh, before I forget, I’ve got something for you.’ He pulls a scrunched-up Asda carrier bag from his pocket.

‘Oh Dad, you don’t have to buy me gifts,’ I say, unravelling the bag after giving him a kiss. There’s a used bottle of YSL Opium inside. The glorious, original, warm musky one. Neither of us speaks. My chin trembles momentarily.

‘Mum’s perfume.’ The words catch in my throat as I’m instantly transported back in time – sitting crossed-legged on the edge of the bed as Mum got ready for an evening out; once satisfied that her hair and make-up were perfect, she’d let me spritz the fragrance onto her wrists.

‘I found it in an old suitcase when I was unpacking after the move. Thought you might like it,’ Dad says, softly.

I manage a nod as I pull off the cap. The perfume is old and stale, but I can still, just about, inhale Mum’s scent. I know she died a long time ago, but with Dad in prison when she went, and then not really back in my life until recently, we’ve only started talking about her – it’s as if part of the grieving process has started all over again, only far nicer this time, now that we can remember her together. Fondly.

‘Shame to waste it, the bottle is almost full,’ Dad says to lighten the moment, and for some reason it makes me laugh. He gives my arm a squeeze and I bob my head down onto his shoulder as I slip the perfume into my coat pocket. I’m so glad we have each other again.

‘So how are you, darling?’

‘Oh not bad, Dad, thanks. How are you?’

Our breath puffs out into little clouds against the chilly winter air.

‘I’m fine, but come on … tell me what’s up.’ Dad stops walking and turns to look at me. I pull my coat in tighter.

‘Nothing, honestly, I’m OK.’ I smile.

‘Are you sure? You sound tired. Is that it? Have they been working you too hard down at that shop?’ he asks sternly.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you all about it,’ I say, knowing that he definitely doesn’t watch TV programmes like Kelly Cooper Come Instore, much preferring wildlife or gardening documentaries, and he doesn’t even know about Tom. I had wanted to wait a bit before mentioning him, and if recent events are anything to go by, then it’s a good job too! What’s the point of introducing a boyfriend to Dad if he’s just going to disappear without warning? Dad will only get disappointed; he’s always saying that people are meant to be together, in pairs, as nature intended, and that it’s time for me to ‘let a man come close’ … only a decent one of course. When I told him recently what happened with Brett, he wasn’t impressed.

‘Good idea, love, it’s perishing out here.’ Dad rubs my arm briskly as we step inside the communal hallway. After pulling off my gloves and pushing them into my pocket, I head towards his front door.

‘This way. I’ve got a surprise.’ Dad smiles and gestures towards another door in the opposite direction, and a little further down the corridor. There’s a mat saying HOME SWEET HOME beside a canary-yellow front door and a window box containing plastic pink begonias.

‘OK, but what about Dusty?’ I ask, and she wriggles her body excitedly.

‘Oh she’ll be fine, everyone here loves her, and she’s like a communal dog really, always in and out of the flats.’ He chuckles and rings the bell. Dusty waits patiently at his feet, her tail sweeping from side to side on the carpet.

A few seconds later, the door is opened by a plump, mumsy-looking woman wearing a stripy apron over a floral dress. Her blonde hair is short and wavy and she has a full face of make-up.

‘Oooh, perfect timing. I’ve just pulled the Yorkshire puddings out of the oven. I hope you’re both hungry, I’ve got enough here to feed you each for a week, with second helpings as well!’ she says brightly, wiping her hands on the apron. A delicious waft of roast dinner greets us.

‘Nancy, I’d like you to meet my wonderful daughter, Georgie.’ Dad squeezes my hand, puffs his chest out a little and smiles at the woman.

‘Lovely to meet you, dear. I’ve heard so much about you – it’s very nice to finally put a face to the name. And you are very glamorous; I bet the nets were twitching as you arrived. Lunch won’t be long,’ she says jovially, twiddling the gold chain around her neck with a letter N dangling on the end.

What’s going on? I thought Dad was cooking and it was going to be just the two of us, but there’s no time to ask, so I quickly push out a hand to shake hers, really wishing I didn’t feel like a sulky four year old all of a sudden. The flowers nose-dive from my elbow and end up batting her on the shoulder instead. I open my mouth to apologise, but she beats me to it.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’

And before I can protest, explain that they’re Mum’s flowers and not hers, Nancy rescues the bouquet and presses her nose into it. My heart sinks.

‘Mmmm, they smell just like a basket of fresh laundry,’ she says on surfacing. ‘And such a treat. The bingo girls are going to be so jealous. Thank you, my dear.’ Nancy leans forward and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. A short silence follows and, as if sensing my disappointment, Dusty gives me a quick lick on the back of my hand. ‘Come in, come in. Where are my manners?’

Nancy leads us into her sitting room where there’s a real fire crackling in the grate and two big squishy armchairs either side of a silver Christmas tree with twinkling red and blue fairy lights. And it’s laden with chocolate snowman decorations wrapped in foil, hanging on gold threads. The room is toasty warm and sparkly pristine, with white lacy doilies everywhere. There’s an old-fashioned glass cabinet in the corner crammed full of mementoes – picture postcards, a sprig of lucky heather with its stem wrapped in tin foil and framed photos of people who I guess must be members of her family. On the mantelpiece above the fire is a picture of a pretty girl with long auburn hair next to a black-and-white picture of a young man in a policeman’s uniform with a helmet under his arm. ‘That’s my Bob, God rest his soul – passed two years ago,’ Nancy explains on seeing me looking.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say, unbuttoning my coat.

‘Don’t be, love. He had a good innings, was quite a bit older than me.’ She pats her hair and smiles sheepishly at Dad, who for some reason looks away. ‘Anyway, make yourselves at home. I’ll give you a shout when I’ve plated up,’ she adds cheerfully, before disappearing.

I am absolutely stuffed. Having eaten my way through the biggest roast dinner ever, with second helpings of everything, including treacle tart with custard and ice cream, I just about manage to roll off my chair and stagger back to the sitting room. Nancy insisted. I offered to clear the table and wash up, but she was having none of it, so now she’s in the kitchen loading her slimline dishwasher while Dad and I drink tea from china cups with saucers.

Dad motions towards an armchair for me to sit down. Dusty is stretched out on the rug in front of the fire, basking in the heat.

‘So how long have you known Nancy?’ I start, glancing up at him, and then quickly stop when he presses a hand onto my shoulder.

‘Darling, she’s a friend,’ he says, and I instantly know that it’s his way of saying she’ll never replace Mum, but I saw the way he looked at her when she answered the door, and what about the spring in his step, the hair dye – it all makes sense now. And I guess this is the news he wanted to share. I’m pleased for him, really I am, and it’s nice that he has a friend, especially as his old friends all disappeared when he went to prison. I want to be supportive, but there’s something else too – a weird feeling, making me kind of twitchy and unsure, one I haven’t felt before and I can’t work it out. I’m staring at the flames when Nancy appears in the doorway with a plate of chocolate Christmas Yule logs in her hand and a tin of Quality Street under her arm, Dad groans before patting his paunch, so I decide to park the feeling for now, and make a mental note to think it all through later on – when I’m alone and can get my head straight. Nancy seems really nice, even if she has taken Mum’s flowers.