Chapter 15 December 15th #3
I close my eyes, thankful that my mum never breaks her promises . . . and always gives the best, most healing hugs.
Mr. Percival’s door is wide open when I let myself in the building, a racket coming from inside.
I knock the wood and call out to him, but get no answer, which isn’t such a surprise given the noise.
“Mr. Percival?” I call louder, treading through the gnomes flanking the hallway. “Mr. Percival, it’s Camryn.”
“Camryn?”
“Your door’s open.”
“I know, dear. Maureen opened it.”
I round the corner into the kitchen, the noise deafening, and find Mr. Percival at the table with a food blender whizzing around. I shudder. Fucking hell, it’s baltic in here. He sees me and smiles, flicking the switch so it drones to a gradual stop. “Making my stuffing, dear. Chopped nuts.”
Woolly gloves cover his hands, a scarf is wrapped a few times around his neck, and every button on his tweed coat is fastened, his cap on his head. I’m not Mr. Percival’s only spectator, either. The gnomes are all crowded round, watching. “Mr. Percival, it’s freezing in here.”
“The heating’s broken down, dear.”
“Have you called someone?”
“Yes, dear. An engineer will be here within six hours.” He fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out his watch. “It’s been three.”
“Right.” I wrap my arms around my body.
“It’s only the circuit board that serves the heaters, though, so we still have power.”
“Would you like to use my kitchen?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because it doesn’t feel like Siberia.”
“You young folk.” He dusts off his gloves and pours his chopped nuts into a bowl. “Try camping out in the trenches for weeks on end, dear.”
“What?” I recoil. “Like, in the war?”
“World War Two, dear.”
“How old are you, Mr. Percival?”
“Ninety-nine, dear.”
“Fuck.” I balk at him. “You’re nearly one hundred.”
“Holding out to get my birthday card from the King, dear.” He grins at me.
“When’s your birthday?”
“January.” He shoves a wooden spoon in the bowl and starts mixing, and for the first time today, I smile. You incredible man.
“You look remarkable for a man who’s nearly a century old, Mr. Percival.”
“I know.” His shining eyes dim when he squints. “What’s happened to your cheek?”
“I had a run-in with a door at work,” I say, off the cuff.
“It’s one of those flappy doors. I wasn’t looking where I was going and someone walked through before me and it sprung back and caught my cheek.
” I approach the small table he’s working from.
“It’s a bit early to be making stuffing, isn’t it? ”
“You can’t be too prepared for Christmas, Camryn. I’ll pop it in the freezer with my turkey and ham joint.”
“Anything I can do?”
“You want to help?”
“Why not?” I’ve got nothing better to do. “You can tell me about all one hundred years of your life.”
“We might be here all weekend,” he says over a chuckle as I dump my bag on the floor.
“Hopefully,” I reply, waiting for instruction.
“We’ll put some carols on, shall we?”
“I’d rather just listen to you talk.”
“Oh, well. Have it your way.”
Four hours later, I’ve made mincemeat for his mince pies, a whole nut roast, squeezed sausage meat out of the skins, wrapped bacon around some chipolatas, and a whole lot more.
And the entire time, I’m wondering who on earth Mr. Percival is cooking for and where the hell he’s going to sit them.
I distinctly recall him mentioning he has no family, but I haven’t asked because I’ve been too busy listening to him talk non-stop about his time in the war—only one year, mind you, but a lifetime when you’re stuck in the trenches—as well as his marriage to Edith who passed in 1999, and their son, Miles, who Mr. Percival tragically outlived.
I continue to stir the double cream with the whisk, waiting eternally for it to thicken, while he chatters with such fond memories, and I wonder how. How can he have lost love, lost his son, and still be here smiling?
Living.
“I think there’s something wrong with this cream,” I say, my backside becoming dead on the stool, my arm feeling like it’s about to fall off because I’ve been here whisking it so long. Am I sweating?
He hobbles around the table without his frame, holding the edge. It makes me twitchy, my hands bracing to catch him if he falls. “We need some intervention.” Picking up the electric whisk, he raises his brows.
“You mean I’ve been beating it until my arm feels like it’s going to fall off and you had that the whole time?”
He shrugs, a little impish. “Slipped my mind.”
“Sure it did,” I grumble, snatching it from his hand.
I know his game. He’s keeping me here for as long as he can.
I don’t mind. It’s been a surprisingly lovely afternoon making and baking with him.
I’ve not thought about what exactly I’m baking, I’ve just done as I’m told and listened to Mr. Percival chatter.
“Is that why you were home early?” he asks, pointing his spoon at my cheek.
I nod, because that’s easiest, and turn on the whisk, except it doesn’t come on. I scowl at it, flicking the switch a few more times. “It’s broken.”
He frowns and goes to the fridge, swinging it open. “Oh shoot, that’s the other circuit board gone down too.”
I lower the whisk on a sigh. “Great.”
“Brandy!” he yells at me, flashing a hipflask and opening the cap, having a swig before he pours some into the cream and offers me the flask.
I tsk him teasingly. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
“A flask a day keeps the lurgies away. How do you think I made it to the ripe old age of one hundred?”
“You’re not there yet,” I say, accepting. “So this is your secret? Brandy?”
“Bottoms up,” he sings, as I tip the flask to my lips and swallow. “Jesus Christ.” I gasp, blinking back the burn as it slides down my throat. It hits my belly with a bang and more burn. “This kept you alive?” I wheeze.
“Sailor’s strength, dear.” He winks and screws the little silver cap back on, tucking it into his coat. “How’s that cream coming along?”
“Slowly.” I grab the hand whisk and get back to work, switching hands constantly to split the strain, until it finally thickens. I tip the bowl upside down over my head to demonstrate, making Mr. Percival laugh loudly.
“Oh, who’s this then?” he says, looking past me.
I turn, still smiling, the bowl still over my head, and see Dec in the kitchen doorway.
“The door was open,” he says, eyes on me. “I called a few times, but you obviously couldn’t hear me.”
“Obviously,” Mr. Percival says on a hum.
My smile falls with the bowl to the table. “Dec.”
He steps forward, his hands in his coat pockets. “What happened to your face?”
“She did it at work,” Mr. Percival says, almost proud he has the information to share.
“I did it at work,” I repeat quietly. I’d say it’s so lovely to see him, but he doesn’t look happy.
“How?”
“A door sprung back in her face,” Mr. Percival goes on.
My lips straighten as I watch Dec’s eyes narrow. He’s doubtful. “I was going to call you Monday.”
“I know. I didn’t want to wait until Monday.” He goes to Mr. Percival and offers his hand. “Dec Ellis.”
Mr. Percival flashes me an impressed look. “Nice to meet you, Dec Ellis.” Mr. Percival slaps his gloved hand in Dec’s. “Percy Percival.”
“Your name’s Percy?” I ask on a light laugh. “Percy Percival?”
The old man’s back straightens, making him a whole inch taller, and his shoulders push back. “That’s right.”
“And a great name it is, too,” Dec says, catching my amusement. “Right, Camryn?”
“Right.”
“Now, Percy, would you mind if I steal your sous chef?”
“Not at all!”
“Thank you.” Dec pries my fingers off the bowl and claims my hand. “Let’s go.”
I smile my goodbye and thanks to Mr. Percival as I look back over my shoulder, and he nods his understanding. “I feel like I’m about to be scolded,” I say.
“Why’s it so fucking cold in there?” Dec asks, grumpy.
“His heating’s broken down.”
“Is it being fixed?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“The power just went out too,” I add.
Dec stops at my door and points. “Open.”
I get the feeling I’d be dumb to refuse, so I dig my key out and slip it into the lock, pushing the door open.
I look at Dec. He nods toward the doorway in silent order, so I walk in, a little apprehensive.
I’m about to be grilled about my cheek. About my brush-off text message earlier.
About why I’m at home far earlier than I should be.
I hear the door close and turn around, and Dec is on me immediately, taking my mouth greedily, walking me to the nearest wall and pushing me up against it.
The misery of my day fades.
I’m kissed into oblivion, his hand cupping my neck, his thumb gently stroking my injured cheek as he blitzes my mind and assaults my mouth with gentle authority. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, every nerve ending stirring. When Dec kisses me, there is nothing else.
He eventually breaks away, his eyes glossy and soft, as I pant shallowly, my mouth open, my lips swollen and wet. “Are we clear?”
“Yes,” I whisper, feeling through his hair on his nape.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I didn’t want you to see this.”
He half frowns, half scowls. “A door sprung back in your face?” he asks, wincing as he checks it.
I nod, shame and guilt getting me hard in my stomach. “I’m clumsy.”
He sighs, and I see he hasn’t got it in him to challenge me. “Have I got to start wrapping you in cotton wool when I’m not with you?”
Wouldn’t that be wonderful? To be protected from damage. From hurt. “I wouldn’t mind.” I loop my arms around his neck and nuzzle under his chin. “I’m sorry.”
He groans and lifts me, carrying me to my bedroom and laying me down, crowding me completely. He kisses me gently again. “You taste like brandy.”
“Mr. Percival was trying to get me drunk,” I say around our swirling tongues, my eyes widening when he firms against my thigh.
“Fuck it.” He rips his mouth off mine, wedges his palms into the mattress, and lifts his torso. “I need to take a rain check.”
“Why?”