Chapter 17 December 17th
As I stand in my kitchen, munching my way through the last bit of Mr. Percival’s cake, replaying Dec saying those three words over and over, I hear the intercom chime. I make my way to the door, and there’s a knock as I answer the phone. “Hello?” I say as I open the door.
“Delivery for Camryn,” Mr. Percival declares.
Just as someone down the line says, “Tesco delivery for number five.”
I frown and poke my head out the door as I hang up and see a man with a few stacked crates wedged up against the glass door. “Tesco?”
“See!” Mr. Percival sings. “And now everything is delivered to your door. No need to even step foot outside the house!” He makes his way to the door on his walking frame. “It’s a wonder he made it in the snow.”
More snow. Loads of it. I follow and hover behind Mr. Percival as he hauls the door open, knocking his walking frame. “This way,” he says, making way for the Tesco delivery driver. “I’ll show you where you can put it.”
“Thanks, geezer,” he rumbles, struggling down the corridor with the crates.
“For Camryn Moore?” I ask, following him.
“That’s right. There are two substitutes, and I recommend eating the strawberries today as there’s a short shelf life on them.
” He finds his way to my kitchen, courtesy of Mr. Percival, and dumps the crates on the table, pulling out the paperwork.
“No apple and ginger shots, so they’ve substituted with cloudy apple juice.
Seems a bit stupid to me.” He laughs. “This ain’t no shot.
” A litre bottle of apple juice is held up in his hand.
“And the bananas are to be ripened at home, so they’re a little green.
Sign here, please.” He thrusts his little digital device toward me.
“I didn’t order a Tesco delivery,” I say, signing anyway.
“You’re Camryn Moore?”
“Yes.”
“This is flat five Park Way Crescent.”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s yours, sweetheart.” He starts unpacking and leaving it on the table, stacking his crates to the side. “Sorry about the boots.”
I glance down his high-vis clad body to his snow-covered boots. “No worries,” I murmur, at a loss.
“I’m surprised they’ve got you working in this weather,” Mr. Percival says, helping him unpack the crates, keen to chatter with anyone and everyone.
“Ah, some of them are snowflakes.” A loud eruption of laughter bursts out of him, making me jump. “Get it? Snowflakes?”
“I get it.” Mr. Percival laughs. “Because it’s snowing.”
“Indeed it is, my friend, and it’s only getting worse so I’ll be going before Mother Nature buggers up my schedule. Merry Christmas to you both.” He nods to me. “Your granddaughter okay? She looks a bit vacant.”
“She’s fine,” Mr. Percival says. “Not a lot going on up here.” He taps the side of his head, and the delivery man nods his understanding.
“Excuse me?” I splutter.
Mr. Percival titters to himself. “Merry Christmas to you too, sir.” He dips into his pocket and pulls something out, handing it over on a wink.
I smile at the pound coin that’s been placed in the delivery driver’s hand.
“Very kind, of you, mister.” If he had a hat, he’d be tipping it right now.
My heart warms, watching the interaction.
I don’t have the heart to tell Mr. Percival that a pound won’t even get the driver a sniff of a pint at his local boozer.
“Hope to see you again soon.” Off he goes, his boots leaving lumps of snow on the wooden floor behind him, joining the other melting lumps he’s left on his way in.
“Be careful, Mr. Percival,” I say, grabbing a towel off the counter. “It’ll be slippery.”
“Fine, me, dear.” He goes to the piles of groceries while I crouch and wipe up the endless puddles. “Got me snow boots on. What have we here then?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Mr. Ellis,” he says.
“What?” I jump up and go to Mr. Percival, who’s flapping the paperwork left on top of the pile of food I haven’t bought.
“Dec ordered this?” The billing address confirms it, as does my recollection from yesterday when he stood in front of my empty fridge appearing alarmed.
I drop the paperwork and gaze at the groceries—all healthy, it should be noted.
“Shame it didn’t arrive yesterday. Would have saved you borrowing my milk and sugar.”
“Well, I can give it back to you now. Thank you for tucking me up last night.”
“Welcome, dear. Now, I’ve got to go prepare my pastry for the mince pies. The Royal British Legion are picking me up later to take them to the club. Just call if you need me, dear.”
If I need him. Funny. I think we both need each other.
I gaze at the groceries on the table and sigh. Is this Dec’s way of telling me to look after myself? I honestly don’t know what to make of it. Grabbing my phone off the side, I tap out a message.
Thank you x
I don’t add, I miss you. When can I see you again?
Instead, I start packing away the food, most of which goes in the fridge, bar the essentials—tea, coffee, sugar, bread.
There are no ready meals, just fresh produce.
Ingredients. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found a cookbook at the bottom of this pile.
My heart leaps when my phone dings, and I race across the kitchen to retrieve it.
You’re welcome. It’s not completely selfless—you’re cooking for me tomorrow night x
My grin is so wide, it could break my face.
You’re chaining me to the stove?
Then the bed.
I lower to the chair, absolutely giddy, my tummy fluttering, my head whirling. December was the end of one life. Now, it feels like it could be the beginning of another. I send a simple heart emoji and inhale, exhaling my contentment, and a wave of purpose crashes through me.
I get up and finish packing away the food, while having a quick mental assessment of what I could cook for Dec tomorrow night. Maybe coq au vin, if I can remember how. It’s been a while.
Then I do something I’ve not been able to bring myself to do for months since they arrived. I go to the lounge and find the divorce papers. I don’t read them again, not this time. I flick to the back page, take the pen Dominic left me, and scribble my name across the bottom line.
Done.
I stuff them back in the envelope and put them in my bag to post tomorrow from work.
No more hiding. I don’t think I can accept he’s having another child, can’t even contemplate forgiving him for that.
She looked like she was due very soon, which means Dominic didn’t hang around for long after he walked out on me, but I haven’t the capacity to break that down.
It’s done. The memories tarnished. At least, my memories with him.
I will keep Noah’s memory alive.
And on that note, I go to the boxes in the corner and heave the one off the top of the stack, lowering it to the floor and kneeling. Lifting the flaps, I take the air I’m going to need and reach in, pulling out a framed picture.
And I look at his face for the first time in three years since I lost him.
His beautiful, innocent, young face. Eyes that haven’t seen nearly enough of the world.
A smile that didn’t bless enough people.
“I miss you,” I whisper, my chest tightening.
“I miss you so much it hurts.” I don’t take my eyes off him.
And I don’t hold back my tears. They hit like a tsunami, until they weaken every muscle and I fold to the floor on my side, holding his picture.
And I sob my heart out.
For my loss.
And for a future that frightens me.
I cried for an hour straight, even though I didn’t think there were any tears left in me.
I was wrong. I drowned in them. And it was somehow cathartic.
A different version of release than I experienced with Dec’s strength holding me.
I didn’t know I needed to do this for myself and on my own.
And not feel utterly destroyed by the tears.
I will always, always love my little boy, and now I know I can breathe again, I will be okay.
After I dragged myself up off the floor and set the photo of Noah on the cabinet, I wiped the glass and cleaned and polished the silver frame. My mind naturally shifted to the date. In two days’ time, it will be three years since I’ve held you. A few extra tears slipped down my face.
Then I unpacked a few boxes, showered, dressed, and left to visit Mum.
I stop off at a store on my way, pulling off my hat as I walk under the heaters hanging above the door. I take a moment to scope the space before me. It’s not busy, hardly surprising given the weather. Snowing. Again.
Spotting a store guide at the bottom of the escalators, I tug off my gloves too, as I make my way over and scan the floors and list of departments.
Lingerie. Second floor. I hop on the elevator and tuck myself to the right, remaining on the same step all the way to the top, resisting the urge to hurry up to get to where I need to be as quickly as possible.
Three people pass my stationary form. All in a hurry. I’m not in a hurry. Not today.
Wandering around the displays, I take my time, looking at things I don’t need. Perusing. Browsing. I haven’t browsed in a store for years. Only one time does the familiar bile rise from my stomach, but it doesn’t make it past my chest. I push it down and focus on what I’m here for.
“Can I help you?” A smiley, middle-aged lady appears, a tape measure hanging around her neck.
“Yes, thank you. I need some tights.”
“Oh, lovely. Stockings? A special Christmas treat for the man in your life?” She quickly places a palm over her mouth. “Or woman! Darn it, I’m always being told off for assuming.”
I smile at her awkwardness. “Something less sexy. It’s a Secret Santa gift. She loves tights. All kinds of weird and wonderful prints.”
“Oh!” She chuckles. “Okay, maybe something from our novelty section.”
“Sounds great.”
She leads me to a table where five miniature Christmas trees twinkle atop of it, packets of tights hanging like baubles from the arms. “Something like this?” She plucks off a very familiar pair.