49. Carl
49. Carl
The doorbell rings.
It’s Roz dropping off the Christmas cake she offered to make for me and Sarah.
‘It’s incredible!’ I tell her as she lifts the lid on the box for me to peek inside.
She blushes. ‘Well, hopefully it will taste all right,’ she says modestly.
‘Thank you, Roz. Thank you for everything.’ I step forward to hug her. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea?’
‘I haven’t, love,’ Roz says. ‘I need to get to the pantomime.’
‘Of course!’ I say. ‘How could I forget?’
Maggie and Roz have done nothing but talk about the pantomime for the last six weeks.
Roz’s son, Archie – Maggie’s older brother – is in charge of lighting and has a front-row perspective on all the gossip. This morning, Maggie was telling me they all thought Peter Pan, who is dating Tick-Tock the Crocodile, was having a fling with Captain Hook. At least I think that’s what she said. I lost track halfway through and started to think about Sarah being on her way here, this time tomorrow.
‘You sure you won’t change your mind and come?’ she asks.
‘I’m sure,’ I tell her, unable to think of anything worse. ‘I’ve got a few things to sort out.’
‘All right, love, see you soon.’
‘Give Peter Pan my love,’ I tell her. ‘And thanks again. For the cake. It’s perfect.’
After she’s left, I get myself a beer and take another look at the cake. The white icing is so smooth it could have been done by a professional. But I don’t think any shop-bought cake could have been decorated as beautifully as this one.
On top of the icing Roz has drawn a perfect nutcracker soldier, using black icing for his moustache, belt and boots, and yellow icing for his buttons. His jacket is the same vivid red as the tattooed poppies on my back.
And next to him, his yellow-haired dancing doll stares up at me expectantly. Her hair is the same colour as Sarah’s, and I can’t wait to show it to her tomorrow. I can’t wait for her to be here. Full stop.
I move the lilies to one side, to make room for the cake, then I go next door to light a fire. As I sit down I notice a solitary present under the tree.
It’s wrapped in brown paper with little green Christmas trees painted all over it. I lean forward to look at the label: To grumpy Carl, Merry Christmas, love Maggie .
I smile, take a gulp of beer, and switch the Christmas tree lights on. Suddenly the living room is bathed in a magical sparkle. As the lights fade and brighten, it is as if the tree beneath them has come alive with an illuminated heartbeat of its own.
For the first time, the cottage doesn’t feel like a house any more, it feels like a home. A home with a Christmas tree and a present under it, and a home-made cake in the kitchen.
I’m fizzing with excitement at the prospect of Sarah seeing it for the first time, when suddenly something Maggie said a few days ago comes back to haunt me. She was telling me about Roz staying up late to make the cake and said that her German grandmother had taught her that, in Germany, nutcracker dolls are symbols of good luck.
‘They’re supposed to protect your home from evil spirits,’ Maggie said.
At the time, I smiled. But now I feel uneasy, because one thing life has taught me is that the minute you think you’re getting on top of your evil spirits, they have a horrible habit of kicking you in the gut.
The cloud of anxiety I’ve been fighting all day hovers directly over me again, and I wish Sarah was already here.
A Christmas movie and an early night , I tell myself, and before I know it I’ll be on my way to pick her up .
I flick the TV on and Scrooged is just starting.
The noise from the TV wakes Mr Jones from his sleep.
‘It’s okay,’ I tell him, reaching down to pick him up and put him on my lap.
I scratch his belly, which has been so close to the fire that it feels hot to the touch, and notice that my hands are stained orange – I must have disturbed the dusty orange pollen on the lilies when I moved them out of the way of the cake.
I should go and wash them but I don’t want to disturb Mr Jones, and besides, I’m so comfortable and warm by the fire, and I don’t want to miss the film …
I wake with a start.
The fire has almost gone out, and I feel myself shiver. Not from the cold but from the dream I just had of a crater in the road by a mud-brick wall and blown-out shop windows, and a local man with stained orange hands.
He is a regular visitor in my dreams. Sometimes he is leering at me with his tanned, leathery face and knowing eyes. But mostly it’s his hands that haunt me. His orange hands that look startling, next to his pristine white clothes.
The apparition is a reminder of that day – the day of the last explosion I saw in Afghanistan, before coming home for good. I thought the orange dye on the bomb-maker’s hands was henna, that it was some sort of religious marking. It was only later that I learned it was dye from the explosives he had been touching minutes before.
In my dream I saw Danny being thrown into the air, landing in a twisted heap on the other side of the road, and I saw his bleeding arms and lacerated cheek. Stared into his eyes, brimming with fear.
At the time, I blamed myself for not seeing the signs that there was about to be an attack. They had been so obvious, when I looked back. How could I have not picked up on them?
The work site we had walked past earlier, where all the labourers had downed their tools and disappeared. No one leaves their tools unattended in Afghanistan – they’re too valuable. The son of a prominent local tribal leader had been cycling lazily past us in the bazaar. It wasn’t me who spotted him, it was Assami. He was spooked, said he thought the youngster had been marking us out for something, but I told him not to worry.
I should have listened to him.
I should have protected Danny.
The final scene of the movie is being played out on the screen now, where Frank is given a chance to re-evaluate the decisions he has made. A chance to right the wrongs of his past.
It feels like a sign. That I am being given a second chance too. A chance to move on from the past and find happiness with Sarah. And this time, I will not get it wrong.
Before heading up to bed I pour myself a glass of water. As I drink, I stare at the cake.
At the nutcracker doll protecting my house from evil spirits.