Chapter 20
The fog was clearing outside, not that it increased any visibility because the snow saw to that.
The wind was beginning to get up again too, even if they couldn’t feel it in their cosy, extravagant surroundings.
Radio Brian was playing his gentle Christmas tunes of yesteryear and in between he was gabbling on about the full English breakfast he and Mrs Cosgrove had enjoyed that morning, and his baubles, some of which, apparently, he’d had since he was a boy.
‘There’s plenty more where this came from if anyone wants it,’ said Frank, which was just as well as John was already on his second toastie before anyone had eaten their first. His spoon was dipping in and out of his soup so fast it was almost a blur.
‘Do you eat the same food as the prisoners, John?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘Mostly,’ he replied, pausing his spoon for a moment to answer. ‘There’s never any flavour in the soup, it’s nothing like this. You can’t tell a fish broth from a beef.’
‘Do they get their five a day?’ asked Roo.
‘Five what?’
‘Fruit and veg.’
John shrugged. ‘I dunno. I’ve never counted.’
Grace coughed because a bit of toast went down the wrong way and Vincent noticed that no one had put any drink provisions out.
‘I’ll get some water,’ he said, giving Grace a tap on her back as he passed her.
‘I think we should have wine,’ said Roo. ‘Have you seen the amount of bottles in the bar and the pantry? They won’t miss ten.’ She grinned.
‘Ten?’ Frank chuckled. He wiped his mouth on his serviette. ‘But you do have a point, it’s Christmas Eve. I think we can do better than water. I’ll go and grab a couple.’
‘I’ll get the glasses,’ said Roo. She left the table and opened a nearby oak cabinet that had a lamp standing on it with a beautiful bell-shaped stained-glass shade.
She’d discovered a store of them in there when she’d been poking around looking for things; glasses, more tablemats and serviettes on the left side, games on the right.
‘Oh, if anyone is interested, there’s a chessboard in here.
And draughts, cards, ludo, backgammon, paints, brushes, and a Monopoly board,’ she was reminded to tell everyone.
Vincent cleared his mouth of toastie and then said, ‘Brian was talking about Monopoly earlier on. He and Mrs Cosgrove were going to play it sometime today.’
‘Who’s Brian?’ asked John.
Tim waved his spoon over at the radio.
‘The real BBC. He’s our only connection with the rest of the universe. Brian Bernard Cosgrove.’
John Brown’s brow creased and his lips moved over the name. He stroked the right of his forehead as if it would help bring down the thought in there that wouldn’t be reached.
Elizabeth sought to aid him. ‘Maybe you listen to him in your office at work?’ she suggested.
‘Although he’s more likely to be on in the background rather than you listening properly to him,’ said Vincent, not unkindly, because he was very grateful for Brian’s comforting, if quirky, delivery and his perfect pick of tunes.
‘I’m getting very fond of Brian,’ said Roo, depositing a glass down in front of everyone. ‘He’s like one of those uncles who doesn’t do much but it’s always nice when you see them.’ Or so she imagined, as she didn’t have any uncles herself.
Frank returned with the bottles of wine and began to pour. Rather conveniently, there were four of them for red and four for white.
‘You’re spoiling us, Frank. And this soup has a proper tang to it. It’s absolutely delicious,’ said Jane, who couldn’t quite believe she’d eaten so much of it, especially after the breakfast she’d had.
‘I agree,’ added John.
‘Worcestershire sauce,’ replied Frank, ‘elevates any ordinary dish. I put a splash of it on the cheese toasties as well. The taste just about comes through without overpowering everything else.’
Although he doubted that John’s mouth had had time to register any flavours, for the toasties – and he was now on his third – couldn’t have touched the sides.
‘I’m off for my lunch now, but I’ll be back in an hour and I’m going to do a first on air: I’ll be making a Christingle seeing as we can’t get to church today,’ said Brian.
‘Why don’t you grab an orange and a couple of cocktail sticks, some red ribbon, a candle, small squares of tin foil and some sweets and join me?
I bet we’ve all got plenty of sweeties around at this time of year.
Ours are in the Christmas cupboard which I’m sure Mrs Cosgrove won’t mind me accessing for entertainment purposes today. Shall we all convene at three?’
‘I think that’s a great idea and I will join you, Brian,’ Roo said to the radio. Anything to keep busy, anything to drive her thoughts away from today. She addressed the table. ‘We could have a craft class.’
‘I’m going to read,’ said Tim, dismissively, as if her suggestion was absurd.
Roo thought that he might have warmed a little towards her given she’d sought out his help when she’d seen John Brown’s moving boot, but it turned out that was just a temporary entente, then. The devil nudged her shoulder. She wanted to find out about this daughter she reminded him of so much.
‘You got kids, Tim?’ she asked brightly, knowing full well he had at least one.
‘A daughter,’ he replied flatly, without looking up.
‘And were you going to be spending Christmas with her?’
‘No.’
Frank, Jane and Vincent all raised their heads at his gruff tone and Roo was secretly glad that they’d borne witness to his rudeness. And Tim, to Roo’s glee, must have been suitably shamed by that because he immediately apologised.
‘I’m sorry for snapping, it’s a sore subject.’
‘S’fine,’ replied Roo, enjoying being smugly magnanimous. But then she chucked in her advantage by asking, ‘Why though? Have you fallen out?’
Vincent leaned in and whispered, ‘Roo…’ giving her a warning shake of his head.
‘It’s all right, I’ll answer her,’ said Tim. ‘She lives in New Zealand. She met a man over there and she married him. She’s having her first baby in the new year.’
‘How lovely, Tim.’ Jane smiled. ‘Have you been over to see her?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Scared of flying?’ Roo was aware she was pushing it.
‘No, I’m not scared of the flying.’
‘Why then?’
‘Roo, maybe Tim doesn’t want to talk about it,’ said Frank now, jumping in to gently admonish her.
‘Tim brought it up,’ said Roo.
‘Because I’m a shit father, that’s why, Roo,’ Tim flung at her from across the table. ‘And I don’t deserve to see her. That answer the question?’ He picked up his spoon again.
‘Not really,’ said Roo, aware now that she’d totally tipped the scales against herself, but she was unable to leave well alone, even if she could see Jane, at Tim’s side, sending her a ‘shh’ message by lifting her finger and tapping it against her lips.
‘Okay then, I’ll tell you. I worked too much when my Fleur was little.
I wanted her to have the best of everything: bedroom, puppy, kitten, riding lessons, nice school, clothes…
so her mum did all the caring stuff and I did the easy thing and stuck my hand in my pocket.
I didn’t read stories to her because I was never there at bedtime, I was schmoozing at conferences with strangers and zipping around the world enjoying the hospitality.
I didn’t take her to the park or to parties or to the cinema.
I missed her school plays and her sports days and seeing her getting the prizes she won for coming top of her class.
And then when she’d grown up, my wife left me because she said the holidays and the presents and the big house and the money in the bank had never been enough.
She said I wasn’t there for them, that I’d got it all wrong.
And when I was ready to make it up to my girl, spend time with her, she…
decides to go travelling and met him and moved there.
I missed my chance to be a good dad and I can’t get my time back and I’m ashamed of myself and can’t do a thing about it. ’
He locked eyes with Roo and she saw the gleam of water in his, the threatening glisten of it before he blinked it away. She’d pushed him too hard and now it was her turn to feel sorry.
Tim looked down, feeling the hand on top of his own, warm and kind. Jane’s.
‘Tim, as parents we do our best. We inevitably get some of it wrong. But when what we do is done with love, we must not beat ourselves up so much. I bet your daughter appreciates what you did for her more than you know.’
‘She wants me to go and stay. She wants me to be there when the baby arrives,’ said Tim. ‘It’s me that’s being a stubborn old git. My anger at myself is coming out as anger at her.’
‘Then you should swallow that anger and go, because we always think we have more time than we have.’
‘I’ve told her that I’m not going, Jane. I said things I shouldn’t have. I had no right to tell her that she shouldn’t live her life and be where she wants to be. I’m jealous, that’s what it is. I should know better. And now I’ve gone and spoilt everything.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t, Tim,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Daughters are very forgiving.’
More than fathers, she wanted to say. She loved hers even though he hadn’t really done that much to earn her love, other than perform some nepotism in giving her a top job in his company.
She was all too aware that so long as she behaved and conformed, she’d stay in favour and she didn’t want to lose him from her life; he was her only family really, because her mother cared less about her than he did.
She’d tried to broach the subject with him weeks ago that she wasn’t sure she was ready for the engagement and he’d shut her down, more angrily than she’d been prepared for.
Was she mad? Did she realise the advantages for her of marrying Gregory Pennington?
He hadn’t asked her if she loved him. She wasn’t sure what she’d have said if he had.
She’d loved the attentive, gentlemanly Gregory he’d been at the beginning.
But, she’d begun to think recently, what if that face of Gregory was a veneer to lure her in?
What if his charm was like the fresh, cheap paint they’d sploshed all over the ceilings in Topston Manor that kept flaking off, revealing the mould and rottenness underneath?
What did true love even feel like? And why, if this was love, did it not make her smile more?
Why did she have those clouds in her eyes, as Roo had seen?