Chapter Twenty-Three
Sally and I chatted for a little longer and then, after reassuring her that I would get in touch if I needed anything – ‘anything, Jen, I mean it’ – we said we’d see each other on Saturday at the fete.
I cruised along, driving on autopilot, until a signpost caught my eye. Danderbury. It was as if a klaxon suddenly went off in my ears. The sign seemed to zoom, cartoon-like, in and out of my vision. Danderbury was Liam Lancaster’s town.
I was on the homeward stretch now and not far from Starlight Croft.
But, while Danderbury was not a million miles away from my village, equally it wasn’t my stomping ground.
In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d set foot in the place.
It must have been years ago. Certainly, when the kids were small.
I had a hazy recollection of taking the twins to Danderbury to see Father Christmas. A glossy Kent magazine had advertised a festive event. It had taken place at this town’s popular – and rather grand – garden centre.
At the time, about twenty-five percent of the garden centre’s premises had been given over to a huge and showy Christmas display – from freshly cut Christmas trees with a heady pine perfume to gifts like Christmas candles wafting cinnamon, vanilla and sandalwood.
There had been mega displays of tree decorations so fancy, that a bank loan might have been required if buying more than one.
Yes, it was all coming back to me now and, actually, the memory wasn’t great.
Things had gone pear shaped when James had questioned Father Christmas’s Manchester accent.
He’d then pulled off Santa’s false beard.
Joy had promptly screamed believing her brother had committed some sort of grievous bodily harm.
‘James!’ I’d rebuked. ‘Say sorry now.’
But my son had been unapologetic.
‘No, because this man is not from the North Pole,’ he’d insisted, almost in tears. ‘He’s a poss-ter.’
‘A what?’ Father Christmas had demanded. Enraged, he’d turned to. ‘Did yer son jus’ call me a tosser?’
‘N-No,’ I’d stuttered. ‘He said poss-ter. James meant imposter.’
I’d dithered, not knowing whether to try and salvage the situation, or grab both children by their hands and flee.
‘Even so, yer kids are beyond rude,’ Father Christmas had ranted.
‘I wasn’t rude,’ Joy had wailed.
‘How dare you be unkind to my sister,’ James had asserted.
‘YOU are an ’orrible little boy,’ Father Christmas had spat.
‘D-Don’t speak to my son like that,’ I’d warbled, wishing I had a tenth of James’s gung-ho.
‘I’ll speak ’ow I like.’ Father Christmas had been defiant. ‘And yer a roobish mother raising brats like these two.’
My jaw had begun to defy gravity. A couple of shop assistants had come rushing over, the garden centre’s manager in tow. Their eyes had been on stalks.
‘What’s going on?’ the manager had demanded.
‘He’s not Father Christmas,’ James had declared, while Joy continued bawling.
The manager waved his arms about, ineffectually trying to lower Joy’s volume. His Adam’s apple had bobbed nervously as he’d turned to Father Christmas.
‘Bill, I told you this job required getting down to a child’s level.’
‘Aye, you did, and I will.’ And with that Father Christmas, aka Bill, had ripped off his hat and waggled it at James. ‘It’s little shits like you that make me realise there’s better jobs to be ’ad than crappy ones like this. Happy fookin’ Christmas.’
And with that, Bill had stomped off leaving the manager telling Joy and James to choose some toys and decorations from the Christmas display and then have something nice at the on-site café. Naturally everything had been on the house.
One of the shop assistants had then been assigned to give us some red-carpet treatment. Embarrassed, I’d stuttered my thanks.
‘Don’t mention it,’ she’d assured. ‘Danderbury Garden Centre strives to satisfy its customers.’
‘In that case’ – James had tugged on the assistant’s sleeve – ‘can you tell me what fookin means?’