Calling Mrs Christmas Read online

  Vincent, Jim knew, stood for no messing from his residents. Either they toed the line at Halfway House or they were out on their ear. Jim thought that living there with someone like Vincent to watch over them would be a good thing for Smudge and Rozzer. He could only hope that there was room for them as places were always in demand and he knew he should have thought of it much, much sooner.

  Vincent, who had a shaved head, a soul patch and a ready smile, answered the door and clapped Jim on the back with one of his big, bear-sized hands. ‘Man,’ he cried. ‘Ain’t seen you in so long!’

  ‘Busy, mate,’ Jim said.

  ‘Ain’t we all. What brings you to my door now, man?’

  ‘Favour to ask,’ Jim said as he followed Vincent through to the kitchen. Without asking if Jim wanted a drink, Vincent automatically flicked on the kettle. A lot of Vincent’s counselling was done with a strong mug of tea in hand.

  In addition to the flats, the residents had the use of a laundry room, this tiny kitchen and a light, bright communal living room that looked out onto the scrubby garden where they could all get together and talk or just hang out rather than sitting in their rooms by themselves. Vincent was on site full time and had been for years. A couple of other social workers gave him back-up and a handful of volunteers took up the slack on other duties. Jim dropped in every now and then to lend a hand, particularly if some DIY needed doing. Then he’d get alongside one of the lads and show him some basic skills.

  ‘How’s life up at Bovingdale?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ Jim said.

  ‘Ever thought about moving on?’

  ‘Not really. Probably in for the long haul.’

  Vincent made them instant coffee, a cheap supermarket brand. It tasted vile, but Jim was grateful for it and hugged the chipped mug. Vincent waited for him to speak.

  ‘I’ve got two lads,’ Jim said. ‘Coming out soon. I’m worried about them. They’ve become great mates while they’ve been inside and they’ll be completely lost without each other.’

  ‘Harsh.’

  ‘Wondered if you’d got any room coming up here for them?’

  Vincent shook his head ruefully. ‘Not on the cards, mate. Totally rammed. As usual.’

  ‘Thought as much. It was worth an ask.’ Jim shrugged, but was disappointed nevertheless.

  ‘It’s important to you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jim admitted. It suddenly mattered a lot that Andrew and Kieran would be all right after they left the tender loving care of HM Young Offenders’ Unit, Bovingdale. ‘Keep me in mind if anything does come up.’

  ‘You never know, Jim. People come. People go.’

  ‘You’ve got my mobile number?’

  Vincent waved his phone at him to indicate that he had. Jim downed his coffee.

  ‘Could do with a hand with some painting, man, if you’ve got a couple of hours to spare?’

  ‘It’s madness before Christmas,’ Jim said. ‘Cassie’s started this new business. Calling Mrs Christmas! It’s gone crazy. I’ve been roped in to do things I never thought I’d do in my lifetime. But, after Christmas, I’m all yours.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to it.’

  ‘Don’t forget to call me if you can take in two lads.’

  As he walked back to his car, Jim wondered what else he could do to help Smudge and Rozzer as he couldn’t bear to think of them out in the big, bad world on their own. Not so close to Christmas.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s just after one and I’m making magnificent progress with the living-room Christmas-present mountain. Soon I’ll be able to see carpet! Never have I needed so much double-sided tape. I’m running low on my second roll when my phone rings.

  ‘Calling Mrs Christmas!’ I trill happily.

  ‘This is Carter Randall’s office,’ a posh voice says.

  ‘Oh.’

  The man I met/threw wine down at the Hemel Hempstead Means Business event.

  ‘Mr Randall would like you to come up to the house at three o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘The house?’

  ‘Randall Court in Little Gaddesden.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I know where Little Gaddesden is, but have no idea where Randall Court is. Sounds like an office block.

  ‘He wants to talk to you about Christmas.’

  Then I’m his woman.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I can do three o’clock.’ Good job. Sounds as if Mr Randall has already decided that I’ll be there then. ‘What is it that I can help with?’

  ‘Mr Randall will discuss that with you.’

  ‘OK. What’s the address?’

  ‘Just come to Little Gaddesden. If you’re driving from Hemel, go to the far end of the village. Randall Court is clearly signposted. I’m sure you’ll find us easily enough. We’ll see you at three.’ And she hangs up.

  Huh. OK. We’ll see what Mr Randall has to say about Christmas. I seem to remember that he said he wasn’t much looking forward to it. Wonder why? No doubt I’ll find out later.

  Then, I don’t know what grips me, but I get a sudden urge to wash my hair and get out of my jeans and, generally, not look so much like a tramp. So I run round the shower, wash and dry my hair, and put on smarter trousers and a fluffy red jumper that looks quite festive.

  At two-thirty, I’m in my car and heading out to Little Gaddesden. It’s a bright sunny day. The crisp frost that covered everything this morning is now lingering only in shady patches where the weak winter sun has failed to reach. It’s stunning up here when the autumn leaves are in full colour, but even the dark bleakness of the winter trees holds me transfixed. This is a really beautiful area. Jim and I love to come up here and walk in Ashridge Park at the weekends. There’s a magnificent bluebell wood in the springtime that we come to see as often as we can when the flowers are in bloom.

  The car parks are always overflowing and the park is filled with families whose kids sport flowery wellies and have those robust 4x4 prams that are all the rage now. When I see them, it never fails to make me want a toddler of my own to swing between our arms and hoist, laughingly, onto Jim’s shoulders. I picture a little girl with a rosebud mouth and blonde curls even though both of her would-be parents have dark hair. It also makes me want to own a dog. A small, yapping one with attitude that will love us unconditionally. I hope that one day, now that I’m back in the world of work, both of these things will be achievable rather than seeming like a distant dream.

  I climb steadily upwards, crunching my sticky gears merrily, a festive song in my heart.

  The village of Little Gaddesden sits up on a hill surrounded by miles and miles of the spectacular Ashridge Forest. This place is posh. Seriously posh. I think it is compulsory for all adults to wear Hunter wellies – even in bed. We’ve been so busy that, unusually, we haven’t been up here for weeks now and suddenly, as I swing into the village, the very prettiness of it all takes my breath away.

  The trainline into London, with a quick service into town, is a stone’s throw away so the area is home to all kinds of minor celebrities who like to escape ‘the smoke’ at the weekends. Hang out in the one and only pub and you’ll catch a glimpse of people off the telly. Jim and I have seen newsreaders, the woman – I think – who does Antiques Roadshow and a couple of well-known footballers whose names escape me. There’s a rumour that Formula One racing driver Mark Webber lives here. But then it seems that everywhere I go there’s a rumour that Formula One racing driver Mark Webber lives there. Perhaps he just has a lot of houses.

  The benefit of all the trees being bare at this time of year is that you can catch a glimpse of the properties normally secreted inside thick copses and tucked away down long winding drives. I slow down as I pass house after house, all of which are unfeasibly large. As instructed, I head to the other end of the village and then I see a prominent sign for Randall Court. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that Randall Court is one of the large houses. What does surprise me, though, is that it seems to be the very biggest
one of all. By a long way.

  It’s so imposing that I actually pull over to the grass verge and hesitate before driving in. I take a moment to check the aluminium name plaque on the stone gateposts against the note I’ve scribbled on a pink Post-It just in case there’s another, somewhat smaller and less scary Randall Court and I’m in entirely the wrong place. Of course, I should have checked it out on Google Earth before I got here, but it didn’t occur to me. I might not have been quite so shocked then.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I gasp to no one but myself.

  This looks like the kind of place that should have an entryphone system with someone bossy at the other end trying very hard to keep me out. But it doesn’t. The tall gates are thrown open and, despite wishing my car was a posh Audi or anything other than a crappy ten-year-old Clio, I decide to go for it. Too late to wimp out now. So I take a deep breath and thank the heavens above and all that is good that I had a shower and changed into something quite smart. Then I crunch my elderly gears and, tentatively, make my way down the sweeping, tree-lined drive towards the awesome country pile in front of me.

  I go slowly, absorbing my surroundings, which are truly spectacular. The route is lined with specimen trees and, even in the depths of winter, a lawn that looks as if it enjoys the tender loving care of Green Thumb on a regular basis. The house, when I approach, is no disappointment from close quarters either. It sits grandly in the midst of its land. It’s symmetrical, three storeys tall, I’d say, and the same wide. There’s a door in the centre flanked by banks of large, airy Georgian-style windows. It’s relatively modern, but built in a mellow brick that ensures it blends well into the landscape. I can’t begin to imagine how much this place cost.

  I drive up and park in front of the bank of five garages next to a flashy silver Bentley. Surely I won’t be blocking anyone in here. I get out of the Clio and lock the door. Then I laugh to myself. Like anyone’s going to steal my Clio and leave that Bentley behind.

  Before I walk up to the door, I straighten my trousers and jumper. I ring the bell and, as I wait – for an absolute age – for someone to come, all I can hear is the sound of my own heart thumping.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Eventually, a pretty girl comes to let me in. She’s probably in her twenties, slim, dark, and wearing tight-fitting jeans and a pale-blue sweater. They look expensive. I wonder if it’s the woman I spoke to on the phone, but she sounds younger, chirpier.

  ‘Hello, I’m Cassie Smith. From Calling Mrs Christmas!’

  ‘Oh, hi. I’m Georgina, Mr Randall’s assistant. Do come in.’

  I step into the vast hall. It’s probably bigger than our entire flat. I didn’t even know that they made homes so big. I went to my previous boss’s house a few times and that was pretty flash, but this is opulence on a whole new scale. It’s all decorated in white with chrome flourishes. Mirrors abound. I think the floor might be white marble. Ahead of me the staircase, which I’d guess is solid oak, ascends to a galleried landing. It looks more like a five-star hotel than someone’s home and I try not to gape. I think I fail.

  ‘Mr Randall is with his wife at the moment,’ Georgina says. ‘Do you mind awfully waiting? He shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘No.’ I think of all the presents I could be wrapping.

  ‘Take a seat in here,’ she says, showing me into a small living room off the hall with two large cream sofas and expensive-looking artworks. ‘Can I offer you tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea would be nice.’

  She smiles at me. ‘I’ll let him know that you’re here.’

  When she leaves, I walk to the window and look out. The grounds sweep away from the house as far as the eye can see until they merge seamlessly into Ashridge Forest. There’s a small formal area by the house, with a pretty terrace and a fountain, but most of what I can see is a vast expanse of immaculate lawn. I don’t know how Carter Randall has made his money but, clearly, he has lots of it.

  I look around me. There’s a white coat draped over the arm of one sofa and a Burberry handbag abandoned next to it. So I take the other sofa and sit patiently, trying to look relaxed. As there’s no background music or noise of any kind, I can – if I listen carefully – hear raised voices. A man and a woman are having a right old ding-dong somewhere in the house. The woman’s voice in particular seems to be getting louder and louder.

  My tea arrives, brought by another older lady who looks as if she might be a long-standing housekeeper as she’s comfortable here in a way that I’m not. ‘A nice cuppa for you, dearie,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Shouldn’t be long now.’

  There’s a loud slam from somewhere above me and she raises her eyebrows at me in a knowing way, forgetting that I have no idea about what is so obvious to her. She leaves me to my tea and I anxiously nibble one of the chocolate digestive biscuits she’s also brought.

  The shouting seems to be reaching a crescendo now and I feel as if I’m intruding on something that I shouldn’t. I can’t make out what the argument is about, but it’s apparent that someone isn’t at all happy. Perhaps I should just finish up my tea and biscuits as quickly as I can and tiptoe away. I could simply ring Carter Randall’s office and make another appointment. It doesn’t really sound like the right time to be talking about Christmas arrangements.

  But before I even have time to fully consider my options, the door bursts open and a beautiful and impossibly slender woman crashes into the room, followed, hot on her heels, by Carter Randall.

  She pulls up short when she sees me and Carter, still in full flow, careers into the back of her.

  ‘Who on earth are you?’ the woman says.

  I stand up hastily and overturn my cup as I do. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ I scrabble around on the tray, trying to right it.

  She folds her arms, regarding me coolly.

  ‘Ah,’ Carter Randall exclaims. ‘It’s Mrs Christmas!’

  ‘If this is a bad time —’ I start.

  ‘No, no,’ he insists. ‘In fact, this is the perfect time. My wife, soon to be ex-wife, and I were just discussing our Christmas arrangements.’

  ‘I am having the children, Carter,’ she spits. ‘End of discussion.’

  ‘I think you’ll find, Tamara, that I have access to the children this Christmas. It’s what we agreed.’

  ‘I didn’t agree.’

  ‘Read your solicitor’s letter,’ Carter insists. ‘I am, my love, the one with access rights.’

  I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

  ‘You said you were going off to Verbier, skiing with the Olivers,’ he continues.

  ‘The children can come too.’

  ‘Two kids in a house of hard-drinking adults? Why put them through that when they can stay here with me and you can have your fun? As soon as you come back you can have them right through New Year.’

  ‘But I want them for Christmas.’

  It sounds as if they’re squabbling over two packages.

  ‘We should draw lots,’ his wife says scathingly. ‘Short straw gets Christmas without the kids.’

  I look from one to the other. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Stay,’ Carter implores. Perhaps he sees me as a diversion. He turns to his wife. ‘If we did that, would you stick to it?’

  ‘What?’ She and I both look appalled.

  ‘We can’t seem to sort this out any other way, Tamara. Let’s draw lots.’

  ‘You are joking, Carter?’

  ‘It was your suggestion,’ he reminds her.

  Tamara purses her lips. ‘Will Mrs Christmas be our witness?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says before I can reply. ‘You’d do that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well…’ I say. Then I think, I seem to be in for a penny, so I might as well make it a pound. ‘If you don’t mind my offering an opinion, this doesn’t seem quite the right way to go about deciding how your children spend Christmas.’

  Tamara takes one long disdainful look at me and then turns to Carter. ‘We’ll do it.’

&nbs
p; ‘Right. I’ll be back in two ticks.’

  Carter rushes out of the room, which, unfortunately, leaves me alone with the pinched-faced and somewhat enraged wife. She glares at me, making it patent that she’s unhappy at having me around, and I can’t say that I blame her. Whenever Jim and I row, which is fairly rare, I wouldn’t want a third party standing in.