Calling Mrs Christmas Read online

  In the spare room you could barely see the small, single futon that was stored against the wall. It contained even more boxes piled high, with a track through the middle of them to allow access to the computer.

  He logged on. There were a couple of dozen emails for Cassie, the work still pouring in. Jim scanned them quickly. The only one that might be a problem was a children’s party at a school. Whoever did that would have to be checked by the Criminal Records Bureau and neither of the lads would get through that, even if it could be done it in time. He’d have to talk to Cassie about how she’d want to handle that. He sent off a quick reply to each of the jobs that they could fit in the diary without complications.

  Then, as he’d nothing else useful to do, he checked Cassie’s itinerary. Tonight, it said, they would all be at the Icehotel. He logged onto their site and sat back, quite stunned by the images. Wow. Now he could see why she’d been so very keen to go. There was no way in a million years that he and Cassie could afford to go somewhere like that. He flicked through the posted images of the suites, wondering which one Cassie might be staying in. It might be futile, but he took out his mobile again, punching in her number. Still useless. Obviously, there was still no signal where she was.

  He consoled himself that, by this time tomorrow night, she’d be safely home again. The flat was as spick and span as he could make it now. He’d pick up some flowers in the morning. Maybe get a nice bottle of red wine. He might not be able to compete with the Icehotel or Carter Randall, but he could let Cassie know how much she was loved and how glad he was that she was back home.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  I’m lying in the sleeping bag, still wide awake – as I have been all night – when Carter opens his eyes. Our noses are inches apart as we face each other.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, softly.

  ‘Hey,’ I answer back.

  He stretches and props himself up on his elbow, but his eyes don’t leave my face. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ I lie.

  ‘I was surprisingly comfortable,’ Carter says. ‘Must sleep in minus five on a bed of ice more regularly.’

  That makes me laugh and, I hate to put it like this, but it breaks the ice between us.

  ‘I didn’t do anything untoward in my dreams, did I?’ he asks. ‘Call out your name, try to play octopus arms or footsie with you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘I’m very relieved.’

  Me too.

  In fact Carter slept like a baby whereas I just stayed awake and watched him. If you asked me now I could tell you every curve of his face. I could describe in detail the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. If required, I could pinpoint on a Farrow and Ball paint chart the colour of his lips, the shade of his eyes. I could tell you about every curl of his hair and how hard it was for me not to reach out and touch them.

  ‘You look deep in thought,’ Carter says.

  Before I have to explain myself, a young girl comes to the room’s entrance, singing sweetly. ‘Hej, hej,’ she calls as she pops her head around the ice wall.

  Seeing that we’re awake, she brings us cups of hot lingonberry juice, which is a nice way to start the day. Carter and I sit up together, side by side. I straighten my hat.

  ‘You look very cute,’ Carter says. ‘And no bed hair.’

  What would Carter know about bed hair? Tamara looks like the sort of person who’d go to bed in full make-up and train herself to sleep on her back so that she’d never have a strand of hair out of place.

  ‘Last day,’ he continues with a rueful note to his voice.

  ‘Big surprise this morning, though,’ I remind him. Carter knows where we’re heading to, but the children don’t.

  We avoid trickier subjects, as said children come through to us and jump onto the bed.

  ‘We’re awake!’ Max shouts.

  ‘So you are. Don’t get cold,’ Carter says. ‘Snuggle in with us.’

  They wriggle into the warmth of the sleeping bag, budging us out of the way with cold feet and sharp elbows. This is so sweet and I have a vision of doing it one day with my own children. Eve curls into me and lays her head on my shoulder. I stroke her hair.

  ‘Did you like your princess bed?’

  ‘Yes. It was lovely, but my nose did get cold.’

  ‘Shall we have a nice hot shower and warm up?’ I suggest. She nods her acquiescence.

  When we’ve finished our lingonberry juice, we all slip on our fleeces and say goodbye to our fabulous rooms. I take one last glance around to imprint it on my memory for ever.

  Leaving our icy retreat, we head for the changing rooms to shower. I linger under the hot water, still trying to get my head around the turmoil of my emotions. Afterwards, we walk up to the restaurant in the warm part of the hotel and have a delicious breakfast. When we’re full of pancakes and bacon, we all climb into our Arctic suits once again and I lead them out of the hotel and down towards the vast swathe of ice that is the frozen river. It’s nearly eleven o’clock and the sun is heading towards its zenith. The ice is glistening and all we can hear is the satisfying crunch of snow beneath our feet.

  ‘What are we doing today, Cassie?’ the children want to know. They’re already bouncing.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ I say and Carter winks at me.

  As we round the corner of the hotel, our transport awaits us. Standing on the frozen river is an old-fashioned wooden sleigh painted in red and white, pulled by four reindeer in multicoloured harnesses.

  ‘Rudolph!’ Max cries when he sees them. ‘We’re going to see Santa!’

  Eve is open-mouthed. ‘Are we? I thought he was just pretend.’

  ‘Of course he’s not,’ Max tells her, already clambering into one of the seats.

  ‘Of course not,’ Carter agrees.

  We all climb in after Max and the driver hands us colourful blankets to cover ourselves with. I sit next to Carter, who pulls the blanket over us both. I notice that his arm is around my shoulders across the back of the sleigh.

  We set off and are whisked along the icy river, away from the hotel. The runners swoosh over the snow and the bells on the reindeer’s harnesses jingle as we go, which inspires Carter to start up a chorus of ‘Jingle Bells’.

  Still singing our heads off, we head deep into the forest following a track marked by flaming lanterns. The reindeer trot ahead of us and the children are rapt as we weave through the snowy trees.

  Eventually we come to a clearing surrounded by a range of picture-perfect wooden lodges. The sleigh stops and we climb out again. I’ve always shied away from the whole mass-market ‘Meet Santa’ trips and I’m so glad now that I have. This is much more up Carter’s street and the children, well, frankly, they look as if they’ve been put under a spell.

  ‘Is this Santa’s house?’ Max wants to know, transfixed, his eyes shining with delight.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘But we’ve got something to do first before we meet him.’

  Two young men dressed as elves come out to greet us, looking spectacular. They’re not wearing tacky elf outfits like the ones I bought for my elves from a fancy dress shop – these are proper costumes, made of gold and silver brocade, elaborately finished. Each elf has a pale face and tiny pointed ears. If I hadn’t booked all this through a tour company, even I could quite easily believe that they are real elves.

  They take us into one of the wooden lodges, where we find a roaring log fire, a huge table and two young women dressed as fairies.

  ‘You must write your letters to Santa,’ one of the elves says. ‘Tell him if you’ve been naughty or nice and then we will make your toys for you.’

  The children’s faces are glowing and it’s nice to see that, in this hideously cynical age, there is still innocent magic to be found in Christmas.

  The elves sit the children down and give them pretty paper and pens.

  ‘What shall I ask for, Daddy?’ Eve says.

  ‘Whateve
r you want, sweetheart,’ he advises.

  So, while the children write their letters and the elves sing a song, Carter and I sit in the armchairs by the fire.

  One of the fairies brings us a tray with two drinks. ‘Something for Mummy and Daddy while you wait?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not…’ I start and then my voice fades away. I can’t bring myself to say the next bit.

  ‘This is mumma,’ she says. ‘It is a mixture of beer and port wine spiced with cardamom. It is our traditional Christmas drink.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I take my glass and swig it down. It smells divine and the warmth and the spices soothe my throat.

  We sit in silence together, listening to the Christmas music, while the children – tongues out in intense concentration – compose their letters to Santa.

  Soon they’re done and our drinks are finished.

  ‘Let us go to see Santa,’ the elves say and they lead us from this lodge across the snow and deep into the woods. The children are shaking with excitement and, I have to say, I am too.

  My mum never went through the pretence of there being a Santa. With Dad gone, Christmas in our home was a very meagre affair. She never had much interest in celebrating anything and, half the time, even forgot our birthdays. I vow, here and now, that if I do ever have children, I’ll bring them here. Every child should experience this at least once in their lifetime.

  We reach another of the lodges set among tall snow-covered firs, with lights glowing from its windows. The elves lead us up the stairs. In a small ante-room, we take off our boots and Arctic suits. Then in stockinged feet we’re led to a door.

  ‘Ready?’ one of the elves asks.

  We all let out an involuntary gasp when he throws it open. I could learn a thing or two from this about decorating. The room, warm from the heat of the fire, is filled with candles, flickering beautifully. Above the fireplace is strung a fir garland, hung with presents and stockings. The Christmas tree in the corner is enormous, decked with baubles and tinsel in gold and silver. Sitting in the corner on a majestic white rocking chair is Santa himself. His presence is awe-inspiring. He’s wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and his traditional red and white costume. The material shimmers richly in the candlelight. The white trimming is so fluffy that you can’t help but want to reach out and touch it. His beard is full, curled and reaches right down to his tummy where his hands nestle on top of it. Santa is smiling benignly.

  The children stand and gape at him.

  ‘Come, come,’ one of the elves says. ‘Santa is so happy to meet you.’

  Max and Eve step forward, tentatively, then sit on a bench close to Santa’s knees. Carter turns to grin at me, slips his hand in mine and grips it tightly.

  ‘Hej, hej. Hello, little ones,’ Santa says in a booming voice. ‘It is lovely to see you in my forest home.’

  The children nod, speechless.

  ‘You have come all the way from England?’

  They both nod again.

  ‘On a plane,’ Max risks in a whisper. ‘A little one.’

  ‘Well, I am very pleased that you are here,’ Santa says. ‘Now? Have you been good?’

  More nodding.

  ‘Santa likes to give presents only to the good children.’

  ‘Yes,’ Eve says, breathlessly. ‘We’ve both been very good.’

  ‘Then tell me what you would like me to bring you for Christmas.’

  Max nudges Eve in the ribs. Hesitantly, she opens her letter and carefully spreads it out on her knees. Before speaking, she clears her throat.

  ‘Dear Santa.’ Her voice is bright and clear. I feel tears spring to my eyes and I glance at Carter who’s looking at her adoringly. ‘This Christmas I would like my mummy to come home and be in love with my daddy again.’ She flicks her gaze anxiously towards Carter and then fixes it back on Santa. ‘That’s all I want,’ Eve stresses. ‘No toys. I have lots of toys.’

  Santa nods his head thoughtfully and rubs his beard, not missing a beat. ‘Well,’ he says, eventually, ‘I will do my very best, Eve.’ He glances over to Carter. ‘Sometimes these dreams are the hardest to make come true. There is nothing else that you would like? A doll? A bike?’

  ‘No,’ she says firmly and folds up her letter.

  My throat closes as I watch her face, earnest and imploring.

  ‘And you, young sir,’ Santa says, turning his attention to Max. ‘What would you like for Christmas?’

  Max looks uncertain. He glances at Eve and then screws up the letter that’s in his hand, the one that he took so much care with. ‘I was going to ask for a quad bike,’ he says softly. ‘But all I want is for Mummy to come home too.’

  My tears spill over my lashes and onto my cheeks and when I turn to Carter I see that his eyes are wet too. Eve and Max run to him and Carter drops to his knees as they throw their arms around him.

  They hug each other and I stand there, not knowing what to do. I look up at Santa who has taken off his glasses and it looks as if he’s crying too.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  As soon as Jim signed in for his shift, he was called in to see the governor. ‘I believe you’ve been working closely with’ – he checked his paperwork – ‘Andrew Walton and Kieran Holman.’

  It occurred to Jim that Dave Hornshaw was about to tell him he’d been working with them too closely. The prison authorities liked you to keep your distance from the lads and most of the time that was easy enough.

  ‘Yes,’ Jim said. No point trying to say otherwise.

  ‘The Social Care team feel that they’re both ready to leave. If they’ve got somewhere to go, we can tag them to serve the rest of their sentence.’

  ‘I’ve organised them a place at Vincent Benlow’s Halfway House.’

  ‘Excellent, Jim,’ the governor said. ‘He’ll look after them.’

  Everyone knew that the lads had the best chance with Vincent. It was just a shame that so few of them ever got to go somewhere like that. Jim wondered if Rozzer and Smudge knew just how lucky they were.

  ‘Vincent can’t take them in for a week or two,’ Jim admitted. ‘But I’m sure I can find them somewhere to stay in the meantime.’

  He could go and speak to social services, see if they could find them temporary bed-and-breakfast accommodation or, at worst, a hostel. It would be tricky as he had no desire for Rozzer and Smudge to mix with the kind of people they were just about to get away from.

  ‘Good.’ The governor looked at him over his glasses. ‘Then they can leave today.’

  Jim rocked back in his seat. Today? That didn’t give him a lot of time to organise somewhere for Rozzer and Smudge to stay.

  ‘Is that possible?’ the governor asked. ‘We can delay their release if it’s a problem.’

  ‘No. I’m sure that will be fine.’

  It looked as if it would be down to him to sort out their accommodation, but if there was a chance of getting the lads out of here quickly, then why wouldn’t he take it?

  At home they had one spare bed and a sofa. If it was only for a couple of days, he was sure that Cassie wouldn’t mind. She liked the lads, after all. They’d certainly helped her out in her absence. Jim felt that they owed the lads.

  The governor peered over his glasses. ‘Anything else, Jim?’

  ‘No.’ It was clearly time for him to leave.

  ‘Those lads are fortunate that you’ve looked out for them,’ the governor said. ‘Make sure they know it.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jim said.

  But he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t know why he wanted to help the lads, but he certainly wasn’t doing it for the thanks.

  Later that afternoon it was confirmed that Mr Andrew Walton and Mr Kieran Holman were to be released from HM Bovingdale Young Offenders’ Unit and let back out into the wide world.

  Jim went up to the wing and waited outside their cell to escort them downstairs to be processed. All afternoon he’d been contacting various departments of social services and charities he knew, trying to cal
l in favours, and had singularly failed to secure the lads any alternative accommodation for that night. However he wasn’t about to go back and tell the governor that, so Jim put down his own address as their intended residence. At the flat, he and Cassie had a single futon in the spare room. One could use that and the other could take the sofa. It would, he prayed, be for only a couple of days. A week or two at the most. He was sure that Cassie wouldn’t mind some extra company – albeit some that was a bit smelly and a bit sweary. It was a temporary measure. That was all.