Calling Mrs Christmas Page 4

  ‘Excellent idea.’ I find a pen in my bag and write ‘Deposit!’ at the bottom of my list.

  ‘What does Jim think?’

  ‘You know what Jim’s like. He thinks that anything I want to do is just fine. He’s Mr Supportive.’

  ‘You’ve got a good one there.’

  ‘I know it.’ Then I feel a pinch of melancholy nip at me. ‘I hope that I do make some money at this. I’d love for us to get married next year.’

  ‘You could just pop down to the register office and get married next week.’

  ‘Jim keeps saying that.’

  ‘Maybe he’s right.’

  ‘I’ve nothing against Hemel Register Office, but I’ve always dreamed of having a lovely wedding, Gaby. You know that.’ We used to lie in our bunk beds at night, talking about it often enough. ‘I don’t want a big marquee and a meringue dress, but I do want it to be something that I’ll remember for ever.’ Cue video of white sand, sunset, sparkling sea, Jim and me hand in hand. ‘Before I have children I want to be married and have our own home.’

  Unlike Mum, is the unspoken tag. I didn’t find out until I was in my twenties that Mum and Dad were never married. Gaby and I had Mum’s surname – Smith. I can’t even remember my own father’s surname. That’s not unusual these days, I guess, but there’s part of me that doesn’t want that for my own family. He went and left us with nothing. As Mum was regularly late with the rent, there was the constant threat that we might lose our home. Even at the age of ten I understood that it was a bad thing. Gaby was the one who was pushed forward to explain to the landlord why we couldn’t pay while Mum ran down the back alley to hide in a neighbour’s house until he’d gone. It makes me go cold to remember it.

  ‘I need to be secure.’

  ‘You are secure, Cassie. You have a man who would do anything for you.’

  ‘But we’re always struggling for money. We have nothing behind us.’ Jim does a fantastic job. A worthy job. The problem is that worthy is never going to make us rich. ‘I don’t want to be like that.’

  ‘I have to work,’ Gaby points out. ‘We weren’t born with a silver spoon in our mouths, sweetheart. We have to get out there and earn it. It’s not the end of the world. At times it feels as if Ryan and I are trying to keep a dozen different balls in the air, but somehow we manage. You should stop over-analysing it. Just get on and do it.’

  ‘I know.’ My eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m thirty-five, Gabs. My ovaries are on a slippery slope. I do want children. A matching pair, preferably. I’m running out of time.’

  ‘It’ll happen. You’ll see.’

  I don’t like to remind my sister that I’ve had numerous ‘accidents’ in the contraception department and times when we’ve briefly thrown caution to the wind despite our rickety finances – none of which has led to the patter of baby feet. It took Gaby an age to get pregnant the first time. What if I’m the same? I never wanted to be a teen mum. Even the thought of it utterly terrified me, so I kept my legs firmly crossed for years. Now, ironically, my worry is that I don’t want to be an old mum.

  ‘What if I can’t afford to give my kids the little luxuries in life? What if I do have a baby now and then can’t get back into the world of work? I don’t want to be the sort of mum who gives her kids cereal for dinner.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ Gaby says softly. Again the unspoken sentence is that our mum did. Sometimes, when her pleas for Mum to replenish our empty cupboards fell on deaf ears, Gaby used to steal money from her purse so that we could sneak to the local Co-op and buy food. We never mention that now either. ‘You’ve got to move on, Cassie. You and Mum are totally different people. Besides, do you think I’d ever let that happen to you?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. Even though I’ve just eaten, my stomach growls as I think of the nights that Gaby and I went to bed hungry.

  My sister puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘Let’s hope you make a flipping fortune, then, and can have that Caribbean island wedding that you so want. I’d better start saving up for a hat.’

  ‘I’m at the point where I probably would be happy just to go to the local register office. Should I do that?’ I sound despondent even saying it.

  She hugs me. ‘Don’t give up too easily. If this idea flies, that dream could come true sooner than you think.’

  I push my plate aside and get up from the table. ‘I’d better get a move on with my grand plan then.’

  ‘When you print those brochures, do a leaflet too and I’ll stick it up in the reception at work.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m going to go straight home and crack on this afternoon.’

  My sister pinches my cheek affectionately. ‘Stick at it, kid. I have every faith in you. You’re the most organised person on the planet. If you put your mind to it, you’ll get there.’

  I can only hope that she’s right.

  Chapter Five

  When Jim comes home the flat is a complete disaster zone. I’ve been baking. My first ever batch of Christmas cupcakes is sitting proudly on the work surface. They look fantastic – even though I say so myself. All those hours of sitting watching daytime television while I’ve been unemployed haven’t been entirely wasted. Without realising, I’ve obviously been unconsciously improving my baking skills by absorbing a surfeit of cooking programmes through the ether. The Hairy Bikers, Baking Made Easy and The Great British Bake-off have clearly left their mark on me. I wonder whether I have also now subconsciously become a whizz with antiques or could renovate a dilapidated property with my eyes closed.

  My solo bake-off hasn’t been entirely without incident, though. There was much swearing as I tried to wrestle Gaby’s Wilton Mr Whippy nozzle into submission for the buttercream icing. These cakes haven’t so much been made by love as born of frustration and grim determination. Plus I had to run backwards and forwards to and from the computer, watching clips of tuition on YouTube. Thank the Lord and all that is holy for the internet! How did people ever manage without it?

  Jim stands there looking dazed. ‘Oh my goodness me.’

  I did drop a bag of icing sugar too and it’s still liberally scattered over the floor. I’d forgotten the finer points of cake making and also lifted the electric beaters out of the batter before I’d turned the mixer off. There is cake mix up the walls and tiles. Buttery fingerprints make a trail across my cupboards. It feels as if there’s a festive snowstorm of flour in my hair.

  In the bag of goodies that my sister rustled up for me, there was also sugar paste and several different shades of food colouring. I’d forgotten that Gaby is the kind of mum who knocks together some sort of novelty birthday cake for each of her children and, therefore, has a lot more wherewithal and equipment than I do.

  Following Connie Rosenblatt from Boise, Idaho, I’ve learned how to make a fondant sugar paste figure of Santa and a snowman. My reindeer was a bit of a disaster, so I ate him. And my Santa looks more than a little tipsy. His head is so heavy that it’s slowly sinking into his neck. But I will know better next time. I’ve also made little cone-shaped Christmas trees studded with silver dragées to decorate my cakes and I’m quite pleased with how they’ve turned out. Not bad at all for my initial efforts. I’ll need to acquaint myself with the local cookshop and stock up on sprinkles and the like. Though I have actually no idea what ‘the like’ might be.

  The red colour from my Santa, however, is daubed liberally throughout the flat and has dyed my hands a lovely shade of scarlet. Very festive. It does look, ever so slightly, as if there’s been a murder in here.

  Jim is quite clearly horrified. Due to my having a lot of time on my hands, the flat is normally as shiny as a new pin. ‘You’ve been very, er… enthusiastic.’

  ‘Thought I’d better get started. Gaby gave me a load of baking stuff.’ Despite the mess, the flat smells all homely, filled with the scents of baking. I’m glad I’ve done it. I feel as if I’m on my way.

  ‘Good.’ He sounds as if he’s not sure if it is good.
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br />   ‘Cupcake?’ I offer him my wares.

  ‘Later,’ he says. ‘Although they do look delicious. And very tempting. Don’t want to spoil my appetite. What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Ah.’ In my flour frenzy I have singularly failed to remember to make anything for us to eat tonight.

  ‘No dinner?’

  ‘I didn’t realise the time.’

  Jim just grins at me. ‘I’m glad to see that you were so absorbed.’ He comes and winds his arms round my waist.

  ‘You’ll get covered in flour.’

  ‘See if I care. What say we go a little crazy and get a takeaway? We could see what old films we’ve got on DVD and snuggle down on the sofa.’

  ‘I love the sound of the takeaway and the snuggling, but I’m going to learn calligraphy tonight.’

  ‘You are?’ He looks a bit wide-eyed at that.

  ‘No time to lose. Gaby also gave me a bag of calligraphy pens that she had lying in the back of her wardrobe. She said they were Mum’s.’

  ‘I can’t imagine your mother having the patience to sit and do ornate writing.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I agree. ‘Maybe the tutor was her fancy man.’ It is the only possible reason why my mother would buy calligraphy pens and attend classes. But buy them she did and now they’re in my hot little hands. ‘Phone up for a takeaway and then have your shower while I clear up this little lot. After we’ve eaten, we could try to do calligraphy together.’

  ‘Really?’ Jim doesn’t look enthralled by this. ‘The couple who write together, stay together?’

  ‘It could be fun.’

  He looks as if he thinks that slumping on the sofa in a post-Chinese coma might be more fun.

  ‘If the business takes off, then I might need you to lend a hand.’

  ‘You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?’

  ‘I’ve been working on it all day.’ Then I chew my lip anxiously. ‘This is a big risk, Jim. I’ve never had the courage to do anything like this before. I think I always stayed in a job that was well within my comfort zone because I’ve liked the security. This is all down to me.’

  ‘Not such a risk,’ he counters. ‘You gave everything to your last company only to have the rug pulled from under you. How can this be worse? At least this will be down to you. Until you try, you won’t know what you’ll be able to achieve. And you couldn’t have come up with anything better. This business will use all your fabulous organisational skills and Christmas is right up your street.’

  ‘I know. One minute I have a really good feeling about it and the next I’m full of jitters.’

  ‘That’s only natural.’ He pulls me in close and I rest my head on his chest. ‘I’m proud of you.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

  ‘You will. The fact is you’ve got your mojo back. That’s all that matters to me. You rock my world, Cassie Smith.’

  ‘And you keep mine steady.’

  He rubs his hands together. ‘Now, what are we going to have from the Kam Tong? Shall we have exactly the same thing we have every single time we order or shall we go off piste?’

  ‘Same as usual.’

  If I’m having such a radical change in my career direction, I’m not sure I could handle a change in our choice of Chinese food too. My stomach flutters at the thought of what I’m embarking on. Baby steps, I think. Baby steps.

  Chapter Six

  And so it goes on. I print out a basic brochure and make it as inviting and as pretty as possible. It’s all reds and golds and very seasonal. If this doesn’t strike Christmas into the heart of everyone who sees it, then I don’t know what will. There’s also a small but perfectly formed poster, which Gaby puts up in her dental practice. I go round all the local shops and ask them nicely to put posters up for me too, which they seem quite happy to do.

  I would like to say that all I have to do now is sit back and wait, but that’s as far from the truth as is humanly possible. My days are spent learning new skills from the internet. I tell you, what I can now do with a Poundland piece of tinsel is nothing short of a miracle.

  Two weeks go by and I still have absolutely no bookings. I’ve called round all the companies, big and small, on the business park to tell them of my services. They were all very polite and said that they would get back to me. As yet, they haven’t. Every business that would take one of my posters has been given one, but still my phone stays silent. I have chewed my fingernails down to the quick. What if no one does need the expertise of Calling Mrs Christmas! after all? What if I’ve read this wrong? I’ve sent a press release to the local paper, which, thankfully, they’re including next week so I’m hoping that might kick-start things. What else can I do?

  Then, later, when my mind is on freeflow and I’m baking gingerbread biscuits in the shape of snowflakes, I get my first phone call.

  ‘Is that Mrs Christmas?’ a voice asks.

  I am beside myself with excitement. It’s all I can do not to run round the kitchen. ‘Yes. Yes.’

  The woman introduces herself as representing the flyer for local businesses. ‘We’re doing a special offer on Christmas advertising,’ she says.

  Maybe this is what it will take, but I simply don’t have the cash. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I promise and hang up, despondent.

  Ten minutes later and the phone rings again. I sigh. It had better not be someone else trying to sell me advertising.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ says the lady at the other end. ‘Have I reached Mrs Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’ I try to sound hopeful and bright and get my answers ready to repel salesmen.

  ‘You’re just the woman I need,’ she says and my heart lifts.

  Mrs Ledbury goes on to tell me that she lives in a cottage in Boxmoor. ‘My poor old fingers are crippled with arthritis, dear,’ she explains. ‘My handwriting is so terrible now that no one can read it. I thought it would be nice if you could do my cards for me this year. It takes me so long to write them. Is that the kind of service you offer?’

  Is it ever! Christmas-card writing, in my new swanky hand, is at the very top of my list. I agree that I’ll be there in half an hour. Instantly, I phone Jim.

  ‘I’ve got my first job,’ I tell him.

  ‘That’s great.’ I can hear that he’s distracted.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Bit busy. There’s a bit of a fight going on in the unit.’

  A daily occurrence.

  ‘A lot of shouting and swearing,’ he says. ‘A few chairs flying.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s been going on all morning. I came out for a quick breather. I’m about to head back in again,’ he says. ‘Can I call you later?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it when you get home. Be careful.’

  ‘Always am,’ he assures me.

  ‘Love you.’

  He hangs up without saying anything else. Sometimes I worry about him at work though. I’ve mostly got used to it by now and, to be honest, Jim very rarely talks to me about the boys in his care. He says the odd thing, but he’s not the type of man to come home and download all his woes every night. He deals with the many and varied difficulties of his career in a quiet, contained way, as he does everything else. I do know, however, that sometimes it can be dangerous and he’s constantly under the threat of assault.

  I leave my biscuits cooling, grab my mother’s resurrected calligraphy pens and hotfoot it – or hot-drive it – down to Boxmoor.

  Mrs Ledbury’s cottage is very pretty. It’s in a lovely part of the town, right alongside a wide-open space called Blackbirds’ Moor, and I park up under the trees. Estate agents now bill this as the ‘village’ of Boxmoor and have pushed up prices accordingly, but it’s still only a short walk from the High Street.

  Not everyone likes Hemel Hempstead, but I love it here. I’ve grown up in the area and wouldn’t really want to live anywhere else. Over the years, I’ve seen the High Street dev
elop into a lively shopping centre. The scrappy old tower block, which used to be home to Kodak headquarters, is now swanky ‘high-living’ apartments with price tags that would make your eyes water. At the other end of the High Street, the Old Town with its ragtag of Victorian, Georgian and Tudor houses, its antique shops and nice restaurants, has still retained its charm.

  Where we live is a bit of a sprawling seventies estate on the outskirts of Hemel town. Not exactly the prettiest place, but it suits us. I’d like to live down here in Boxmoor, given the chance, but I think the houses will always be way beyond our reach. But then where isn’t expensive? Where we live now is out of our price range. Unless I make my fortune as Mrs Christmas, then we may well be in rented property for ever. It’s a vicious circle. Even for our modest place, we pay a really high rent and that makes it even harder for us to save for a deposit. What little we had managed to save has pretty much all gone now on supplementing our income while I’ve been unemployed. And that’s without having had a holiday or any luxuries this year. I live in constant dread of an unexpected bill coming in. It’s been grim. Not as bad as some people have it, of course. I don’t ever go up to Jim’s workplace so I really don’t know what it’s like and he doesn’t talk about it much. Jim keeps everything pretty close to his chest, but when he does tell me about his job, I wonder how some of those boys will ever make it through life. They’ve often had such terrible starts.