Calling Mrs Christmas Read online

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning when Jim has gone to work, my phone rings. I should be up already, but I’m enjoying five minutes of luxuriating with a cup of tea brought to me by my dearest and delivered with a kiss. I want to be nice and relaxed for the event tonight and well prepared, so I’ve got nothing else booked in. I was just going to make another batch of cupcakes to put in the chest freezer that we have out in the garage.

  I answer the phone with ‘Calling Mrs Christmas!’ I don’t even bother giving my own name any more as the calls are never for me unless it’s Jim or my sis. A lot of my friends mysteriously faded away when I was unemployed. I’m hurt by it, but I can’t say that I blame them. It’s hard to go out on a girls’ night when you haven’t got any money. My closest friends would always offer to pay my share for the first few months but I felt terrible about accepting their charity when I couldn’t reciprocate. After that, to be honest, it just became easier not to go along. There’s nothing worse than not being able to pay your share of the bill or buy a drink without worrying where you’re going to find the money. Plus when they were all chatting away about their work and their kids, what did I have to talk about? Nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to read or even shower half the time. All I could do was watch rubbish telly. Now I could kick myself. I could have spent those wasted hours learning a new skill. When I think of all the things I’ve forced myself to do in the last few weeks, I’m just adoring the new, creative me!

  ‘Hello,’ the voice at the other end says. ‘It’s Janet from Hemel Hempstead Means Business.’

  ‘Hi, Janet.’ I get a momentary flutter of panic. Hope everything is OK for the event this evening.

  ‘It’s about tonight,’ Janet continues. ‘We’ve got some Hemel Hempstead Means Business pens and USB sticks that we can give away, plus some other bits and pieces.’

  ‘Do you need them gift wrapped?’ There are over a hundred people expected tonight. I think I’m having palpitations.

  ‘No, no.’ Janet laughs at the very thought. ‘There are far too many for that.’

  A woman after my own heart.

  ‘Thought it might be nice if we could have Santa pop along and give them out, though. Could you organise that for us?’

  ‘Er… I… Yes, of course.’

  Santa! My mind is racing, wondering where I’m going to find a Santa costume at short notice and, more importantly, a man to fill it. Then I hit on the perfect solution. Jim. It’s going to have to be Jim. Who else?

  ‘He could come along about seven, if that’s all right,’ Janet suggests. ‘When everyone’s settled in.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s fine. Everything else is organised. I’ll see you later.’

  The minute Janet hangs up, I’m on the phone again, ringing round party shops to see if any of them have a Santa suit that I can hire. Jim was going to come along anyway tonight to help serve the drinks. All he’ll have to do is pop out for five minutes and slip on the Santa suit. Sorted.

  I’m on to the third fancy-dress hire place and starting to perspire a little before I’m successful. But this shop, thankfully, has one in stock. It’s a size that fits all, they assure me. So I book it over the phone, jump out of bed and run round the shower.

  It’s only just gone ten o’clock by the time I’m parking up outside the shop. Still well ahead of myself. I dash inside to collect my Santa suit.

  The girl behind the counter hands it over. ‘He’ll just need black boots to go with it,’ she says. ‘Wellies or something.’

  Jim wears big, black boots every day with his uniform, so I’m sure they’ll do. I give it a cursory glance, pay up and dash out.

  I’m on my way home when the phone rings again. Thank goodness I’ve also invested in a hands-free, Bluetooth thingy as I’ve never taken so many calls in my car.

  ‘Oh hello, dearie.’ It’s Mrs Ledbury. ‘I know that you’re not due until next week but my family have decided to pop along this weekend and I’d so love to have my decorations up by then. I might not see them again before Christmas. Is there any chance that you could come and put them up today?’

  I glance anxiously at my watch. Theoretically, there’s plenty of time to do it, although that means putting pressure on myself. But I really don’t want to let her down. She was my very first client and, as such, will always have a special place in my heart.

  ‘It would mean a lot to me,’ she adds.

  That settles it. I’m such a sucker for a sob story. If Mrs Ledbury wants her Christmas tree up today, then Mrs Ledbury shall have it. If I go straight round there, I can do the tree from eleven until one, dash back for a bite of lunch, collect all my gear and head up to the Old Town Hall for two. No worries. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.

  ‘Of course. Can I come straight round? I’ll be there in about ten minutes.’

  ‘Perfect,’ my client says. ‘I think I would like a real tree, if that’s possible.’

  Real tree. Unplanned-for diversion to garden centre.

  ‘No problem. I’ll pick one up before I come to you.’

  I hang up and, instinctively, my foot presses that little bit more firmly on the accelerator as I speed out towards Water End garden centre to buy a real tree.

  I’m astonished at how many people want their Christmas tree up in November. I thought it was just me. Jim’s the opposite. He likes it thrown up as near to Christmas Eve as possible and down again the day after New Year. He doesn’t mind Christmas, but he’s not one for keeping it hanging around. This year especially, I feel I should have the tree up really early and get the flat in the Christmas mood. But, at this rate, I’m going to be lucky if I find time to put my own tree up at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  I squeeze through Mrs Ledbury’s loft hatch. There’s no proper ladder, so I’m balanced precariously on the top of some wonky steps. There’s no light either so I’m holding a torch even more precariously between my teeth. These are things that I didn’t really consider when drawing up my business plan.

  ‘Stand well clear,’ I instruct while trying to keep a firm grip on the torch.

  Mrs Ledbury is standing on the landing beneath me and the last thing I want to do is fall out of the loft and crush her. That would be bad for business. She’s as excited as a child and my heart goes out to her.

  I rummage around in the darkness and the cobwebs until I find the boxes marked ‘Christmas Decorations’. Thank goodness. I’m sure that my hair’s full of spiders.

  ‘Coming down,’ I shout and start the dangerous business of getting back down the steps carrying bulky boxes. This is definitely a job for Jim. He’d make it look easy work. Which reminds me – I haven’t yet called him to let him know that he’s required to perform Santa-style duties tonight. Not that he’ll object. He never objects to anything.

  I take one box down to the living room, Mrs Ledbury hot on my heels. The tree and stand that I’ve just purchased are already set up in the corner, perched on a little table that’s done the job for the forty years that Mrs Ledbury has lived here. I picked a Nordman Fir as the tree has to last for a long time and, according to my research on the internet, this is the best one for the job.

  ‘It’s a lovely tree,’ Mrs Ledbury says. ‘That was my husband’s favourite job of the year, picking the Christmas tree.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’ve been on my own for too long. Doing everything alone is no fun. Even Christmas loses its magic.’

  ‘Well, this year, we’ll dress it together.’

  ‘We’ll have a glass of sweet sherry and a mince pie while we do,’ Mrs Ledbury declares.

  I don’t like to turn her down as her papery cheeks are pink with joy, but as I’m driving I’m a bit concerned about drinking. When Mrs Ledbury reappears with two glasses on a tray that are the size of thimbles – particularly small thimbles – I realise that I needn’t have worried. I’d probably need about twenty of them to feel even remotely squiffy.

  While she fetches the mince pies, I go and get the other box of
baubles. I spent last night on the internet researching the very latest in Christmas-tree-decoration styles, but I feel that Mrs Ledbury’s taste will be very traditional.

  Together we sit on the sofa and open the boxes.

  ‘Oh, my word,’ she says. ‘How you forget from one year to the next. All of these are so dear to me.’

  I’m worried that I don’t really have adequate time to go on a trip down Memory Lane for each and every bauble but, similarly, I want this to be special for her. I don’t just want to throw up the tree and run. So I force myself to relax while keeping focussed.

  The baubles are beautiful, all fashioned from delicate glass. ‘These are gorgeous.’

  ‘Some of them are actually from Murano,’ she tells me. ‘I bought them when I was there with my husband. We went three times in all. Venice was one of our favourite places.’

  I turn them carefully in my hands so that they catch the light. I bet some of these are worth a fortune.

  Mrs Ledbury picks one up too. ‘We were so happy then,’ she sighs.

  I drape the tree with strands of tiny white lights that look like little fairy wings and persuade Mrs Ledbury that thick, gaudy tinsel is a bit old hat and that her decorations will be better shown off without it. Instead, I dash out to my car and scrabble around in the boot for some strings of minute silver beads that will set off the pretty fragility of the baubles so much better. I’ve also got a few pretty artificial branches that I bought the other day, laden with frosted berries. Back in the warmth of the living room, I strip the branches down into individual bits and wire them to the tree. It’s so hot in here that I do wonder how long the tree will last.

  ‘Keep an eye on the water in this container,’ I tell Mrs Ledbury. ‘That will keep the tree perkier.’

  ‘It’s looking lovely,’ she says.

  ‘Do you want to hand me the baubles now?’

  She passes one to me. ‘This one was for the birth of my daughter,’ she says. It’s in the shape of a teardrop. ‘It’s quite appropriate. She has certainly caused me some tears over the years.’

  ‘She’s the one who lives in Australia now?’ I remember writing her card.

  ‘Yes. I haven’t seen her for many years. Six, I should think. I’m too old to travel out there and they never seem to have the money to come back. There are five of them now. One grandchild I’ve never seen.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘I have a bauble for each of them.’ She hands them to me, reciting each of their names as she does. ‘This one is my son’s.’ A large round ball with delicate frosting on it. ‘He doesn’t live too far away, but he’s busy. Has a very good job.’

  I’m beginning not to like Mrs Ledbury’s family. She’s such a lovely lady. It’s plain to see that she’s lonely and would love to see more of them.

  ‘He’s the one who’s coming this weekend,’ she adds. ‘They have a lot of corporate events to go to before Christmas, that kind of thing. They like to spend the actual holiday on the beach. Thailand this year.’

  ‘Yes. You said.’ Selfish buggers.

  A lot of the baubles need new wires at the top, so I do that and thread them over the branches until the tree is fully laden. ‘Is that just about everything?’

  ‘The angel for the top,’ Mrs Ledbury says. ‘We mustn’t forget her. You’d better unwrap her. I’m frightened that I’ll drop her with my old hands. This little one is very special.’

  At the bottom of this cardboard box in a wad of yellowing tissue paper, I find the most exquisite glass angel. ‘Oh, my goodness. This is beautiful.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Ledbury sniffs surreptitiously. ‘I had a daughter who died. She was only two months old. She was too tiny to survive. She was, indeed, an angel. I bought this for her.’

  I see the yearning in her eyes. ‘You should hold her.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  So I hand her the angel and she cuddles it to her, gently. After tenderly kissing the fragile glass face, she gives her back to me.

  Carefully, I lift the angel into place. Then I switch on the lights. The tree sparkles in the corner of the room, dispelling any hint of winter gloom, shining brightly.

  Mrs Ledbury’s face lights up. ‘Doesn’t she look just lovely?’

  I realise that this isn’t about wanting her Christmas tree up early, it’s about having her children around her. All of them. Then I give her a hug and we both cry together.

  Chapter Twelve

  They were doing a cell ‘grab’. This usually happened when a prisoner had kicked off, set fire to his bed, tried to top himself – something like that. Jim was sure, in this case, that it wasn’t necessary. If only the officer who’d pressed the green emergency button had come to see him first.

  It was Smudge who was refusing to come out of his cell. A dozen officers crowded round the door, all tooled up in visors, stab jackets, slash-proof gloves, batons. There was no need for it. Kieran was a danger to no one but himself. Everyone was shouting and Jim knew that he’d react badly to that.

  With a weary sigh, Jim joined in. ‘Stand back. Stand back,’ he yelled at his colleagues. He hated to raise his voice. But sometimes it was the only way to make yourself heard above the din. The other officers could often be just as noisy as the lads and he knew that he’d lose the battle with the softly-softly approach on this one.

  Everyone else had been put on lock-down and Smudge’s cell-mate, Rozzer, was nowhere to be seen. They must have banged him in with someone else for the time being until the situation calmed down. Jim pushed his way to the front of the scrum so that he could see what was happening. Smudge cowered in the corner of his cell, half hidden by his bed. There was blood pouring down his face and smeared down the wall behind him.

  ‘Head banging?’ Jim asked.

  Someone to one side nodded. It was clear that the lad had been nutting the wall in frustration. From the state of his face, he might have broken his nose.

  It was a pitiful sight. Why they’d felt the need to wear slash gloves for this, he had no idea. Jim held his colleagues back with his arm and lifted his visor. ‘Smudge,’ he said. ‘What’s the deal?’

  The young lad just shook his head. Jim could see, amid the blood, tears rolling down his cheeks. The other officers finally fell silent. ‘If I get rid of this lot, will you talk to me?’

  ‘Will they put me in Seg, Jim?’

  ‘Seg’ or the Segregation Unit was something that all prisoners dreaded. It was the isolation block where they kept all the loony tune offenders. The ones who rocked in corners, the ones who talked to God, the ones you couldn’t turn your back on for a second. The ones who, in reality, should have been in maximum-security mental institutions, not Bovingdale. They were on suicide watch, observed night and day by the specialist mental-health nurses.

  ‘I don’t think so, lad.’

  Smudge cried some more. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘If you’ve hurt yourself, they’ll more likely take you to Healthcare.’

  Smudge looked relieved at that.

  ‘Let’s talk about it,’ Jim said. ‘You don’t need this lot, do you? Let me know that you’ll be nice and quiet. I’ll get them to find Rozzer for you, if you want.’

  Smudge nodded.

  ‘That means you’ll be a good lad? No hurting anyone? No hurting yourself?’

  Smudge nodded again. Self-harming was commonplace in here. The lads were allowed to buy plastic safety razors, ostensibly to shave, but most of them were used to cut themselves. Smudge was a past master at it. He had a line of silver scars along the length of his inner arms. The Healthcare nurse had told Jim that his thighs were cut to ribbons too. They’d had a lad in here once who’d inserted a piece of broken plastic spoon into his own arm through a cut. By the time they’d realised it, the lad’s arm had been severely infected and eventually he’d had to lose it. Tragic. It was the last thing that he wanted for Smudge.

  ‘You’ve not got a razor?’

  A pause and then Smudge tos
sed the sliver of blade to the concrete cell floor. An audible sigh came from the team behind him. Perhaps they had been right to kit up. Sometimes you thought you knew prisoners so well that you could let your guard down. It wasn’t always the right thing to do.

  ‘We’re good now?’

  Again Smudge nodded.