Christmas Magic At The Writers' Retreat

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The alarm rouses me from a deep sleep at six o’clock the next morning. I fumble groggily for my Mickey Mouse clock and bang the off switch, until the piercing noise halts. Then I let my throbbing head fall back on the soft pillows, bitterly regretting that fourth glass of wine I consumed last night. Rain patters gently on the windows and I groan with the knowledge that in another half an hour I will be striding round the estate in my rain coat, trying to control three energetic dogs. Yes that is my second job. As well as working in a baker’s shop, I am also a dog walker. As I lie here, endeavouring to muster some energy for the day, I hear our own dog Bertie whimpering at my bedroom door. With a sigh I swing upwards and pad over to let him in.

“Hello boy,” I pat his head affectionately, staggering back slightly as he jumps up me. “Do you want to go see your friends?”

He wags his tail furiously in response and watches me pull on my tracksuit and running shoes. I gather my shoulder length blonde hair into a ponytail, secure it with a scrunchie and plod into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

The house is quiet, it will be another hour at least until Robbie and Dad surface, but still I tiptoe around, making as little noise as possible. As I am waiting for the kettle to boil, I grab a handful of nuts and seeds and scurry out into the garden. It is still raining lightly, but it’s a mild morning and the birds are chirruping high in the trees, waiting for their breakfast. Feeding the birds has become part of my morning routine and the same ones wait for me now each day; the one legged pigeon and the aggressive blackbird, the family of robins and the sweet sounding thrush. Over the years I have gained their trust and now as I scatter the food, they swoop from the trees and peck at my feet. It’s a nice start to the day and it makes me feel like a Snow White type of character, minus the castle and the handsome prince of course. My lawn is soon covered with birds and I watch them for a moment before Bertie, having grown bored of sniffing in the bushes, bounds onto the grass wanting to play and scares them all away.

I wipe my feet on the mat before going inside to make coffee. It’s too early for breakfast, but caffeine is always welcome at the start of each day. As I sip my drink, I rifle through the mail, putting the bills in a pile and binning the fast food flyers. I peer into my purse, there are two crisp twenty pound notes, the remainder of my meagre salary. Thankfully I will be paid at the end of the week and it couldn’t come soon enough. Maybe I could treat us to a takeaway this evening, but then I remember the groceries I need to purchase and the dinner money that Robbie needs for the rest of the week.

I put my purse back in the drawer and pull on my trench coat. Bertie lets out a low grumble and skitters about excitedly as I go to fetch his lead. I clip it onto his collar and he immediately pulls me down the hall. Once out of the door, we are up the garden path and turning right. Bertie knows the routine. We walk up our street and turn into Primrose Lane, heading towards number 17. Mrs Perrin’s house is an old detached, with a high fence and a majestic Weeping Willow in the garden. I have always admired this property. The front garden is overgrown and wildly romantic; full of flowering bushes and gorgeous trees and the house although worn by age is still beautiful.

Mrs Perrin, an eighty five year old widower, is looking out of the bay window as I open the gate and step onto the gravel drive. I wait patiently at the door as she grapples with the locks.

“Hello Louise,” She peeps her head around the frame, smiling sweetly at me.

“Morning,” I reply cheerfully.

“Hello you,” she says, addressing Bertie, whose nose is stuck in a pot full of geraniums. “Come on in.” I follow her down a hall which smells of must and lavender.

“Randolph! Where are you?” Mrs Perrin takes her spectacles off and rubs at them with the hem of her cardigan. “He’s hiding again.”

“He knows it’s time for his walk,” I reply with a laugh, “shall I get him?”

“Please dear,” Mrs Perrin shakes her head, “he’s such a lazy boy. My previous dog loved walking. I don’t know where I’ve gone wrong with Randolph.”

I give Bertie firm instructions to stay, and as I bound up the stairs he curls himself into a ball and emits a satisfied sigh.

“Randolph!” I push the bathroom door open. I have found from experience that the white terrier cross can usually be found curled up beside the shower or on top of Mrs Perrin’s double bed. On this day however, he is in neither places. I call his name again and am responded with a whimper.

“What are you doing in here?” I coo, as I open the door of the spare room. He’s curled on top of a pile of freshly washed bedding. I skirt around an upright hoover, holding my hand out to pat his head, “it’s walkies time.” Randolph looks up at me with big baleful eyes. A look which says do you mind, I was sleeping. I lean forward to gather him in my arms and as I jog down the stairs he sniffs my arm with his wet nose.

“I’ve found him,” I say to Mrs Perrin.

“Randolph you are a naughty boy,” she chastises, “it’s probably because it’s raining dear, he hates the wet weather.”

“Don’t we all eh boy?” I place him gently on the floor and Bertie plods over to sniff him.

“You shouldn’t have come out in this weather,” Mrs Perrin says, “you’ll catch a cold.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, pulling my hood up, “I’m warm and dry and the dogs still need to be walked.”

“Thank you,” Mrs Perrin touches my arm with her cold veiny hands, “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Has Robert been in touch?” I am referring to her son. He only lives three miles away in a bachelors flat in the city centre, but he rarely visits his elderly mother. It saddens me to think that she is all alone in this sprawling house.

“Oh he’s busy,” she replies flippantly, “you know what these young men are like with their careers and social life.”

I give her a nod a sympathy, “what about your shopping? Can I pop to the supermarket for you?”

“The neighbours have been for me dear, but thank you for offering.”

“Right then, I’ll get going,” I clip the lead onto Randolph, and pull him and Bertie towards the front door. “See you in a bit.”

The rain is falling heavier now from a dark stormy sky. Leaves dance in front of me, tossed about by the strong wind and the branches of a row of oak trees bend and sway as I walk underneath them. My next stop is the Kennedy’s. Gareth and Samantha are busy professionals; too stressed out to take their Doberman Lucy for a walk. Gareth is a solicitor and Samantha a head of department at a failing comprehensive. They are a nice enough couple, but I can’t help feeling a touch of hostility towards their opulent lifestyle. I don’t begrudge them their success, but I do dislike the manner in which they flout money. They have a whole fleet of employees to help keep their lives running smoothly: a house cleaner, a gardener, a window cleaner and a person who does their ironing. They holiday three or four times a year: winter in Mauritius, skiing in Austria, a summer package holiday to the Balearics, they even manage to fit in a city break.

I think back to the last holiday I went on. It was the year before Mum died, we had hired a luxury caravan in Devon for two weeks, near to the sea and a quaint fishing village. We had enjoyed glorious sunshine and an unexpected heatwave that had encompassed the whole of Britain. I had procured a fantastic tan and my fair hair had turned to a shimmering gold. It had been a fantastic break away from the Midland city of Wolverhampton, where I had been born and raised and currently lived, with its smog and hectic rush. A wonderful family break, that created lasting memories. My eyes prick with tears as I envisage Mum walking along the beachfront, laughing at nothing and holding hands with Dad. Oh I miss her so much.

I trip over a broken slab and it brings me back to the present. My life isn’t too bad I tell myself, I am healthy and have a roof over my head, I have family and friends who love me. I have so many things to be grateful for. When so many others in this world struggle to survive day to day. With a renewed, positive vigour I increase my tempo, until I am outside the Kennedy’s new build five bedroom detached, ringing the doorbell. Gareth answers, looking as tousled as ever, with a toothbrush protruding from his mouth.

“Hmmm…. hi Louise,” he spits a blob of toothpaste out, narrowly missing my foot, then invites me in. I tie Bertie and Randolph to the drainpipe and wipe my feet thoroughly on the mat. Lucy skids towards me, bouncing around playfully and barking with excitement.

“Have you been singing?” Gareth says, chortling at his own joke.

“The weather would be a lot worse than this if I had,” I laugh along good naturedly.

Then Samantha thuds down the stairs and I notice the dog’s ears flatten in fear. She looks smart in a navy trouser suit, her hair and makeup immaculate. I really should start wearing more make up, I think fleetingly.

“Good morning,” I move back slightly as she tugs her coat off the stand.

“Wednesday’s are never good,” she replies drily, “save it until Friday.”

“She’s got parents evening tonight,” Gareth mouths apologetically.

“It must be so great being a teacher,” I think about Robbie, hoping that he’s getting ready for school.

“Truthfully? I hate it. The teaching profession is grossly underpaid, the workload is ridiculous and the children are feral. I wanted to work in higher education, but I’m stuck in a sinking secondary school.”

Wow, I think, biting my lip. I’m so glad that she isn’t one of Robbie’s teachers. Feral indeed.

“I should get going,” she leans to kiss Gareth and I catch a whiff of strong perfume. “Can you wipe Lucy’s paws thoroughly please? I noticed there were muddy prints over the kitchen tiles the other day.”

“Yes… urm, sorry about that.” Lucy is sitting in front of me now, lifting her paw in a begging motion. When Gareth and Samantha aren’t looking, I slip her a biscuit out of my coat pocket.

“Where do you take her anyway?”

“Just over the park,” I say to Samantha. “She loves it, don’t you girl?” I’m responded with a yelp.

Samantha shudders, “I can’t think of anything worse than traipsing through mud.”

Then why did you have a dog? I wonder silently.

“Don’t forget your bag,” Gareth tells his wife. She comes back into the house and picks up a blingy designer number.

“Bye darling,” she rattles her keys and leaves, tottering towards her Mercedes in her patent high heels that must have cost a fortune. I look down at my muddy supermarket brand trainers and sigh.

I have never understood the female fascination with shoes and handbags. To me they are pointless possessions, along with designer clothes and make up. But then, I’ve never been materialistic, even when Dad was working full time and earning enough money to support us all. We used to go out a lot then, as a family. To the theatre and the cinema, trips out to the seaside and walking in the countryside. We spent our money having fun and being together. Now-a-days it’s a battle just to get him out the house and down to the chip shop. I push the melancholy thoughts aside and focus on enjoying the day ahead. It is hump day after all, and not long until the weekend.

Gareth is chattering about his upcoming morning in court. He tells me about the shoplifter he is representing who has a penchant for pinching ladies underwear, and the bitter wife who is determined to take most of her cheating husband’s income before she divorces him. I tell him his work sounds interesting and he looks at me with inquisitive eyes.

“What do you do with your day? I don’t think Samantha or I have ever asked.”

“I work in a baker’s shop,” I reply lightly.

“Did you go to uni?” He rummages in the kitchen drawer for Lucy’s lead.

“No, but I wanted to.”

“To study what?” He peers at me, with his head c****d on one side.

“Creative writing,” I clip the lead onto Lucy, who is waiting patiently, “I’ve wanted to be an author, since I was knee high.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I’ve been walking his dog for eighteen months and in that time we’ve only exchanged polite pleasantries. “I should let you get on.” I smile and pull the door open, Randolph and Bertie are straining at their leads, when they see Lucy, all three erupt into howls and barks.

Gareth rakes his hand through his messy hair, “it’s not too late y’know. Why don’t you go… to uni I mean? They were the best days of my life.”

A noise catches in my throat, a mix between a sniff and a snort. “I couldn’t afford it, even if I wanted to.”

“Oh.” Gareth looks away, and I walk with the three dogs to the top of the drive.

“Louise!” I turn around at the shout. Gareth is holding cash in his hand and proffering it towards me. As I retrace my steps, he explains sheepishly. “we’re going to London for the weekend, so I thought I’d pay you now.”

“Where will Lucy go?” I ask, stroking her smooth black coat.

“My mum’s,” Gareth hands over the money and I stuff it in my pocket. Maybe I can afford that take-away after all.

“Thank you,” I smile as the rain patters on my face, “have a great day.”