Christmas Magic At The Writers' Retreat

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“Tea’s done!” I shout the words, hoping they will carry through the walls and into the living room where my dad and brother sit watching the evening news. The heat from the oven fans my face as I open the door and pull the tray of pasties out. They are golden brown, cooked to perfection and smell delicious. I slide them onto four plates and then hurry back to the stove to take the chips out of the top oven and to stir the bubbling beans.

“Grubs up!” I yell again. I hear the T.V being switched off and the creak of the kitchen door as it opens. Dad ambles in, clad in his stripy pyjamas and scratching his head, he looks as if he’s ready for bed.

“Where’s Robbie?” My little brother, usually the first at the dining table is nowhere to be seen.

“On his phone,” Dad hooks his thumb over his shoulder, “he’s had a new one.”

“Where on earth did he get the money for that?” I ask, spooning the beans carefully next to the pasties.

“Probably best not to ask.” Dad replies, scraping a chair out and plonking himself down.

I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes as I rummage on the shelf for condiments. “Help yourself to chips Dad.”

“I don’t much like these supermarket brand ones,” he grumbles, smearing them with ketchup.

“Well there isn’t much grocery money left …” I trail off, smiling as he shovels a forkful into his mouth.

Robbie skulks into the kitchen, running a hand through his dark tousled hair. “Pasties again?”

“Oh will you two stop complaining,” I sit down, smiling brightly, “this is good wholesome food and I’ve bought us a cake from the bakery for pudding.”

Robbie’s eyes light up at the mention of sugary food, “chocolate cake?”

“Yep,” I confirm, “with fresh cream.”

“Where’s your Aunt Josie?” Dad asks.

“She’ll be here,” I reply, gazing at the clock. Two minutes to six, there is a knock on the door and Bertie our Golden Retriever shoots off his bed and skids down the hallway.

“Why does she have to come for tea every evening?” Robbie pulls a face and prods at his beans, “do I have to eat these?”

“Yes you do,” I say, swallowing a piece of steak bake, “it’s one of your five-a-day and you know Aunt Josie’s on her own.” I ruffle his hair as I walk towards the front door and hear him tut at my burst of sisterly affection. Bertie’s shackles are up and he is growling at the glass partition.

“Hello Lou,” Aunt Josie bustles in, shaking drops of rain from her freshly styled hair. “It’s raining cats and dogs out there. Winter’s on its way.”

“It’s only November, in theory still autumn” I reply, taking her coat and scarf, “have you been to the hairdressers?”

Josie pats her lilac curls, “do you like it? The trainee hairdresser talked me into having a change from my usual blue.”

“It looks very nice, go on in now, tea is on the table.” I follow her down the hallway and back into the kitchen. Robbie has his feet up on the spare chair, I knock them off, irritated by his lack of manners and tell Aunt Josie to sit down.

“How was school?” I ask my fifteen year old brother.

Robbie chews his food slowly, considering for a moment another day at Hayes Academy.

“Alright,” he ducks his head, avoiding my gaze.

“Did you make the rock cakes?” I had spent yesterday scouring the shelves of the supermarket for the required ingredients for his home economics class. They had been out of flour and currants, which resulted in a mad dash across the city to another supermarket, during my lunch break.

“Er… urm… no.”

“Oh.” I place my fork down and am just about to grill him when the phone rings.

“If that’s the Indian call centre again, tell them I’ve moved to North Korea.” Dad smirks as I dive on the phone.

A posh sounding lady says hello and introduces herself as Mrs Frostrich.

“The headteacher?” I ask, swallowing a lump of fear and darting a glance at Robbie who has turned pale.

“Is that Mrs Henry?”

“It’s Miss,” I reply, “Louise Henry, how can I help you?”

“Ah sorry Miss Henry, I wonder if I could have a word about Robbie.”

I stalk out of the kitchen and into the lounge, fumbling for the remote to mute the T.V.

“Yes of course, is everything okay?”

The headteacher sucks in a breath, “Robbie’s been missing classes Miss Henry.”

Oh no, not again! I sink down onto the sofa.

“So far this week he hasn’t been to English, French or home economics. Is there any reason for his absence?”

The words fly out of my mouth before I have chance to think, “he has had a cough… and a bad stomach.” I flush, embarrassed by my lies.

The headteacher sniffs, “the school policy requires a phone call explaining any illness Miss Henry, on the first day and also any other subsequent days thereafter.”

“I am very sorry,” I grip the phone, “I promise it won’t happen again.”

“I hope so,” Mrs Frostrich says curtly, “otherwise we will have to involve the attendance officer, which would mean a series of home visits.”

“Okay,” my head begins to throb.

“Miss Henry…” the headteacher’s tone softens slightly, “is everything okay at home?”

“Yes!” I jump off the sofa, “everything’s fine. It’s just a misunderstanding. Robbie will be in tomorrow as normal.”

“Very well. Good evening then.” Buzz the line is dead.

“What did she want?” Asks Dad, as I plonk myself back at the table.

I glare at my younger brother who is busy slicing a piece of the cake. “HE, has been up to his old tricks again.”

Dad chuckles, “what’s he done now?”

“It isn’t funny,” I blow out an exasperated sigh, “why have you been skipping classes Robbie?” I look at my brother who regards me with wide innocent eyes.

“Dunno,” he licks cream off his middle finger and heaves his shoulders in an insouciant shrug.

“That’s not a good enough reason,” I shriek, angered by his flippant attitude. “Your education is important Robbie. It’s your GCSE year. How will you get into college without any qualifications?”

Dad puffs out his chest, “listen to your sister love.”

“So what is making a bunch of stupid rock cakes going to teach me?”

“Er… well, it’s part of the curriculum Robbie,” my anger dissipates as I glance at his downcast face. “Do you want to be working in a baker’s shop for the rest of your life like me?”

“I want to play in a band,” he scuffs his trainers on the linoleum floor.

“Yes.” I shake his clenched fist, “but you still need to get your qualifications. Especially English, maths and science.”

Aunt Josie shakes vinegar from a soggy chip and says sagely, “I never passed one qualification. The school of hard knocks taught me all I need to know.”

I slide an annoyed glance at my aunt. “What about university?” I gabble, “you could study music and… drama.”

“Too much debt,” Robbie snorts, “Ade’s brother just finished his degree and he’s working in McDonalds.” Ade is Robbie’s best friend, a lanky buck teethed youth who lives five doors away. I put my face in my hands, arguing with Robbie is pointless, he has an answer for everything. Maybe I should lay the facts out plain and clear and hopefully it will quash this rebellious streak that seems to be growing in him again.

“Look.” I sort my face into its most serious expression, “if you keep playing truant we’re going to have people interfering. The head teacher, attendance officer,” I list them on my fingers for emphasis, “maybe even social services.”

Robbie’s adams apple bobs as my words sink in. I surge ahead, furious with him again.

“This is serious Robbie. No more missing classes okay?”

Swiftly he nods, “okay. I’ll go upstairs then… finish off my homework.”

As he scrapes back his chair and makes for the door I ask, “where were you anyway?”

Robbie shrugs, looking satisfyingly guilty, “hanging around the music shops.”

“Spending more of your paper round money?” I tut and look at Dad. He has finished eating and is flicking through the evening newspaper. A feeling of irritation wells up inside me. Why does he never reprimand him? Robbie is his son after all. Why should it be left to me, the older sister?

“Urm… can I go now?”

I wave Robbie away and stare at the piece of chocolate cake which Aunt Josie has thrust in front of me. My appetite has suddenly vanished out the door with my brother.

“Maybe later,” I mumble, taking the cake and depositing it in the fridge. Dad is on his feet, telling me he is going to watch the local weather for the rest of the week.

“That’d be right,” Aunt Josie’s knees creak as she pushes back her chair, “the men in this house always disappear when they’re chores to be done.”

I run hot water into the bowl and scrape the remains off the chipped plates.

“I can get it done quicker myself,” I sigh, slipping on the rubber gloves with a twang.

“But love you’ve been at work all day.” Aunt Josie picks up the teatowel, “and what’s your dad been doing?”

I try to make light of her question, “painting I suppose.”

“Painting,” Aunt Josie’s lip curls upwards.

“He’s very talented,” I protest.

“He needs a job,” Aunt Josie huffs, “it can’t be any good for him, sitting in that shed all day. He’s become a recluse. Other adult company would do him the world of good, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I nod my agreement, “I’ll speak to him…”

“Do you want me to have a word?” Josie stacks the plates neatly in the lower cupboard.

“No! Thanks for the concern, but I think it would be better coming from me.”

“Fair enough.”

I notice Aunt Josie staring at me with sympathy and smile, “shall we have a cup of tea and a gossip? I noticed Hamish McDougall is back at number 64. Has Mrs McDougall forgiven him for his clandestine affair?”

“Oh you haven’t heard the best love…” Josie’s eyes twinkle with excitement as she pulls out a chair and begins chattering.

I wave off Aunt Josie an hour later, with a generous wedge of cake and an armful of recycled magazines. A group of children are playing in the street, whizzing backwards and forwards on their scooters and bikes. I watch them for a moment, leaning against the door jamb. It’s good to hear the sounds of laughter and watch the sky darkening as night draws in. Lights from the street lamps flicker intermittently, lighting up the fleet of cars parked close together. A car is a luxury I can’t afford. But maybe one day I think.

Once Aunt Josie disappears out of view, I close the door, locking it securely and pull the heavy velvet curtains across. I can hear the sound of Dad snoring over the chatter of the T.V and the muffled sounds of Robbie’s music thumping through the ceiling. I walk up the hallway and back into the kitchen, pausing beside the dresser to stare at a photo frame. I miss you Mum, I pick up the wooden frame, smiling at the picture of the fair haired, jolly looking woman. She is sitting on a wall overlooking the sea, eating chips out of newspaper and laughing uproariously. I place the frame down and my fingers slide across to another one. It’s a shot of Mum and Dad on their wedding day, dressed in their finery, Dad looking so proud and Mum beaming with excitement. They both look deliriously happy. My eyes flicker to the largest ornate silver frame. A photograph of the four of us; me as a young girl and Robbie as a baby.

That was our once happy family, torn apart by cancer and Mum’s subsequent death ten years ago.

“Lou, is that you?” Dad is calling to me, his voice a faint warble through the paper thin walls of our terraced house.

I stand in the doorway of the lounge, watching him rub the sleep from his eyes. “Yes Dad, are you tired?”

“Just a little,” he heaves himself across the sofa, allowing me room to sit next to him.

“What have you been up to today?” I ask lightly, picking at a loose thread on the cushion cover.

“This and that,” his mouth curves upwards, “I’ve finished the painting I’ve been working on.”

“That’s brilliant! Is this the landscape one?”

“Yes and I’ve started a seaside scene,” Dad looks pleased with himself.

“That’s great,” I nod enthusiastically, “have you erm… found any jobs you could apply for?”

“There’s not much about at the moment love,” Dad rubs his whiskery chin and my spirits deflate at his words. He’s said the same excuse for the past six months. Prior to that he’d secured a temporary job as a twilight security guard but had left after a disagreement with his supervisor. Currently he’s classed as unemployed, while I am working two jobs and running a household. Thank goodness for the small benefits he receives off the government. I look at his downturned face and my heart strings are well and truly tugged. Since Mum has passed away, he has fallen into a pit of depression which he is still trying to claw his way out of. He’s tried talking therapy, medication, even meditation and grief counselling, yet Dad still isn’t right ten years on. I pine for my old Dad, the jolly young at heart man, full of life and exuberance. I long for him to sing the old Motown songs that he’d used to love and curl the threadbare rug up and dance like he had when Mum was alive. Grief still hangs around him like a shroud and is evident in his sad eyes and his melancholy tone whenever he mentions Mum.

“Never mind then,” I pat his knee, “I’m sure something will turn up. Shall I stick the kettle on?” I reach over to kiss his warm, leathery cheek and we both watch the credits of the next programme roll up the T.V screen.