Kate Forster - For the Love of Christmas

‘I think it’s going to snow,’ he announced.

‘I hope not,’ said Jamie. ‘We have to go back tomorrow.’

He returned his attention to his daughter, who at seven looked like an angel but had the wiles of a teenager.

‘Where did you drop it, Sofie?’ He was a little sterner now.

Sofie looked up and widened her eyes, a tactic she had learned from Rebecca, and he felt himself fill with love for both the females in his life.

‘In the bath,’ she said, her voice quivering as she spoke.

‘In the bath?’ he repeated, as though trying to make sense of the words. ‘In the water?’

She nodded.

‘Why did you have my phone in the bath?’

‘I was watching Taylor Swift videos,’ she said with a slight eye-roll, as though he knew nothing about anything.

‘And you dropped it in the water, and then didn’t tell me for the past day, even though you have seen me frantically looking?’ He felt his temper rising.

Rain, rain, less thunder, he reminded himself.

‘Go and get it,’ he instructed.

Oscar, who was twelve and so considered himself wise beyond his height, was lying on the sofa, flicking through a gaming magazine.

‘It’s screwed now,’ he offered.

‘Don’t say screwed,’ said Jamie crossly.

‘Buggered then,’ Oscar said.

Jamie left it alone. At twelve Oscar knew too much about life, electronics, and the truth about his mother.

Sofie was back, holding out the phone to Jamie.

He turned it on and off but nothing happened.

‘You could put it in a bag of rice; that might soak up some of the water, but I doubt it, since it’s been left wet for so long,’ Oscar offered.

Jamie went to the cupboard of the farmhouse he’d rented to try and get to know his children for a few weeks while Bec was in treatment.

Two weeks had felt like a long time when he booked it; now it felt like an eternity.

‘We don’t have any rice,’ he said, as he peered through the staple items. ‘Can I do flour?’

‘No,’ said Oscar, not looking up from his magazine.

‘Pasta?’

‘No,’ came the same answer.

Jamie stood facing the pantry with its jars of mixed herbs and lack of rice and felt himself wanting to cry.

How ridiculous was he? he asked himself.

He missed Bec so much it hurt. He wanted to go and tell her every single thing she had done that was amazing, how the mere presence of her lit up the room, and how he didn’t know how to do things as well as her, certainly not Christmas.

He knew he was too focused on having things perfect, even if they cost him comfort or enjoyment. Like that stupid chair he had bought that every interior designer said was a staple for a true aesthete’s home.

Except it felt how he imagined a medieval torture chair would have done in the dark ages.

No support to the back, no give in the leather, just clean lines.

He had wanted to admit to Bec that he’d made a mistake, but they’d fought so hard about having it inside, he didn’t want to admit that she was right.

Why? he wondered now. Bec was often more right than him, so why had he stopped listening?

‘I’m sorry, Daddy,’ Sofie’s voice came from behind.

‘I know you didn’t mean to drop my phone in the bath but I wish you’d told me straightaway,’ he said, kneeling to look her straight in the eye.

‘I was scared,’ she said, and he felt his heart jerk because he knew it was true. He could be vile, especially when he was angry.

‘I understand,’ he said and bent down to Sofie’s eye level. ‘You have to tell me things and I will promise not to be scary if I’m upset, okay? Can we make a pact?’

Sofie nodded and he could see the relief in her eyes.

‘Tomorrow we will go into the village and see if I can get a new phone,’ he said, standing up. ‘Oscar, can I borrow your phone?’

‘No, you told me not to bring it,’ he said.

‘I didn’t think you’d actually listen,’ said Jamie, shaking his head.

‘I didn’t want you to yell,’ said Oscar, looking up briefly at his father.

Jamie felt sufficiently told off by both his children, and went upstairs to his bedroom, whacking his head on the beams of the farmhouse.

Stupid beams, he thought as he rubbed his head. Who was the landlord? Miss Tiggywinkle?

He lay on the bed and tried to remember the dates for Bec’s return. He had a whole thing planned for the airport, with a sign, and he would wear a chauffeur’s cap, and there would be flowers, white lilies and holly, he had decided.

It was five days until Christmas, he’d reasoned; he had plenty of time. He was sure she’d said she would be back the week before; he was absolutely positive, wasn’t he?

Number one priority: he had to get a new phone.

Sofie

Sofie lay in bed and thought about the three things she loved the most in the world.

Taylor Swift.

Bubbles, her dog.

And her mother.

And not one of them was with her.

Taylor didn’t even know who she was, even though she had written to her a thousand times. She had liked every video on YouTube, and had even written to Katy Perry to ask her to stop bullying Taylor, because everyone knows bullies are the worst kinds of people.

Bubbles was in a kennel, because Dad had said he was too much for the farmhouse, and that he would chase the sheep, but she doubted that he would. Bubbles had excellent manners.

And her mum was in America. She knew she wasn’t there for work, or the knee replacement or whatever lie she had been told by someone. What grown-ups needed to realise about telling lies is that if you decide on a story, you need to stick to it, not have different versions.

Only Oscar told her the truth. ‘Mum’s gone to a place where they tell her to stop drinking,’ he said.

‘Why doesn’t she stay at home and we can tell her?’ asked Sofie.

Oscar had shook his head. ‘Doesn’t work like that,’ he said wisely.

‘So how does it work?’ she asked.

‘I don’t exactly know, but not like that,’ he said, seeming less wise.

She wished she were at home, where her mum would have put up all the decorations and there was a real tree in the living room and new presents appearing underneath it every afternoon, as though by magic, all wrapped beautifully by her mum.

Her mum loved to wrap presents. She would make a real thing of it, with all sorts of pretty paper and ribbons, and perfect folding. Sometimes Sofie would help her, and even though it was never as good as her mum’s, she would still be praised for her work.

She wondered what Taylor was doing right now. Maybe singing or dancing or having her friends over. And Bubbles? He was probably in a cold kennel, with no friends or even a blanket for comfort.

Her eyes filled with tears, as she lay in the dark, unfamiliar room.

And her mum? She was in a hospital, Oscar said. Was she in bed? In a gown with ties on the back like they show in the movies? Was she even alive? Dad didn’t talk about her much any more. Sometimes she spoke to her in her head, but sometimes she didn’t want to because, if she started to tell her mum how sad she was, she thought she would never stop crying.

She closed her eyes and thought about going home. She would walk up the path with Oscar and there, on the front door, would be the red wreath. This was the first sign that Christmas was coming in their house. Dad hadn’t put up anything Christmassy in the house, saying it was a waste of money and they would do it all when they got home.

But Sofie had other ideas and, turning on the small lamp by her bed, she opened the drawer in the little table the lamp sat on and took out the folded pieces of paper and a pair of scissors. She started her nightly routine of cutting and twisting and turning the paper as she worked.