The Christmas Café (22 page)

When they could stand the cold no more, Bea and Flora made their way in silence across the plush reception area to the hotel lift. Their room was invitingly snug and as darkness pulled its blind on the day the lights from the building and funfair drew their gaze. Bea turned off the lamps, giving a better view of the darkness beyond. Both were quiet, reflective, watching the flurries blur the view.

‘I can’t believe it’s really snowing!’ Flora was mesmerised. ‘I think it’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.’

‘Me too,’ Bea agreed, having re-found her composure.

‘I think Alex is great,’ Flora enthused.

‘He really is. And I’ve been thinking: I
would
like to,’ Bea said decisively as she kicked off her shoes and unwound her scarf in the darkness.

‘You would like to what?’ Flora stared in her direction.

‘Go and see Barnton Avenue West. I’d like to see where he lives. Alex got me thinking: I know what he means about one more conversation, one more glimpse. It’s too late for him of course, poor thing. But not for me. I’d like to see where John lives, just once. Not to talk to, but just to see his world, Flora. Just to glimpse the house he has lived in for thirty-odd years. That would be wonderful.’ She looked at her granddaughter.

‘Shall we go tomorrow?’ Flora walked towards her gran and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Yes. Tomorrow.’

Bea sat up in bed and flicked through the channels on the television, finding nothing to grab her attention. She was on edge.

‘What’s the plan, Bea?’ Flora called from the bathroom as she brushed her thick hair. ‘I’m feeling a bit nervous. Aren’t you worried that he might see you?’

Bea looked at the reflection of her granddaughter’s back in the mirror on the dressing table. ‘Not really, no,’ she lied, hoping her calm facade might help them both.

Flora reached for her toothbrush and mouthwash. ‘God, I would be! It might shock him, you suddenly appearing on the doorstep like a genie! We need to think about how to keep you out of sight – maybe a disguise, like I said before.’ Her eyes twinkled at the prospect.

Bea considered this as she listened to the gargling sound that echoed around the room. She raised the corner of her grey wrap and applied it to the corner of her eye, dotting away a tear that threatened. ‘I have absolutely no intention of appearing on his doorstep like a genie – not that it would matter if he did see me.’

‘Of course it would matter! You’re his long-lost love! I can’t imagine not seeing Marcus forever and then ping! There he is on my front step. It would be a huge deal!’

Bea breathed deeply, pushed her hair behind her ears and raised a smile. ‘It wouldn’t matter, darling, because we don’t even know if he has considered me in all these years, not really. And secondly, he wouldn’t recognise me, I’m sure.’ She touched her chin. ‘I am nothing like the girl I was, obviously. And, most importantly, he is not going to see me. I shall make certain of it.’

Flora didn’t reply but simply walked over and hugged her grandma tight.

The two breakfasted in near silence, each contemplating the mission they were about to embark on. Flora periodically checked her phone.

‘Have you heard from your friends?’ Bea couldn’t help herself.

‘Lori’s not talking to me, she’s mad that Mum and Dad know about the make-up.’ Flora bit into her toast and marmalade.

‘Why would she be mad about that? Is it hers? You never said that.’

Flora nodded as she chewed and swallowed. ‘Please don’t tell Mum and Dad. I kind of made out it was no big deal, letting her put it under my bed, but it was a really big deal. I couldn’t sleep and every time there was a knock on the door I thought it was the police coming to arrest me. It’s been horrible, but Lori said it was just what mates do for each other.’

I bet she did.
Bea gave a small smile and put her coffee cup back onto its slender saucer. ‘That worries me a little, darling. I’m trying to keep an open mind as you’re obviously anxious about your friendship, but to my mind, when someone asks you to do something in secret and doesn’t let you tell your parents, or anyone in fact, then that smells a bit iffy, don’t you think? What’s she got to hide?’

‘I know! But I don’t have any other friends, I really don’t. What am I supposed to do?’ Flora countered. ‘Just be on my own?’

Bea stared at her granddaughter. ‘I don’t know what the answer is, darling. I wish I did. But I know that Lori sounds like trouble and she’s dragging you down with her.’

Flora sniffed as her tears pooled and toast crumbs stuck in her throat. ‘She won’t reply to my texts or answer my calls so it doesn’t even matter now. I don’t think she’s my friend any more, which means I literally have no one! Because if she’s not my friend then Katie won’t be either and I won’t get to see Marcus.’

‘Oh, darling!’ Bea placed her hand on her granddaughter’s arm. ‘Please don’t cry.’

The two made their way out to the car park, seemingly the only people in the city impressed by the thin covering of snow; everyone else seemed to be calling it light slush. Bea turned the heating up in their little red bauble and let the blast of hot air thaw their toes. She punched the address into the satnav and pulled out into the slow-moving traffic. The Fiat didn’t seem in any particular hurry to arrive at its destination, navigating the unfamiliar streets with caution and hesitating at speed bumps that a local driver might have approached with gusto.

As they tootled towards the A90, following signs for the Forth Road Bridge, Flora spotted a place name she recognised. ‘Hey, look, Bea – Perth!’ She tried out a smile. ‘Didn’t realise we’d driven that far – we’re nearly home!’

Bea nodded, trying to let the light conversation calm her nerves. But the jovial atmosphere of the preceding day had disappeared. She glanced sideways at her granddaughter, who sat forward in the passenger seat, as excited as if she was watching a TV soap opera. Where she had previously found Flora’s presence reassuring, now she wished that she was alone. This wasn’t a game.

She peered through the windscreen as though she could see round the corner. Her neck muscles were taut, her breath shallow. She shook her hand from the steering wheel to arrange and rearrange the bangles on her wrist. Her chats with Flora about the past had until that morning felt like a diversion, fun almost, but now the enormity of the situation weighed down on her. She felt a keen sense of responsibility and for the first time wondered whether going to his neighbourhood was advisable. She slightly regretted having agreed to it.

Flora could sense the tension wafting from her gran. With her eyes staring fixedly ahead, she reminded Flora of a cliff diver trying to conquer her last-minute nerves. ‘You okay, Bea?’ she asked.

Bea nodded and inhaled deeply, trying to slow her racing pulse. An image came into her mind, as she’d known it would. She had just given birth to Wyatt. He was brand new and crying loudly from a plastic bassinet on wheels, as though fully aware of how upset she was. She was in a crumpled heap on a plastic-covered mattress, sobbing. Her hair was stuck to her sweaty brow. She was wearing a cotton hospital gown that was unfastened at the back. As she stood, it fell away, revealing her breasts heavy with milk and a pouch of loose skin hanging down over her abdomen. Voices echoed around her, as though she was only semi-present. A young nurse tried to calm her
.
‘It’s okay, Beatrice dear. It will be okay.’ And her own voice, younger, shrill in its desperation to be heard, the words garbled through a torrent of tears. ‘No, it won’t, it won’t be okay! I need John, I need him now! Please, help me find him! Help me, I can’t do this on my own, please...’ It was then that she’d felt the unmistakeable sensation of having failed her son.
I wanted the very best for you, but already I’ve failed. I’m sorry, Wyatt, I’m so very sorry...

Bea laid her hand on her stomach, feeling her womb pulse at the memory, even now, after all those years. She coughed and sat up straight, flicking the indicator and turning into Whitehouse Road, passing the rather grand Royal Burgess Golfing Society before rounding the car into Barnton Avenue West. It was a wide residential road and its properties occupied generous plots, many of them immaculately landscaped. There were flint-built Gothic mansions and ultra-modern glass-fronted boxes, and evidence of family life in many of the front gardens. One or two houses had dogs that yapped from behind electronic gates. The snow seemed to have settled better in this part of the city; it sat in thin piles on top of hoses coiled against stands by the front wall and was heaped around a small child’s bike that had been tipped forlornly on its side. The Christmas decorations here were tasteful: there were ornate, handmade wreaths on the front-door knockers and colour-coordinated icicle lights. It was a classy neighbourhood.

‘Nice houses, aren’t they?’ Flora said, breaking the silence that now seemed to have physical weight inside their little car.

Bea nodded, thinking that in a different life with a different ending it would have been post addressed to her that would have fallen onto the mat in one of these houses. It would be her key that opened the door to one of these grand hallways as she invited visitors to step inside, greeting them with hugs as they shrugged their arms out of their rain macs on a winter’s day.
‘How are you? Do come in.
Would you like a cup of tea? John’s in the garden...’

‘I like all the different designs,’ Flora babbled. ‘The old-fashioned ones and the modern ones. I bet they’re all very pricey, eh?’

Bea nodded. Yes, they probably were.

The pavements were high and tarmacked, with dropped kerbs in front of each address to allow for easy access. Large modern lamp-posts were dotted along the road. Bea slowed the car as they approached the house in which, according to Flora’s internet research, a Dr J. W. Brodie resided. A white minivan was parked opposite, half on the pavement; the large green logo on its side advertised the services of the landscape gardener who was at that very moment tending to the winter-flowering shrubs in a nearby back garden. Bea parked close behind it, using it as cover for their covert mission. She ratcheted the handbrake, unclipped her seatbelt and, despite the icy temperature, wound her window down and stuck her elbow out, trying to look nonchalant. She wanted any casual observer to think she was waiting for a friend and not spying on the home of her former lover.

They had a perfect view of the house opposite. A five-bar gate was wedged back against an immaculate high hedge and held in place by a large moss-covered boulder that sat on the gravel. The driveway, flanked by a variety of established trees, swept round in an arc, stopping in front of the imposing house. There was no car in the driveway, no activity apparent in or around the house. The exterior of the house was painted cream, with white sash windows and a grey shingle roof; the front door was pillar-box red, a colour that Bea associated with her English childhood, when everything from buses to phone boxes was a similarly vivid scarlet, making them pop out against the grey landscape. She looked to the right and smiled to see the snow-capped golf course that would have been visible from nearly every room in the house because of its elevated position. She remembered him trying and failing to explain his love of the sport. Unsurprisingly, the windows were closed on this very cold day and all indicators were that the occupants were out. Bea gave a sigh of relief and stared at the patch of grass at the front of the house. She thought of the games they might have played on it, football or rounders; she pictured a dad, mum and two children enjoying birthdays and homecomings in that very house, while she was caring for a son who shared the same blood on the other side of the world.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Flora asked again as Bea’s hands fidgeted in her lap and rubbed at her temple.

Bea chewed her bottom lip with teeth that ground and snapped. She suddenly looked every one of her fifty-three years. ‘I don’t think anyone’s at home, do you?’ she said, gazing at the house. It was as if Flora hadn’t spoken.

Flora shook her head, wondering how long they would sit and stare. What was the usual time limit in a situation like this and what exactly was her gran hoping for? ‘We’ll wait a bit longer, shall we?’ she whispered.

Bea recognised the tone that she herself adopted when trying to make things better. ‘I think we should probably go now, Flora. I’ve seen as much as I wanted to. Thank you for coming with me.’ She smiled at her granddaughter, then immediately turned her attention back to the house.

Bea studied the windows and let her eyes linger over the door. She imagined her lover’s hand on the doorknob, arriving home after a hard day’s work, raising the blinds in the windows, sweeping the driveway, raking leaves, going about the business of life in that house. A life that excluded her. She pictured his wife, Margaret, welcoming their friends and family over the threshold for countless Christmases, arms spread wide on that very driveway, when through all those years the woman leaving footprints in the snow should have been
her
, creating memories that should have existed inside
her
head. And for the want of a different moment in time, it would have been. It was hard to accept that after all these years. Seeing the home he shared with another woman left her breathless, sadder than ever.

Flora tried to think of what to say next, what to suggest that might ease the tension. She was about to speak when suddenly the van in front started its engine and drove off. At the exact same moment, a silver saloon car swung into the road and turned sharply left into a driveway – not just any driveway, but the driveway of the house belonging to Dr J. W. Brodie.

Bea’s heart raced as she turned the key and pumped the accelerator. The engine whirred but remained flat. Again she twisted the ignition and pumped the pedal. ‘Come on, come on! Bloody car!’ she muttered under her breath, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of her hand in frustration.

She looked across and could see three heads in the car. Two in the front and one in the back. She had only caught a flash of the driver, but it was unmistakeably a blonde-haired woman. She drew breath sharply and placed a trembling hand at the neck of her blouse, twisting it beneath her fingers.
Those people might know him.