Home For Christmas (3 page)

Carise struggled along, trying to celebrate Christmas the way her parents always had (they split last year
—
Uncle Roger did a bunk with a waitress from the local Chinese restaurant). Aunty May spent the whole day with her tribe of ‘Christmas orphans’. I’ve always loved her opening up her house (and her heart) to the people in the community who don’t have anyone to spend Christmas with. I did wonder this year if I was there as a Preston, or if I’d graduated to official ‘orphan’ status!

Everyone was lovely to me, but it wasn’t the same without Dad. Dad bought the tree lot when he got out of the army, so he’d always be working close to home. Christmas has always been a big deal in our house. Dad and I really bonded after we lost Ben (he was taken in the North Queensland Flood Army Helicopter disaster on Christmas day). We lost Mum not long after. I think it nearly killed Dad that he’d left the army to make sure Mum and us kids would never be alone and then he lost both his son and his wife
.

I’ve missed him more and more as the festive season ramped up. I still enjoyed spending time with my family, and the Christmas season, with all its madness, but some days it’s hard. It’s now my responsibility to keep the family business going and I also need to keep my family’s traditions alive. I thought of you, because I know you’re away from your family right now and I knew you’d understand. I hope you had a great Christmas day, and that someone cooked you a roast
.

Layla
.

She added a row of
xxx
after her name and hit send.

Seconds later, she closed her eyes and laid her head down onto her folded arms.

What on earth was she thinking, emailing Tate McAuliffe again? Her mother’s words echoed across her consciousness. ‘Don’t you ever get involved with an army man.’ She gave herself a mental shake and drank the rest of her tea. Two emails in one day wasn’t getting involved. Besides, she had more important things to worry about.

Like what she was going to do about Ian Creswick.

***

‘What gives, Macca?’

A tide of heat crept up Tate’s neck and onto his face as he minimised the window on his computer. There were two things he hated about being deployed with the army. No privacy was the first. Being called Macca was the other. For the millionth time he cursed the chain restaurant that had made his nickname a living hell. ‘Just checking my email. No law against that is there?’

Stevo perched on the edge of the bench. ‘You’ve spent about five minutes on email in the last two tours, and all of a sudden you’re haunting the computer room. If I didn’t know better I’d say you had a girlfriend.’

Tate leaned back in his chair and stretched. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend. I have friends and most of them have email.’

‘Yeah right.’

Tate’s blood pressure ratcheted up a notch. Sometimes Stevo was a complete pain in the butt, and it looked like today was going to be one of those days. ‘Was there something you wanted?’

‘Oh yes, Macca.’ Stevo leaned in close and whispered in a poor imitation of a lady, ‘I want you.’ He paused. ‘And I’ll have fries with that.’

Tate’s hands clenched into fists. ‘Not funny, Francis.’

The muscle that twitched above Stevo’s left eye fired off, right on queue. ‘Don’t call me Francis. It’s Stevo, or it’s Frank.’

‘Right. Got it.’ He gestured to the timer counting down in the top right of the screen. ‘I’ll see you later then, Stevo or Frank. My time’s running out while you’re sitting here gasbagging. I’ll see you back at the barracks.’

Stevo stared at him for several seconds, eyes narrowed, then nodded and turned on his heel.

Tate waited until he was sure his mate was gone then pulled Layla’s email up again. She was definitely a talker. There were lots of words, but what was she actually saying? Her pain at losing her father was clear, but the rest? He wasn’t sure if she’d enjoyed her Christmas or hated it. One thing was certain, her family’s celebration hadn’t gone to plan. Why else would she be emailing him?

He re-read the bit about him being away from his family and tried hard not to laugh. He wasn’t away from his family. He was with them. The army was more of a family to him than any of his own flesh and blood had ever been. Deployment overseas meant he didn’t have to sit through another meaningless celebration at home. Not that there really was a home. More a series of shacked up living arrangements that kept his mum in cheap booze.

Her idea of a Christmas feast was alcohol and plenty of it. Of course there was tinned ham and tinned potato salad for the non-drinkers. Sometimes they’d even had tinned fruit for dessert. His first real Christmas lunch, with Christmas crackers and traditional pudding, had been during his initial deployment.

These guys, even smart-arsed Stevo, had his back. They were his family. He didn’t want to think about the world outside of right here, right now. This country was so broken, it was hard to get his head around. All around him, violence and poverty reigned. Yet he was more at home here than he was back in the suburbs.

Layla’s suburbs.

The three-minute warning buzzed and Tate jumped. He skimmed through the email one more time, but his two-fingered typing skills meant there wasn’t enough time left on his internet allocation to write something back. He swallowed down on the lump in his throat then closed first the email, then the program. Layla probably had enough to deal with back home. With everything going on in her family she didn’t need email conversation with a broken down soldier as well.

‘I’m a fraud.’ Layla paused dramatically and shovelled another forkful of Carise’s blissful chocolate cheesecake into her mouth. ‘And a liar.’

Carise’s grin was infectious. ‘Why?’

‘Yesterday, the migraine.’ Layla sighed.

‘Right.’ Carise’s hand stopped, the generous helping of cheesecake on her spoon halfway to her mouth. ‘Did you feel sick when you realised Ian was there?’

‘Well…yes.’

‘And did lying in the quiet room, minus Ian, make you feel less sick?’

‘Yes again.’

Carise chuckled. ‘Doesn’t sound like fraud or lying to me. Sounds like self-preservation.’

‘If you must know, my immediate thought was to push him over the ridge. Hiding in the spare room seemed like a much safer option.’ Layla scraped the last morsels of chocolate off her plate. ‘I really need to say something.’

‘You really do.’

‘I’m thinking of getting a lawyer.’

Carise raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s not simple. I’m his boss. One wrong move on my part and he’ll sue the pants off me for workplace harassment or something. I’d end up losing Bonsai Christmas.’

‘How can it be workplace harassment when he’s the one harassing you?’

‘How do I prove it though? At work he’s the model employee. I couldn’t have asked for better, especially with Dad gone. Outside of work he’s not unpleasant, or threatening or anything. He just turns up everywhere I go and stares at me with big brown puppy dog eyes.’

‘I think he thinks he’s in love.’

Layla wrinkled her nose. ‘Yes. I think so.’

Carise picked up the crystal-handled, silver cake slice she’d received as a Christmas present. ‘More cheesecake?’

‘More cheesecake.’ Layla slid her plate over to Carise. ‘Did I tell you I had an email from the guy who received my army care package?’

Carise sat straighter. ‘No. Where did it end up?’

‘Afghanistan.’

‘Cool.’

‘Yeah, it was.’ Layla made a precise cut with her fork. ‘He seemed nice.’

‘Nice?’ Carise picked up the bowl of whipped cream. ‘Whipped cream on cheesecake is nice.’ She dolloped a huge spoonful onto her slice. ‘Men are not “nice”. They are sexy or funny or heroic. Or sometimes all three.’

‘And sometimes none of those things.’ She glanced over her shoulder, as though thinking about Ian would conjure him up on Carise’s back veranda. ‘Okay, the soldier said thank you. He liked the cricket cards.’

Carise’s mouth formed a moue of disapproval.

‘It was a three-line email. How much can you tell about a man in thirty words?’ Layla laughed.

‘Is that the first email you’ve received back?’

‘Yeah. Part of the fun in preparing the Christmas boxes is you never know where they go, or who gets them. But I broke with tradition. I put my contact details in. Dad never did that when we packed our boxes together.’

‘Ah, so you invited him to email you?’

Layla choked on her cheesecake. ‘No… Yes… Maybe?’

Carise put her hands up in front of her. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘I never thought about it like that before.’

‘I think it’s a positive step.’

Layla gnawed on her lip. ‘How so?’

‘For a long time after Ben was killed, you guys hated the army and everything it stood for. Yet every year, you put together very generous, but always anonymous, care packages. It was like you cared, but you didn’t want to be seen to be caring.’

‘I was supporting our troops overseas.’

‘For one day of the year. The anniversary of Ben’s death.’ Carise reached across and touched her arm. ‘Don’t look so horrified. I’m not saying what you were doing before was wrong. I like you changing it up a bit. Traditions aren’t set in stone. They change over time. You’ve personalised your family’s tradition to you and I think that’s great.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. It’s not a crime to receive a thank you when you give a gift. You’re one of the most generous people I know and your contribution should be acknowledged. You should email him back, flirt with him a little. Maybe it would take your mind off stalker boy Ian.’

Layla shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not? It’s not like it’s a lifelong commitment or anything. A couple of emails doesn’t mean you have to marry him. Have some fun.’ Carise paused, then reached for the coffeepot. ‘Enough of this serious talk. We need more coffee. We haven’t even touched the white chocolate raspberry slice yet.’

***

‘What’s happening in your life, son?’ Walter Sharpe, the unit padre stood next to Tate as he crosschecked the contents of the supply delivery against the never-ending list on the clipboard.

‘Nothing much.’ It was the same response he gave every fortnight when he and Walt were rostered to check the delivery. The army might force him to spend time with the padre, but they couldn’t force him to talk.

‘Good Christmas?’

‘Better than most.’

‘You sound like that surprises you.’

Tate glanced up from the clipboard. ‘It did. I don’t really celebrate Christmas. Not like other people do.’

‘What changed this year?’

That was the exact question he was asking himself. ‘Everyone has something bad going on in their life.’

‘And?’

‘I kinda met someone who should’ve been having a bad Christmas. But they weren’t. They were happy, and friendly. It made me think.’ Self-reflection was big right now in the army.

Walt straightened a row of packages. ‘And?’

‘And nothing.’

The older man nodded, then moved onto the next row, painstakingly re-organising the parcels so they all faced the same direction.

Tate’s ears rang with a silence worse than nails on a chalkboard. ‘Her name’s Layla and I emailed her. She put together my care package. I said thank you. And she emailed me back. Twice.’ How did Walt do that? Make him say things he wasn’t sure he wanted to say. ‘I decided not to keep in contact anymore.’

‘That’s a shame. If she’s happy and friendly…’

Tate put the clipboard down and fidgeted with his cuff. ‘I’ve got my mates here. I don’t need anyone else.’

‘Everyone needs friends back home.’ Walt put his pen down.

Tate shook his head. ‘Not me. I’m different now. After everything I’ve seen and done, I can’t switch off and pretend like I’ve got a normal life. She doesn’t need someone like me.’

‘Why not?’ the padre challenged. ‘You’re a good friend. You and I have a good relationship, and I know you spend a lot of time with Frank and Douglas. They value your friendship and so do I. I have to disagree, a man needs friends when he gets home.’

Tate re-organised the rows of boxes he’d already ticked off the list. ‘What if she wants more than I can give?’

‘If you’re not comfortable, you say so. Politely and respectfully. If she’s as nice as she seems from her emails she’ll accept it. Chances are, she isn’t even looking for a relationship so you’ll have nothing to worry about.’

Tate looked at Walt and smiled. ‘Good point.’

***

A week later, halfway through an Orthodox Christmas delivery of potted trees, an email from Tate McAuliffe popped up on Layla’s phone. When she hadn’t received a response to her late night email she’d thought that was the end of it. Now, her heart beat a strange tattoo as she stared down at the screen. With more haste than usual, she finished loading the ten-inch high firs into the back of the ute, then grabbed her water bottle and leaned against the tailgate with her phone.

Hi Layla
,

Sorry it took so long to get back to you. Email contact is restricted here. I’m sorry to hear about your dad and your brother Ben
—
I remember that accident. And I’m sorry you lost your mum too. I can tell how much you miss them and I want you to know I’ll take care of those WSC cards
—
I always wanted a set when I was younger, so you found the right home for them
.

They put a pretty good spread on for our Christmas Lunch
—
the Commanding Officers (COs) prepare it and serve the enlisted. We even had prawns and mango! Which was bizarre when it’s freezing outside. Saw the highlights of the Test. What was Australia thinking, batting first?

What are you doing for work now Christmas is over?

Tate
.

Layla laughed out loud when she read Tate’s question about her job. Bonsai Christmas was a full-time job, all year round. Sure, she had Ian, her lovesick nurseryman, but even so she was needed on deck most days. Once the heat of summer was over, she’d order the next batch of seedlings to pot and shape, and in five years, she’d sell them as perfectly formed miniaturised trees, perfect for apartments and townhouses. Christmas in July was growing in popularity too, to take advantage of the cooler winter weather, so now she was working on a six-monthly schedule, rather than an annual one.