Never Too Late (11 page)

It’d been at least a week since she’d done any serious laundry and clumps of dirty clothes lay around the floor like dead bodies. Sighing, Cara rushed around, picking up

items, examining them to see how crumpled or dirty they

were. When she’d amassed a few possible outfits, she

stuffed them into her old rucksack along with a couple of

clean things - which meant things she never wore and

therefore didn’t like - from her wardrobe. Adding the bag

of Christmas presents she’d already wrapped, she closed

the rucksack and was ready to leave in ten minutes. Just

time for a quick shower.

Cara winced at the sight of herself in the bathroom

mirror. Her hair clung limply to her face, which was still a

hungover shade of grey; her eyes were dead with exhaustion

and she was getting a nice big spot on her forehead.

She showered, ducking to avoid Phoebe’s tights and a

new pink broderie anglaise bra dangling from the washing

line. Phoebe must be having a drink with yer man, Cara

decided with a grin. Otherwise she’d have packed up all

her frillies for her holidays.

Out of the shower, she dragged her combats back on

along with a clean white T-shirt, ran a brush through her

unruly hair and squirted herself with the remains of

Phoebe’s deodorant as hers was packed. She was ready. Not

exactly party material, but she’d do. Evie would have a fit

when she saw her, Cara realised as she hoisted the rucksack

on to her back and prepared to leave the flat.

Her sister would no doubt be perfectly turned out in

some pristine outfit: hair shining, shoes shining and halo

shining.

Well, Dad wouldn’t care what she looked like, Cara

thought with relief. He was happy to see her, no matter

what she wore. Pity Evie couldn’t get the message. She’d

learn soon enough. Rosie wasn’t much of a fan of sedate

blazers, long skirts and loafers either.

Bags in hand, Cara pulled open the front door and only

then noticed the envelopes on the mat. She picked them

up: electricity hill and a Christmas card for herself and

Phoebe from Evie and Rosie Cute Christmas teddies

grinned up at her, and Cara smiled. Evie was funny: she

always sent a card to Cara’s flat. It was one of her

idiosyncrasies.

‘Looking forward to a lovely Christmas, Cara, and I hope

we’ll see you, Phoebe, for the New Year. Love, Evie and Rosie.’

Cara stuck the card on the kitchen table along with the

note she’d scrawled to Phoebe. Poor Evie, she was trying

her best. Cara resolved to sort it all out over the next few

days. It was crazy to squabble with your sister, pointless

family feuds started that way. They’d have a proper discussion

and Cara would explain that while she understood

Evie only wanted the best for her, Cara was a grown up

now, not a motherless kid.

Feeling better, she slammed the front door, already

looking forward to a few peaceful days at home. She could

picture the living room: the fire lit, logs crackling and the

dogs, Jessie and Gooch, sprawled out on the big red rug in

front of it, as close as they could possibly get without

getting burned; Dad smiling as he cobbled his special

herby scrambled eggs together; Rosie creating havoc with

the local young lads, eyeing them up on her constant trips

to the shop; Evie fussing over the turkey, the pudding, etc,

etc.
There was no place like home. It was going to be a good Christmas, she was sure of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was late afternoon when Evie parked the car outside the

small house in Ballymoreen.

Thank God we’re here,’ groaned Rosie, opening her

door and stretching long jeans-clad legs out.

Massaging her tired neck with one hand, Evie peered

through the fogged-up car window at her father’s house.

Like most of the houses in the village, it was postcard

pretty: a stone facade with two gently curving mullioned

windows to either side of a door framed with a tenacious

evergreen creeper.

Unusually, there were no lights shining through the tiny

diamond panes. The sky was growing darker by the minute

but the porch light wasn’t on. The place seemed deserted.

Evie followed Rosie up the path, feeling a prickle of

unease at the strange stillness. There was no frenzied

barking from Gooch and Jessie at the sound of their

footsteps, even when Evie turned her key in the lock.

‘Something must have happened,’ she said anxiously,

reluctant to push the door open now she’d unlocked it.

She clutched her coat around her, shivering from nerves

and cold. ‘He’s had an accident. Otherwise he’d be

here …’ She paused. It was so silent, it was almost spooky.

Her father knew they were coming; he was always there to

greet them, especially at Christmas.

‘Don’t be daft, Mum.’ Rosie shoved past her and gave the

door a resounding push. ‘The dogs would massacre any

burglars stupid enough to break in, and anyway the neighbours

would know in a shot if there was anything wrong with

Grandpops and they’d be out giving us chapter and verse.

You know what this place is like,’ she added sarcastically.

‘Breathe too loudly and you’re in the papers.’

Evie followed her daughter’s tail figure into the dark

house, half-expecting to see overturned furniture and the

results of a struggle. But when Rosie switched on the light

in the small sitting room, everything was in its place, from

the faded old brocade sofa with its covering of dog hairs to

the nest of tables where her father kept his pipe paraphernalia.

The polished copper fire guard sat in the middle of

the fireplace with its open brick work and the small card

table was in its usual place in the corner, silver photograph

frames arranged as they always were with faded pictures of

Evie’s parents on their wedding day forty years ago.

‘See?’ Rosie marched past her back to the car and

started dragging their luggage from the boot. ‘Nothing’s

wrong, Mum. You’re such a worrier.’

Still wondering where her father was, Evie followed

Rosie. It was so unlike him not to be there, she thought as

she carried in some of the parcels. They were a bit early,

she knew, but it wasn’t as if Dad had anywhere else to go

on Christmas Eve, did he? He was dying to see them, he’d

said so on the phone.

They’d just finished emptying the car when the rain

started, torrential rain that bounced off the flagstones on

the path to the front door and hammered against the

windows mercilessly.

‘Dad’ll be soaked if he’s brought the dogs out for a

walk,’ Evie fretted, peering through the dark green curtains

at the downpour.

Rosie looked up from where she was lighting the fire.

She’d hoped her mother might disappear off to the kitchen

to make tea, so she could sneak a crafty cigarette. She

reckoned the smell of the fire would disguise the scent of

her fag. If she had to spend four whole days without

smoking, she’d go insane.

‘Mum,’ she said in exasperation. ‘He’s a grownup, you

know. How does he manage when we’re not here to worry

about him?’

‘You’re right,’ sighed Evie. Her father did manage

perfectly well without her. But it was one thing not

worrying when she hadn’t a clue what he was up to; it

was another entirely when he was unaccountably missing.

Stop being such a worry wart, she told herself angrily, and

rubbed her eyes. She was tired after the drive down; tired,

hungry and a little miserable. The thought of all the

beautiful food she’d brought was making her ravenous but

she’d promised herself she wouldn’t overindulge during

the holidays.

One lapse could ruin her cellulite-busting plan, although

those sausage rolls she’d got looked particularly gorgeous,

all flaky pastry and tempting sausage meat. But what was

the point of killing herself dieting? Simon wouldn’t notice

if the night before was anything to go by. He’d hardly be

aware if she had her entire body remodelled, she thought

despondently.

She’d spent the car journey thinking about the party and

how Simon had abandoned her for two solid hours by

leaving her talking to poor Hilda Maguire. Evie had been

so looking forward to the evening. It wasn’t as if she had

such a hectic social life that she was going to parties every

night of the week. She practically never went out.

That much-looked forward to evening had been the highlight

of her week. What a waste going to the hairdresser’s.

The more she turned it over in her mind, the more

depressed she got. Imagine letting her go home alone

because he was afraid to offend his bosses by leaving early.

He couldn’t love her to do that. Love meant wanting to be

together passionately, frantically. Especially at Christmas.

She remembered how Simon had broken the news to

her that he wouldn’t be going with her to Ballymoreen

They’d been trailing around the shops looking for gifts for

each other that cost less than 40 pounds each - Simon’s idea

because they were saving for the wedding.

‘Next year we’ll be together, Evie. But I’m not going to

be able to go with you this time. I can’t let Mother down.

We’ve gone to Uncle Harry’s for Christmas every year

since I was a child. It’s a tradition. Mother would feel so

alone among all the relatives without me.’

Seeing how downcast his fiancee looked at this bombshell,

he had asked her to stay at Uncle Harry’s too. A bit

of a halfhearted invitation, Evie had felt. Still, she

couldn’t have left Dad and Cara on their own, so she’d

refused.

If last night had been a wonderful party, it would have

kept her going over the entire Simon-less holiday. But it

had been a complete let down. Which was a bit how Evie

felt. Let down. Maybe she’d just have one sausage roll. She

felt like it. Yes, and think what your rear end will look like

after a few days of eating like a horse, her conscience

pointed out.

‘I’m going to make some lemon tea,’ she announced

resolutely. ‘Want some?’

Rosie, reed slim with a perfect peaches and cream

complexion and not a blemish on her young skin, rolled

her eyes to heaven.

‘The only thing I fancy with lemon in it is a vodka and

Red Bull,’ she said wickedly.

Evie stopped in her tracks. ‘Rosie! I’ve told you before:

no drinking here. Granddad would have a canary if he saw

you drinking spirits. Wine at dinner and that’s it. I know

you drink beer with your friends, I’ve smelt it. But not

here. This isn’t Dublin, you know. It you drink here, the

entire village will know about it and, believe me, they’ll be

talking about you. I don’t want that to happen.’ She

marched into the kitchen.

Her daughter scowled. I suppose a smoke is out of the

question? Rosie thought crossly as she blew on the logs in

the grate. What’s eating her? she wondered. Her mother

had been like a bear with a sore head all day. It was that

drippy Simon, she knew it. He was such a wet it was

unbelievable. Exactly what her mother saw in him Rosie

had no idea. At least he wasn’t going to be there for

Christmas; watching Simon’s irritating little mannerisms

for three whole days would have driven her to distraction.

Well, she was having a cigarette and if her mother didn’t

like it, tough. She wasn’t a kid anymore. With her head

angled towards the kitchen, listening for her mother’s

approaching footsteps, Rosie fished her pack of ten cigarettes

from her pocket and lit one. Then she stealthily

opened one of the windows, sat on the ledge and blew the

smoke out.

Knowing this place, some old bag would undoubtedly be

on the phone in five minutes telling the entire village that

Rosie Mitchell was chain smoking Rothman’s, she thought

crossly. It was like the middle ages. If they saw her drinking Budweiser, they’d probably try and burn her at the stake for being a witch.

Half an hour later, Evie had drunk two cups of lemon

tea, neither of which had filled the gap in her stomach like

a couple of sausage rolls would. She felt desperately guilty

for taking her temper out on Rosie and sternly told herself

to stop being such a grumpy pig. It wasn’t anybody else’s

fault that her fiance preferred to spend the festive season

with his mother and a selection of ancient relatives playing

Scrabble instead of with her.

She’d also put away the food she’d brought, amazed to

find that instead of having none of the drinks party stuff

organised, her father had trays of beautifully prepared

nibbles ready in the fridge.

Evie, who’d spent some of her meagre Christmas

budget buying large quantities of ready-made sausage

rolls, mini pizzas and sesame prawn toasts, realised that

the things in his fridge were wildly superior to her

shop-bought offerings. Delicate little savoury pastries and

smoked salmon parcels lined the fridge, elegantly arranged