The Christmas Surprise (39 page)

Malik nodded.

‘Life,’ he said.

Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and prodded Stephen until he eventually woke up. His eyes focused on Apostil, who was lying on his tummy.

‘No way,’ he said. Apostil let out the same proud grin and showed off how good he was at rolling. The motion, though, demonstrated how useless his right hand was.

‘Look at you, my boy!’ Stephen said, picking him up in his strong arms. ‘See. Your parents going out and getting pissed is obviously really, really good for you.’

‘That’s a shame, because it’s NEVER happening again,’ said Rosie. ‘Oh God, I can’t even think what Joy’s
going to do. Do you think they knock on your door at four o’clock in the morning?’

‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, downing half his Lucozade. ‘Come here, both of you.’

He pointed out of the window.

‘Look, it’s started snowing again. It’s nearly Christmas. Today is a day to cuddle up in front of the fire and make Apostil watch
The Great Escape
. Followed, if he’s good, by
Goldfinger
. Then we’ll wrap presents and eat toast and drink tea, and we won’t think about social workers, or moving house, or operations, or families, or anything. Okay?’

Rosie rested her head on his shoulder, Apostil in between them, and watched the snow fall softly on the quiet Sunday-morning village.

‘Okay,’ she whispered.

‘On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind nipping down to church to see how the vicar manages. Last thing I remember last night, he was dancing the Macarena.’

They did curl up on the sofa together, the room cosy and flickering in the firelight, and Rosie watched the film, but also the tree, with its shining bells and little lights all over it, trying to brand on to her memory how it felt: the three of them together, all cuddled up and happy and cosy, with Mr Dog at Stephen’s feet, snorting little doggy dreams,
and Christmas upon them and everything quiet and peaceful in the world. She vowed that whatever happened next, whatever lay ahead on the hard road they had to take, away from everything they knew and loved, it wouldn’t come between them; wouldn’t take away this deep peace and happiness, the strong bond of their little family, however unconventional, however hard-won.

‘What are you looking so pensive about?’ said Stephen, glancing over at her face, made pink by the fire, her hair falling softly down her back. She hadn’t had time to get it cut. He was glad.

‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen,’ murmured Rosie softly.

‘And so say all of us,’ said Stephen, kissing her lightly on the head.

Just as it was starting to get dark, after three, and everyone was snoozing comfortably, the phone jangled furiously, breaking into their calm. Stephen started, and Apostil let out a disgruntled noise.

‘What?’ said Rosie. ‘Oh God, what now?’ All her happy cosiness fell away with a start and she leapt up. ‘The phone. That is never good news. I hate phones.’

They both looked at it as it jangled again.

‘Joy?’ said Rosie.

Stephen’s eyes narrowed.

‘It’s probably my bloody mother, wanting a full rundown on everything whilst pretending she doesn’t. Don’t answer it.’

Rosie gave him a look.

‘What if it’s Lilian?’

Stephen picked it up and passed it to her.

‘I’m going to change Ap,’ he said, leaving the room.

‘Hello?’ said Rosie with trepidation.

‘FUCKING HELL,’ came the well-bred mid-Atlantic voice. Rosie could have collapsed with relief.

‘Oh. Hello, Pamela,’ she said. ‘Um, what’s up?’

‘What’s UP? The love of my life fucks off and you ask me what’s up?’

‘Seriously?’ said Rosie. ‘Was he really the love of your life?’

She wanted to bite her tongue; that had come out harsher than she’d intended.

‘He’s such an asshole,’ said Pamela.

‘I’m really, really sorry,’ said Rosie. ‘I really am. But you’re right, he
is
an arsehole. I think you’re probably well out of it.’

‘They’re all assholes,’ said Pamela. ‘Well, I don’t need to tell
you
.’

Rosie just looked at the phone and didn’t answer.

‘Anyway, what are you guys doing? I’m bored up here. Are you making Sunday lunch? Are you doing those local carrot things?’

Rosie didn’t want to say they were eating bacon sandwiches and crisps on the sofa.

‘Um …’ she said.

‘I could bring down some margarita mix, we could have Sunday-night margaritas?’

Rosie could not think of anything worse.

Stephen came back into the room.

‘It’s your sister,’ said Rosie, as brightly as she could. ‘She’s coming over.’

Stephen took the phone off her.

‘Don’t come over. We’re busy,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a dinner party in one of your ninety-two rooms?’

He hung up.

‘Woah,’ said Rosie.

‘You’re far too nice to her,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re far too nice to everyone.’

‘Including you,’ Rosie pointed out.

‘Yes, including me,’ said Stephen. ‘But that’s different.’

As the snow had stopped, they took an unimpressed Mr Dog out for a walk in the fading light, everyone in wellingtons. Rosie had bought Mr Dog snow shoes but he point-blank refused to wear them, which she understood.

Up at the scout hut, she was astonished to see an immaculate bare room. It was like the massive overdecoration had been a dream, had vanished like fairy food,
leaving only the bones of the stage set that had been there before.

‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘What happened here? Did we dream yesterday?’

‘It would be very useful if we did,’ said Stephen, who was already worrying about going back to school in the morning and facing the music.

But instead, there was Roy Blaine, Laura by his side, standing by with a shovel. He hailed Rosie when he saw her.

‘How did you manage all this?’ she asked.

‘Got the Boys’ Brigade to do it,’ said Roy. ‘Good for them; bit of energy and discipline. Sort ’em out.’

Laura beamed proudly.

‘That was a brilliant idea,’ said Rosie. She looked at Laura. ‘Is he a changed man?’ she asked.

‘He’s giving it a shot,’ said Laura.

‘I’ll believe it when you invite us round for a swim,’ said Rosie teasingly, as he grimaced.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Merry Christmas to you both.’

‘I suppose we should start packing up too,’ said Stephen, as they made their way back down the icy street. Lipton looked like a Christmas card, snowy fog softening the street lights and casting a gentle golden glow on the little town.

Rosie nodded.

‘I spoke to the estate agent,’ she said. ‘He said it’ll sell in two minutes. Lipton’s much sought after, apparently.’

‘That’s because nobody ever leaves,’ said Stephen sadly.

‘We’ll come back,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ll be up to see Lilian … and Moray.’

‘Moray won’t stay. He’ll go to Carningford with Moshe, mark my words.’

‘You think?’

‘They’ll get married before we do.’

Rosie looked around.

‘So it’s all ending,’ she said.

‘Don’t, be daft,’ said Stephen. ‘It never really ends, not old places like this. The heart of the country. Pamela will chloroform some hapless sperm donor and carry on up there. Mother will always be here, of course. Tina and Jake will have about nine sets of twins, you’ll see. It’ll all go on.’

‘I know. I just didn’t think it would go on without us.’

Rosie woke early the next morning, her heart sinking in her chest. It took a moment for her to realise why. Joy. God. Oh God. Going back to make her report … drunk in the street … shouting at the social worker, who was only trying to help, only doing her best … oh God.

She was up even before Apostil. She went to the door of Lilian’s bedroom and stared at him, taking in every inch of him: his long, long eyelashes casting shadows on his round brown cheeks; his right hand tucked away carefully, skinny and flat and grey, unlike his left, which was always on the move, chubby little fingers that waved and grabbed and clung and tugged hair and pulled telephone wires. His soft curled hair, tight on his scalp, and the curve of his solid back underneath his bedclothes. She gazed at him, leaning her head on the door frame of the little room, the sills heavy with snow. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t take her baby away.

At nine, after they had dressed and breakfasted in near silence, quite different from the usual busy hubbub that started their days, both of them nervous and keyed up, Stephen had kissed her, gently but firmly, saying more with that kiss than any conversation could have done. Then he’d sighed and pulled open the door, and, stick in front of him, set off towards the school for a meeting, and the explanations, and the recriminations, and the awful finality of knowing that this was really it; it was really happening.

Rosie decided to open up late, not quite feeling up to the many, many questions that would undoubtedly come through the shop door from the second she turned
over the old-fashioned ‘Closed’ sign. Instead she cleaned the little house, looked at the presents piled up under the tree; even ignored a phone call from Angie, who wanted every single last detail of the wedding and the party she would have enjoyed so much. Apostil, sensing something was wrong, was fussy and wanted to be picked up. She hoisted him into her arms – he was getting heavy – and nuzzled him quickly before, with her heart beating so hard she felt she could hear it, she finally picked up the heavy rotary-dial phone.