The Christmas Forest Read online

  OTHER TITLES BY REBECCA BOXALL

  Christmas at the Vicarage

  Home for Winter

  Christmas on the Coast

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Boxall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  e-ISBN: 9781542044714

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  For the Foxes

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  PART TWO

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  REFERENCES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Friday 17 November 2017

  Enid

  Even as she approached the postbox, its bright-red hue matching her sister’s winter coat, she wasn’t sure which one she would send. The letters looked identical: the same high-quality ivory envelopes; the same precise calligraphy – neat, inky loops; the name of the recipient and his exotic address; the stamps and the royal-blue ‘Airmail’ stickers. There was nothing to distinguish them at all but Enid knew absolutely that the one clasped in her gloved left hand was a polite refusal and the other, in her right, said ‘yes’.

  ‘You alright, love?’

  Enid jumped at the voice behind her and turned round to find a smiley postman standing there, gripping an empty grey sack.

  ‘Just doing my collections. Want me to take those for you?’ he asked, reaching out a chapped-looking hand.

  ‘Oh, I . . .’ Enid faltered, then she stuffed one of the envelopes back into her bag. She passed the other letter to the man with a small smile of thanks.

  As she left the postbox behind, bracing herself for the walk back home, she felt something cool and light land on her eyelashes. The freak November snowfall the forecasters had promised: it was rare for it to snow in Jersey, even in the thick of winter. A good omen, Enid decided; she liked it when the forecasters predicted correctly. It was a sign that she’d made the right decision.

  At least, that’s what she hoped.

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Friday 17 November 2017

  Enid

  ‘So, did you send it?’

  I was irritated to see Bess hopping up and down on my doorstep when I arrived home, seemingly oblivious to the fast-falling snow that would usually have been the reason for her excitement.

  I didn’t want to see her. I wanted to be alone to mull over my decision, which, even though I’d been thinking about nothing else for a fortnight, and despite the fact the choice had now been made, still felt like it deserved a bit more thought-time – or obsession, as Bess would say.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I muttered, elbowing my sister out of the way so I could unlock the front door. It’s a traditional cottage with bloomy roses creating an arch around the door – not something I would have chosen myself. But after our parents died in a car crash when I was twenty-two and Bess had just turned twenty, my sister had found Number 1 and 2 Christmas Cottages (so twee) and decided we would live side by side. That was eighteen years ago.

  They’re what Bess calls ‘cosy’ and she renovated and styled mine in exactly the same way as hers, probably because I showed no interest in the interior-design magazines she kept flapping in front of me. The cottages are hidden behind the churchyard in St Brelade’s Bay, looking out to sea, and that’s honestly all I care about.

  ‘Which one?’ Bess persisted, following me into the porch. I hung my coat on the third peg along and eyeballed the jacket Bess had hastily discarded on the bench by the door until she sighed and hung it neatly next to mine.

  ‘The one that was in my right hand,’ I said. I made my way into the sitting room and immediately gathered up my cat, Clifford, and sat in the armchair beside the log burner with him on my lap. I never really bother lighting it, but Bess began fussing about with my carefully stacked logs as soon as she made her way into the room. She fiddled around some more, looking for matches, and finally lit the fire. It made pleasing crackling noises and I thought I should maybe light it a little more often.

  ‘Which was the polite “no” or the “yes, I’ll come”?’ she asked eventually.

  I didn’t like the scrutiny I was under but I threw Bess a bone. ‘I said yes,’ I told her. ‘I’m going to the travel agent’s on Monday. I’m hoping to leave on the ninth of December and I should be home before New Year. Now, I don’t want to talk any more about it,’ I said sternly, before she got too overexcited.

  Bess bit her lip, obviously trying to contain herself. ‘Okay,’ she said breezily. ‘Shall I make us both a cuppa?’

  ‘Yes, that would be very agreeable. But please don’t make a mess.’

  ‘I won’t make a mess!’ Bess laughed. ‘Honestly, Enid, you need to relax!’

  I made a dismissive noise at this and followed Bess through to the kitchen – my favourite room in the house, with its picture window overlooking the Bay – where she clanked around making the tea, dropping teabags and sploshing milk until I could bear it no longer and told her to sit down while I finished it off. She plonked herself on a wooden stool at the central island and watched me wipe everything down.

  ‘I hope to goodness Fred’s as pernickety as you are,’ she said when I passed her the mug. I think her tone might have been jokey but I instantly felt a flash of panic as I realised I hadn’t considered whether our living habits would be compatible, even in my deepest deliberations over the last fortnight.

  ‘Oh, Bess, I hadn’t thought of that. What if he’s one of those people who takes three showers a day but lives in a hovel! I won’t last a day . . .’

  I’m not great at reading expressions but I thought Bess looked like she might be regretting her remark.

  ‘Hey, Enid, I was joking! And that kind of stuff . . . it’s superficial.
You know you have a bond deeper than that. Take no notice of me. You’ve made the right decision, Enid . . . You have, I promise.’

  I took some deep breaths and allowed Bess’s words to soothe me, as they have for as long as I can remember.

  ‘I’ve made the right decision,’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes, you have,’ she said and, very gently, she pulled me into a hug.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday 18 November 2017

  Bess

  ‘I’m worried about her,’ I said, voicing my concerns to Nigel.

  ‘So what’s new? In the five years I’ve known you I think you’ve probably said that at least once a week.’

  Nigel was naked, lying languorously in my bed and puffing on a cigarette, even though I’ve asked him a hundred times not to smoke in the house. I hate smelling like an ashtray. I shrugged on my dressing gown and opened the window, seeing but not really noticing the view of the sun setting over the snow-dusted steeple of the church just beyond. That’s how I go through life: seeing, but not properly observing. Not like Enid, who experiences everything with all five senses. Sometimes that girl is like a walking life lesson.

  ‘I just think she’s going to chicken out, Nigel. I think at the last minute she won’t go, and then her one chance at love will be gone forever.’

  Nigel laughed cynically. ‘You sound like a Mills & Boon novel, darling. Anyway, how do you know this guy’s for real? He could be an axe murderer for all we know. It might be safer if she didn’t go. There’s all this talk about how dangerous online dating is.’

  I looked at Nigel, exasperated. ‘But that’s not how they met! You know Enid won’t use the internet!’ I’ve read that for most people with Asperger’s it’s their lifeline, but Enid doesn’t trust it. She and Fred have been writing letters to each other ever since they met through a Christmas card exchange scheme a year ago.

  I picked up a magazine and started wafting it in the air to try to clear the smoke. ‘You’re too sceptical,’ I reprimanded. ‘The poor man’s been looking after his sick mother for ten years and now she’s finally died and he just wants a bit of company over Christmas!’

  ‘Well, that’s what he’s told her. We still don’t know if any of it’s true,’ Nigel replied, sounding sulky. He stubbed his cigarette out in my favourite mug. Clearly I wasn’t going to get the reassurance I was after.

  ‘I’d better get ready,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Everyone’ll be arriving in an hour. Could you nip down and start opening bottles?’

  ‘In a minute, darling,’ Nigel said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Let me just smoke this.’

  I lay in the bath and mentally ran through who was coming to the drinks party. My best friend Morag, and Harry Harrison – headmaster of the local primary school. My boss at the art college and his partner and my other boss, Bazza, from the pub, and his girlfriend. And various other local friends, including a few of Nigel’s pals. Not my cup of tea, but I’d decided to invite them in the hope he might behave if they were around. He’s not always that reliable at parties.

  No Enid, though. I really thought she might come to this one. That she might feel differently about life in general after making her brave decision to go to the other side of the world for Christmas. But, no; as she told me reliably bluntly, she’d rather grate her own eyeballs than endure one of my drinks parties. I have to give her credit for her honesty.

  The party started off well enough. The snow had everyone in a skittish kind of mood and, as driving wasn’t an option given the weather, it meant everyone was drinking – even Harry Harrison, who’s usually pretty abstemious after everything that happened with his ex-wife, Melissa.

  A few bottles in and everyone was chatting away, warmed by the alcohol and the log burner, and I rushed around with plates of warm sausage rolls and mince pies, ignoring the naysayers who kept telling me we weren’t remotely close to Christmas yet. I don’t care – I love the festive season. Always have done, always will do. But even my spirits were dampened by the end of the evening.

  Nigel had found an ancient tequila bottle stashed away in one of my kitchen cupboards and after he’d knocked back a couple of shots, I knew that he was single-handedly going to change the course of the whole evening. My innocent drinks party quickly became an opportunity for Nigel to share his extensive knowledge of complicated drinking games with debauched forfeits and, as everyone apart from me was suckered in, the music got louder and the house became hotter. Then I felt someone prodding me in the back. I turned around.

  ‘Enid, what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘It’s so loud!’ she shouted. ‘I can’t sleep! Can you turn the music down?’

  Enid was wearing her stripy pyjamas, with Uggs on her feet and an unbecoming tea-cosy hat pulled down over her messy hair.

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ I said, ushering her out of the kitchen. But it was too late. Nigel had spotted her.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ he slurred. ‘Is that my other Golden Girl?’ Nigel has always called us ‘The Golden Girls’, claiming we have the same gold eyes, hair and, in summer, skin. Enid hates the nickname, but the more she has a grump about it, the more Nigel uses it.

  ‘Bog off!’ she said, marching through to the sitting room, towards the porch, ready to make her escape.

  ‘But, darling, won’t you stay for a little drinkie? Here, just one shot,’ he said, following her with a glass of tequila. ‘Go on, you’ll love it. It’ll warm you up!’

  I thought Enid would just ignore him and hurry off, but she grabbed the drink from him and took a sip, before pulling a face. ‘Yuck, that’s disgusting!’ she said, handing the glass back to him. He looked at it gleefully.

  ‘Ha, you didn’t down it in one! Forfeit!’ he shouted, and before I could stop him he’d pulled Enid’s pyjama bottoms down to the tops of her Uggs, right there in front of half the party guests, shamefully revealing her unfeasibly large granny pants. There was a collective gasp – Morag even dropped her glass in shock, the shattering sound only drawing more attention to my sister.

  I watched in horror as Enid pulled her trousers back up, her face blotched with embarrassment, and ran out through the porch. I turned to Nigel, fuming, and when he saw my face his bravado vanished immediately. He scuttled off to the kitchen, while Harry touched my arm.

  ‘Do you want me to check on her?’ he asked, concerned, but I shook my head.

  ‘No, no, I must go,’ I told him, abandoning my guests and dashing next door. I could hear Enid running up the stairs. By the time I reached her she’d thrown herself into her bed and pulled the duvet over herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I told her, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘He’s such a prick sometimes, I know that – but it’s just when he’s drunk. He hasn’t done anything that stupid in ages.’ The last time had been in the summer when he’d tried to snog Morag at a barbecue and received a stinging slap for his efforts. I waited to see if Enid might reply, but nothing.

  I knew it would have taken her back to when we were teenagers. The humiliation. All those stupid practical jokes the kids used to play on her at school. I felt so bad: I’ve always tried to protect her, but I’ve failed so many times.

  I heard a murmur beneath the duvet and pulled it down a little so I could hear Enid’s croak.

  ‘Do you remember when Kelli Carter stole my clothes after I went skinny-dipping with the girls from my class down at Beauport that time? I didn’t want to go, but it was before I realised I was better off alone than trying to fit in. We were all naked in the water, but then everyone else got dressed and it was just me standing there, stark naked, begging Kelli for my clothes while everyone laughed. I felt so powerless. I remember thinking I never wanted to feel like that again.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Enid,’ I said. ‘It was me who persuaded you to go as well . . . If I’d been there, I’d have given that stupid girl what for! I’ll be giving Nigel what for later, let me tell you.’ I sighed. ‘I just feel so responsible.�
��

  Enid’s hand emerged from the duvet and I felt her cool fingers find mine.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she whispered. ‘Bess, it’s never been your fault.’

  Chapter Three

  Monday 20 November 2017

  Fred

  Fred was woken by the sound of a fly buzzing around his ear.

  ‘Buzz off!’ he murmured sleepily, then smiled at his choice of words as he rubbed his greying temples. The pests had kept him up half the night. He needed to replace the fly screen on the door to the backyard, one of many jobs he should get on with if he was going to sell his mum’s house. He was flat broke and desperately needed to release some equity.

  But first he had to brace himself for the heartbreaking task of sorting through her stuff and deciding what to keep and what to bin. It wasn’t going to be easy: his mum had been massively sentimental and hated throwing anything away, so her house was rammed with rubbish.

  It wasn’t like Fred could just chuck the whole lot in the skip, though. He wasn’t much of a spiritual guy but since she’d been gone he’d had this weird feeling that she was there, looking over his shoulder, and, however mad it seemed, he couldn’t bear the thought of her watching him throw everything out without giving it a second glance.

  Terri-Lee had made a helpful suggestion.

  ‘You need to have three piles,’ she’d said to him at the weekend. ‘Storage, chuck and op-shop. I could help if you like?’ She’d looked so eager, her eyes like a puppy dog’s, but Fred had long been trying to keep Terri-Lee at bay and he had no intention of getting her hopes up now.

  ‘No worries, I’m good,’ he’d told her. ‘A great idea, though . . .’

  And it had been. But it was still a hard, time-consuming process. Halfway through the morning Fred began on the photo albums. There were hundreds of the things – literally hundreds – but he just didn’t have the heart to throw them out. He sighed and had just started piling them on to the ever-growing ‘storage’ heap when one of them fell open, revealing a photo of a deeply tanned Fred in cricket whites, a wide grin on his face, dark eyes hazy with alcohol and an arm around a glamorous woman whose name he couldn’t recall. The only thing recognisable about him was the tattoo wrapping around his forearm: ‘The Great Wave off Kanagawa’. The picture must have been taken about twelve years ago, when Fred was in his late twenties: before his father had run off with Natasha, a secretary from his firm, and his mum had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.