The Christmas Forest Read online

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked the guy in the picture. It was like looking at a different person. This was the old, carefree Fred who’d had it all. A supportive father and mother; a career as a professional cricketer that had just taken off; a huge circle of friends; a crazy social life; and women. Women had been his thing. Though never for very long. Short flings had been his life back then.

  Then his father had fled to Brisbane with Natasha and less than a year later his mother had started to feel unwell. Fred had no siblings, and he’d refused to allow anyone else to look after her. She’d needed care and, aside from the help of a palliative nurse in those final days, he’d been the one to provide it. Ten years later and he knew he’d made the right decision. He also knew the responsibility and seclusion of the last decade had changed him completely. The Fred in the photo was a stranger to him. He closed the album and threw it on the ‘storage’ pile, then took a break to check the mailbox.

  ‘Come on, Enid,’ he said to himself as he unlocked the box. But there was no letter there. Not yet, anyhow.

  Chapter Four

  Monday 20 November 2017

  Enid

  If nothing else, the incident on Saturday evening has cemented my thoughts that the decision to visit Fred at Christmas is the right one. I don’t want to be in the same country as horrible Nigel. The nasty little creep knocked on my door yesterday morning. I peered out of the bathroom window to see who it was and when I realised it was him I jumped back in a flash and holed myself up in my bedroom for an hour.

  When I went down later to check on the hedgehogs, I found a large bouquet of flowers on the back doorstep. Lilies, which I hate, with their cloying scent. And doesn’t anyone know they’re poisonous to cats? I stuffed them in the bin before Clifford could so much as look at them. There was also a note, which I quickly scanned before also squashing it into the bin. This is what it said:

  Dear Enid, I apologise profusely for my outrageous behaviour last night. In my defence, I was extremely drunk! I am suffering greatly today, which I deserve. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Love, Nigel.

  The letter was as stupid as Nigel for these reasons:

  Being drunk is not a defence.

  Being drunk isn’t even mitigation (I took an A level in law).

  I will obviously never forgive him.

  The only satisfying thing about it was that I knew he was suffering with the hangover he deserved.

  Once I’d seen to the hedgehogs, I made sure to spend the rest of the day inside, the doors locked, to avoid the terrible possibility of bumping into Nigel – or indeed Bess. It wasn’t her fault, as I’d told her on Saturday night, but her association with Nigel contaminated her, and I would need at least another twenty-four hours until I could look at her again. And by that time Nigel would be back in London, where, very fortunately, he lives and works during the week.

  Sunday was therefore a rather slow and quiet day, which is the best sort of day if you ask me, but I knew that today I would have to brace myself for a walk into St Aubin. My cottage is at one end of St Brelade’s Bay, near the church and only a few other houses – far enough away from the hotels and little shops selling buckets and spades to feel tucked away. It’s a short drive or a decent walk to St Aubin’s village, which has all the amenities people like, such as shops and a playground and pubs and a community centre. I’m not interested in most of these but the shops are quite useful, and I especially like the post office.

  Outside there’s a proper red postbox, as you might expect, but inside it’s an interesting medley of a ship’s chandler, a post office and a travel agent’s, the latter consisting of a desk tucked into a corner of the shop, with a chair on either side of it, a shelf above containing glossy holiday brochures, and an ancient PC plonked on top of it. I don’t go on holiday very much, but when I do I always use St Aubin’s travel agency because Patricia, who runs it, doesn’t like talking or making eye contact (her only downside is her perfume: it’s too strong, so I always have to hold my hand over my nose when I’m with her).

  She wasn’t sitting at the desk when I got there so I had to ring the bell, which is what you’re meant to do (there’s a little sign). When she heard it, Patricia heaved herself off her stool behind the post office till and waddled across the room in a cloud of Poison to take on her travel agent’s role.

  ‘Alright?’ she asked, looking at the reels of rope and twine just beyond my left ear. Her breathing was laboured and I worried about her health. She shouldn’t be that fat, really. It wasn’t healthy. But, as Bess would say, it wasn’t for me to tell her. I learnt that lesson at a young age when Mum took us shopping with her to Marks & Spencer’s. Bess and I were waiting while Mum tried on a swimsuit and a podgy woman came out of a changing room and gazed at herself in a long mirror.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said to us, smiling and patting the vast dress she was trying on. I was only about eight at the time and hadn’t yet learnt the trick of waiting for my younger sister to answer first.

  ‘You look the size of a house,’ I said. The woman looked as though I’d slapped her. Her face went bright red until six-year-old Bess piped up in her little voice and said to her, ‘Sorry, I don’t know if you heard my sister right. She said you look the size of a mouse! It’s the colour, too, isn’t it, Enid? Grey, like a mouse.’ I nodded, keeping my mouth firmly shut, realising I’d made a mistake and feeling ashamed that it had taken my little sister to teach me what would turn out to be the first of many life lessons.

  So, with my hand shielding my nose, I told Patricia, ‘I need to book a flight to Australia.’

  Patricia, being my kind of woman, didn’t make excited noises. She just tapped her sausage fingers on the computer in front of her and asked about dates. The whole process was handled very efficiently and within ten minutes both Patricia and I could breathe a sigh of relief that the transaction had been dealt with. Patricia returned to her stool behind the post office till and unwrapped a Mars bar, while I made my exit and tramped along the snowy bulwarks to the supermarket, passing all the clinking sailing boats on my way.

  In the shop, I set about my usual mission. I’d had plenty of practice at this game with Bess when we were kids – I made her play ‘Stealth’ with me every day without fail for five years. Nowadays, it’s quite simple. The name of the game is to keep my hat pulled low, head down, and to make sure every aisle is clear of people before I venture down it. All to avoid the dreaded small talk.

  My shopping successfully and silently acquired, my final task was to scan the checkouts and plump for the least painful option. Barbara is a definite no – a horribly prying sort of person. Eric is best as he’s a spotty teenager who only communicates with little grunts, but he wasn’t there on this occasion so I opted for Des – a little on the chatty side, but redeemed by his love of hedgehogs.

  To be honest, I felt quite tired by the time I got home later in the morning, but I had to pull myself together as I always like to work for an hour before lunch, then three hours afterwards. Four hours a day doesn’t sound like much, but I’m an artist – a pet portrait artist – and the paintings are very detailed, which takes effort and concentration. I used to just paint and paint without even stopping to eat but I kept getting exhausted, so Bess and I came up with a plan that would allow my passion to keep burning without burning me out.

  I’m lucky I don’t have to deal with any clients. Morag, Bess’s best friend, is a very friendly art teacher with lots of contacts and she drums up business for me and deals with all the emails and that kind of thing. I wanted to pay her commission but she won’t take any, so I give her a bottle of pink champagne every time I see her. She once said it was her favourite drink but ‘a rare treat’, and hopefully now it isn’t quite as rare.

  At five past one I was sitting at the kitchen island, taking a bite of my cheese-and-tomato sandwich on brown bread (it’s the same every day and, no, I don’t get bored of it), when there was a knock at the door. I felt full
of dread, imagining that perhaps Nigel hadn’t flown back to London but maybe, snowed in, had hung around instead so he could apologise in person. But thankfully it was just Bess, dusted with the second snowfall that had just begun, and, as it had now been more than twenty-four hours, I was ready to see her.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, looking sheepish. ‘I’m so sorry, again, about Nigel.’

  I waved away her apology. I didn’t want to dwell on that particular matter. ‘What’ve you got in there?’ I asked instead, seeing she was holding a big black bin liner.

  ‘I’ve been going through my summer clothes. Thought you could take some of these things with you to Australia. It’ll be hot, won’t it? I’ve cut the labels out!’

  Bess is all too familiar with my oversensitive senses. As a child I used to scream blue murder if I felt like a label was itching me. She started pulling items out of the bag while I returned to the island to finish my sandwich.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘This would be nice for the evening.’

  I grimaced. A dress. I hate dresses – they’re so impractical. I always wear jeans, a T-shirt and a fleece, although I knew I would need something a bit cooler to wear over there.

  ‘I was just going to take shorts and T-shirts,’ I said.

  ‘But what if he takes you out somewhere nice?’

  ‘He won’t. He knows all about the Asperger’s. He said when he invited me that we can just stay home and he’ll cook. He likes cooking.’

  ‘Well, you’d better at least take a swimsuit. You’re bound to go to the beach. How about this one?’

  Bess held up a neon-pink halter-neck. It hurt my eyes to look at it, but I didn’t want to be mean about all her clothes. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Just leave the bag there and I’ll have a proper look later.’

  She seemed satisfied enough and abandoned her rifling.

  ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘I’m starting my shift in the pub at two. Listen, Morag’s asked us round for some supper tonight. Will you come?’

  I hesitated. ‘Will Harry Harrison be there?’

  ‘Nope, he’s got some meeting or other. It’ll just be the three of us and Dan.’

  I smiled. Dan is Harry Harrison’s six-year-old son from his first marriage and I like him a lot. We understand each other.

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed.

  ‘Yay!’ Bess replied enthusiastically and I marvelled, not for the first time, at how two sisters, so similar in looks, could be quite so different.

  Chapter Five

  Monday 20 November 2017

  Bess

  ‘Come in, come in,’ welcomed Morag in her Edinburgh accent when we arrived, Enid clutching a bottle of pink champagne. ‘Enid, you must stop buying me these!’ Morag laughed. ‘I’m running out of room in the wine rack!’

  Enid looked at me as if to ask whether she meant that literally and I smiled and shook my head.

  ‘Dump your coats on the stairs,’ Morag added and, jackets discarded, we followed her petite frame and flaming-red hair through to the kitchen. I always think she should have been named Jolene, like the song, with her ivory skin, startling green eyes and that amazing hair.

  Morag and Harry live in a cute nineteenth-century terrace on the old high street in St Aubin, full of charm and character – just like Morag. We sat down at the gnarled old table in the kitchen while our hostess poured us each a glass of pink champagne.

  ‘Sláinte!’ she said and we all clinked glasses. ‘I’m just doing us pizza and salad for supper, is that okay? Sorry, nothing special, but you know cooking’s not my strong point!’

  ‘Will Dan be having pizza, too?’ Enid asked, looking concerned.

  ‘Of course not!’ Morag laughed. ‘He’ll be having five fish fingers, thirty-five peas and fifteen chips, as always.’

  Enid looked relieved. She and Dan were equally keen on consistency.

  ‘Talk of the devil . . .’ Morag looked towards the doorway, where Dan stood in Batman pyjamas clutching a book.

  Enid immediately jumped off her chair. ‘Would you like me to read that to you?’ she asked. Enid isn’t generally that comfortable with kids, but she adores Dan. It helps that they share the same passions.

  Dan nodded. ‘It’s about owls,’ he said. ‘I got it from the library. Did you know that the tiniest owl in the world is the elf owl? It says in the book that it’s five to six inches tall and weighs one and a half ounces.’

  ‘I did,’ Enid said solemnly. ‘And did you know a group of owls is called a parliament?’

  Morag and I smiled at each other. I heard footsteps on the stairs then the slam of Dan’s bedroom door closing.

  ‘So she’s definitely going to Australia then?’ Morag asked, topping up our glasses.

  ‘Well, she’s booked it now but I’m still not convinced she’ll go. It took me two weeks to persuade her I’m capable of looking after Clifford and the hedgehogs while she’s away. And I’ve had to promise not to let Nigel anywhere near them!’

  ‘I guess Saturday night didn’t help. I can’t believe he did that.’

  ‘I know, he’s such a knob sometimes.’

  ‘Why do you stay with him?’ Morag asked. She’s always blunt with me and that’s good. With Enid as my sister, I’m not used to polite.

  ‘Because I want to have kids, Morag. I’m thirty-eight. I’m hardly likely to meet anyone else and manage to get on and have children with them now, am I?’

  ‘That’s not a good reason and you know it. I don’t understand you. You could have your pick of men.’

  ‘Well, they’re not exactly queuing up . . . Enid and I have always been unlucky in love. And I’ve failed to achieve any of society’s expectations: marriage, children, a career . . . I’m hopeless.’

  ‘Hey, that doesn’t sound like my upbeat Bess!’ Morag protested. ‘Anyway, there’s plenty of people not following convention in this wee island. Look at me!’

  ‘I love the set-up you’ve got here. You’re so good with Dan. Has his mum been in touch lately?’

  ‘Oh yes, the lovely Melissa . . . She’s still on about entering him into those medical trials in the US. Desperate for him to be “cured” of his autism. Harry’s still dead against it.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I can understand both points of view . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’m just concerned about putting Dan through the stress of it when there’s no reliable prospect of a cure. And even if it did work, it might come at the cost of him losing all his special gifts – the things that make him Dan.’

  ‘Yeah, I can’t imagine if Enid hadn’t been Enid all these years. But she’d have avoided those horrible low periods in her life.’

  ‘She’s okay at the moment, though, isn’t she?’

  ‘For now. I just hope this trip away goes according to plan. I couldn’t bear for anything to go wrong.’

  Morag rubbed my hand. ‘She’ll be okay. It’s time she had a wee adventure.’

  By the time we’d finished supper and Dan had been tucked up in bed, Harry was back. In his naturally tactile way he’d circled the table hugging each of us – even Enid. There’s no air-kissing with Harry – it’s bear hugs all the way. He’s a big, fair-haired man, like a Viking (he has to stoop to avoid all the beams in the house), and he has a face that’s ever young thanks to his very cute dimples, inherited by Dan.

  Enid started to look uncomfortable, which is no reflection on Harry. It’s just that there are very few people she feels relaxed around. That’s part of my concern about her trip to see Fred. Sure, they’re at ease in their correspondence and occasional phone calls, but up close and personal? I just hope she doesn’t go all that way only to freak out and head straight home again.

  ‘I hear you’re off to Australia for Christmas,’ Harry remarked to Enid, while he plonked the kettle on to the Aga’s boiling plate.

  ‘Yes,’ Enid replied.

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘South of Perth, a place called Secret Harbour.
’

  ‘Sounds exciting! Looking forward to it?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Enid replied honestly. ‘At the moment, I’m too worried to feel excited.’

  ‘What are you worried about?’ asked Morag kindly, but Enid immediately clammed up and looked at me in desperation.

  ‘I think Enid’s just a bit anxious about the journey and stuff. I know I would be,’ I lied. ‘Actually, we should get back, but thank you so much for a lovely evening.’

  The kettle started to whistle. ‘Sure you don’t want a coffee?’ Harry asked, clearly disappointed we were leaving. I glanced again at Enid but her eyes told me it was time to go.

  ‘Yes, sure. But I’ll see you tomorrow.’ I volunteer once a week to listen to the kids read at the primary school where Harry’s the headmaster. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow, too, if the roads are clear enough for me to get to the college,’ I said to Morag, kissing her cheek. Morag is an art teacher at the local technical college where I do a bit of life modelling. It’s how I met Nigel.

  Nigel. The most uncreative person in the world. He started an evening art class purely on the basis that his mother decided I was just his type, having attended one where I was sitting, and suggested he take it up. Not that he admitted it at the time: it wasn’t until I met his mother that she let it slip.

  ‘Oh, you look just as lovely with your clothes on!’ she tittered when Nigel ushered me into the ostentatious house in Rozel and introduced us, though I immediately recognised her.

  ‘You remember, of course?’ she asked. ‘I took an art class last year; you were the life model.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ I replied, looking quizzically at Nigel as I recalled he’d been in the class the very week after the one his mother had taken. Nigel looked embarrassed.