Freeing Grace (47 page)
Unaccountably, Elizabeth—who was not deaf in the slightest—didn’t seem to hear her. ‘I’m
sure
we used to have more oxen than this . . . Bloody mice . . . Kimberley, how are you doing with those fairy lights?’
In answer, Kimberley flicked a switch at the foot of the pulpit, and an arch of brilliant colour sprang into life around the wooden stable. At the same moment, someone turned the handle of the heavy west doors; they clunked, rumbled and then creaked open.
‘Oh, well
done
, Kimberley. Lovely!’ Elizabeth stepped back to admire the tableau. ‘There. I think we’ve done it. Just needs that baby, Vanessa.’
But Vanessa had stopped swaddling the Baby Jesus. She wasn’t even looking at the Holy Family. She’d turned to see who had come in, and was peering down the gloomy nave towards the font.
‘It’s Mr Edmunds,’ she cried, delighted. ‘Hi, Mr Edmunds! Where d’you think you’ve been, skiving off while we do all the work?’
There was no reply. The little group fell silent, watching David’s tall figure as he made his way swiftly up the nave. There was something ominous about his hurried gait.
Quietly, Angus lowered his box onto a pew. ‘Everything all right, David?’
The curate halted by the altar steps, his hands in his pockets, eyes deep in a shadow of their own. Elizabeth stepped forward, her brow creased. Behind her, Vanessa, Kevin and Kimberley huddled close together, watching anxiously.
‘David, what’s happened?’ asked Elizabeth, her voice rising as she searched his face. ‘Where’s Leila?’
‘I’m glad you asked me that,’ replied David, soberly. ‘Because I’d like to introduce you to someone.’
They heard the ring of heels on the worn stone floor a second before a figure emerged from behind the font.
Later, Elizabeth and Angus would agree that they had never before seen Leila as she was that evening. Eyes glittering, she walked steadily up the nave. And close to her chest she was holding something: a wriggling bundle, wrapped in a blanket.
‘
Blimey
,’ gasped Vanessa.
With a flourish, Leila reached down to draw back the folds of wool, and pandemonium broke out. Elizabeth sprang forward to kiss Leila, Angus laughed and grasped David’s hand, while the youngsters crowded around for a closer look.
‘Oh, my God!’ Kimberley was beside herself. ‘Are you adopting her? She’s
gorgeous
!’
And so she was: alert and confident, dark eyes bright and curious as she surveyed the world around her. They’d dressed her in a red jumpsuit with a matching squashy hat.
‘Fola?’ breathed Elizabeth, taking one tiny hand in both of her own.
Leila’s smile seemed to hijack her whole body. ‘No. She’s Grace.’
‘Hello, Grace.’ Elizabeth pressed the little hand to her mouth. ‘When did you get her?’
‘We’ve been introduced over the last few days.’ David stooped to kiss his baby’s cheek. ‘Mrs Bayley, the foster carer, gave us some much-needed lessons. Grace slept in the hotel room with us last night, and we set off from Suff olk with her after lunch.’
‘It was terrifying!’ Leila was lit from within. ‘All that responsibility for another human being. We couldn’t remember what temperature the car was supposed to be, or anything.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Almost five months.’
‘Well, she’s very alert,’ said Angus, bending his knees so as to put his face close to the baby’s, and grinning at her. ‘She’s taking everything in.’
‘Could I hold her?’ Kevin blurted out the words and immediately looked as though he wanted to bite off his own tongue. Leila hesitated and then slid the baby into the boy’s arms. ‘Support her head . . . that’s right. Perfect, Kevin. Look! She wants to touch that gold ball on the Christmas tree. Clever girl.’
Vanessa pulled down a branch so that Grace could reach the bauble. She called over her shoulder, ‘See, Mr Edmunds, I told you, didn’t I? I expect you prayed for a baby, and you
got
one.’
‘Yes. Well . . .’ David’s gaze flickered, amused, to Leila. ‘Some of us merely sat and prayed. Others were rather more proactive.’
‘And now you’ve brought her to church. I hope you’re not going to dump her in here, like that poor little Samuel,’ murmured Kevin, who seemed hypnotised by the life in his arms.
‘Rest assured, Kevin,’ laughed Leila. ‘This baby is
never
going to be given away again.’
‘The little suit’s very smart.’ Vanessa stroked the fleecy fabric. ‘And a hat to match. She could be on a catwalk.’
‘They were a present from my mother.’ David pressed his toe against the altar steps, adding in an undertone, ‘Along with a note, asking to be included in our child’s life.’
‘Gosh.’ Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up.
‘We phoned to thank her,’ said Leila. ‘Hilda came as close to grovelling as she can ever have done in her whole life. I think she’s realised she could lose David. Begged us to visit her.’
‘And will you?’
‘Yes. Certainly. Grace needs all the family she can get, since she’s lost her real one.
Mine
didn’t wait to be invited—they’re arriving on Boxing Day. Loads of ’em.’
‘My father’s away for Christmas,’ remarked David blandly. ‘Last-minute invitation. Golf tournament.’
‘In Hong Kong,’ added Leila with a twitch of her lips. She retrieved Grace from her fan club. The baby was gazing squiffily at the fairy lights, blowing bubbles, casually accepting her celebrity status.
Vanessa clutched at Kevin’s arm. ‘I’m going to ring the bells!’ she announced. ‘C’mon, Kev, Kimberley. This calls for a
real
peal!’ And the three teenagers dashed into the vestry.
They were enthusiastic in their ringing, if not skilled. The joyous, discordant cacophony that exploded from the spire was enough to make long-dead bell ringers turn in their graves.
The wild applause floated on the clear, sparkling air; across the ruined play park, among the tower blocks. A pale child heard it, as he stood alone on a balcony. He pressed his face between the bars, listening.
An elderly man in the churchyard turned filmy eyes up to the old spire and then sank down onto a bench, patting the space beside him.
‘Come sit here with me, love,’ he mumbled peaceably, and turned up the collar of his shapeless coat. ‘They’re making a right old din this year.’ He held a bundle of red roses, swathed in cellophane. ‘I got your favourite.’
In the off-licence, Dora paused in the act of wrapping a bottle in brown paper and held up a forefinger. She walked to the shop door and leaned out into the street.
‘They’ve got a team of monkeys swinging in the belltower tonight,’ she said.
Her customer, the bank manager, glanced wretchedly at his watch.
‘How very odd. They’re
much
too early for Carols by Candlelight,’ mused Marjorie Patterson, who was choosing nibbles. She patted her new blue rinse. ‘I ought to look into it.’
‘I shouldn’t bother.’ Dora wandered unhurriedly back to the counter. ‘It’s lovely to hear them, whoever they are. Such joy! After all, it’s Christmas.’
Leila laughed aloud as the bells began to ring. To her, they were the beginning of everything.
Grace startled slightly at the sound, her eyes widening, arms thrown out. Then she yawned. It was a miniature yawn, and she lifted dimpled fists to her face. David pulled something soft and tatty out of his pocket, tucking it next to the red jumpsuit, and the baby’s fingers closed tightly around the tangled bundle. It was a goofy-looking knitted lion.
Stepping close to the curate and his wife, Angus rested a hand on each of their shoulders.
‘Well now,’ he said calmly. ‘You’d better take this miracle home.’
It was a luxurious journey. Shame I was in no mood to enjoy it. The stewardesses all had flashing Rudolph earings and tinsel in their hair, and they weren’t grumpy old trolls like the ones in cattle class. They served us turkey and champagne, and we had seats that lay almost flat, and fluffy blankets, and enough leg room to kick a cat.
For the first time in my life, though, I didn’t sleep on the flight. I tried to read a book but I never got beyond the first page. Mum was checking out. I hunched against the window, looking out at the sunset until one of the hosties bustled up and pulled down the shutter.
Then I gaped vacantly at the movies—all of them, even the cartoons. And when I closed my eyes Mum tiptoed into my room, smiling, a finger to her lips. She was hiding a puppy up her jumper. Just a tubby sausage with paws, really. We stroked the velvet ears, laughing softly together. And I loved her more than anyone in the world.
I had to change at Singapore, and spent two hours wandering restlessly among the glittering arcades of Changi Airport, watching shattered parents with crying toddlers, backpackers in frayed jeans, and flawless Singapore girls in long skirts. I felt like a ghost: unconnected, unreal, irrelevant.
She’d wait for me. I knew that. She wouldn’t go without seeing me. It was dawn as we crossed the Southern Alps. I could hear the cabin crew buzzing about in their little kitchen, making coffee and chatting above the rumble of our engines, and I pulled up the shutter to lean my face against the icy window.
New Zealand being just the right side of the International Date Line, I suppose I was one of the very first people in the world to see the sun come up on that Christmas morning. I was watching as it exploded into our darkness, pouring itself along the rim of the earth and making the scratched plastic of my window dance with rainbows.
We floated in slow motion above the crumpled mountains. Their peaks were made of shattered glass that glinted in the sunlight. I could almost see Mum standing alone on the snow in the frozen air, waving to me. She wasn’t scared any more. She was free.
I didn’t wave back, obviously. Well, all right, I did. Only very discreetly though, because they were bringing breakfast.
I fell into a weird kind of half doze as we crossed the Canterbury plains. I held her thin hand as she lay among the drips and tubes. I’m sorry, I told her. I’m sorry. I thought there was plenty of time. That’s why I never came back, even though you gave me everything you had to give, even though you were my world. But I thought about you, every single day.
When I surfaced, the Pacific was glittering all the way to the horizon, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. My ears had begun to pop, the seatbelt signs were on, and the crew were strapping themselves into their little seats at the front of the cabin.
We circled Christchurch, descending through the deep blue air in absolute silence. Even the engines seemed to have stopped. We were gliding down, and down, in a weightless trance.
Down, and down. In silence.
Abruptly, violently, I felt the wheels jar and grind onto New Zealand’s soil, and we were cumbersome and heavy again.
I felt pretty cumbersome myself as I slumped in the queue for immigration. I’d been awake for nearly forty hours, and I needed a shower and a shave and a toothbrush. I didn’t really care, though, because everything felt so unreal. I stood there behind the squalling babies and trendy backpackers, clutching my navy-blue New Zealand passport like a lost puppy. They were playing ‘White Christmas’ over the intercom.
A young woman in uniform came strolling up the line, stopping to speak to one or two of my fellow passengers, answering questions. She had springy red hair piled on top of her head, and freckles, and a smile that lit up the terminal. In fact, she was a model Kiwi girl. She halted beside me.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she remarked brightly, eyeing the passport in my hand. ‘Merry Christmas. Returning resident? New Zealand passport holder?’ It was odd to hear the accent again, with its flattened vowels. Matt would reckon she talked like me.
I had to think for a moment. ‘Er . . . yes. I suppose I am.’
Briskly, she pointed further along the echoing hall. ‘No need to queue, then. You can go straight through at number five.’
I must have looked as lost as I felt, because she touched my elbow to steer me across to the right booth, parking me gently behind the yellow line just as ‘Silent Night’ started up. She hovered briefly, casting an efficient eye over my crumpled clothes.
‘Have you come off the Singapore flight? Your baggage is already in the hall.’
‘Thank you,’ I mumbled, trying to sound normal.
‘You’re welcome.’ She gave me a small, professional nod and made to move away.
I looked at her. ‘I never asked for any of this, you know.’
She didn’t lose her poise. ‘I know you didn’t, sir,’ she replied calmly. ‘It’s a very long flight, that one. But never mind, you’ve made it back in time for Christmas.’
And then she smiled, right into my mind.
‘Welcome home,’ she said.
I didn’t cry. Obviously not.
Sunday morning Eucharist hadn’t been so well attended since they filmed
Songs of Praise
. Full to the gunnels. The verger had to lay on extra service sheets.
The parish was throwing a christening party on the rector’s lawn. They were lucky with the weather. The church spire shone gold-leafed against a flawless August sky. White thistledown seeds floated in their millions, gliding and swirling on the warm currents.
When their moment came, the parents and godparents gathered by the font. All five were at ease in each other’s presence, as though they were very old friends. The choice of godparents drew raised eyebrows from the more conventional parishioners. Three men, all in their late thirties. Fairy godmothers, they called themselves, but it was hard to imagine a trio of less ethereal beings.
The Important Person who was to be christened had just learned to walk, and she was rather pleased with herself. She ignored the fuss at the font and trickled unsteadily up the aisle and back, in a minuscule red dress, collecting adoration all the way. She had two besotted grandmothers in the pews, vying for her attention. Often she lost her balance and sat down on a well-padded bottom, but someone would rush to pick her up again. Sometimes, tired of falling over, she crawled. A gold chain, christening present from one of the fairy godmothers, glowed on her cinnamon-brown skin.