The Great Christmas Knit Off (17 page)

‘In that case it’s just not bad enough,’ he says kindly, but firmly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, my dear, where do I start?’ He pulls out a silver-embossed cigarillo case from his cardigan pocket and lights one up before walking over to a window and opening it an inch or so; the breeze of cold, crisp air is refreshing against my tear-stained, flushed cheeks. I finish my mulled wine and Lawrence takes a couple more puffs before carrying on. ‘OK, here’s an example.’ He makes a circle in the air with his cigarillo. ‘Me, growing up in a New Jersey suburb, an effeminate little Jewish boy with a passion for “prancing about on stage”.’ He pauses to do sarcastic quote signs with his fingers. ‘And all this, living amongst a community of Mafia wannabes hollering to all and sundry to “keep off their lawns.
Or else.
”’ He rolls his eyes upwards. ‘Think homemade prison tatts …
on their faces
. Tear drops. The works.’ He pulls a mock-scared face before puffing some more on his cigarillo. ‘Tough, yeah?’ he adds, his American accent getting stronger as he gets fired up. I nod. ‘But I had good, resilient, Jewish parents who loved me and who had witnessed and experienced first hand how prejudice can persecute humanity and scar one’s soul. They were survivors, immigrants from Berlin, strong. So one afternoon when I got home after school with yet another bloody nose, trashed shirt and sneakers stolen at the hands of the playground bullies, my parents were there waiting for me. My mother stood in front of me in her apron, hands on hips and looked me straight in the eye. She asked me if it was bad. I nodded, and she asked me a second time, and I nodded, and then she said, “But is it bad enough Lawrence, is it bad enough?” And you know what? I nodded and told her,
“
Yes, it’s bad enough.” And she said to me right there and then, “So you change it.” The following day we left. Everything, not that we had very much, suitcases, boxes … all of it was loaded into a U-Haul trailer and we went and lived with Dad’s sister, my Aunt Hana, over in Manhattan. You know, Mom had been asking me that question every single day since I’d started at that hateful school a whole year earlier.’

He takes a few more puffs of his cigarillo before throwing another log on the fire, his eyes flicking to me and away again.

‘Oh, Lawrence, I’m so sorry!’ I wish I’d managed to contain myself now. My self-pity feels pathetic compared to what his family must have endured all those years ago. I should have kept my mouth shut. Kept my battered, broken heart to myself.

‘Don’t be, I’m not telling you this to make you feel sorry for me, quite the opposite. You see, what happened had happened, and I learnt right there and then, standing in the kitchen in front of my mother, that we can’t change the past – but we can choose not to let our past experiences define our future ones. When you get to the point of “enough is enough” then you’ll know – and that’s when you’ll let go of the past. And that’s when the fun starts.’ A naughty smile dances on his lips. ‘A whole new future to be excited about. You’ll see – you can live whatever life you want to live. Be and do whatever you want. Reach for the stars. Heal your heart and achieve your dreams – when you free yourself to feel the passion for life and look forwards instead of backwards.’ He laughs and nods firmly to emphasise his point.

Another silence follows, broken only by the crackle and wheeze of the logs in the fire. I look over at him, letting my eyes reach his, and I take a deep breath.

‘Lawrence, I think I’ve reached that point,’ I say, my voice all wobbly and my heart clamouring so hard it feels as if it might burst right out of my chest to race across the room and set a new world 100 metre sprint record. And Luke, Sasha, Mum, the wedding that wasn’t – it’s all swirling around inside my head, but I’m the common denominator, I know that, so I’m the one who has to make the effort if I want to stop living in the past and move forward. I remember Nana telling me once that if you don’t plan your own life then someone else will plan it for you, and that’s what I’ve allowed to happen, in a way, by not taking control, by shying away and letting things happen instead of facing them head on. I did it with Luke. I knew things weren’t right before the wedding; in fact, long before the wedding things had changed between us, I should never have agreed to marry him, but I did. I compromised and went along with it, got swept up in the excitement of the proposal, the ring, the feeling of fitting in, being normal, of having achieved a significant life event like all of my friends, of being partnered up and happy. Or so it seemed. Or was it fear? Fear of reaching forty and being on my own, while everyone else was settled down with babies? It’s ridiculous, the pressure, the expectations, and I got sucked into it all.

Well, no more. I’m going to take control of my life, I don’t want Mum feeling sorry for me with her ‘beggars can’t be choosers’ lines, and then trying to fix me up with men like Ian. I want to feel happy, do what I want and be amazing just the way I am.

‘Good, because you know what.’ Lawrence looks at me. ‘It was the best thing ever, us moving to Manhattan. My father staged his first play just off Broadway and it’s where I first got to touch and feel my dream. Stand on a stage and perform,’ he says, proudly. ‘Now, Sybs, can you feel your passion? What is
your
dream?’

He winks at me as I push the blanket off my knees to join him over by the window. I know what my dreams are and they’re full of knitting and needlecraft and quilting and being my own boss and moving on from the past. I’ve known for years the things I want to do and be, but somehow it all seems to have got muddled up and lost on that day in the church when Luke Skywalker went off on a very different kind of walk. And my sister betrayed me, broke my heart and stole something I had, that I thought was mine, yet again, and just like she always had, but toys, clothes, shoes, make-up are nothing in comparison to a fiancé, a husband-to-be, and she knew how much I believed I loved Luke. But I can’t change any of that now. Lawrence is right – what’s happened has happened, and it made me feel sad for a while and, truth be told, I’ll probably always have a little pocket of sadness in my heart whenever I think of Luke and what might have been before he lost interest and we drifted apart. And I have no idea if things will ever be OK between Sasha and I again. Not that we’ve ever been particularly close, but there was always a link, the bond that comes from being sisters. I give Lawrence a hug and swallow hard before telling him my dream, saying the words out loud.

After flicking the last of his cigarillo into the fire, Lawrence squeezes my shoulders.

‘Wonderful. So your new life begins right now!’ he says, stretching a theatrical hand out high and wide, like he’s back on Broadway and the curtain has just gone up. Fixing his eyes on mine, he raises an eyebrow and I think I might cry again. Just telling him, letting the words out and sharing them with someone else, those things that have been buried deep in my battered and bruised heart for months and months … well, the relief is overwhelming. ‘But first, I’m phoning the doctor’s surgery to see if we can get you an emergency appointment with Dr Darcy. You need to sleep, and he’s the man to make that happen. You know, he does hypnotherapy, homeopathy and lots of other holistic therapies too, so I’m sure he’s bound to have something that will help grace you with some much needed sleep! You can’t start a new life when you’re running on empty.’ Lawrence shakes his head. ‘Why don’t you go up to your room and have a little lie down? I’ll slip a note under the door with your appointment time on, and that way I’ll not disturb you if you do actually manage to get some sleep.’ He smiles reassuringly.

*

Back in my room, I sit in the armchair by the window and pull out my knitting, figuring I might as well make a start on the mittens, as it could well be a very, very long night. I have to give at least a week’s notice to get anywhere near an appointment at my doctor’s surgery, so I’m not holding out on getting to see Dr Darcy anytime soon. Taking the crimson yarn, I cast on, quickly getting into the familiar rhythm of knit one purl one, knit one purl one, knit one purl one; soothing and calming, it sweeps all the awfulness of that encounter with Adam away. I keep knitting until a folded piece of white paper slides under the door. I put my knitting down and pad across the room to retrieve the message.

Sybs,

Your appointment is at 6.30 pm. Dr Darcy said no problem at all about fitting you in at the end of surgery and if you don’t mind hanging around for a bit, I can drop you off there on my way up to the village hall for tonight’s rehearsal.

Meet you in reception around 6.15ish.

Lawrence x

Hmm, clearly I was wrong to be so cynical; seems you can actually see a village doctor at a moment’s notice, how very modern, which is a complete contradiction given that Tindledale doesn’t even have proper mobile phone coverage …

‘H
e won’t be long. Doctor is just finishing up with his last patient,’ a mumsy-looking woman sitting behind the reception desk says, after I check in at the doctor’s surgery. I push the pump underneath the bottle of antibacterial hand cleanser, mounted on the wall beside the touch-screen computerised appointment system. ‘Ooh, you’re good! Most people don’t bother doing that, and then complain when they catch a cold after coming in here with some totally unrelated ailment.’ The receptionist shakes her head and hands me a form and a black biro. ‘I’ve already filled in your name at the top, but if you can pop your details on as well, please – home address, phone number, that kind of thing, the B&B address as well – we have to know where you’re staying, for the EU thingamajigs.’ She does a tinkly laugh before patting her perm and waving a hand in the air. ‘And your own GP’s details and any medical conditions the doctor will need to know about. Oh, and if you’re taking any medication. Here, you might find it easier to lean on this.’ She hands me an old edition of
Country Life
magazine – it has a picture of a shiny black labrador on the front and is dated June 2002. It throws me slightly, her being so helpful and kind, in complete contrast to the hostile hag who polices the surgery of my doctor in London. Last time I called for a repeat prescription of my sleeping tablets, the receptionist was so indignant anyone would think that I had asked for a kilo of cocaine to be couriered round to my flat, immediately, free of charge, and by one of her very small children.

‘Thank you,’ I smile, when she draws breath, and I start filling in the form. I’ve just finished, when a red light buzzes on the wall.

‘Ah, there you go. Dr Darcy will see you now. Down the corridor, turn left and look for the door that says Doctor B Darcy.’ She smiles nicely and I so want to say, ‘I never would have guessed that for myself’, but I don’t, of course. Instead, I hand her the form and say,

‘Thanks so much for your help.’

‘You’re very welcome.’ She pauses to scan the top of my form, ‘Sybil! Oh, that was my mother’s name; how lovely,’ she beams before picking up a mug with
Best Granny Ever
inscribed on the side.

I find the door and, after pausing for a second to whip my parka and scarf off to loop over my arm, I tap the door before pushing it open. Inside – and Dr Darcy isn’t here. There’s a big mahogany desk by the window, with a computer screen shoved to the far corner, as if in disgrace – it’s facing away from the chair, so he’s obviously not a fan of technology, presumably preferring an old-school, traditional country doctor approach, because the rest of the desk space is a jumble of papers, pens, empty specimen pots, a stethoscope, one of those ear torch things, a blood pressure kit and an open book with the pages facing down and BNF printed on the front cover. The floor is covered with files – cream-coloured wallets which, I assume, contain the medical details of every single Tindledale villager, the deceased ones too, because there are so many stacked up, practically covering every inch of floor space.

I sit down in a chair near the desk, guessing it’s where patients are supposed to sit, but it’s hard to tell, as there are several chairs dotted around the room. I’m just about to move to another chair, one that’s a bit closer to the desk, with my bag, parka and scarf clutched in my arms – I’m doing a kind of daft duck waddle so as not to drop all my stuff – when another door flings open and a tall, athletically built man in jeans and a checked shirt backs sideways into the room with his arms full of files and bumps right into me. My nose is eye-level with his bottom as I wobble and sling out a hand to steady myself, but it’s no use, and I end up toppling sideways onto the floor, landing in a heap with the fur-trimmed hood of my parka stuffed in my face. Oh God. I quickly fling the coat off and attempt to scrabble back up into a standing position, but it’s hopeless as the Dolly boots keep slip-sliding all over the place on the cream wallets which have suddenly transformed into slippery little fuckers against the super shiny tiled floor.

‘Ah, for fecks sake! Oh, I’m sorry, I, um …’ The man quickly dumps the files on the nearest chair. ‘Jesus, here, let me help you up – I’m so sorry,’ a deep, lilting and very lovely Irish voice says, followed by a solid-looking hand that reaches down to help me. After grabbing it like a lifebuoy, I glance up.