Winter Wishes (31 page)

It was a chilly night, and as Jules locked the door the bishop gazed thoughtfully across the fairy-lit village and out to sea.

“I think we’re going to have snow,” he remarked.

“Seriously?” Huddled beneath her scarf and woolly hat, Jules reckoned it was certainly cold enough. The stars seemed very bright, but from the east a bank of low cloud had started to build. “I didn’t think it snowed much here, though?”

“As a rule it doesn’t tend to, but we have been surprised on a few occasions,” he said. “Make sure you get some food in and have some salt for the path. Once it sets in here the village will be cut off.”

Great, thought Jules. She’d be snowed in, broken-hearted and public enemy number one. Merry flipping Christmas.

She could only hope the New Year would bring some improvements.

Chapter 22

Tara untied her apron and hung it up with a sensation of relief. Her feet ached, which was hardly surprising given that she’d been on them since just after eight this morning. It was now nearly three in the afternoon, and she felt absolutely exhausted. In the run-up to Christmas The Plump Seagull
had been booked solid by second-homers returning to the village and by local companies wanting festive meals for their staff. All this had meant a lot of shifts and overtime for Tara, which was great in some respects; however, it had also left her feeling shattered and smelling constantly like Sunday dinner, which wasn’t so much fun.

The afternoon shift was still in full swing and Tara’s head throbbed from taking orders, dealing with awkward customers and trying not to think about Danny. Actually, she reflected as she reached for her jacket, it was odd but signing the divorce papers seemed to have liberated her from some of her unhappiness. After months of regrets and doing her best to try and make things right – and failing miserably most of the time – it was something of a relief to know that the struggle was over. Maybe this way she and Danny could eventually find some peace and be friends. She would always love him, in her way. Besides, he was Morgan’s father; biology didn’t alter that. Danny was Morgan’s dad and that would never change.

Another strange thing was this: instead of thinking about Danny all the time, her mind was becoming increasingly occupied with thoughts of Richard. She’d lain awake in bed on Saturday night and relived their meeting in Truro, seeing again the chivalrous way he’d carried her shopping and protected her from the bustling crowds. He’d seemed genuinely thrilled to see her, too. Was that because he was just a nice person? Or was there something more to it? Then she’d recalled Amanda, with her glossy groomed looks and dazzling medical career. Amanda and Richard were equals in terms of profession, income and even their shared university experience. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in a single mother who waited tables. She was just dreaming.

“Table six ready. Come on! Let’s get this out!”

Symon’s shout across the kitchen and the chorus of “Yes chef!” from his staff yanked Tara out of her melancholy thoughts. There was no point brooding on all this. She’d ruined things with Danny a long time ago and thinking about Richard was just indulging her imagination. It was time she concentrated on what she did actually have – a son and a beautiful place to live – and stopped feeling sorry for herself.

“I’m off to collect Morgan,” she called, and Sy nodded. Both literally and metaphorically, he had his hands full at the moment preparing festive food. Although The Plump Seagull was predominantly a fish restaurant, he was paying homage to Christmas by serving goose with all the trimmings. Before she’d even started her waitressing today, Tara had spent two hours peeling chestnuts for the stuffing and another hour plating up the Christmas puddings. If she never saw a Christmas dinner again she thought it would be too soon. Maybe Morgan would be happy to have pizza instead?

Outside the warm fug of the kitchen the winter afternoon was bitingly raw. Thick clouds the colour of clotted cream had rolled in from the east to hang heavy on the horizon, and the village was bathed in a weird yellow light. Even though it was only early afternoon, lights were already shining from the cottage windows and smoke billowed from the chimney pots. All the old folk were muttering about snow and glancing at the ominous clouds. Tara could well believe that it might snow; it was one of the coldest days she could remember. She was already shivering and as she walked through the village to the school her breath rose in little clouds. Even the seagulls bobbing in the harbour looked chilly and fed up.

She’d light the wood burner when she got home, Tara decided. Caspar had taken a delivery of logs and in an effort to compensate for his bizarre behaviour at the St Miltons’ party had offered to chop some for her. She rarely saw him outside the cottage, though: he seemed to be permanently inside sitting by the window, tapping away at his laptop with such intensity that it was as if he was in another world altogether. Perhaps he really was a genuine writer, rather than another pseudo artist who just liked to hang out in the village looking the part. He was certainly very cagey about what he wrote.

The daylight was fast seeping away, and by the time Tara reached the school twilight had crept in and Christmas lights were glowing all the way through the village in a jewel-hued trail. Mums clustered around the gate chatting to one another as the children poured out in a torrent of brightly coloured coats and bobble hats. As usual Morgan was one of the last to leave, having left something behind and retraced his steps to retrieve it. On seeing Tara, his face broke into a joyful smile. At least
he
loves me, she thought as she folded him into her arms and dropped a kiss onto his head. Nothing else really mattered in comparison.

“Good day, sweetie?” she asked, taking his rucksack and PE kit.

Morgan shrugged. “It was all right. What’s for tea? Is it sausages?”

She laughed. “It can be if that’s what you want.”

“Yes please!” Morgan looked delighted. “Grand Gran’s making sausage stuffing on Christmas Day specially for me. Issie said.”

Tara felt as though cold hands had grabbed her stomach and twisted it. “But Morgan, we’re not at Seaspray on Christmas Day. We’re going to be in our house.”

“We’ll wrap some presents at our house first, on Christmas Eve. But then we’ll go to Seaspray to be with Dad. Santa will visit Seaspray and we’ll have Christmas dinner there.” He looked up at her with anxious eyes. “Won’t we? Jimmy James’s parents are divorced and that’s what he does.”

Tara was alarmed. Did Morgan think they would be spending Christmas with the Tremaines? No fear. Mo was likely to stab her to death with the carving knife.

“Not that I believe in Santa, Mum,” Morgan informed her. “I know it’s you, or sometimes Dad. Fact.”

Tara said automatically, “Of course it isn’t. I’d never fit down the chimney.”

Morgan gave her a pitying look. “Mum, that’s just a story. Santa does not exist. Fact.”

“Opinion, not fact,” Tara shot back. She took a deep breath and plucked up her courage. “Sweetie, do you want to go to Dad’s for Christmas dinner?”

“Of course. We always go there. Every year. At ten we go to church. Then we have dinner at half past one. I always have the red crackers and sit next to Grand Gran.” Morgan started to pull at his hair, which was always a bad sign. “Then we go for a walk on the beach and then we come back for Christmas tea. There’s a cake with five plastic reindeer and a Santa. I’ll eat all the icing first. That’s what we always do.”

He was right; it was what they did. Or rather, it was what they used to do. Tara wasn’t sure of the etiquette when a couple had filed for divorce, but she was pretty certain that being invited to your ex’s family home for Christmas dinner wasn’t standard practice.

“Of course it is and you’ll go there like you always do,” she promised him. Routine was key for Morgan and even if it broke her heart she would do everything she could to help him keep that structure in his world.

“Yay!” Morgan tugged his hand from hers and ran down the street, arms out like a plane and obviously delighted with the news. “Sausage stuffing!”

Tears prickled Tara’s eyes. How could she deny Morgan a family Christmas just because she wanted him with her? Of course he should go to Seaspray. She’d miss him terribly but it was no more than she deserved.

Morgan had rounded the corner and was out of sight. Knowing that he was probably leaning over the river looking at the rushing water, Tara picked up pace, fully expecting to see him on the footbridge. When Morgan wasn’t there she was taken aback. Normally he loved to watch the river; that was what he always did. Given that Morgan was a little boy who liked routines, she was alarmed not to find him there.

Tara looked around frantically. It was dark and the River Wenn was racing beneath her feet. Could an excited nine-year-old have fallen in? Surely not. Her heart started to rattle against her ribcage. “Morgan!”

There was no answer, just the roar of the wind as it picked up speed, slicing at her cheeks and whipping her hair across her face. There was a cold flurry of ice against her brow and she started shivering again.

It was snowing.

“Mum!” Her son’s voice made Tara turn round abruptly. “Mum! Come quickly!”

Morgan wasn’t under the bridge as she’d feared but was running towards her. His eyes were wide and frightened.

“Quick, Mum! You’ve got to come and help!” He launched himself at Tara, grabbing her arm and tugging for all he was worth. “She’s on the floor and I think she’s dead. Come on, Mum!”

Morgan was panting and full of panic. Tara crouched down and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“Morgan, take a deep breath and tell me what’s happened. Who’s on the floor?”

“Poison Ivy!” He yanked at her again, frantic for her to follow him. “Come on, Mum!”

Tara followed him back over the bridge, round the corner past the green and to Ivy’s house. Unlike all the other cottages with Christmas trees in the windows and gaudy flashing lights strung over shrubs, Ivy’s place was in total darkness.

“She’s lying on the floor, Mum!” Morgan was saying as he hopped from foot to foot in agitation. “Climb over the wall and look through her window. Then you’ll see.”

“Is that what you just did?” Tara was stunned. “Morgan, that’s really naughty. Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because it was a dare. If you can knock on the wicked witch’s window then all the kids play with you and you have friends,” Morgan explained. “I don’t have many friends. They all say I’m a freak, but Jimmy dared me to see the witch, so I did it ’cause I want friends. But now I think she’s dead.” He started to cry. “Mum, do something! She’s horrible and mean but I don’t want her dead.”

Tara knew he was telling the truth and it broke her heart to think that Morgan had been having a hard time at school. They’d talk about this later, and she’d be having words with Tess too, but first of all she needed to find out exactly what was going on.

Her heart racing, she clambered over the wall and peered into the gloomy sitting room. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she made out the shape of a figure crumpled on the floor in the flickering light of the room’s two-bar heater. Tara squinted and thought she could see the elderly woman’s chest rising and falling, but she wasn’t sure.

“Mrs Lawrence!” Tara slammed her hand on the window. “Ivy!”

There was no response. Tara tore across to the front door, only to find that it was locked. No matter how hard she rattled the handle, it refused to budge. Glancing up, she saw that the sash window on the first floor was slightly open. If she could climb up the side of the porch using the trellis as a ladder, haul herself up the drainpipe and manage to reach the window, she could push the sash up and let herself in. It was worth a try. Ivy really didn’t look too good. Tara fished into her pocket for her mobile, cursing under her breath when she realised she must have left it at the restaurant.

“Morgan, I need you to be very brave,” Tara told her son, trying to sound calm. “Run to Mrs Jago in the village shop and ask her to call an ambulance for Ivy. Then she can ring Dr Penwarren and Mrs Keverne, who’ll know exactly what to do. OK? Don’t stop until you get there.”

Morgan bit his lip, nodded and shot off into the darkness.

Gritting her teeth and plucking up courage, Tara hauled herself onto the nearby windowsill and then stretched across to the porch. Her trainers scrabbled on the soft wood of the trellis and her hands clawed at the drainpipe, the icy metal scorching her palms. Several times she slipped, before finally managing to get a grip firm enough to pull herself upwards. She’d always been good at gym when she was at school, and she was still relatively supple now. Praying that the drainpipe would hold her weight, Tara pulled herself gingerly up onto the porch roof and held her breath.

Phew. So far so good.

In spite of the flurries of snow that stung her eyes, she inched her way forwards on her hands and knees, until her fingers reached the windowsill above the porch. Curling them around it, she slowly pulled herself up onto her feet.
Just don’t look down
, she told herself as she tried to push the sash open.
Keep looking up.

At first the frame didn’t yield, but with another hard shove the aged mechanism decided to give and the sash rose upwards. Tara climbed through and onto the landing. She was so relieved to have made it in one piece that she could have cried.

Inside, the house smelt old, of things too long left shut and of absence. There was no warmth; even when she turned the hall light on, the place still had an air of dinginess and hostility. Tara shivered but not from the cold this time. No wonder Ivy was so miserable. Or had the house absorbed her unhappiness? There was a lesson in there somewhere.

Able to see now and negotiate the stairs, Tara flew down them and raced into the living room. Flicking on the main light she saw Ivy crumpled by the sofa like a rag doll. Her left leg was at an angle that made Tara feel queasy. It looked as though Ivy had fallen and broken her hip.