Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!. Catherine Ferguson
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always had it so easy?
In our teens when we scooped up sale items on Saturday shopping trips, she’d sling her arm round my shoulder and laugh, ‘We’re just the same, you and me. We’ll do anything to bag a bargain.’
I’d force a smile when she said things like that. But deep down, it hurt. I’d be thinking, But no, Carol, we’re not the same. Why can’t you understand that?
Carol scrimped and hunted out bargains for the thrill of getting something for less. It was like an enjoyable hobby to her. And she did it partly so she could justify splurging cash on other things, like flying to New York to visit her sister or treating herself to the dress she saw in Vogue.
I scrimped because I had no money.
I didn’t find it fun.
We were definitely not the same.
When I get to the office at twelve-thirty, following a three hour muck-out of a particularly manky flat, all I want to do is collapse at my desk and read my emails.
But Carol calls me in the instant I arrive.
I look at her curiously as she checks something on her computer screen, wondering if she’ll mention the DVD from last night.
At last she looks up and I decide to take the bull by the horns.
‘That was strange last night, wasn’t it?’ I aim for upbeat. ‘I mean, seeing us all like that on TV. How we were then.’ My laugh sounds self-conscious. ‘The girls. Those clothes. The hairstyles.’
She crosses her arms and I catch a glimmer of uncertainty in her normally cool, green gaze.
I’ve unsettled her; crossed an invisible line by daring to be so familiar.
Next second, the iron shutter slams down and she looks away, hunting for something in a pile of papers.
‘They were great days, though, weren’t they?’ I persist, wanting a reaction. Any reaction, for God’s sake – if not wholehearted agreement, then sadness, maybe? Or anger. Just something.
A tell-tale flush creeps into her porcelain pale cheeks and she stares at me in silence.
‘I miss those days.’ I know I’m forcing the issue. But suddenly I’m quite sure that talking is the way forward. We’ve been distant and cagey with each other for too long. We’re not in the school playground any more, sending each other to Coventry on a childish whim.
She gives a contemptuous laugh. ‘Fond memories, eh? Well, I’m glad you see it that way because I definitely don’t.’
She pulls the file towards her and wrenches it open, and some of the pages spill out on to the floor. In a fury, she tears out the rest of the sheets and slams the file down hard on the desk.
Then she tosses a pile of invoices in front of me and tells me to go and sort them out.
I return to my desk, shocked to find myself close to tears.
I’m such a bloody idiot for thinking she might have been touched, like I was, by what she watched last night.
The ice around her heart seems, if anything, more shatterproof than ever.
Changed days, indeed.
In the past, Carol was always the first person I’d turn to when I was in trouble. She would have done anything to help me.
Like when she turned up, completely unexpectedly, at Dad’s funeral.
Dad died from pneumonia when I was sixteen.
It happened suddenly, during the summer holidays. I was staying with my Auntie Sharon, who had a house right by the beach, and when we got the terrible news, she brought me all the way back up North on the train.
I sat silently huddled into a corner of the carriage, staring out at the blur of sheep and fields whizzing by, heavy with fear and loss. Dad’s Multiple Sclerosis had been a major part of our lives but I’d never thought it would steal him away from me so suddenly.
Mum was five months pregnant with Tim.
I was shocked when I saw her. She had aged twenty years, her blonde good looks completely washed away.
The house seemed cold and unfamiliar. It was filled with people and – weirdly, I thought – the scent of flowers. There were bowls and vases of them all over the place, and the sickly smell made my nausea worse.
I moved from room to room in a daze. It was my duty to hold it together for Mum because if she saw me weeping, everything would dissolve into chaos. And we had to get through the funeral yet.
After the service, I stood in line as a conveyor belt of mourners pressed my hand and spoke kind words to me. I knew I would never be happy again.
Then someone said, ‘Who’s that?’
I looked over and there was Carol, standing by the church gate.
I have never been so pleased to see someone in my entire life, either before or since.
I broke away from the group and sat with her on an ancient gravestone out of sight of the other mourners, and I cried properly for the first time, my tears soaking right through her scratchy orange jumper.
When I stormed that it wasn’t fair, losing my dad so young, she gave me her best scarf to wipe my face and said she’d rather have a dad like mine for sixteen years than another sort of dad for an entire lifetime.
Much later, I learned that her father had refused to allow her time off school to support me at the funeral, but she’d bunked off anyway. I knew what that would have cost her when her father found out. Because however often she declared she hated him, I knew that secretly, she was desperate for his approval.
As I’m sorting through the pile of invoices Carol’s just dumped on me, I quickly check my emails. All junk, except one.
A message from the hotel.
I click on it, remembering Reservations Guy and his laid-back attitude. What was his name, again? Oh yes, Ronald McDonald.
I cross my fingers as it opens, praying it’s good news.
Morning Ms Blatchett
Good news. May have a cancellation for the date you want, at a price you’d like. Will keep you posted.
P.S. Hope that goldfish is fighting fit.
Ronald McDonald
I’m so relieved, I laugh out loud.
Then I tap out a reply:
Mr McDonald
Please do not mock goldfish. They are extremely sensitive. Especially when teased about their rubbish memory.
Do keep me posted.
Less than two minutes later, he replies:
Did you know that goldfish sleep with their eyes open because they don’t have eyelids?
P.S. I’ve got a spare tennis ball if you ever need it.
Ronald McDonald
I’m smiling as I return to the invoices.
‘Shona-a-a-a!’ The Boss jerks me from my daydream. ‘More coffee! And get me an up-to-date list of all our customers. And I mean all of them, including that tit Mrs Hetherington.’
‘Okay.’ Shona slips off her reading glasses and dashes into The Boss’s office to gather up the morning’s accumulation of used mugs.
Mrs Hetherington, a customer for several months, had the gall to write