The Wish. Alex Brown
Читать онлайн книгу.
to really take off, but she had built up enough clients around the world to take care of the antiques side of the business in any case – she’d ship the items to them. And that’s why she had opted for soft furnishings too – cushions, curtains, door stops, blankets, throws, quilts, and some heavenly-scented candles and trinkets, so there would be something for everyone’s budget.
‘Good. And you can stick me down for a Bakewell tart and a pint of beer from the Duck and Puddle pub,’ Tony laughed. ‘None of this pink fizz for me at the party. Call it payment for the decorating.’ He placed his free arm around his daughter’s shoulders and pulled her in for a solid cuddle.
‘You’re on. But I’ll still be paying you the proper rate for all the work you’ve done, Dad. I have the money,’ Jude grinned, giving her dad a nudge in the side. ‘I’m not fifteen any more and on the scrounge.’
‘More’s the pity. Are you sure you’re going to be forty-one on your next birthday?’ Tony lifted his eyebrows. ‘Makes me feel properly old.’
‘Awww, well … at least you’ll have me here now to make your cocoa and tuck your tartan blanket in around your old weary knees, eh Dad?’ Jude laughed.
‘Oi, wotchit, cheeky! I’m not that old.’
‘Ahh, you know I’m only joking – sixty is the new forty these days,’ Jude laughed as Tony pulled a roll-up from behind his ear and popped it into the side of his mouth.
‘Come on; let’s go to that new Indian restaurant over by the village green. You can buy me a Balti with all the trimmings!’
Sam devoured Dolly’s delicious cottage pie in record time. Then, after a quick catch-up over a cup of tea with her and Colin (to be polite, but not wanting to wait another minute to see Chrissie and Holly), he had jumped back in his Land Rover. With Dolly’s words of, ‘Please don’t be expecting too much,’ and, ‘It’s going to take time for you and Chrissie to sort out your differences,’ still ringing in his ears, he had driven through the village, the spring bloom much in evidence as he drove past the villagers well-tended front gardens crammed full of buttery lemon daffodils. He was carrying a big bag of presents for Holly as he apprehensively pushed open the gate of The Forstal Farmhouse, a beautiful sixteenth-century, tile-hung cottage, set on the edge of farmland, which he and Chrissie had bought over ten years ago, after saving for ages to get the deposit together.
Holly had been a toddler, all fair wispy hair and big wide smiles, when they had first moved in, living in a caravan in the garden while they renovated the whole house. They had done most of the work themselves. Sam had designed and built the kitchen units from scratch, lovely soft scrubbed pine for the perfect country farmhouse kitchen. He had plastered the walls, painted, decorated, laid the carpet and the tiles, and had even waterproofed the crumbling old cellar to turn it into a cosy family room. A den, with a TV and a big comfy sofa for watching films and football at one end of the room, and a long table for all of Chrissie’s crafting paraphernalia at the other end. The room was also fitted with shelves for her sewing machines; she liked to collect the vintage Singer ones with the brown wooden curved covers and little carrying handles. Sam had even made a special cabinet to house her rolls of wallpaper and fabrics, beads, ribbons, and all kinds of colourful knickknacks that might one day come in handy to decorate a gift, or give their Christmas tree a unique style, perhaps. Chrissie was really thoughtful and generous like that. Sam had thought this was the perfect house for the both of them, Holly too – she had her play area with the replica dolls’ house that he had made for her fifth birthday, and the wooden rocking horse for her sixth. Everything had seemed happy and perfect back then.
Sam paused, smoothed back his unruly brown hair, using the moment to get himself together. A smile. Not flashy, or cocky. No, he didn’t want Chrissie to think he didn’t care about the state of their marriage that – quite frankly – was hanging together by a single thread. He wanted her to know that he now understood the impact of focusing on his job and not on his family. He had to get it right. And, if he did, then maybe, just maybe, she would be pleased that he was back to make an effort to try to sort it all out. To put things right. He’d explain about the new job. The big changes that he was planning. That was another thing she had said during that fateful phone conversation. She’d said it would take something really big to make a difference now. And she was absolutely right. But he was back now, even if he did feel like a guest, a stranger even, as he walked up the path, glimpsing the warm, welcoming lights through the lounge window, to the front door of the house that they had created together, as a family.
So many wonderful memories were wrapped up inside this house. Sam cast his mind back to their first Christmas here. Holly had been a toddler and the three of them had been really happy. On Christmas morning, he had let Holly open every single one of her Christmas presents first thing when she woke up, the two of them running downstairs and ripping open the carefully wrapped gifts under the tree. The entire living room was deluged in piles of wrapping paper and boxes of toys, games and treats. Holly had squealed in excitement and Sam had loved the chaotic fun of it. Chrissie had come downstairs in her dressing gown, perplexed and frowning at the anarchy unravelling in front of her. She’d told Sam off for letting Holly go nuts; now she didn’t know who any of the presents were from and it wasn’t instilling in their daughter the value that the people who had bought the presents placed on them.
‘It’s Christmas Day, you can’t take anything too seriously, love. And look how much fun Holly is having.’ The sight of Holly’s face, lit up in excitement, had allowed them to laugh it off, with chuckles of ‘it’s only once a year’. But with the benefit of hindsight, it was those polar approaches to parenting that highlighted the differences between them, foretelling the cracks in their relationship.
Sam went to retrieve his key from his jeans pocket, and stopped. He wasn’t even sure why he still carried the key to The Forstal Farmhouse around with him … it wasn’t his home any more, not now. Chrissie had also made that quite clear with a reticent, ‘Maybe it would be better if you stayed with Dolly the next time you come home’, a suggestion that was definitely not optional. Followed by something about not wanting to destabilise Holly, as she was used to it being just the two of them now. Sam felt a momentary flash of anger. Chrissie had always tried to drive home to him that he had needed to take his responsibilities seriously – once they’d had Holly – and wasn’t that what he’d been trying to do over the last few years; and now Chrissie wasn’t even going to let him come home? He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. No, Chrissie was right – he hadn’t listened when he should have. But all he wanted now was to see Holly. They were close. They always had been. He knew that Holly had missed him being there, just like he missed her, but surely he would have known if she was unhappy with him, wouldn’t she? Or if she was angry that he hadn’t been home in ages. They spoke all the time, on the phone, on FaceTime, and she’d always been her usual bouncy and happy self. But then Chrissie always did have a tendency to want to control situations. Not in a nasty way … it was just her natural coping mechanism after having experienced no control as a kid. Her childhood had been very chaotic, with her mum an alcoholic and dad seeking solace at the bookie’s until they died within a year of each other when Chrissie was in her twenties, shortly before she and Sam met.
Sam pushed his hand into his pocket again. Having the key there felt comforting, like a talisman of some kind, something to hold on to, something to give him hope that this house he had so lovingly restored for his family would be his home once more.
He pressed the bell on the centre of the black front door, and then it struck him, the door had been yellow before. A gorgeous sunshine yellow. A happy colour; that’s what Chrissie had called it when they had chosen the paint together in the hardware shop in the village. And he had loved every second of preparing and painting the front door for her … their happy home, together. And for some reason this made Sam catch his breath. He folded his arms, as if to warm his body, or was it to comfort himself? Either way, he needed to get a grip. He couldn’t dither here on the doorstop like some kind of idiot. No, he needed to get inside and sort things out.
He