Midwives On-Call At Christmas. Tina Beckett
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water.
He’d upset her daughter.
Jacob Layton was about to find out that hell hath no fury like an angry mother.
* * *
‘Isn’t it about time you went home?’
He lifted his head from the bar and the barman gestured his head towards the clock. The guy obviously wanted to close up.
The old guy shrugged. ‘Can’t be that bad.’
Jacob picked up the now-warm remnants of beer and washed them down. ‘You have no idea.’
He looked out through the murky window. It had started to snow. He didn’t even have a jacket. In his haste to leave the house he hadn’t stopped to pick one up.
How far had he walked? He had no idea. He’d never even been in this pub before. Let alone nearly fallen asleep at the bar.
He gave the barman a little nod and shivered as he walked out of the door and the wind whistled around his thin jumper. With his suit trousers and business shoes it was hardly winter gear. But he hadn’t stopped to think about much before he left.
That was the trouble. He couldn’t think. He’d taken one look at all those Christmas decorations and a whole host of unwanted memories had come flooding back.
It was ridiculous. It was pathetic. He’d spent every year of his life around Christmas decorations.
But not in his space. Not in his home. In other places, they were bearable. In other places there were other things to do, other things to think about. At home, they would be right under his nose constantly—forcing him to think about things he’d long since pushed to the back of his mind.
The cold wind started to penetrate through his thin jumper, making him shiver. His insides were cringing.
Freya.
Her little face had crumpled and she’d started to cry.
He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his behaviour. He hadn’t even stopped to think about her. And everything about that was wrong.
What embarrassed him even more was the fact that if it had been just Bonnie, he might not be feeling so ashamed. It had taken a five-year-old to teach him what acceptable behaviour was. What kind of human being did that make him?
The kind that had spent the last three hours in a bar, like some sad and lonely old drifter sitting on a bar stool alone, nursing one bottle of beer after another.
Pathetic. Was that really the kind of man he wanted to be? Was that the kind of man that would have made his mother proud?
All of a sudden he wasn’t feeling the cold any more. All of sudden he was lost in distant memories as his feet trudged through the snow, his dress shoes getting damper by the second as the memories of his mother burned deep in his mind.
She had complemented his closed-off father beautifully with her calming good nature. She was always able to put a smile on his father’s often grumpy face, or give a measured argument against his forceful opinions—skills that Jacob hadn’t seemed to inherit.
If his mother had still been alive he would never have ended up at loggerheads with his father over his refusal to follow the family tradition into the military. His mother would have argued peacefully, but successfully, for his entry to medical school and the opportunity to pursue his own career options.
His father had never really accepted his decision—particularly when Jacob had opted to become an obstetrician. It wasn’t heroic enough for his father. It wasn’t front line enough, or pioneering enough. He didn’t see the joy in bringing life into the world, compared with so many other specialities that frequently dealt with death. Just as well his mother had left him enough money, not only to put himself through medical school, but also to allow him the freedom to place a deposit on a house and have the option of being part of one of the finest universities and hospitals in the country.
She would be proud of him. She should be proud of him. She would love what her son had achieved.
But she would also expect him to treat everyone with the same respect he’d given her. With the love and compassion he’d given her.
The long street ahead was coated with snow. The orange streetlights cast a warm glow across the snow-topped cars. People spilled out of the pub ahead of him, laughing and joking. Full of cheer.
When was the last time he’d been in Cambridge city centre on a Saturday night? He couldn’t even remember. Now he looked around him, Christmas was everywhere. Every shop window was decorated and a few of the flats on the main street had glistening trees in their windows.
He hung his head as the cold bit harder. Festive cheer. It should be spreading warmth through his soul. What on earth was he going home to?
His footsteps quickened as a horrible thought shot through his head. What if they’d left? What if they’d left because of his behaviour?
The beer sloshed around in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten at all in the last few hours and that last thought made him feel physically sick.
The thought of going home to an empty house after a month wasn’t at all appealing. It was strange how things had changed without him really noticing. Please don’t let them leave. He would much prefer it if Bonnie was waiting at home ready to tell him exactly what she thought of him. He could take it.
He might even try and explain why he’d behaved like that—if, of course, she gave him a chance to speak.
The snow was getting heavier. It was kicking up under his feet and lying on his shoulders and eyelashes. His feet moved even quicker. How far had he walked?
It was a relief to finally turn into his street. Only a few windows were uncovered, letting their warm light spill out onto the snow-covered street. From a distance, he could see his tightly pulled white blinds.
He swallowed. His mouth had never felt so dry. Drinking beer certainly hadn’t helped. More than anything right now he just wanted to know what lay behind his door.
He had to stop himself from breaking into a run. His brain was spinning. What would he do if they’d left? What would he say if they’d stayed? A thousand excuses and explanations were running through his brain. But somehow he knew they wouldn’t wash with Bonnie.
Nothing but the truth would do for her.
He pulled his key from his pocket as he walked up the steps. He paused at the door. The house was silent. Not a single sound from inside.
The traditional door handle was icy cold. He pushed down on it and the door clicked open.
Relief. Pure and utter relief. If Bonnie had left, the door would have been locked.
He brushed the snow off his shoulders and hair and kicked it from his damp shoes.
Still nothing.
He walked silently down the corridor. The light was out in the kitchen and in the back sitting room. His stomach twisted. The green and red garland was gone from the stairs. There was no sign it had even been there.
He held his breath as he stepped into his front room. His completely bare front room.
All signs of Christmas were gone.
The tree. The lights. The garland. The nativity.
Just one small lamp was lit in the corner of the room, reflecting the bare white walls back at him. He’d never realised just how sparse this room was.
Bonnie was sitting on the sofa. She didn’t even turn her head towards him. She was staring at the now unlit fire. Her jaw was set. In one hand she held a glass of wine, the fingers of the other hand running up and down the stem of the glass.
He braced himself, but she said nothing.
‘Bonnie,’ he acknowledged. An elephant had just decided to sit on his chest. At least that was what it felt