A Christmas Gift. Sue Moorcroft
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down to work.
Interrupting himself, once in a while he tried a couple of lines of lyrics, as the songwriting habit, imbued in him at college, had never left. Something about an old crush being the reason he’d been wary of seriously long-term relationships …? Sounded ridiculous. An immature get-pregnant-to-get-him-to-marry-me scheme a few years ago had been responsible for any wariness he had in that direction, and the woman who’d followed had been so incredibly indiscreet on social media about the details of their relationship that he hadn’t even felt obliged to end things face-to-face. She’d got her revenge by revealing the details of that phone conversation in a Twitter storm that had made him feel sick.
He got up once to make coffee, standing at the kitchen window and staring out at the new block, which replaced what had once been a wonderful view over gardens and paddocks. He felt charged, restless, but made himself return to the work. He kind of wanted to show Georgine what he could do.
His long ago alter ego Rich Garrit continued to invade his thoughts. At nearly fourteen, he would have almost wet himself with excitement to know he was going to meet Georgine France in a pub tonight. She was the prettiest and most popular girl in their school year, and to him an unlikely but highly prized friend. She’d lived in a big house in Middledip village and her parents had a car each: a Jaguar XKR and limo-like black Mercedes.
Young Rich Garrit would have pretended to himself that they were actually going on a date. He’d never asked to start seeing her of course, knowing he’d be destroyed if she’d said no, and, in all probability, so would their friendship. And enough money for an actual date? In his dreams.
Present-day Joe Blackthorn had to explain what Georgine obviously considered strange, if not downright suspicious, behaviour. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back to come to terms with that uncomfortable thought.
Rich Garrit had been an odd kid.
But Georgine probably thought Joe Blackthorn odder still. Fucksake. Why wasn’t his life ever simple?
After work, Georgine drove to Bettsbrough. Gold Street, on the left just before the town proper, led her to the sheltered housing where her father lived without her being sucked into the one-way system.
She used her key to let herself in through the main door. There was no sense in using the entry system, which would oblige her dad to ease himself out of his high-seat chair and shuffle across to press the ‘open door’ button. She would have tried to get him some kind of mobile phone-based system so he could remain in his chair while he talked to callers at the door, but his speech was now so unclear that he wasn’t keen. At least that saved her from having to find the money.
Money. Who said it was the root of all evil? To her it was the root of all sodding hassle and disappointment.
No trace of that kind of frustration showed in her face though as she let herself into the flat, past the bathroom and into the sitting room. ‘It’s me, Dad.’
Randall twisted in his chair. ‘Hi, honey!’ It came out more as: ‘Ha unny’ but he’d said ‘Hi, honey’ every time he saw her for as long as she could remember so the imperfect diction didn’t matter.
Cheered just to be with her dad, who seldom complained, no matter what life threw at him, Georgine stooped to hug him as he groped for the TV remote with his good hand to switch off the late-afternoon news. He was bulkier than he used to be and she couldn’t make her arms meet around him. ‘I called in at the supermarket and got the stuff for a full English as promised. Hungry?’
‘Oh, yes. Favourite.’ Randall gurgled a laugh. As his speech had deteriorated he’d compensated by developing a kind of verbal shorthand and making greater use of laughs, groans, nods and headshakes.
Georgine chatted for a few minutes, satisfying herself there was no fresh reason to worry about him, then moved into the kitchenette, switching on the grill to warm up as she unpacked sausages, bacon, eggs and mushrooms. ‘How’d you like your eggs today, Dad?’
‘’Amble, p’ease.’
‘Scrambled it is.’ She pricked the sausages and put them under the grill, letting them get a head start while she cut the rind off the bacon, wiped the mushrooms and mixed the eggs. As she worked, she updated Randall on the Blair-moving-in situation. She knew Blair had visited Randall and told him in person about Warren ending things.
‘Poor Bear.’ Randall couldn’t get his mouth to form the L in Blair very well. He asked a question, which, on the second attempt, Georgine got as, ‘Is she very upset?’
She paused to consider, cooking tongs dangling from her fingers. ‘Putting a brave face on, but I think it’s rocked her. She wasn’t expecting it and she still loves him.’
‘Gi’ her a ’ug.’
Georgine grinned. ‘I will. I’ll tell her it’s from you.’ She turned the sausages and took a tin of tomatoes from the cupboard. ‘By the way, a new guy at Acting Instrumental turns out to be someone I went to school with, Rich Garrit. I didn’t immediately recognise him. He’s changed his name to Joe Blackthorn for some reason.’ It made her stomach drop to remember the shock of the realisation.
Randall made a puffing noise, trying to get a word out. Georgine gave him time as she opened the tomato tin. Finally, he managed, ‘Criminal?’
‘Blimey. Hope not.’ At school, she reminded herself with an unpleasant thrill, he had hung with all the rough guys and it had been really weird the way he’d turned on her one day and then disappeared. Nobody had known where. Georgine had even put aside her hurt and anger to ask his sister, Chrissy, but Chrissy had just shrugged and turned away. Then, in a matter of weeks, Chrissy had gone too. Unnerving rumours of Garrit doing away with both children had swirled around the school until the teachers had heard and said that Rich and Chrissy had each transferred to schools out of the area.
Starved of oxygen, the flames of rumour went out, but Georgine had struggled to cope with the loss of a friend. It had been like a bereavement. For the first time in her life she’d become moody and difficult, which had led, eventually, to that truculent moment of stupidity that had changed everything for everybody she loved.
Her family became a distorted thing. Dad lost everything. Mum left. Blair developed an awkward relationship with money. It had all stemmed from Georgine and those moods, and it seemed as if she’d spent her life since then battling the fallout. It was probably why now she liked everything to be neat and controlled.
‘Careful with him.’ Randall groped for his hankie to wipe his mouth before he finished. ‘Ve’y careful, p’ease.’
Georgine’s heart warmed at the love in her father’s gaze. ‘I’m meeting him at The Three Fishes at eight. It’s nice and public.’
‘’Kay.’ Randall nodded. ‘Tex me later?’
‘I will. Now, I’m just putting the bacon under. I’ll give you three rashers.’ She moved on to tell him how the Christmas show was going. He loved to hear about her job and she loved to talk about it, so the subject lasted them through dinner and the washing up. Then Georgine checked Randall’s bank account for him, exhibiting her phone screen so he could nod in satisfaction that his benefit was coming in OK and his rent going out.
Then she said goodnight and drove home, grateful that her car, small and middle-aged as it was, remained reliable in the face of increasingly cold weather.
Despite her assurances to her dad, when the time came to meet Joe, she wasn’t sure she should have agreed to it. Blair was out or Georgine might have asked her to come along. And why had she suggested the pub? She didn’t have money to spare on non-essentials. She resolved that if Joe bought her a drink and she bought him one back, that would provide ample time to hear what he had to say. She could squeeze that much out of her budget now she had Blair’s contribution to