Humbugs and Heartstrings: A gorgeous festive read full of the joys of Christmas!. Catherine FergusonЧитать онлайн книгу.
immersed in memories, I’m suddenly aware the flat buzzer has sounded at least twice.
I stare towards the door, still dazed.
Is it Fez, back again already? Quickly I scan the room to see if he’s left anything behind by mistake.
Then I rush through to the intercom in the hallway.
‘Hi!’ barks a voice. ‘Open up. We’ve got an emergency.’
It’s Carol.
That probably means I’ll be cleaning tomorrow, I think, as I open the door and wait for her to run up the stairs.
‘Hope I haven’t interrupted anything I shouldn’t.’ She runs her eyes over my outfit and hands me a bag with a uniform in it. Then she barges through to the living room without even asking if she should take off her shoes, shouting, ‘So this is Bobbie Central. Very – er – cosy.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ I mutter, following her through.
Never mind cosy. What she really means is it’s tiny. And of course it is, especially when you compare it to her vast, cheerless mausoleum of a penthouse apartment.
Anyway, I was right. Apparently Rona and Violet, two of our regular cleaners, both phoned in sick and we’re a man down – so, yes, tomorrow I will be scrubbing toilets and dredging strangers’ hairs from plugholes, despite the fact it’s not in my job description.
‘What’s this?’ She snatches up the remote and fumbles for the rewind button.
‘Oh, nothing.’ I feel quite faint as I watch our past zipping backwards at high speed. ‘Fez brought it round.’
‘Well, it’s obviously not nothing,’ she says belligerently, plonking herself down in the middle of the sofa.
I watch from the door as she glues herself to the screen, as transfixed as I was a few minutes earlier.
Suddenly I’m gripped by the strangest sensation.
I am soaring through the air, high up in the clouds, looking down on the top of Carol’s head as if I’ve given my body the slip. Moving forward, I grasp the back of the sofa.
It’s only Carol’s second visit here. The first occasion was when I moved in two years ago and she dropped off a box of my old stuff from the London place. That time, she didn’t even bother to cross the threshold.
We reach the part in the footage where we clink glasses and smile into the lens.
Then more people arrive, including Beau, Carol’s boyfriend at the time. He balances his big, rugby player body on the arm of her chair, takes her face in his hands and kisses her as if there’s no one else around. Roz shouts, ‘Get a room!’ and everyone laughs and whistles, and Beau says, ‘Hey, it’s not easy dating a workaholic. I’m just pinning her down while I get the chance.’
I look at the back of Carol’s sleek blonde head. What’s it like for her to see him after so long? And whatever happened to Beau after she ditched him?
Then suddenly, the video leaps to another scene and we’re sitting round the kitchen table in Carol’s London flat; me, Carol, Roz and Sally. There are boxes everywhere – on the floor, stacked by the door and on the table beside the empty mugs and a half-eaten packet of cookies.
Painful feelings rush back.
It’s the day I left London.
Everything had turned sour. I couldn’t afford to stay. So I packed one day and left the next.
It was so rushed that apart from Carol, only Sally and Roz were around to see me off.
Sally must have picked up the camcorder from one of the boxes. ‘I can’t believe you’re going, Bobbie!’ she’s saying. ‘It’s the end of an era.’
The picture wobbles a bit then Roz, queen of melodrama, starts imploring me to stay. ‘We’ll look after you,’ she keeps saying. ‘We will. Won’t we, Carol?’
I’m smiling at them in turn. But it’s a stiff, artificial smile. The sort that eventually makes the muscles in your jaw begin to ache.
I can remember it so well. My heart was breaking but I was determined not to show it.
I was thinking, If I can get out of here now, with my eyes still dry, I can show Carol I couldn’t care less that she’s just sitting there, detached and silent, ignoring me and refusing to join in with the girls’ pleas for me to stay.
I watch her now as she leans towards the screen. What is she thinking as she observes herself, all stiff-backed and stony-faced, on that awful day three years ago? Does she regret the coldness of her send-off? Probably not, otherwise relations between us would surely have thawed during the intervening time.
Why couldn’t she understand that, in the end, I had to step off that terrifying rollercoaster ride? Throw in the towel and retreat back up North.
Trading the stock markets was the most exhilarating experience I’d ever had.
When it was going our way.
I step into the shower next morning, knowing it might make me late for my cleaning job. But after a bad night’s sleep, during which I tossed and turned, waking up in a sweaty panic because something black and menacing was panting after me, I need the therapy of hot, soothing suds on my back to restore my equilibrium.
But the water is stone cold.
With a sinking feeling, I remember the boiler. The landlord didn’t even bother to call back last night, which is nothing new.
My shower lasts about ten seconds but at least I’ll be at work on time. I race around getting dressed, thinking about last night, which now seems like a weird dream.
When the video footage clicked off, neither of us moved. Carol kept watching the empty screen while I stared at the back of her head.
I broke the silence by saying, ‘Phew! I don’t know about you, but after that blast from the past, I need a drink.’ I headed for the kitchen, calling back, ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’
I hoped she would stay and we could talk. But as I poured two glasses of rosé from the fridge, she shouted something in reply and then I heard the front door open and bang shut.
When I went back in, she’d gone.
I’ve known Carol since we met on the first day at primary school.
She is strong, confident and clever; one of life’s initiators.
And she always has to be in charge.
For a shy child like me, that first day was scary.
When thin, grey-haired Mrs Weavering told us to change for PE, I took off my socks and put the brand new things that Mum called ‘sandshoes’ on my bare feet. They had a funny smell that made me think of the inside of our car.
It was only when one of my new classmates called out, ‘Mrs Weavering, that girl’s taken off her socks!’ and the whole room turned to look where she was pointing, that I realised I had got it wrong. Everyone else had known they should keep their socks on.
I can still remember the mocking laughter in that cavernous gym hall setting my cheeks on fire, and the way that Carol McGinley, squashed beside me on the long balance bench, came to my rescue. She leaned into me and grinned. Then she stood up and announced to the class and Mrs Weavering that she, too, was going to take her socks off because she liked bare feet. I remember the defiant look she gave the rest of the class. And I remember feeling proud – and a little relieved – to have Carol McGinley on my side.
After that, she was always in my corner.
Until she wasn’t …
At