For the Love of Christmas. Kate ForsterЧитать онлайн книгу.
or whatever lie she had been told by someone. What grown-ups needed to realise about telling lies is that if you decide on a story, you need to stick to it, not have different versions.
Only Oscar told her the truth. ‘Mum’s gone to a place where they tell her to stop drinking,’ he said.
‘Why doesn’t she stay at home and we can tell her?’ asked Sofie.
Oscar had shook his head. ‘Doesn’t work like that,’ he said wisely.
‘So how does it work?’ she asked.
‘I don’t exactly know, but not like that,’ he said, seeming less wise.
She wished she were at home, where her mum would have put up all the decorations and there was a real tree in the living room and new presents appearing underneath it every afternoon, as though by magic, all wrapped beautifully by her mum.
Her mum loved to wrap presents. She would make a real thing of it, with all sorts of pretty paper and ribbons, and perfect folding. Sometimes Sofie would help her, and even though it was never as good as her mum’s, she would still be praised for her work.
She wondered what Taylor was doing right now. Maybe singing or dancing or having her friends over. And Bubbles? He was probably in a cold kennel, with no friends or even a blanket for comfort.
Her eyes filled with tears, as she lay in the dark, unfamiliar room.
And her mum? She was in a hospital, Oscar said. Was she in bed? In a gown with ties on the back like they show in the movies? Was she even alive? Dad didn’t talk about her much any more. Sometimes she spoke to her in her head, but sometimes she didn’t want to because, if she started to tell her mum how sad she was, she thought she would never stop crying.
She closed her eyes and thought about going home. She would walk up the path with Oscar and there, on the front door, would be the red wreath. This was the first sign that Christmas was coming in their house. Dad hadn’t put up anything Christmassy in the house, saying it was a waste of money and they would do it all when they got home.
But Sofie had other ideas and, turning on the small lamp by her bed, she opened the drawer in the little table the lamp sat on and took out the folded pieces of paper and a pair of scissors. She started her nightly routine of cutting and twisting and turning the paper as she worked.
She had sixteen snowflakes so far. She wanted to make thirty-nine, one for each year of her mummy’s life. She planned to stick them on every window downstairs, so it was a wallpaper of snowflakes in the house. She had a lot of work to do, she thought and sighed simultaneously, and settled in to her task for the night.
Oscar
Oscar lay in bed under the covers, playing with his phone. There was no way he was going to give it to his dad; his dad would never give it back, like the time he loaned him his favourite video game to show someone at work, and forgot to bring it home.
Oscar asked so many times, and Jamie promised so many times, that eventually he just asked his mum to buy him a new one.
His dad was unreliable and a bit hopeless, he had decided last year.
And letting Sofie take the phone into the bath – well, that was just dumb. Even he could have told him that but his dad never listened to him. His dad didn’t listen to anyone.
He was sure his parents would divorce when Mum got out of the place in America. They had had a fight every night for a year. Nothing could survive that, he had decided. He’d watched Divorce Court on TV so he knew how it worked, and he’d seen it with Jack Berry’s parents who had fought so often that Jack said it was a relief when he didn’t have to hear it any more.
But Oscar didn’t want his parents to divorce. He liked them together when they were good. They sort of made each other better versions of themselves.
Mum was more chilled and creative but Dad was really smart and logical. She made him fun and he made her a bit more sensible.
That was until they started being the worst versions of themselves.
He wondered if his mum had bought him any presents in America. There were lots of things he wanted but he hadn’t asked Dad; instead he had emailed Mum a wish list with a few things for Sofie, too
Mum hadn’t answered, but then maybe the hospital didn’t have computers for patients in case they googled escape plans.
He flicked through Instagram, answered a few snap chats, making stupid faces, and then shut his phone.
It was boring here, he thought, and he hoped it would snow. Snow would be fun. Not like the dirty muck in London; country snow would be cleaner. Maybe he and Sofie could make snowballs? Or a snowman? He closed his eyes and thought about home. He wished Mum were with them here. She would like the funny-shaped rooms, and she would laugh every time Dad hit his head on the beams.
Mum made everything fun.
He hoped she was having fun wherever she was right now, and he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
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