The Christmas Surprise Read online

‘Seriously?’ said Rosie. ‘I look that bad?’

  ‘No,’ said Malik quickly.

  Rosie bought fizzy drinks, papers and some bacon to make sandwiches.

  ‘So,’ said Malik, ‘you are leaving us.’

  ‘It’s only a few miles,’ said Rosie. ‘We’ll come back and visit.’

  Even as she said it, it sounded hollow to her own ears.

  ‘We need to do what’s best for this little man,’ she said.

  As he always did, Malik tried to give Apostil a lollipop, and Apostil tried to grab it, and Rosie politely returned it.

  ‘I never know why you think I have a lollipop shortage.’ She smiled at Malik, who smiled back.

  ‘We’ll miss him,’ he said. ‘The village, it needs children.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosie. ‘But, you know … life …’

  Malik nodded.

  ‘Life,’ he said.

  Rosie sat on the edge of the bed and prodded Stephen until he eventually woke up. His eyes focused on Apostil, who was lying on his tummy.

  ‘No way,’ he said. Apostil let out the same proud grin and showed off how good he was at rolling. The motion, though, demonstrated how useless his right hand was.

  ‘Look at you, my boy!’ Stephen said, picking him up in his strong arms. ‘See. Your parents going out and getting pissed is obviously really, really good for you.’

  ‘That’s a shame, because it’s NEVER happening again,’ said Rosie. ‘Oh God, I can’t even think what Joy’s going to do. Do you think they knock on your door at four o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, downing half his Lucozade. ‘Come here, both of you.’

  He pointed out of the window.

  ‘Look, it’s started snowing again. It’s nearly Christmas. Today is a day to cuddle up in front of the fire and make Apostil watch The Great Escape. Followed, if he’s good, by Goldfinger. Then we’ll wrap presents and eat toast and drink tea, and we won’t think about social workers, or moving house, or operations, or families, or anything. Okay?’

  Rosie rested her head on his shoulder, Apostil in between them, and watched the snow fall softly on the quiet Sunday-morning village.

  ‘Okay,’ she whispered.

  ‘On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind nipping down to church to see how the vicar manages. Last thing I remember last night, he was dancing the Macarena.’

  They did curl up on the sofa together, the room cosy and flickering in the firelight, and Rosie watched the film, but also the tree, with its shining bells and little lights all over it, trying to brand on to her memory how it felt: the three of them together, all cuddled up and happy and cosy, with Mr Dog at Stephen’s feet, snorting little doggy dreams, and Christmas upon them and everything quiet and peaceful in the world. She vowed that whatever happened next, whatever lay ahead on the hard road they had to take, away from everything they knew and loved, it wouldn’t come between them; wouldn’t take away this deep peace and happiness, the strong bond of their little family, however unconventional, however hard-won.

  ‘What are you looking so pensive about?’ said Stephen, glancing over at her face, made pink by the fire, her hair falling softly down her back. She hadn’t had time to get it cut. He was glad.

  ‘God rest ye merry, gentlemen,’ murmured Rosie softly.

  ‘And so say all of us,’ said Stephen, kissing her lightly on the head.

  Just as it was starting to get dark, after three, and everyone was snoozing comfortably, the phone jangled furiously, breaking into their calm. Stephen started, and Apostil let out a disgruntled noise.

  ‘What?’ said Rosie. ‘Oh God, what now?’ All her happy cosiness fell away with a start and she leapt up. ‘The phone. That is never good news. I hate phones.’

  They both looked at it as it jangled again.

  ‘Joy?’ said Rosie.

  Stephen’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘It’s probably my bloody mother, wanting a full rundown on everything whilst pretending she doesn’t. Don’t answer it.’

  Rosie gave him a look.

  ‘What if it’s Lilian?’

  Stephen picked it up and passed it to her.

  ‘I’m going to change Ap,’ he said, leaving the room.

  ‘Hello?’ said Rosie with trepidation.

  ‘FUCKING HELL,’ came the well-bred mid-Atlantic voice. Rosie could have collapsed with relief.

  ‘Oh. Hello, Pamela,’ she said. ‘Um, what’s up?’

  ‘What’s UP? The love of my life fucks off and you ask me what’s up?’

  ‘Seriously?’ said Rosie. ‘Was he really the love of your life?’

  She wanted to bite her tongue; that had come out harsher than she’d intended.

  ‘He’s such an asshole,’ said Pamela.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ said Rosie. ‘I really am. But you’re right, he is an arsehole. I think you’re probably well out of it.’

  ‘They’re all assholes,’ said Pamela. ‘Well, I don’t need to tell you.’

  Rosie just looked at the phone and didn’t answer.

  ‘Anyway, what are you guys doing? I’m bored up here. Are you making Sunday lunch? Are you doing those local carrot things?’

  Rosie didn’t want to say they were eating bacon sandwiches and crisps on the sofa.

  ‘Um …’ she said.

  ‘I could bring down some margarita mix, we could have Sunday-night margaritas?’

  Rosie could not think of anything worse.

  Stephen came back into the room.

  ‘It’s your sister,’ said Rosie, as brightly as she could. ‘She’s coming over.’

  Stephen took the phone off her.

  ‘Don’t come over. We’re busy,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a dinner party in one of your ninety-two rooms?’

  He hung up.

  ‘Woah,’ said Rosie.

  ‘You’re far too nice to her,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re far too nice to everyone.’

  ‘Including you,’ Rosie pointed out.

  ‘Yes, including me,’ said Stephen. ‘But that’s different.’

  As the snow had stopped, they took an unimpressed Mr Dog out for a walk in the fading light, everyone in wellingtons. Rosie had bought Mr Dog snow shoes but he point-blank refused to wear them, which she understood.

  Up at the scout hut, she was astonished to see an immaculate bare room. It was like the massive overdecoration had been a dream, had vanished like fairy food, leaving only the bones of the stage set that had been there before.

  ‘Wow,’ said Rosie. ‘What happened here? Did we dream yesterday?’

  ‘It would be very useful if we did,’ said Stephen, who was already worrying about going back to school in the morning and facing the music.

  But instead, there was Roy Blaine, Laura by his side, standing by with a shovel. He hailed Rosie when he saw her.

  ‘How did you manage all this?’ she asked.

  ‘Got the Boys’ Brigade to do it,’ said Roy. ‘Good for them; bit of energy and discipline. Sort ’em out.’

  Laura beamed proudly.

  ‘That was a brilliant idea,’ said Rosie. She looked at Laura. ‘Is he a changed man?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s giving it a shot,’ said Laura.

  ‘I’ll believe it when you invite us round for a swim,’ said Rosie teasingly, as he grimaced.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Merry Christmas to you both.’

  ‘I suppose we should start packing up too,’ said Stephen, as they made their way back down the icy street. Lipton looked like a Christmas card, snowy fog softening the street lights and casting a gentle golden glow on the little town.

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘I spoke to the estate agent,’ she said. ‘He said it’ll sell in two minutes. Lipton’s much sought after, apparently.’

  ‘That’s because nobody ever leaves,’ said Stephen sadly.

  ‘We’ll come back,’ Rosie said. ‘We’ll be up to see Lilian … and Moray.’

 
; ‘Moray won’t stay. He’ll go to Carningford with Moshe, mark my words.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘They’ll get married before we do.’

  Rosie looked around.

  ‘So it’s all ending,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t, be daft,’ said Stephen. ‘It never really ends, not old places like this. The heart of the country. Pamela will chloroform some hapless sperm donor and carry on up there. Mother will always be here, of course. Tina and Jake will have about nine sets of twins, you’ll see. It’ll all go on.’

  ‘I know. I just didn’t think it would go on without us.’

  Rosie woke early the next morning, her heart sinking in her chest. It took a moment for her to realise why. Joy. God. Oh God. Going back to make her report … drunk in the street … shouting at the social worker, who was only trying to help, only doing her best … oh God.

  She was up even before Apostil. She went to the door of Lilian’s bedroom and stared at him, taking in every inch of him: his long, long eyelashes casting shadows on his round brown cheeks; his right hand tucked away carefully, skinny and flat and grey, unlike his left, which was always on the move, chubby little fingers that waved and grabbed and clung and tugged hair and pulled telephone wires. His soft curled hair, tight on his scalp, and the curve of his solid back underneath his bedclothes. She gazed at him, leaning her head on the door frame of the little room, the sills heavy with snow. They wouldn’t. They couldn’t take her baby away.

  At nine, after they had dressed and breakfasted in near silence, quite different from the usual busy hubbub that started their days, both of them nervous and keyed up, Stephen had kissed her, gently but firmly, saying more with that kiss than any conversation could have done. Then he’d sighed and pulled open the door, and, stick in front of him, set off towards the school for a meeting, and the explanations, and the recriminations, and the awful finality of knowing that this was really it; it was really happening.

  Rosie decided to open up late, not quite feeling up to the many, many questions that would undoubtedly come through the shop door from the second she turned over the old-fashioned ‘Closed’ sign. Instead she cleaned the little house, looked at the presents piled up under the tree; even ignored a phone call from Angie, who wanted every single last detail of the wedding and the party she would have enjoyed so much. Apostil, sensing something was wrong, was fussy and wanted to be picked up. She hoisted him into her arms – he was getting heavy – and nuzzled him quickly before, with her heart beating so hard she felt she could hear it, she finally picked up the heavy rotary-dial phone.

  Her hands were shaking so much she could barely hold the receiver, and it took her three goes, swearing all the while, to get the digits dialled. Finally the extension rang, and rang, and rang. Rosie was feeling torn between being desperate to get this over with and relief at putting it off for a while when the phone was finally picked up, and a different, younger voice said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Um, hello,’ said Rosie, discombobulated. ‘Is, uh, is Joy there?’

  ‘Nooo,’ came the voice. ‘No. She’s on sick leave. She’s been signed off. I’m the replacement.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ said Rosie, horrified. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Stress?’ said the voice, still sounding very chipper. ‘Yeah, she was finding it too stressful. People do, you know.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Rosie, a tiny pilot light of hope suddenly leaping into flame in her chest as well as some astonishment at the leakiness of social service departments. ‘Um, we’re the Lakeman family. I wondered if … I mean, are you going to be looking after us?’

  ‘I guess so?’ said the voice, still in that youthful questioning register. ‘The thing is, Joy dropped her iPad, and she hadn’t backed up all the notes, so it’s a bit of a mess this end.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rosie, blinking hard and letting out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding.

  ‘Hang on,’ said the girl. ‘I can call you up on the computer … L-a-k-e-m-a-n?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosie. There was a long pause, and lots of clicking.

  ‘Okay, all it says is you’ve adopted a baby from overseas?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yup, I know, she didn’t back a thing up.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘So, how are you getting on?’

  ‘We’re GREAT,’ said Rosie. ‘Really terrific.’

  As if on cue, Apostil gurgled cheerfully into the telephone.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ said the girl on the other end. ‘Okay, well, listen, I don’t think you’re on our priority list for now … Can I put you on the end of my very long list, and pop round to see you in a month or so?’

  ‘We’re moving,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Oh, no problem. Just send us your new address when you get settled. And call if there are any problems, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How are you finding it?’ said the voice, in a friendly way. ‘My first baby, I was a bit all over the place.’

  ‘Us too,’ said Rosie, fervently. ‘But do you know, we just about seem to be pulling it together.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ said the woman, and gave Rosie her details, which Rosie pretended to write down before hanging up the phone.

  Then she collapsed on to the sofa and burst into tears.

  There was an envelope waiting in the sweetshop. Rosie, still slightly tear-stained, opened it. It was a copy of a referral letter from Moray to Derby General. He’d attached a Post-it: ‘Stephen told me. Good luck.’

  There was also a letter from the nursing agency that she needed to use to re-register herself so she could get a job. So much paperwork. But oh my goodness, this was nothing compared with the relief – and slight guilt – she felt at slipping down the social worker’s files. She wondered if it had been her that had caused Joy’s stress. But weren’t social workers used to people shouting at them?

  She wished she could send Joy a card or something to cheer her up, but was wary of bringing herself to her attention in any way.

  She looked up as Hester clanged the bell loudly. Marie was, as usual, wriggling like crazy. When she saw Apostil, her face lit up. He also struggled forward.

  ‘They’re like two dogs sniffing each other’s bottoms,’ said Rosie, then wished she hadn’t. Even though it was against about a million Health and Safety regulations, she plopped Apostil on top of the glass cabinet that housed the chocolate bars, nose to nose with Marie, still in the ethnic sling, who stuck out a pudgy hand and patted Apostil hard on the head.

  ‘HEH,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hester. ‘That is his head. She’s a very early speaker,’ she said to Rosie. ‘I have to struggle to keep up with her! Ha ha!’

  ‘Ha ha,’ smiled Rosie.

  Marie reached out and batted Apostil in the nose.

  ‘NEH!’

  Apostil burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, does he cry a lot?’ said Hester, putting her head on one side. ‘Sometimes children do that when they don’t feel securely connected to their mothers.’

  ‘What can I get you?’ said Rosie, comforting Apostil and moving him backwards out of Marie’s reach.

  ‘Barley sugar, please. Arthur needs them for his throat.’ This was Hester’s long-suffering husband. ‘He’s giving a paper at a major conference in Geneva. No surprise Marie is so verbal really.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Rosie blandly, fetching down the glass jar. ‘Small bag or large?’

  ‘Large, please … How’s Apostil coping in the cold weather?’

  Rosie gave her a sharp look.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, you know. He won’t be used to the cold.’

  ‘He’s lived here for over half his life. He’s more used to it than I bloody am.’

  Hester smiled beatifically.

  ‘Now don’t be so touchy, Rosie. I think it’s part of your duty to keep Apostil in touch with his heritage, that’s all.’r />
  ‘By turning up the thermostat?’

  ‘It’s all right for him to be different, Rosie,’ said Hester in her most infuriatingly gentle voice. ‘You must never force a child to fit in.’

  ‘I shall force him to fit in his duvet jacket,’ muttered Rosie, handing over the bag with bad grace.

  ‘Sorry to hear you’re leaving us,’ said Hester. ‘It was nice to have a bit of colour in the village.’

  Rosie wanted to hit Hester quite badly now, so she turned away and forced herself to concentrate on the morning’s good news.

  ‘Although I suppose in Derby it’s a lot more … mixed.’

  (Stephen said to Rosie later that you had to realise that Hester was probably only saying what other people were thinking, and Rosie had snapped back, yes, other RACIST people, and Stephen had shrugged and said, okay, she was evil, and Rosie had said, yes, she was and that was the end of that conversation. Rosie was already cross with him because he had been so delighted that Joy was ill, and didn’t have a word of sympathy for her. ‘She hounded us,’ he said.

  ‘She was doing her job,’ said Rosie. ‘Probably pretty well.’

  ‘Well go and call her, tell her to get up out of her sickbed and take our baby away,’ said Stephen, and Rosie silently fumed at him.)

  Rosie stared so long at Hester that even Hester’s normally redoubtable self-confidence seemed to shrink a little, and she paid for her sweets and left, leaving Rosie furious and shaking and absolutely not in the mood for her next customer of the morning, as she heard spiky heels clopping up the street and looked with weariness at the skin-tight jeans and the tiny cropped furry coat and the huge pair of sunglasses even though there was no sun in the sky today and no prospect of any for quite some time.

  ‘Pamela.’

  The door tinging was less of a welcoming ring and more of a clanging doom chime.

  ‘My brother is a prick,’ said Pamela, without bothering with any of the niceties. Old Mrs Brown, who was browsing for humbugs, scurried to one side.

  ‘Um, yes, sorry about yesterday, we had a lot going on,’ said Rosie. ‘Do you want to see Apostil?’

  ‘Yeah, great. Well done. Et cetera,’ said Pamela.