Page 31 of Christmas Every Day
‘You’ve been here two weeks, and this was the first time Billy’s hidden from you. That’s impressive. I was late getting to school after the triplets were born every day for three months. And that was with a huge amount of help. This is a chaotic family. It is a messy house. If you want to quit because you hate it that’s one thing – although I’d still beg you to stay. Literally, on my knees and begging. If it’s because you aren’t a perfect caregiver for these kids, you don’t know what you’re doing and you feel like they may just drive you round the bend, join the club. No one is good enough for my kids, especially not me. But together, with the grace of God and a mighty load of prayers, we can be enough. Now, are you having some ice cream? I’m off tomorrow so the weekend starts here.’
I nodded yes.
Will reached over and picked up my plate. ‘You’re one of us now, Jenny. For better or worse. Part of the crazy Camerons. We won’t let you go without a fight.’ He winked at me, and I had to pretend I needed the loo to go and pull myself together.
The thought that I might have somehow stumbled upon a place to belong, to call home, overwhelmed and bewildered me. How long would it be before these wonderful people found out what my family, Oxford University, Dougal and Duff – Richard – had all realised? I wasn’t worth fighting for – quite the opposite.Wasn’t I?
* * *
Friday morning, I woke to the blissful knowledge of a whole ten days without squabbling, nagging or wiping anybody’s nose other than my own. Next week it was the half-term holidays, so Will was taking care of the kids. I thought about the latest batch of clean, crisp twenty-pound notes in my purse and hummed with glee. Today I would go food shopping. Every scream, scratch and second of stress from the previous week would be worth it. And then tonight I was heading over to Sarah’s for another dose of girl-power ballads and more tortilla chips than was medically advisable.
First, I went to the shed, retrieving the car key I’d found hiding in a toolbox a couple of days earlier. Propping the shed door open, unsure of the possibilities regarding dangerous car fumes, I adjusted myself in the driver’s seat. I hadn’t driven since Mum gave her car to a prostitute.
I inserted the key, which to my great delight actually fitted, held my breath and turned. Nothing but a faint clicking sound. I tried again. Shook the steering wheel about a few times. Pumped randomly on the pedals while twisting the key and ordering it to start. Counted to twenty and tried it all again. Opened the bonnet, blew on everything and went over the whole palaver one more time. Went to have another look at the engine, in case a helpful arrow had a sign saying ‘press this’ or ‘problem here’.
‘It’s the battery,’ a voice said, causing me to bang my head hard on the bonnet.
‘Really?’ I asked, irritated, rubbing the sore spot. ‘Are you a car expert?’
‘It doesn’t take an expert to know a car left undriven for years will have a dead battery,’ Mack replied.
Mack leant in next to me and poked about a bit. I didn’t notice that he smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, at all, as he stood beside me. Neither did I attempt to look down the neckline of his running top.
My flustered state was purely due to having bumped my head.
‘So, what, it needs a jump-start?’ I asked, revealing that I wasn’t a total mechanical dimwit.
‘No point,’ Mack said. ‘You need a new one.’
‘Right.’ My heart sank, for two reasons. One, I had been looking forward to having a car, but finding money for petrol, sorting tax, insurance and everything else was impossible enough. Repair costs would leave my dream as flat as the battery. Two, because Mack was here. Which meant that by next week I would doubtless come home to find the car purring like a tiger, equipped with a shiny new battery and a tank full of petrol. ‘If I look hard enough I can probably find one in the Hoard somewhere.’
‘The Hoard?’ I turned to see him grinning. ‘That’s one word for it. It’s a shame you don’t want my help. Otherwise, if you found one I could show you how to swap them over, in a polite, neighbourly fashion.’
‘Yes, I guess all good spies need basic car skills. The truth is, I don’t even know who it officially belongs to.’
‘Shame. I could help with that, too.’ Mack rocked back on his heels. I said nothing.
‘Well, let me know if you change your mind.’ He strolled off, whistling.
I closed the bonnet, climbed on the bike and sped towards the village. Whistling. Louder.
* * *
With my groceries unpacked in clean kitchen cupboards, I spent the rest of the day hunting through the living room for car-related paperwork. (I used the term ‘living room’ in the loosest possible sense, since currently the only things living in there were not the intended inhabitants.) I found forty years’ worth of telephone directories interspersed with junk mail. And if I could have invented a way to power a car with dust and mouse droppings I wouldn’t have had to bother with a battery.
I arrived at Sarah’s to find Kiko perched on the edge of the sofa, holding a glass of lemonade as if it contained cyanide.
‘Don’t worry about her.’ Sarah offered me a bowl of popcorn. ‘She’s feeling guilty about being out two Friday nights on the trot.’
‘I’m feeling guilty about telling you I’m considering leaving my husband!’ Kiko squeaked as we plopped onto the other chairs. ‘I’m happily married!’
‘No, you aren’t.’ Sarah snorted. ‘But maybe if you stopped thinking so little of yourself, remembered that you aren’t put on this earth – or in that marriage – to be his unpaid servant – which, coincidentally, is otherwise known as slavery, which, coincidentally, he runs a charity to eradicate – if you could remember that, you might be able to make your marriage half decent.’
Kiko’s mouth fell open. ‘He doesn’t treat me like a slave!’
We looked at her.
‘Okay, but he doesn’t mean to. He got home on time tonight so I could go out.’
