Page 68 of It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
And I missed my family so, so much.
Chapter 18
?Reconnecting with the past
Jo welcomed me into her bungalow and gave my hands a gentle squeezewith hers as she led me through to her living room.
‘Mally, love, Tom said you’d like to look through some things about Livvie. I’ve got a box full of stuff if you think it would help?’
Hearing someone say her name was like a drug. I sniffed and nodded, sitting down on the same soft spot I’d occupied a few nights ago. Chippie immediately rested his head on my thigh, somehow sensing I needed the comfort of touch.
‘Of course. Tom, could you go and fetch the pink shoebox from the spare bed?’
Tom nodded and left the room.
‘I’ve already had a quick look through what I’ve got, and have pulled out some things you might like to see and put them at the top. Now, there is some… other stuff in there, too. But I’ll leave you to decide whether or not you want to have a rummage. I’ll leave you here for a bit and if you need me for anything you can just shout, okay?’
I nodded again. ‘Jo?’
‘Yes, love?’
‘Before you go, can you tell me what you remember about her? You know, from when you knew her from playschool?’
Jo’s face lit up with warmth. ‘Oh yes! Well, let me think. Oh! I remember this one time, not long after a new boy had started, she came running to me to tell me that another boy had been poking him with a stick. I rushed over to see what was happening, and before I could intervene, your sister said, “Oh it’s okay, Mrs B, I dealt with it. I just wanted you to know because I think you might need to keep an eye onhimin the future.” I looked down at the older boy she was pointing to, and there he was, sat there with tears streaming down his face, his beloved stick snapped clean in two. He never bothered anyone again.’
‘That story is classic Livvie!’ And it was. She never put up with any mind-games or nastiness from anyone. I laughed through my tears. It was amazing hearing someone else talk about her like this. Mentioning Livvie – even in passing – had become a no-go zone for the Allisters. If we didn’t talk, maybe we wouldn’t have to feel.
But I wanted to feel, now. I wanted to absorb the fondness that was emanating from Jo as she spoke about my sister, and connect it somehow to my own buried memories.
Tom returned, placing an impressively pristine Dolcis shoebox down on the coffee table and perching on the arm of the sofa next to me. He placed his hand gently on my shoulder as his mum shared more memories.
‘What else do you remember about her?’
‘Well, I remember thinking that she was nothing like her older siblings.’
‘Yeah, she was properly special, wasn’t she?’
‘Oh I didn’t mean it like that. It’s difficult to explain, but I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, like all kids really, each of you had such different inbuilt personalities – even when you were little. Josh, for example, was always so quiet but deeply sensitive and loyal, too – and I only knew him for a few weeks after I started. And you, Mally, well, you were a little sweetheart. Always smiling, always sharing your toys and making sure everyone had someone to play with, and helping me tidy up at the end of the day.’
Always smiling. That sounded about right. Why did I always feel the need to make people feel good about themselves, no matter howIwas feeling? Livvie had never been that way. If she’d lived long enough to hear the term ‘resting bitch face’, she’d have claimed it with pride.
Jo could see I was getting lost in my thoughts. She grabbed her walker and headed towards the kitchen. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you two to it for a bit.’
Tom gave my shoulder a squeeze, still sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘How are you doing?’
I puffed out my cheeks and smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. I think I’d like to look at all this stuff by myself – I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. You need to do this in your own way and in your own time. I’ve got some stuff I need to chat to Mum about anyway. I’ll be back in a bit.’
‘Thanks, Tom.’
He closed the door soundlessly as he left the room. I could hear them murmuring quietly to each other while I lifted the lid off the box and gently extracted the larger-than-expected pile of photos and clippings. I took a deep breath, catching the crooked but reassuring gaze of Tom’s scraggly toy cat, Marmalade, on the branches of the Christmas tree. There and then – despite the odds of me being sat on this sofa in Tom Brinton’s mum’s living room being slim-to-none – I knew for certain I was precisely where I was meant to be. I moved my eyes down and focused on the first photo.
It was Livvie’s playschool photo, Jo – Mrs B – beaming from the side of the group. Looking at the faces of the children, I could immediately hazard a guess at which boy had paid Livvie’s price for his stick-poking due to the sullen but slightly sheepish look on his face. Discovering this fresh detail about my sister and being able to picture this interaction in my head for the first time felt like time travel.
Next in the pile was an article from theWestern Daily Pressfrom the year Livvie had competed in her first eisteddfod contest with her cello. There was a photo of her playing on stage, her face turned away from the camera, but her hair giving her away, as always.
Then I came to a small clipping of a letter she’d written to the editor of the paper a year or so later, a vague memory of which shimmered on the edge of my recollection:
