Page 2 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
I look at my pile of books; there’s only one left.
‘Are you the last?’ I say to a bright-eyed little girl gazing inquisitively at me.
She nods and skips towards the table.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask, opening the book and lifting my pen.
‘Alvie,’ she says cheerily.
‘Alvie, that’s an unusual name,’ I say carefully, glancing briefly at her while I write in her book.
‘Yes, it is. Do you know what it means?’
‘I do.’ I look at the little girl and notice for the first time that her eyes are not only bright and inquisitive, but they sparkle like two tiny emeralds.
‘It’s your anniversary today, isn’t it?’ the little girl says innocently, but I jump at her question. ‘It’s five years since you sat on that bench by the Thames.’
‘How do you know … ’ I begin. But I already know there’s no point me asking – there won’t be an answer. Not one that makes any sense anyway.
‘They just wanted you to know how well you’ve done,’ Alvie says, her green eyes looking keenly into mine. ‘Everyone is very proud of you, and what you’ve done with everything that was left to you.’
I nod slowly. There’s so much I want to ask, but I know it will be pointless. Alvie is only ever the messenger.
Alvie glances behind her at Miss Fitzpatrick who is making her way back across the classroom towards us.
‘One last thing before I go,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s a bit of a funny one, but I’m to remind you that the star always goes on top of the Christmas tree – not the angel. Does that make any sense to you?’
I smile at her as a warm feeling spreads right through me.
‘It does – perfect sense. Tell them not to worry. I will never forget either of them.’
One
Embankment,London
18 December 2018
Five Years Earlier …
What are you doing here, Elle?I ask myself as I gaze out over the River Thames.It’s not like you’re actually going to do anything, is it?
Sitting on one of the wooden benches that line this part of the Embankment, to my right I can see Cleopatra’s Needle and the London Eye. Behind me, not too far away, is Covent Garden and Trafalgar Square, and to my left is Waterloo Bridge.
So much history, I think, looking around me.So many people must have either stood or sat here over the years, the centuries, even, looking out over this river just like I am. Perhaps some of them felt even worse than I do right now.
I glance back at Waterloo Bridge again. There are so many bridges that span the length of the Thames, but I chose to sit next to this particular one today because I once read something about desperate people jumping off it when they could see no other solution to their problems. I also read about the brave passers-by that would stop and attempt to talk the distressed down when they were about to jump.
Don’t be daft, Elle. You’re not brave enough to be either of those people – the jumper or the saviour! If you were, you’d not be sitting here now wallowing in the miserable quagmire called your life.
My problems really weren’t so bad that I should ever be contemplating jumping from a bridge into the freezing cold Thames. You’ve just had a run of bad luck lately, that’s all, I tell myself sternly.You simply have to find a way out of this deep dark hole you’re currently trapped at the bottom of – and fast.
But right now, there was no one dangling a rope, or a ladder, or anything useful that was going to help me to escape from my deep, dark pit of despair.
‘May I sit here?’
I look up to see a smartly dressed city gent gesturing towards my bench with his folded black umbrella. He’s wearing an expensive suit that looks like it was probably tailored for him in Savile Row, and, very unusually these days, a black bowler hat, which he lifts politely while he awaits my answer.
‘Er … yes,’ I say in surprise, as I’m jolted from my self-imposed misery. ‘I don’t see why not?’
