Page 63 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
I nod.
‘I hardly think you sulking that your parents were not giving you all their attention twenty-four seven compares to being adopted at birth?’ Ben says, his voice overly steady. ‘It actually makes you sound a bit spoilt, if I’m honest.’
‘Is that right?’ I say in an equally cool voice. ‘I was spoilt, was I?’
My voice may sound calm, but inside I’m raging. This was what everyone thought when I trusted them enough to share any part of my childhood – that I was a spoilt, only child, who wasn’t happy unless she had all her parents’ attention. But they weren’t there. No one knew what it was like to feel abandoned by parents who were still by your side. What it felt like to have every special day in your life put on the back burner for someone else’s needs. It wasn’t that I didn’t have all their attention, it was that I never had any of it.
‘I just think in the greater scheme of things,’ Ben continues, ‘your personal hardships aren’t really on the same level as some others.’
Ben and I stare at each other in a way we’ve never looked at each other before. It feels horrible, like someone has not only popped the little heart-shaped bubble we’ve been living in up until now, but sliced right through it with a big, sharp kitchen knife.
Slowly, I nod. ‘Well, at least I know where I stand. I think I will go out on my own if it’s all the same to you? I could do with some quiet. There’s things I need to … think about.’
I turn and head quickly out of the room. Then I grab my coat, scarf and gloves from where they’re hanging on a peg in the hall. I pull them on as swiftly as I can, before I throw my bag over my shoulder and head purposefully out of the door and down the steps outside.
I don’t turn back to see if Ben is looking out of the window after me as I cross Mistletoe Square. I don’t care. I need to be alone. I need to think … about a lot of things.
I wander aimlessly for a while through the streets of Bloomsbury, not really knowing where I’m heading. The argument with Ben has really shaken me up.
How had I been so stupid? After everything that happened with Owen, I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved with anyone else, that I would put myself first for a while. But I had barely set foot on Mistletoe Square when Ben popped up with his glossy brown hair and his kind chocolate eyes. He said all the right things, even if he didn’t mean any of them, and I stupidly believed him.
But Ben was right when he said we had a connection. That wasn’t just something he made up with his fancy words and his smooth voice. I felt it too. And however hard I try to deny it, as I march along in the bright winter sunshine, I simply can’t.
I wish it was in my imagination. I wish I could convince myself I let Ben trick me into believing this. But I can’t. Whatever this connection is, I feel it in my gut, in my heart, and in my soul. It’s crazy, it’s deeply annoying, but it is one hundred per cent there.
But how could it be? I’ve known Ben for five days. How could I have any sort of connection with him? Let alone one as deep as this feels.
That’s why I was so hurt by his words back at the house.
It takes a lot for me to trust anyone enough to tell them about my childhood. Mainly because that was always the sort of reaction I got – that I must have imagined it. It was a long time ago. Perhaps my recollections aren’t as clear as they should be. And, occasionally, I was spoilt.
I should have been so lucky, I think ruefully to myself. Was my childhood as awful as any of those poor individuals we witnessed in some of Estelle’s stories? Of course not. I wasn’t saying for one moment it was. But do I look back on my childhood remembering good times and happy memories? No, I do not. Especially at Christmastime.
Eventually, I find myself walking along a packed Oxford Street. Shoppers wearing Santa hats and tinsel around their necks hurry past me, their shopping bags full to the brim with gifts for loved ones and long rolls of wrapping paper. Restaurants I pass are full of diners enjoying a pre-Christmas meal, some wear paper crowns pulled from crackers, and a number of people look like they might have had a bit too much festive cheer, as they wobble along the pavement with happy grins on their faces, ever so slightly slurring their words as they chat excitedly to their friends and family.
For once in my life, I was able to feel just a little of what they were as Christmas approached. Now I was back to feeling like I usually did, annoyed by people bustling about, and counting down the days until I didn’t have to pretend to be happy and excited any more.
Just because Ben has annoyed you, it doesn’t mean you should take it out on Estelle and Angela, I tell myself as I pause outside a large department store and gaze into one of their large windows.They’ve been nothing but lovely to you, and they both adore Christmas. Perhaps you should get them both something to say thank you?But what could I buy? Like Ben, I’ve only known them for a few days.
Is that really all it is?I continue to stare at the window display full of suggested gifts for friends and loved ones.Days? It feels like I’ve known them for a lot longer.
Perhaps it’s because we’ve travelled back to so many Christmases in the house’s history together. In a matter of days we’ve covered over one hundred and eighty years. I’m beginning to feel like I know Estelle’s family almost as well as I know my own.
I think about my parents again.
They are much more settled now they are older. They travel much less these days, and are more than happy living in their little cottage in Suffolk. My father has an allotment and a part-time job tending people’s gardens. My mother still volunteers, but mainly for her local WI. She also helps out at the local school twice a week, and is involved in a scheme giving lifts to elderly people who need to get to hospital appointments. I’m not completely estranged from them, but it’s been a long time since I’ve spent Christmas with them.
As a child I yearned for what I considered a normal Christmas. A simple day waking up early, rushing downstairs to find what Santa had left and then eating a huge Christmas dinner around a proper dinner table with family I only saw once a year.
But the only memories I have are of time spent in other people’s homes. Or in far-away countries that barely acknowledged Christmas, let alone celebrated it. The pain and yearning I felt as a child for happy Christmas memories lessened over the years, but never fully faded away.
I allow myself to imagine for a moment what Christmas Day in Mistletoe Square could be like. In the morning there might be lots of shiny, colourfully wrapped presents waiting to be opened under the huge tree. Angela would definitely be cooking us all a delicious lunch, and Estelle would preside at the head of the table enjoying every moment. There would be crackers and board games and possibly even a singsong, and in the evening, when the other two had gone to bed, Ben and I would snuggle up in front of the open fire together …
No!I hurriedly stop myself. That last part definitely wasn’t going to happen now. Ben and I were over.
And neither Estelle nor Angela have actually ever mentioned anything like I’ve just been creating in my mind. But when every one of Estelle’s stories has been set at Christmas, and she clearly loves her tree so much, is it so wrong of me to secretly hope that the big day itself would be anything less than perfect in Mistletoe Square?
Maybe I should try and get Estelle and Angela a gift while I have the chance? Just in case …
