Page 74 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
Christian shakes his head. ‘Ow!’ He winces.
‘Come on,’ Estelle says, standing back to let him inside.
‘I’d better go.’ Angela turns back towards the steps.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’ Estelle insists. ‘You are coming in with him, and once I’ve tended to his wound, I’m going to make us all a cup of tea, and you’re going to tell me exactly how this happened.’
Estelle closes the door behind them. Then she leads Christian and Angela, with Dylan trotting along behind them, through to the kitchen. Which has now moved to where our current day kitchen resides, at the end of the hall.
‘Should we go too?’ I ask Estelle and Angela, surprised they haven’t immediately followed.
Estelle shakes her head. ‘No, not necessary. I want to move on with the story a bit.’
‘But—’ I begin, keen to know what happened to Christian.
‘Please don’t worry. All will be explained,’ Estelle assures us. ‘Now, back to the sitting room.’
We all walk back into the sitting room – this time I’m relieved to find through the already open door. Where we find the sixties versions of Estelle, Angela and Christian all sitting by the fire, drinking tea. Estelle is in the chair she nodded off in earlier, and Christian and Angela, wearing dressing gowns, sit opposite her on chairs they’ve pulled up, a bit like we all do before Estelle tells us one of her stories.
Dylan is curled up in his bed not far from the fire, and there’s a wooden clothes-airer next to him with Angela’s dress and hat drying on it. Now Angela isn’t wearing the dress it suddenly looks a bit worn and tatty, and the hat that she wore so vibrantly looks quite grubby close up.
‘Are you sure you feel all right?’ sixties Estelle asks Christian. ‘Not woozy or dizzy or anything like that?’
‘Not now I’m sober!’ Christian says jokingly. Young Angela laughs, but Estelle looks serious.
‘I mean it, Christian. If you feel anything like that you must tell me. You could have a concussion. Do you know what that is?’
Christian looks blankly at Estelle and shrugs.
Estelle tuts and shakes her head.
‘What?’ Christian asks. ‘I’m studying law, not medicine!’
‘Isn’t a concussion a blow to the head?’ Angela asks. ‘Something that can happen to your brain when you hit your head on something. Or,’ she says, looking with meaning at Christian, ‘your head is hit by something. My old man was a doctor,’ she explains when both Estelle and Christian look at her in surprise.
‘Yes.’ Estelle gives Angela an approving glance. ‘That is exactly right.’
‘I sometimes wonder if my dad had a concussion, you know?’ Angela says thoughtfully. ‘His brain went a bit … you know, weird, and he started forgetting everything, including us. Drove my mum mad. I think that’s why she left him in the end.’
‘Are you talking about dementia?’ I ask our Angela quietly. ‘Or Alzheimer’s?’
‘Probably,’ Angela replies. ‘But like concussion we didn’t know much about that back then. My dad’s gambling habit didn’t help either, mind. I think it was a bit of everything that finally sent my mum packing. I don’t really remember much about it to be honest; I had other stuff going on at the time. I only remember her leaving.’
‘Estelle, you were going to tell us how you learnt to stitch up wounds like that?’ Young Angela asks now, and I realise that Christian must have some stitches in his forehead underneath the large dressing he’s now wearing. ‘You made a pretty decent job of it, after Chrissy here stopped whining, of course!’
‘You try having a needle pushed through your skin over and over again!’ Christian says. ‘It bloody hurt!’
‘Just as well you were still pissed, then! Sorry.’ Angela glances at Estelle. ‘Drunk.’
‘It’s all right,’ Estelle says. ‘I’ve heard worse. I spent a number of years working with soldiers. They know far worse words, I can assure you.’
‘Was that in the war?’ Angela asks.
Estelle nods. ‘I volunteered and trained as a nurse. I worked down the road at Great Ormond Street for a while.’
‘The kiddies’ hospital?’
‘It was a centre for casualties during the Second World War; the sick children were mostly evacuated elsewhere. The Blitz was a particularly bad time at the hospital.’ Estelle’s face has a pained expression as she remembers. ‘Hundreds of injured people night after night. I got used to pulling glass, metal and other objects from people’s heads and bodies, and then stitching them up. It was pretty routine … Anyway,’ she says, shaking her head and her memories away. ‘That’s where I learnt to do stitches, and I can assure you I tended to much worse injuries than you’ve sustained tonight, Christian.’
