Page 14 of One More Day
Did you really like my outfit? I might change it if you don’t.
Sod it.
I’m very sorry you lost out, Rose, but I really do need to be alone this holiday. Some you win, some you lose.
Now, it’s time I got to try one of those warm home-made scones.
Chapter Three
Rose
I manage to make it to the cattle grid at the end of the bumpy lane, leaving my hopes and dreams of Christmas at the cottage behind, before I burst into the inevitable tornado of tears that has been welling up inside me.
I knew this was too good to be true. Seaview Cottage may be out in the middle of nowhere but it’s lodged deep in my heart. It’s a place that holds so many memories for me.
Don’t be bitter, John, I remember my mother saying to my dad all those years ago. I agreed with Mum, but after what I just witnessed, now I’m more pushed to take my dad’s side.
Still in the family, my arse. You’ll see. Time will tell. There’ll come a day when we don’t get as much as an inch near that cottage. Those days are gone now.
My father is a man of few words, but the older I get, the more I realise he chooses his words of wisdom and shoots from the heart.
I’m just a hop, skip and a jump from my childhood home where my parents and sister are planning a perfect Christmaswithout me, and for a moment I contemplate swallowing my pride and making my way to join them. Do I really have to spend Christmas alone for the third year running?
Yes, I do.
I don’t deserve to have it easy at this time of year. I’m not ready to get into the festive spirit like I used to, nor should I even contemplate it.
If Michael is to lose out on all the celebrations, then so will I. Now that he’s gone, Christmas will never be the same again. It’s not a punishment, it’s a fact. If it weren’t for me, he’d still be here, and that’s something I have to learn to live with, though it might take forever.
I no longer ‘do’ Christmas.
Yet as I drive into the village my Granny Molly once brought us to, I imagine my family discussing plans for dinner, school nativities, ‘secret Santa’ presents back at our homely farmhouse, and my heart sinks into my stomach.
I’m thinking of a gold and silver table setting this year. I’ve made some new Christmas candle logs. The older ones were getting very tatty.
My mother says the same thing almost every year as she plays her all-time favourite, ‘O Holy Night’, on repeat. No matter where I go, no matter who I’m with, if I hear that song I’m transported to my mother’s kitchen.
Jude’s mum is sending over one of her prize pavlovas. She’s even doing a banoffee for Dad. Isn’t she just the best!
My sister has a picture-perfect two-point-four family complete with in-laws who are cloyingly sweet. Even though shedoesn’t compare her life to mine out loud, I know she looks at me and sees a terrible mess. She must do because it’s true.
It’s a glorified Sunday dinner, for goodness’ sake. Write me a list of what you need at the shops, and I’ll get it. And don’t be buying too many sprouts. Sure no one even likes sprouts and they end up in the bin.
My dad, at almost seventy-five years old, is as predictable as a rainy day in Ireland. He’s so cute and full of wit at the same time, he’s a sharpshooter with his tongue, and he secretly loves food shopping.
If he doesn’t have tocookthe food, he’ll go to the moon and back to find it.
Our Rose’s eyes light up when she hears the children singing carols. She always loved to sing herself, even though she has a voice that sounds like a cat screeching.
My mother again … it’s always been an endless source of jokes in my family how I love to sing but can’t, yet it doesn’t stop me singing or humming even though it should.
My eyes sting.
I drive through the main street of this festive little village, where children skip past, marvelling as it snows on their way home on what I’m guessing is the last day of school before the holidays. One little boy puts his tongue out to catch the snowflakes, which has a domino effect and soon they’re all at it.
‘Oh George.’
I reach out for comfort, but even George is sulking in the passenger seat beside me, looking up at me with the saddest eyes.
