Page 66 of One More Day

Page List

Font Size:

I check my phone to see a text from Clodagh.

She’s well settled. I know this is hard, Charlie. I’m taking her swimming now. Try not to worry.

Try not to worry … that’s a lot easier said than done when you’re thousands of miles away from your only child.

At least she had the grace to update me. She didn’t have to, I suppose. However, deep down I know that as much as I’ll try not to worry, it’s going to take a lot of distraction and a whole lot of jolly festive feelings to get my daughter off my mind this time.

When I go back through the kitchen, I see a note from Rose on the fridge.

I’m here if you need me.

I stop and stare. I close my eyes and breathe. It’s a very nice gesture, but I need to get out of here before I explode. I just scribble a simplethank youbeneath it then grab my coat and hat, and head out of the front door.

The fresh air does me the world of good and my head is a little bit clearer by the time I reach the village hall, which is a hive of activity from the outside in.

People of all ages, from newborn babies dressed as pixie elves and reindeer, to elderly folk decked out in Christmas jumpers of all colours of the rainbow, are the height of Christmas cheer. By the time I step inside, even if myown inner mood is much more heated and hellish than ‘ho, ho, ho’, I find myself getting swept along on the wave of festivity.

They have a chocolate fountain by the entrance which instantly reminds me of Rebecca and how she loves to dip strawberries into the warm, running liquid yet always ends up with most of it on her face. Schoolchildren, most of them around her age, run around with tinsel on their heads, while their parents fuss over cake stalls. There are several arts and crafts displays which, to be fair, are quite impressive. I pick up a snow globe from one of the stalls and shake it, watching the tiny coconut flakes fall on a snow-covered cottage against a deep blue sky. Again, it makes me think of Rebecca and the innocence in her eyes at this time of year.

I put it down again as if it burns me. In a way it does. I can’t believe I’m even here at all. So much for avoiding Christmas – though I need distraction from the vision of my daughter crying her heart out to come home.

I browse around some more, greeting locals who whisper and stare, obviously not used to too many strangers at a community event like this. The smell of cloves and freshly baked shortbread fills the air, the sound of carol singing floods my ears and, whether I like it or not, there’s a feel-good factor here that couldn’t be extinguished if I tried.

This is working. This is good. I can feel my heart rate slow down and the fog in my head settle.

‘I’m Charlie,’ I say to one pleasant-looking lady behind the craft table. ‘I’m staying at Seaview Cottage for the holidays.’

She nods and folds her arms with pursed lips.

‘Ooh indeed! I heard there was a double booking at the cottage,’ she says with a whisper, like it’s the hottest gossip in town. It probably is. ‘Marion is fuming! Especially when she heard who you’re sharing with. One of Rusty’s …’

She stops, which makes me wonder where she was going, but then she picks up again.

‘Oh, I’d say poor Rusty got an earful, but then it doesn’t take much these days,’ she continues. ‘They’re constantly bickering, those two. Would make your head spin.’

I don’t indulge in idle gossip. Never have, never will, but of course the lady’s comments have piqued my interest when it comes to Rose.

‘I have to say, we’re managing absolutely fine,’ I say, hoping to quash any ridiculous rumours of some big drama. ‘In fact, it has worked out much better than we could have imagined. Rose is a wonderful house guest. We’re—’

‘Father O’Leary!’ the woman gushes, interrupting my attempt at unravelling the grapevine gossip. I glance to my side to see the parish priest, who appears to be almost like a celebrity around here, but each to their own.

Then a music box catches my eye. It’s a small walnut box, and when I open it a tiny ballerina angel twirls round and round to the sound of a very familiar tune. I recognise it instantly, the gentle melody reminding me of the story behind the tune, where the French composer gave it to his bride-to-be as an engagement present. ‘Salut d’Amour’. I think I must have learned about this in school.

‘I’ll take this, please,’ I say when the woman comes back to her pew. She watches as the priest moves on, doing his rounds and congratulating everyone for such a fine job.

‘Of course,’ she replies, and puts it in a heavy paper bag, along with a couple of chocolate treats she gives to her paying customers. ‘It’s a very romantic little tune, isn’t it? You know, I found that in a car boot sale years ago. I knew someone would like it one day.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The tune in the music box. For someone special?’

I don’t respond to her question. I know exactly who I’m buying it for.

‘No, it’s just a tune that I recognise, that’s all,’ I tell her. ‘No biggie.’

‘So, no trouble at the cottage at all, then?’ she asks with bulbous eyes, then pushes her glasses back on her twitching nose. ‘Well, I mean it’s hardly ideal to be sharing with a stranger at Christmas, is it?’

‘It’s fine,’ I say as I take my change. ‘No trouble at all. Thanks for this. I’ll make sure it goes to someone special.’