www.ariafiction.com
Flora Phillips has an excuse for every disaster in her life; she was abandoned as a new-born on a doorstep one cold autumn night, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Her philosophy is simple: if your mother doesn’t want you – who will?
Now a thirty-year-old, without a boyfriend, a career or home she figures she might as well tackle the biggest question of them all – who is she? So, whilst everyone else enjoys their Christmas Eve traditions, Flora escapes the masses and drives to the village of Pooley to seek a specific doorstep. Her doorstep.
But in Pooley she finds more than her life story. She finds friends, laughter, and perhaps even a love to last a lifetime. Because once you know where you come from, it’s so much easier to know where you’re going.
A story of redemption and love, romance and Christmas dreams-come-true, the perfect novel to snuggle up with this festive season.
Welcome Page
About A Christmas Wish
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Erin Green
A Letter from the Author
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
To Leo, my hero
I’m driving. Not my usual tootle around town driving, but pedal to the metal with power ballad blaring driving – the kind seen in plush car adverts. If I were driving in a snazzy commercial I’d have a backdrop of raging fire, tornados or cyclones looming over a dusky landscape to reinforce my mood. Instead there’s a pitch-black night sky and a heavy flurry of snow pelting the windscreen creating a deep in outer space illusion.
Like the car commercials, I have navigated many winding and twisting roads but despite having a Sat Nav with the destination entered, I have no idea where I am.
‘Take the third exit at the roundabout,’ orders the Sat Nav lady.
I follow her instructions as I have for the previous two hours. ‘Continue for one mile… arriving at your destination on the left.’ The tiny screen depicts a chequered flag and a blobby image unrecognisable as my red Mini.
My stomach flips; I want to be sick.
Not the drunken sickness that Christmas Eve parties can deliver, I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol, but that nervy tremor, butterflies in your stomach kind of sick.
Within minutes, I arrive at my destination: St Bede’s Mews, Pooley.
I indicate, park at the kerb and switch off the engine in front of a large church with stone angles and angels illuminated by spotlights strategically positioned amongst the tilting gravestones. The church looks empty and locked, I presume Christmas Eve mass was earlier in the evening. Janet, my mum, always goes to church on Christmas Eve – though not this year.
Is this a bad idea? Should I stay or return home? I want someone else to decide – there’s no chance of assistance; I’m on my own.
The church clock strikes half eleven.
I hadn’t planned on driving here. I’m supposed to be dancing under neon lights at the Pink Coconut, laughing and joking alongside Lisa and Steph surrounded by tonight’s selection of tall, dark and handsome Prince Charmings.
Was I right to dash off into the night? Did they manage to flog my Christmas Eve Extravaganza party invite to the ticketless crowd huddled by the club entrance?
I stare at my surroundings. Adjacent to the church, is a row of Edwardian houses with steep stone steps leading to impressive doorways. A large archway is straight ahead, through which the road snakes before disappearing, linking the houses to a quadrangle of commercial buildings. The buildings edge a pretty cobblestone square freshly decorated with the flurry of snow and dominated by a community Christmas tree. On the far side of The Square, opposite the church, a noisy pub spews festive spirit from an open doorway.
My stomach convulses and my mouth unattractively dry gags.
‘Don’t puke,’ I mutter, looking down at the red chiffon skimming my bare thighs. ‘I haven’t paid for it yet.’
I don’t do tights, even in winter. I don’t do spare plastic bags to act as sick bags stashed in glove compartments either.
I lower the window by an inch allowing a whoosh of cold air to bathe my clammy forehead.
Breathe, just breathe.
I close my eyes.
This has to be the right decision. How many nights have I dreamt of seeing The Square?
It’s not easy growing up being different. Different from every child in the extended family, your English class, girl guides or youth club. Everyone I know knows where they came from: job relocation from Newcastle, divorcing parents or social aspirations – they all knew how they’d arrived in the leafy suburbs of Bushey. Except me, because I am different. I’m special, as Janet says.
‘Special’ – not the most flattering of labels in today’s society. ‘Special’ counts for nothing in the employment stakes, the education system or a long-term romance. ‘Special’ doesn’t get you far in life outside the three bedroomed detached belonging to Janet and David Phillips, my adoptive parents.
What would they say if they knew I was here? I peer into the Mini’s tiny rear-view mirror where my sea-green eyes reflect a wave of guilt that snags in my throat. Was this the way to repay their kindness and love? Snooping behind their backs while they cruise the Bahamas escaping the British winter and celebrating an early Ruby wedding anniversary. What harm could it do? They’d never know. A quick look and I’d be starting the return journey towards Bushey within ten minutes.
The majority of the world were preparing for the fraught and frantic celebrations of a family Christmas, so why wasn’t I? Because family is the Achilles heel of my life, through no fault of my own. Sadly, I seek answers to the complex curiosity or sheer spite of the seven year olds who taunted me relentlessly in a primary school playground.
I was destined to be different from day one. Different from Steph and her infectious laughter, her overflowing confidence and in control attitude. Or Lisa, with her delicate manner, her ditzy brain and her constant search for Mr Right. Or as Steph jokes, her ‘Mr Right-Now’.
I snort at the very thought.
My Mr Right-Now had been Julian Wright who swiftly became Mr Has-been-and-gone two months ago by knobbing the blonde who serves in the local chemist. Before Julian, I swore blind Robbie Brookes was my Prince but he stuffed it up on a stag weekend in Blackpool. Before him was Terry, Rikki, Seb, Jamie and…
Need I torture myself by continuing?
I open my eyes; the nausea has passed – much like the heavy snow flurry which has eased to a light sprinkle.
Reaching for my silver clutch bag on the passenger seat, I rummage for my purse and unzip the back pocket. Lisa keeps an emergency twenty tucked in hers. Steph an emergency condom. I keep a yellowing piece of newspaper.
I know the piece off by heart.
I carefully unfold my clipping and stare at the black and white image, gently stroking the baby’s forehead, as if she can feel my touch. This was my beginning, my first photograph, technically the first entry in my baby record book, if I had one.
I carefully fold my newspaper cutting. I’ve treasured this clipping since the story was explained to me by Janet, amidst tears and gentle hugs, at the tender age of seven.
I’ve heard about The Square in Pooley, throughout my life.
Be it a scrubbed red tile, rough cement or coloured block paving that doorstep was the beginning of my story.
I might as well take a look. It won’t hurt. I may never be this near again.
I haven’t brought a coat so reach for the tartan blanket stashed on the rear seat, wrap it around my bare shoulders and make my way from the car, clutching my newspaper clipping. Instantly, the snow permeates my strappy heels as I head for the row of Edwardian houses.
The houses in St Bede’s Mews vary in original features and renovation work. Number three, the middle house, is in darkness like every other house; the occupants were obviously out enjoying themselves or early to bed awaiting Santa.
I suppose this is how burglaries occur.
If I was a burglar I could nip over the wrought iron fencing, jemmy up the front window and be off with their presents from beneath their decorated tree. But I’m not a burglar; I’m a single, thirty year old who wasted an hour curling her hair and a hundred quid on a red dress to stand and stare at a doorstep on Christmas Eve.
I stand before their gate and stare at the pathway of tiny black and white tiles lightly covered in snow.
If the tiles are original, and they definitely look original, then my birth mother walked along them, twice.
I gulp.
Never before have I been in close proximity to anything that my birth mother had touched.
Clutching the tartan blanket beneath my chin, I place the yellowed clipping in my lap as I crouch down, passing my hand through the swirls of wrought iron to touch the snow frosted tiles that she walked upon.
My eyes fill with tears.
I can touch something that my birth mother touched – this is a first.
The church bells strike midnight; immediately an explosion of coloured fireworks fills the night sky.
‘I may be a little old to make Christmas wishes but let’s hope this one brings me some happiness and festive cheer.’
*
I depress the radio button.
‘Officer 4402 to control. We have a lone female acting suspiciously in St Bede’s Mews just off The Square at Pooley – we’ll investigate and report back, over.’
A crackled acknowledgement is received from control.
‘She’ll be drunk,’ says Scotty, my partner in crime, from the driving seat.
‘We’ll see.’
I step from the patrol car, grabbing my hat and notebook as the church bells strike midnight and fireworks burst across the snowy night sky. Since when did fireworks belong to Christmas Eve?
‘Merry Christmas, mate,’ I say cheerily, leaning back into the patrol car.
‘Same to you, it can’t be any worse than the last one, hey Joel?’ laughs Scotty, showing his fillings.
He’s not wrong.
‘You git,’ I mutter, as the face of Veronica, my ex, flashes before my eyes. The image of her blue eyes and blonde highlights wasn’t the issue. It was the unexpected reminder. ‘Are fireworks now compulsory for every celebration?’ I ask, quickly changing the subject, I know what I should say but can’t bring myself to ask how he and his dad plan to spend Christmas without his mum?
‘I know, every weekend since Halloween I’ve heard the same routine after dark. It’s probably a birthday celebration for a family on the estate. Pound to a penny she’s drunk,’ he scoffs, nodding towards our crouching figure. ‘She’s probably been dumped by her fella and downed a bottle of vodka.’
‘Maybe.’
Slamming the patrol car door, I stride across The Square towards the Edwardian houses –my size ten boots disturb the picturesque snow scene around the giant Christmas tree.
He’s got a fair point; we’ve patrolled this area long enough to know. Thanks to the extended licencing hours, the streets were always deserted while the revellers were squashed inside the pubs and the Liberal Welfare club celebrating finishing work for the holidays. So, an hour ago we’d pitched our patrol car in the small car park facing the church, knowing we had a short time before the drama started. Experience had taught us that we’d only be needed once kick-out occurred and then the booze induced fights and the rowdy behaviour would erupt.
The figure is crouching beside the gateway.
We’d watched her silhouette for nearly thirty minutes.
‘She’s parked on double yellows and hasn’t even noticed,’ said Scotty, as we observed her actions.
‘Just watch. We’ll pounce when necessary but right now she’s only sitting there – hardly a crime.’
‘It’s the most we’ve seen tonight.’
‘Be grateful then… or can’t we handle a lone female on Christmas Eve?’ I’d laughed, knowing the waiting game was killing Scotty.
‘I dread this shift every year. We always get the dodgy folk when huge fights kick off and spend extra hours booking them into custody when we should have clocked off and gone home.’
‘Stop moaning and think of the overtime,’ I say, my eyes fixed upon the red Mini.
She’d spent several minutes composing herself before climbing from the vehicle with a blanket slung around her shoulders.
‘Now, she’s definitely parked illegally, go!’ urges Scotty.
‘Seriously, would you nick her… tonight of all nights?’
‘Yeah! She shouldn’t be parked on double yellows.’ He answers without hesitation.
‘Nah.’ I pulled a face at my partner. He thinks he’s mighty tough and an advocate for by-the-book policing but I know deep down he’s kinder than that.
‘Seriously, I would,’ he continued. ‘There’s a perfectly good car park provided… as proven, we’re parked in it.’
Eleven years in the police force has taught me to give people the benefit of the doubt. You’d be surprised how wrong you can be by making snap judgements. I keep telling Scotty, you can’t predict. She may be drunk, in which case she’ll be breathalysed and cautioned. But, there may be a reasonable explanation.
‘She’s not a local,’ I’d added before radioing the station and climbing from the patrol car.
‘We’d know her name, entire family tree and her employment history – if she were local, Joel,’ laughed Scotty. ‘Plus, she wouldn’t be parked on double yellows in front of the church.’
He was right, there was an advantage of being raised in the neighbourhood – we knew all the yokels.
As I approach, she’s bent double by the gate; one hand reaching through the metalwork, her long curls have fallen forward covering her face.
Trust me to get the first sick job of the night.
I scan the pavement as I near – there’s no vomit, but that doesn’t mean anything nowadays. I’ve seen many a young lady vomit into her own lap, or handbag.
‘Excuse me, Madam – is everything alright?’ I stop short of her position.
She flinches as I speak, snatching her hand back through the wrought iron gate.
‘Sorry… I was…’ she turns, her hair parting around her slender face, her almond-shaped eyes widen.
‘Is everything alright?’ I repeat, as she straightens up, one hand clutching at the draped blanket. A fold of paper falls to the pavement. I’m relieved to see her red dress is clear of vomit.
‘How embarrassing… I was just… I thought…’ she falls silent under my gaze. I scour the pavement around her. No wine bottle, no shot glass, no vomit. I step forward and sniff the air. Not a hint of alcohol, but just to be sure.
‘Have you been drinking this evening, Madam?’
‘Are you bloody joking?’ Her temper flares now she’s risen to her full height; five foot three is my guess.
Here we go, Scotty will be pleased.
This isn’t unusual, the general public are all politeness and goodwill one minute. The next they’re charging at my uniform with a smashed bottle and a knuckle duster.
‘Madam, please… myself and my colleague are parked across the way…’ I proceed to explain what we’ve witnessed.
‘Whoopi-bloody-do, a sodding parking offence – haven’t you got anything better to do?’
Great, a feisty one. Just what I need to start the Christmas holidays.
I do the usual routine, ask Madam to take a step backwards, ask her to refrain from shouting and to calm down. I’m only trying to ascertain that no harm has come to her. Sadly, Madam’s having none of it.
‘Madam… please.’ I’m usually pretty good talking to irate females. I do the whole gently, gently routine knowing Scotty’s probably killing himself laughing.
She steps closer, her perfume filling my personal space.
‘Don’t you Madam me in that patronising tone… you think I’m drunk, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I’ve got a good reason to be here… I have every reason to be here… in fact I have more…’ She stops dead, looking round frantically. ‘Where’s my clipping?’
‘As you stood up…’ I say, remembering the slip of paper that fell to the pavement, but she’s not listening.
‘Oh no, I can’t lose it,’ she cries, turning around frantically, scouring the ground.
At the same time, we spot the folded paper lying against the fence post amidst a smattering of snow. Instantly, we bend and grab for the paper in a swift synchronised move. Crash! Her forehead collides full force with the bridge of my nose.
I hear the break.
The pain registers and my eyesight blurs to a pool of red as I double over in agony.
‘Sorry, I was only trying to grab… my clipping. I didn’t mean too…’ she stutters.
I hear the slam of the patrol car door and the rumble of black boots – Scotty’s size elevens soon fill my line of vision along with the snow-flurried cracks in the pavement.
‘Lady, you’re coming with us. I am arresting you on suspicion of assaulting a police officer, you do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court…’
Amidst the whoops and bangs of fireworks overhead, I hear the cuffs snap on her wrists as Scotty continues his spiel and my fingers curl tightly round her folded clipping.
My tea steams in a white polystyrene cup. I’d give anything for a Massimo latte with chocolate sprinkles but I assume the beverage menu is limited at Pooley police station. On arrival, they’d confiscated my tartan blanket as a personal possession and provided me with a larger cream-coloured blanket, which remains draped around my shoulders. They’d also confirmed the charge of assaulting a police officer so I’m not about to complain about my tea.
My fingers gingerly lift the flimsy cup, squashing its wide mouth to a quivering oval. I tentatively sip under the watchful glare of two officers: my arresting male officer and a willowy framed female, whose strawberry blonde hair is snared in a severe ponytail. The hot tea scalds my tongue so I quickly replace the wobbly cup on the table top.
It’s as you see on TV: a room with minimalist decor, a black topped table, a few hard-backed chairs and a recording machine. To my left sits the duty solicitor, a tiny bloke in a cheap nylon suit, no taller than me, supplied courtesy of my rights. I’ve never been involved with the police before so why would I have a family solicitor?
I refused my chance to call someone, I’m not selfish enough to ruin my parents’ cruise.
The male officer, whose lower jaw is defined by his shaving shadow, unwraps the cellophane from two blank tapes before loading and pressing the machine’s record button.
My stomach quivers with nerves.
Is this step one towards prison? A deadbeat life of slop buckets and grey boiler suits? Or a life on the run with a mafia style existence in Marbella?
‘Officer Scott Hamilton and Officer Kylie Brown at Pooley police station interviewing at 2 a.m. on the twenty-fifth of December 2016. The accused was arrested for assaulting police officer Joel Kennedy in the vicinity of St Bede’s Mews shortly after midnight. Duty solicitor Mr Jonathan Green is also present.’
The officer coughs and clears his throat before staring at me, his chest and biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt.
‘Could you state your full name and address please?’
'Flora Eloise Phillips of thirty-one St Edith’s Crescent, Bushey, Hertfordshire,' I answer, knowing full well that his official eyebrow should be raised given my distance from home.
'Occupation?'
I cringe.
'I'm currently without employment.'
The male officer smirks, the female simply stares before writing notes on her lined pad.
They think I’m a dosser, who can’t keep a job so I fill my time by head butting coppers. Why couldn’t I be answering ‘a receptionist for the family furniture maker of Wright, Wright and Wright?’ Ahhh yes, because their beloved son Julian Wright cheated on me forcing me to up sticks and move on from relationship, residence and employment – one stone, three direct hits.
‘What brings you to the area, Flora?’
I hesitate; pull the cream blanket tightly over my shoulders, nervously glancing between his staring gaze and her bored expression.
‘I…’ In my head the words flow in neatly formed sentences which eloquently explain everything but I know the reality will be a tsunami of stuttering. How pathetic will I sound admitting to two officers and an aged solicitor that life’s not good. Actually, I’m feeling a bit down. Not your usual everyday under the weather down or an emotional wobble but a full-blown, life-long crisis that’s been on the cards since 1986. An emotional, deep-seated feeling of being unloved, unwanted and ashamedly at thirty years of age, a total failure in the game of life. I can’t hold onto a boyfriend, or a job and am currently staying at my parents’ house and kipping in their spare bedroom. I can call it house-sitting while they’re on a cruise sunning themselves – I’ve failed to create an excuse for the previous two months.
His dark eyebrow lifts, her nude mouth purses. My solicitor’s hand hovers, his biro suspended in mid-air above his yellow legal paper – they’re waiting for an answer.
‘It's private,’ I mumble, reaching for my tea.
She hastily writes down my words.
‘Private?’ I can hear the sarcasm in his voice. 'That may be so Miss Phillips… but given the circumstances and charge you need to outline the reasons for your presence outside St Bede’s Mews.’
I slurp my tea as a distraction but am instantly reminded that it’s too hot to drink so return the flimsy cup to the table.
I begin to pick at my left thumb nail.
‘Miss Phillips?’ urges the male officer.
I avoid his stare by focusing upon my thumb nail.
These guys are probably minutes away from throwing me back into the cold cell and ordering my cooked breakfast and a mug of tea for the morning.
‘Has my car been locked?’ I ask, distracted by a sudden flashback.
‘Officers have secured your vehicle. It was illegally parked on double yellow lines so an officer has moved it to the free parking area opposite the church – no worries there.’
I nod my appreciation, looking from beneath my lowered brow.
‘Miss Phillips, we’re waiting.’ His voice is becoming stern; a pulse below his left eye begins to dance.
My throat constricts. If I begin to explain I’ll open a can of worms, it’ll all come pouring out and then what?
‘Miss Phillips, are you prepared to co-operate?’ asks the female officer.
I shrug.
‘You’ve assaulted a police officer, I’m not going to accept a shrug of the shoulders as an answer, now am I?’ he says glancing at the solicitor, who continues to write.
He’s right, fact was fact. Officer Stubble-chin had slapped the cuffs on me, bundled me into the rear of the patrol car and driven at high speed towards the police station. His patrol buddy Officer Excuse-Me-Madam had spent the entire journey doubled over in the front seat clutching his face and groaning.
Why hadn’t I stayed with Lisa and Steph at the Pink Coconut? By now I would be plastered on Pinot Grigio, eating marmite on toast in Lisa’s kitchen while Steph pukes noisily in the tiny downstairs cloakroom. Instead I had the big idea to follow my gut reaction and go find myself. Correction, it wasn’t that definitive – it was simply a case of flee and think later.
‘Has he gone to hospital?’ I ask sheepishly.
Both officers nod.
I need to come clean, tell the truth and face the consequences.
‘Firstly, I never meant to break his nose. I’m not a violent or angry person but he kept mentioning alcohol. I haven’t touched a drop all night. I’d dropped something, we were both looking and then… banged heads. Honestly, I never meant to hurt him.’
‘OK… he’ll make his statement once he returns from the hospital then we’ll compare details.’
‘Did he hand anything in?’ I ask, desperate to locate my treasured clipping.
They both shake their heads.
‘Why here? Tonight?’ he asks.
I hesitate. My shoulders droop beneath the warm blanket.
Here we go.
‘You’re on a roll, don’t stop now,’ he urges, clearly bored with spending the early hours of Christmas Day in my presence.
‘Tonight’s visit was a spur of the moment thing. I was supposed to go dancing with my best friends but… I couldn’t face another Christmas Eve Extravaganza party,’ I say.
Arghhh, the thought of compulsory drinking purely to fit in with the crowd, forced to have a good time, endure the crammed dance floor, the crush at the bar… the queue for the ladies, strangers spilling their drinks down my new dress… the unwanted attention from drunken guys – all letching and leering over your boobs in the hope of a Christmas shag.
‘We’d bought tickets but still we had to queue to enter, I ducked out at the last minute and drove here…’ I continue in a whisper, as my voice cracks, ‘where my mother abandoned me.’
Officer Stubble-chin leans across the desk, his hazel eyes scrutinizing my features before he speaks.
‘Say that again?’
‘I was abandoned… on a door step.’
A comedy double-take glance occurs between the two officers.
‘You’re Baby Bede?’ he asks.
I shrug.
‘I’m not sure what I’m called… but I was definitely left on that doorstep.’
‘Back in the Eighties?’ interrupts the female, an energy lifting into her bland expression. ‘Everyone around these parts knows about you.’
Great.
‘Sarge won’t believe this…’ he yelps, excitement bubbling in his voice.
‘Neither will Joel,’ squeals the female officer, hurriedly scrawling her notes.
Double great.
It takes the next twenty minutes to explain that I’d queued at the Pink Coconut while the burly doormen exercised their powers of slow security searches thereby forcing me to perform an aerobic workout of continual side-stepping to combat the cold. That was the moment when my mind overflowed with the dread of the evening routine.
‘The Extravaganza party wouldn’t be the answer to my dreams. Has anyone ever met Mr Right on Christmas Eve? Besides I wouldn’t choose a lipstick in the dim lighting of the Pink Coconut let alone a life partner! So, I might as well seek answers to long overdue questions.’
‘And coming here would answer those?’ asks Officer Stubble-chin, his manner softening somewhat.
‘Possibly. I didn’t really think it through, I just followed my instinct and drove. But now that I’m here, well not here but back there – I did feel a connection.’
Silence descends. The two officers sit back and stare. The duty solicitor doesn’t move, I’m unsure if he’s kept up with the details as he appears to be asleep.
I can see their minds whirring. What do you say to the baby found by the newspaper boy on a cold foggy morning? Welcome to Pooley, please drive carefully and deposit your baby safely. There’s no etiquette rules regarding this topic.
The silence continues.
‘Are you thinking of staying?’ he continues.
‘Maybe. I thought about it earlier in my cell. I could ask around, maybe find some answers,’ I mutter, my nerves having drifted away while a warmer feeling took root. ‘Who knows, I might find who I really am?’
Officer Stubble-chin depresses the button on the recording.
‘Well, that’s the end of the interview, Miss Phillips. Officer Brown will take you back to your cell. I’ll inform the custody sergeant and we’ll have a chat regarding how we’re going to proceed.’
Wow, the interview is over before I finish my tea.
‘And the charges?’ asks the solicitor, awakening hastily.
‘We need to speak to the Sarge… she’ll have to wait and see.’
I’m led back along the grim corridor and returned to cell number ten – the door clangs shut. I’m left alone to settle upon the blue plastic mattress with my comfort blanket.
Within minutes they deliver a plastic moulded tray piled with rice, a creamy mush and a proper mug of tea.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I mutter, balancing the tray on my lap. ‘This certainly makes a change from previous years.’
I look at my cell: cold stone walls, a plastic mattress and a metal toilet with matching hand-basin hidden behind a low-level wall for added privacy.
How am I going to explain this to my parents? Explain that my feisty temper and defensive nature has got me in trouble, again.
If I can find the missing jigsaw puzzle piece, know the truth about my birth, maybe I can relax into normality and create my own Jane Blogg’s existence. Maybe.
I ignore the plastic fork, lazily spooning and scooping at the rice and creamy sauce mountain. A couple of gulps of tea clears my palate.
There had been many times in my life when wanting to know the truth was far greater than anything else. Be it crying in the school playground because other children had their dad’s chin. Or my teenage years when I was convinced I was snogging my brother on every night out – highly unlikely given the two hour drive separating Bushey and Pooley. Or the simplest questions: who is my birth mother? And why on a doorstep?
My abandonment is the default mechanism of my life: lost my job – everyone rejects me just like my mother did. Get dumped by a boyfriend – no surprise, that’s due to my neediness and insecurity. Even a broken nail can trace a direct link back to the events of Friday, 10th October 1986.
I continue to spoon creamy rice into my mouth, swallowing without chewing.
If that is my actual birth date… she may have kept me for a day or so. Nursed me, wanted me and then found she couldn’t keep me.
What if my birth date was the ninth or the eighth?
Shit! I’ve celebrated my birthday on the wrong day every year for thirty years! Worse still, I might have been hatched in early September and hidden away in disgust until being deposited on the doorstep. Six weeks with me and even my mother didn’t want a relationship. No wonder previous boyfriends couldn’t put up with me. What crime could I have committed to be deemed unkeepable?
‘I’m staying,’ I whisper, knowing I have a window of opportunity with my parents away.
My stomach flips. Instantly, I’m nervous with an uncontrollable urge to pee. I distastefully eye the metal en-suite and know this is further punishment for having such a rotten beginning.
*
I stare at the cubicle of St Bede’s hospital taking in the array of medical equipment while the young nurse unpacks the swabbing. I’ve already had an x-ray plus a ninety minute wait to reach this point.
‘Some lager lout, was it?’ she asks, peeling open the sterile packages.
‘For once, no, a lone female.’
‘Not the best start to Christmas, is it?’ she adds, pushing spherical swabs up my nose. ‘The drunks are the worst, loud and letchy – we’re forever calling security for assistance.’
‘She wasn’t drunk. One minute I was asking her questions, the next we clashed heads as we both bent down to collect one of her possessions from the pavement. Bang! I doubled over as she caught the bridge of my nose.’
Who knows how much blood was spilt on the snowy pavement but some poor bugger would be asked to it mop up. Eleven years of duty shifts to keep law and order, fighting crime and discouraging unlawful acts and all for what? This?
‘Pitfall of the job, hey?’ she laughs, plastering thick stripes of sticky tape along and across my nose.
‘Sadly.’
It’s happened many times: black eyes, a split lip, a couple of busted ribs and a broken collar bone but never, an injury caused by a woman.
‘It had been a quiet night until then – dead almost… the local pubs were brimming with revellers and yet it’s the lone female, who I thought was being sick in a gutter, who turns my shift upside down.’
‘Did she get hauled in?’
‘My duty partner came to my aid and quickly took control. I was no good to God nor man. She’s probably giving him hell back at the station, as we speak.’
‘No doubt she’ll have some sob story to tell.’
‘Probably, though nine times out of ten it isn’t worth hearing,’ I mutter, climbing from the casualty bed. I touch my left breast pocket, feeling guilty that her folded clipping remains buttoned inside.
‘You can expect the swelling to go within the week but the bruising could take up to a fortnight. Don’t be tempted to blow your nose for a while, OK? You might end up causing more damage.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Here, you’ll need a couple of pain killers before the worst of it kicks in,’ she offers me a plastic cup in which two tablets rattle about the bottom. I raise it to my mouth and swallow.
‘Don’t you need water?’ she enquires, her brow furrows.
I shake my head.
‘The quicker I’m out of here the better.’
‘Fair play to you. We’re having a nightmare shift as well – we can hardly keep up thanks to the drink and drugs casualties.’
‘Why do we do it?’ I ask, knowing full well that all public-sector workers utter and mutter the same phrase but none of us would have it any other way.
‘Your guess is as good as mine. See you now,’ she laughs, adding. ‘I believe an officer is waiting in reception to taxi you back.’
She swishes the cubicle curtain aside to reveal an A&E ward filled with the carnage of drunken revelry.
‘Thank you and Merry Christmas,’ I say, leaving the cubicle.
‘Ho, ho, ho and all that!’ she laughs, emptying the soiled swabs into a medical bin.
*
On returning to the reception area I find P.C. Gareth Wade waiting, I ready myself for his reaction.
‘How funny is that?’ he laughs, pointing at my face. ‘Wadding and strapping, wait till the lads back at the station see you.’
‘I’m predicting two cracking black eyes and a throbbing headache by the morning.’
‘A traditional start to a good Christmas then!’ crows my compassionate driver, digging his keys from his pocket.
‘It shouldn’t be when you’ve worked all night!’
The station banter had gone easy on me in recent months due to the break-up with Veronica but this, this was going to ignite the jibes.
The fresh morning air stung as we made our way across the snow-covered car park. There were several hours to go before a new dawn would illuminate the dark horizon.
‘Merry Christmas, Joel!’ laughs Gareth, unlocking the car. ‘I should have been home hours ago.’
I settle into the passenger seat of his patrol car.
‘You too. I appreciate you driving me, Wadey. Though it’s cost you time with the family.’
Gareth shakes his head and proceeds to explain his plans for the day ahead centred around his wife, children and home.
‘And yours?’
‘I was supposed to be on duty tonight but with this… I’m sure Sarge will send me home. So, I’ll probably gate-crash at my parents’ and join the family gathering.’
Truth was, I wasn’t too sure. I wasn’t too keen this year. Mum was doing the whole traditional get-together feast but I’d chosen to work. I didn’t want it to be a Christmas of moping around or reflecting on last Christmas spent with Veronica.
Rolling on the floor with my two nephews would be fun until it ended in tears but being scrutinised by Dana, my older sister, wasn’t what I needed. Though Dana’s interrogation may prove more fun than last Christmas which was spent drinking amongst a huddle of strangers in the kitchen of a poncey stockbroker from Chippenham. My mind rewinds to a wasted day pretending to enjoy myself whilst engaging with folk who couldn’t even remember my name – all in the name of relationships and compromise.
‘You’ll love them, they’re our kind of people,’ Veronica had said. Whatever ‘our kind of people actually were’ still baffles me. What Veronica had failed to mention was they were more her dream people, who she’d wanted me to morph into – forgetting to mention we’d be history if I didn’t comply. I didn’t, which explains the last four months. Personally, I couldn’t see how they were her people, with their six figure salaries, penthouse living and exotic au pairs. But that was Veronica all over: big ideas, no substance and wild claims, even at Christmas.
The passing streets are empty of life, the snow has settled and the early morning sky threatens more is to follow.
I can’t remember the last white Christmas – every year seems sunny or wet now that the seasons have gone awry. Unlike that September day, when Scotty had gained entry into my flat.
‘We’re finished,’ I’d crooned to Scotty after three days of hibernation and whisky drinking.
‘Sorry to say it Joel but I saw it coming… Veronica likes the cougar label and the associated attention but…’ he’d snatched the whisky bottle from the coffee table, ‘…you’ve outlived your toy-boy thrill.’
‘Oy!’ I’d grabbed the half empty bottle from his clutches and sloppily poured yet another drink. ‘Nonsense!’
‘That’s your last, Joel. You’ve had enough.’ Scotty wrestled the bottle from my clutches and took it into the kitchen. I heard the whisky glug down the sink and a crash as the bottle was slung into the recycling.
Veronica, wow! How quickly had those two years passed? She never promised a settled future of marriage and nappies, and at forty-five she was pretty much past the baby phase. One minute I was being given the come-on, next we were buying the flat together, two good years and now, four months down the line I was yet to fill all the gaps where her absent possessions had created carpet dimples in the shag pile.
Gareth pulls up to the station gate waiting for the sensors to react and drift open.
‘Here goes, piss-takery galore,’ I laugh, silently dreading the ambush of curt remarks.
‘Pound to a penny Big Tony has a field day, that man’s a laugh a minute,’ adds Gareth, pulling through the gates and parking alongside the other patrol cars.
‘He’s probably mocked up my mug shot and glued it around the men’s locker room,’ I laugh.
‘Or posted it on a down-and-dirty dating website with a false profile,’ bellows Gareth, as we enter the station’s back door.
‘Oy, less of that thanks.’
Above the doorway of The Peacock public house the aged painting, in cobalt and emerald, swings back and forth. The leaded windows and Tudor fascia are confirmed as authentic in daylight.
I gingerly push the frosted glass door as the church clock strikes eleven.
Surely it wouldn’t be open at this time on Christmas day?
A door chime announces my entrance. The door swings freely revealing a welcoming sight of aged wooden beams, soft amber lighting and a real fire in the grate. Thick garlands of holly and gold baubles decorate a large lopsided Christmas tree standing beside the jukebox.
‘Come in, lovey, Merry Christmas to ya,’ beckons the plump woman lifting the hinged bar top and scurrying through the gap. ‘They phoned to say you were on your way.’
I must look a right sight coming in from the snow, with my tartan blanket slung over my party frock, strappy heels and a silver clutch bag.
‘Merry Christmas to you too. I’m after a room for a few nights,’ I explain, as her chubby hand touches my forearm and guides me through the empty bar towards a back staircase positioned at the near end of the bar.
‘They mentioned that too,’ she laughs. ‘I’m Annie by the way… and you’re Flora?’
I smile and breathe. I like her motherly manner; her dyed mahogany hair reminds me of a friendly dinner lady from primary school.
‘I understand your car is parked opposite the church?’
‘The police mentioned so much in one call,’ I murmur.
‘The locals, even the police, don’t hold back around these parts, lovey. It’s free parking so you won’t get clamped. The room’s thirty pounds a night which includes your breakfast… I don’t charge much as we haven’t the facilities of a posh hotel but it’s clean and comfy. Anything you need, just ask.’
Within minutes I am guided up the staircase and settled into room five, a decent sized double with painted woodchip, Artex swirls covering the ceiling and a tufted bedspread. I push the aged voile aside and peer through the window overlooking the cobbled square, the church and St Bede’s Mews.
Who’d have thought I’d injure a copper just across the way? Similarly, who’d have thought of leaving a newborn a few extra steps further along?
‘Have a quick cat-lick and there’ll be a fresh brew waiting for you downstairs… I hear police tea only just fits the bill as wet and warm, but hey, so does bath water,’ laughs Annie, placing my room key on the dresser and closing the door.
What the hell have I done? This time yesterday I’d have predicted a hangover for this time today, but instead I’ve got myself a police record, a mug shot, and crossed a night in a police cell off my bucket list.
‘Flora, you naughty girl,’ I mutter, flopping onto the bed.
It’s a good job the injured copper confirmed we clashed heads by accident; that and my Baby Bede status, otherwise they’d have pressed charges for assault. I didn’t much fancy a court appearance on Boxing Day.
I need to contact Lisa and Steph. With my parents away enjoying themselves, they needn’t be told, it would only ruin their cruise.
I grab my mobile from my clutch bag; seven missed calls and numerous text messages from the girls. I don’t want to explain, but now I’ve decided to stay for a few days I’d best let them know. My fingers dance on the keypad sending a brief text.
Merry Christmas! I’m fine and dandy. Taking a few days away as a mini-break in a cute B&B. Love F x
I quickly press send as a wave of guilt flows from my innards.
My text to Mum and Dad needs careful consideration – how do I explain what I’ve done without worrying them silly? That text can wait. It’s not that I’m keeping secrets from them but they don’t need to know, just yet. They won’t truly understand, will they? It’s my issue… although its lingered deep within for years.
So, I might as well take advantage of my no job, no bloke and no home status and have a scout around while I’m here. I’d just left school the last time I had this low level of responsibility in life.
I look around room five: neat, tidy and spacious. Though at thirty pounds a night, can I afford to stay?
‘Not bad for a place at the inn,’ I chuckle. I probably won’t be smiling when my bank account enters the red or when my credit card hits the maximum.
I collect my mobile knowing their responses will be instant – it’ll give me something to fill the time if I begin to feel awkward seated alone in the pub. I could even text my parents if a decent explanation comes to mind.
After a quick once over in the mirror, I wipe a wet finger around my gums and tame my auburn hair with a quick ruffle, despite a desperate need for a change of clothes, I’m ready for a brew.
*
I bounce down the staircase, to find a tray of tea paraphernalia awaiting my arrival on the bar and Annie stacking the shelves with clean glasses from a wire rack.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, lovey, help yourself,’ she points to the tea tray, ‘though mind the teapots, they dribble somewhat so don’t burn yourself. I won’t join you – I need to restock before midday.’
I clamber onto the nearest bar stool and pour my tea amidst a backdrop of tinkering noises.
‘Have you lived here long?’ I ask, stirring my cup, looking over the bar at her busy frame.
‘I was born and bred in this here pub,’ she says, looking round as she speaks and standing up to grab a tea towel. ‘I learnt to pull a pint before I could see over this counter top.’
‘You know everyone who lives here then?’
She smiles and nods, wiping down the wooden bar a short distance from my tea tray.
‘Every man and their dog…’ Annie stops working and faces me.
‘You already know why I’m here, don’t you?’
‘I told you, the locals don’t hold back. You’re the babe that was found over there…’ she nods in the direction of the door but I know she means St Bede’s Mews. ‘You’ll see how nosey the villagers are come midday!’
‘Surely not,’ I scoff. ‘It’s only just gone half eleven, how could anyone know I’m even here?’
‘Mark my words I’m in for a busy lunchtime, Christmas day or not,’ she chuckles and continues to work. ‘Is that why you’ve come back?’
‘It was a spur of the moment thing,’ I say, between sips.
‘A moment of madness, hey?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Don’t worry, I see plenty of those working in here,’ she sweeps her hand over the empty bar. ‘You’ll be surprised what takes our fancy in an instant only to be regretted hours later.’
I sip my tea watching Annie polish each pint lever and lay out the towelling beer mats at intervals along its length.
My phone vibrates indicating a text.
I instantly snatch it open and view Julian’s name.
Merry xmas. I’m so sorry. Need you x
Knob head.
I delete his message and close the phone. I have no choice. If I don’t I’ll probably reread it a million times and allow his sorry ass apology to dissolve my armour.
That git can wallow; this time I’ll call the shots.
‘So, you’re an only child, then?’ asks Annie, busily straightening glasses.
‘Yep, I think they’d have liked to adopt more but money was tight… and you know.’
‘Hmmm,’ mutters Annie, adding, ‘yeah, we thought of adoption once but… didn’t.’
I watch as her busy hands work quickly and her voice fades.
A silence lulls as I stare around the bar taking in the large stained glass window depicting another proud peacock, the stone fireplace, flashing fruit machines, plush upholstery, a silent jukebox and a swathe of Christmas decorations. Behind the bar the optics twinkle and shine amidst the large mirrors and wooden shelving, promotional posters offering ‘mulled wine at £3.50 a glass’ and virtual ‘Dog racing’ – families welcome! dominate the far wall.
‘I can do you a turkey dinner for later, if you want,’ says Annie, ‘You can join me and our Mick through the back or eat it in your room, if you prefer.’
‘Thank you… I’d like that… some company would be good.’
What a bizarre day this was turning out to be – alone, away from home and reliant upon strangers.
I pour another cup of tea and stir.
‘Anyway…’ calls Annie, adding coal to the open fire, ‘…are they dropping the assault charges?’
‘Hey, hey! Joel my son, how’s it hanging?’ calls Scotty, as I enter the police station. ‘What a pair of beauties!’
‘Knock it off, Scotty… they’re not the first black eyes I’ve had and they won’t be the last.’
I’d been home, slept, washed and changed before dropping by in my civvies. Despite my injuries, I couldn’t lock myself away in the flat. People will stop staring soon enough.
A whistle lifts from Kylie, filling in paperwork at a nearby desk. I nod and acknowledge her appreciation of my darkening panda eyes.
‘I’m doing an extra shift so what’s your excuse?’ says Scotty. ‘I thought you were heading to the Kennedy family feast?’
‘I am later, just thought I’d drop by and see…’
‘And have we got news for you,’ jibes Scotty, stretching his legs by resting his feet on the nearest desk top. ‘Guess who she is?’
‘Seriously, you’re playing games now?’
Scotty winks at Kylie.
‘Don’t squeal, make him guess, there’ll be a pint resting on this one for sure.’
‘Who?’
‘Bloody guess, don’t wreck my fun, you arse,’ jokes Scotty, his head nodding in self-satisfaction.
‘What’s the point? It’s obvious I’ll never win… the pint is yours, I give in.’
‘You… my son, got nutted by Baby Bede.’
His words didn’t register at first. I look from Scotty to Kylie and back again before the penny drops.
‘Are you joking?’ I say, instantly remembering the folded newspaper buttoned inside my uniform breast pocket which hangs downstairs in the locker room.
His gloating look told me he wasn’t.
‘Does Sarge know?’
‘Of course, I told him myself as soon as she blurted it out to us in the interview.’
‘Why was she interviewing?’ I say, pointing to Kylie.
‘Hey!’ shouts Kylie, throwing a pencil at me.
‘Duh, because my duty partner got rushed to hospital as he couldn’t handle a lone bird on Christmas Eve!’
‘Is that the story you’ve put about?’ I ask, looking to Kylie for confirmation of what the other guys had been fed. ‘Seriously?’
Scotty nods enjoying his new-found status as hero.
‘He put it across the police radio the minute Wadey walked you out the rear doors towards casualty,’ grins Kylie. ‘Though Big Tony’s left a surprise in your locker.’
‘Really?’
‘The inflatable rubber doll left over from Reidy’s stag do,’ says Scotty.