A Winter Flame (23 page)

Eve rang him on his mobile but it went straight through to voicemail. She left a message but was too wound up to sit and wait for Jacques to bother to pick it up and respond to it, so she put on
her coat and headed off to find him. None of Effin’s men had seen him, though; neither had any of the elf-men and women who were busy unpacking boxes full of wooden toy parts to be hammered
together and painted by children in the workshops, nor the elf-actors painting scenery in the tiny theatre. He wasn’t to be found in his usual haunt – ‘Santapark’ (that sign
really did need to be changed before her brain blew all its fuses), or the grotto or the chapel and nor had Tim, the reindeer and horse keeper, seen him. He wasn’t in the snow-globe museum,
the shop or the café. She scuttled past the ice-cream parlour but it was obvious he wasn’t in there either. Eve was boiling with anger by the time she got back to the Portakabin
– only to find him sitting there, putting a jug of water through the coffee machine.

‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she hollered. ‘And I rang you.’

‘Oh, have you?’ was all he said.

‘I need a word,’ Eve said, her eyebrows matching his now for crossness. ‘A big word.’

‘What about?’

‘I had a look in the wedding-chapel book.’

Jacques’ eyes narrowed. They were a cold blue today – glacial ice chips. ‘You snooped in my drawer, you mean,’ he levelled at her. ‘Quite a master at it,
aren’t you?’

What that meant Eve had no idea, nor did she have the time or disposition to analyse it.

‘I didn’t “snoop”. As far as I was aware, this is
our
park. Not yours.’

‘You said we should run separate projects, if I remember correctly. The chapel falls in my remit.’

He was deliberately winding her up now, throwing her own words back at her like some clever barrister. She wondered if he had a wardrobe full of silks and wigs as well for when he fancied
another alter ego.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she yelled.

‘He didn’t want you to know.’

‘This,’ she gesticulated wildly around the Portakabin, but meant much further beyond, ‘is my business too. I have a perfect right to know something like that.’

‘Yet,’ put in Jacques, ‘he wanted you to know when he was ready to tell you. And asked me if I would be complicit in that.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Eve laughed without humour. She would have to be careful not to let rip about secrets and intrigue. ‘It’s wrong,’ she said. ‘You have to cancel
it.’

Jacques shook his head in thin amusement. ‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘It’ll be a nightmare, that’s why. No one in their right mind would want that to happen. Least of all . . .’

Jacques stood up to his full height of six foot four and looked imperiously down at Eve. ‘You haven’t a clue, Miss Douglas. You haven’t a clue what people want or need because
you are too out of touch with everything.’

Eve felt herself bucking inside at his patronizing and blatantly incorrect analysing. ‘How dare you,’ she said. ‘How dare
YOU
tell me
I’M
out of
touch.’ Ha. A fantasist telling her she didn’t know what real life was. How funny was that?

She wasn’t prepared for his hands landing on her arms, for being twisted around, for being pushed forward and forced to face herself in the long rectangular mirror which hung on the
wall.

‘That woman whom you see there is as part of the real world as a nun in closed orders on the moon,’ said Jacques, an alien, bitter tone in his voice. ‘And she will shrink more
and more into herself and away from the world with every passing year. Look at her, Eve. When did that woman in front of you last laugh? When did she think to herself that she was truly enjoying
life?’

‘Will you get off me.’ Eve struggled, but Jacques was a powerfully built man and his hold on her was unbreakable.

‘She can’t see people in front of her any more because she has no eyes for the present, only the past. And when she does realize she could have had a future, it will be too late.
Haven’t you learnt anything from your Auntie Evelyn, woman? Do you think she wanted you to follow in her footsteps? Don’t you think that watching what was happening to you made her
realize all the years she had wasted?’

‘I don’t need you to analyse me. I am none of your business. What you are intending to do, however, is,’ said Eve, still trying to wrest herself from his grip.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Jacques. ‘Stay out of it. You can’t stage-manage what other people want when you’re such a mess yourself.’

He let her arms go and she still felt where his hands had gripped her.

‘A mess? A mess? What do you mean I’m a mess?’ She wasn’t a mess. Mess-people didn’t have jobs or money or ambition – or drive brand-new BMWs. How the fuck
could she be a mess? She was less of a mess than anyone she knew. She moved time barriers to organize last-minute events, she couldn’t do things like that if she were a
mess.
‘At
least I . . .’ She stopped herself just in time. He waited for her to finish her sentence, but she remained silent, rubbing at her arms.

‘I think your aunt made more mistakes than employing a rubbish printer,’ said Jacques, palming his keys from the desk.

‘Didn’t she just,’ Eve called out to his back as he exited with a grim flourish. Ooh, that sounded as if he might be starting to want out. Was she wearing him down? She should
have been quite excited about that, so why wasn’t she? Why was she stinging from his words and hating him for knowing her more than she knew herself?

Eve held a carrot whilst Holly nibbled delicately on it. She was a funny thing: small and gentle with beautiful, trusting eyes and almost ladylike in the way she ate. Blizzard
and the newly named Noel were a little more confident now and didn’t cling on to their mother’s shadow as much. Noel was sipping from the trough; Blizzard was lying down asleep, his
head turned towards his feet, looking like a ghost version of Bambi.

For two days now a tennis match had been playing in Eve’s head. The ball that was being batted to and fro had ‘Do I tell her?’ written all over it. It fell in the
‘Yes’ court, then bounced into the ‘No’ – back and forth. It had given her a headache the previous day and she’d had to go to bed early after taking some
tablets.

‘Oh Holly, I wish you could talk,’ said Eve, getting an apple out of her coat pocket. But reindeer didn’t talk, and neither did candle flames, as she found out often when she
asked Jonathan to send her some help, some sign when she needed direction on which path to take. The candle flame just flickered in the air disturbed by her breath, and Holly kept chewing. Flames
and reindeer did not give advice: this one was down to her. She regretted that she had ever seen that damned black book.

‘I’m dreading this afternoon, I don’t mind telling you,’ said Eve, after checking behind her to make sure no one was around to overhear her having a one-sided
conversation with an animal. ‘My granny is a bit difficult, to say the least. I don’t want to go.’

Violet’s Nan Flockton used to say Pat Ferrell had the eyes of a dead halibut. Nan Flockton, now that was the sort of granny to have: a fun, sharp woman, with a hug always ready in her
arms. Neither Violet nor Eve had ever had a hug or a kiss from Pat. Eve felt very disloyal even thinking it, but she didn’t love her granny. She didn’t like her either, but today she
was seventy-five and duty beckoned. At least she would be going with Susan and Violet, so she wouldn’t have to suffer the ordeal of sitting in that cold house with an even colder woman. Susan
had suggested taking her mother out for something to eat, but Granny Ferrell didn’t want to, as her fancy man was taking her out for an expensive posh dinner and she wanted to be very hungry
for that.

Eve stroked Holly’s nose as she ate the last of the carrot. ‘Ah well, best go. See you later, Miss Holly.’ Checking again that no one was around, Eve leaned forward and kissed
her quickly on the thick fur of her head.

In truth, she would be glad of some company that afternoon – human company. She hadn’t seen Jacques since their bust-up in the office. His car hadn’t been there yesterday at
all so he obviously wasn’t in. Such a loud, noisy man left a huge, silence-filled crater when he was absent. Eve found, though she liked to work in silence, that over the past two days the
silence had been too silent. She had to get a fix of voices by making an excuse to go over to Santapark just to listen to Effin’s four-letter tirades – or rather fourteen-letter tirades
– at his builders.

‘
Bastads. Newch chi ladd fi yn y pen draw. Dw i ugain mlynedd yn h
ŷ
n ers cychwyn y blydi job ’ma
.’

She overheard Arfon translating for Mik.

‘Bastards. You’ll kill me in the end. I’m twenty years older since starting this bloody job,’ Arfon chuckled. ‘Oh, don’t worry, that’s nearly a
compliment coming from him. You should hear him when he really starts.’

She smiled to herself as she recalled that incident, then her mobile rang and she lifted it to her ear. It was her Auntie Susan.

‘I’m on my way,’ said Eve, slightly stretching the truth. ‘See you in a jiffy.’ With perfect timing, the train chugged slowly towards her. ‘Is it
mended?’ Eve called. ‘Any chance of a lift to the front gate?’

‘Totally,’ called Thomas.

Eve’s hair was almost all blown out of her French plait when the train stopped. It was going more berserk with every journey.

‘I car-not understand it,’ said Thomas. ‘It was fine ten minutes ago. Oh, Effin is going to go bloody men-tal. Again.’

Susan and Violet were waiting outside the front door when Eve’s BMW drew up. Violet was standing on the doorstep shivering, despite having her coat, gloves, scarf and hat
on, as if the very core of her was frozen. She looked even paler than usual against the black of her clothes.

‘Oh, it’s lovely and warm in here,’ said Susan, climbing into the front seat whilst struggling with a bouquet of flowers. Violet didn’t say anything as she got in and
closed the back door, carrying a bag of bottles which clanked together.

‘We’ve got her some champagne and some brandy,’ said Susan. ‘She’s into champagne cocktails now, ever since she went on that cruise with
what’s-his-face.’

Pat Ferrell had met a lonely widower with more brass than sense on a coach trip. He had taken her on a cruise to the Fjords recently and apparently they were spending Christmas in the Bahamas on
the
Mermaidia.
He was just one in a very long line of men that Pat Ferrell had – and would – hone in on, chew up and spit out when the novelty wore thin. She would never have
discovered her true potential for femme-fatalism if Grandad Ferrell hadn’t run off with Nicole from the Miners Arms just after Ruth had been born (a relationship which lasted less than six
months, and one of Pat’s most treasured memories was telling him to piss off when he came crawling back.) Pat Ferrell made her younger daughter look like Mother Teresa. She should have been
living in a web, not in a semidetached bungalow.

‘I’ve bought her a necklace,’ said Eve. ‘And matching earrings and bracelet. It’s a bit of bling for her cruise. And some flowers as well.’

‘What do you buy the woman who has everything, eh?’ laughed Susan.

Violet didn’t say a word on the twenty-minute journey, but looked out of the window, face still obscured by her scarf and hat, as if she hadn’t quite defrosted from waiting on the
doorstep for Eve to arrive. They pulled up outside the impossibly neat semi, on an estate of other pristine houses with bleached nets, scrubbed front doors and families of gnomes strategically
placed in the garden borders.

‘Come on,’ Susan geed up her girls. She wasn’t looking forward to it either, if the truth be told. Her mother had been a horror-story that made her determined to grow up and be
the total opposite sort of parent and woman. Pat Ferrell’s house had always been immaculate and showy, but when Susan was growing up there was never any food in the cupboards or clean clothes
in the wardrobe. As a result, Susan’s cupboards had always been stuffed enough to face a four-month siege, and she washed and ironed every two days at least. Ruth hadn’t rebelled
against the pattern, however.

Susan knocked on the door, then walked in. ‘It’s only us,’ she said. ‘Mum?’

‘In here,’ said Pat Ferrell, in the faux-elocution-lessons voice she had worked on over the years.

Susan felt a familiar knot in her stomach as she remembered growing up in this house and all the different men’s shoes by the door. Unpleasant memories always came rushing at her whenever
she stepped foot in 14 Riffington Road.

‘Happy Birthday,’ Susan said, pushing open the lounge door to find her mother sitting in the big, plush red armchair with the gold-tasselled trim. It looked like a throne. She leaned
over and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek, something that only ever happened on birthdays and Christmases, and always given from daughter to mother. Eve and Violet followed suit, touching
Pat’s stiffly proffered cheek with a brief, dry kiss and handed over their presents, resting the two bouquets on a nearby console table. Pat, fit as she was, didn’t offer to get up and
make them a drink. Anyone visiting Susan’s house would have been sitting with a three-course meal five minutes after being admitted.

‘Shall I make some coffee?’ asked Susan.

‘If you like,’ said Pat, slitting open the first card with her fingernail.

‘Are you sure you don’t want us to take you for something to eat, Mum?’

‘No, I said I didn’t. Eric and I are going to The Twelve Acres tonight,’ she patted her very well-preserved flat stomach. ‘I don’t want to look bloated in my new
dress from Pellyfields.’

Pellyfields was the poshest shop for miles. It cost fifty pounds just to window-shop. Eve had bought a number of suits and dresses there for work, even though she had always been happiest at
home in her jeans – as Jonathan was. She had once bought him a shirt from there. Soft grey, the same colour as his eyes.

‘What’s your new dress like, Gran?’ Eve asked.

‘Navy and very classy,’ said Pat, primping the back of her newly permed, short blonde curls. ‘Frank Usher.’