The Christmas Surprise
Page 46

She unstrapped a howling Apostil and passed him over.
‘What’s up?’ said Stephen. ‘Don’t tell me, is being a mum not exactly like they said it would be in all those stupid magazines you bought?’
Rosie half smiled.
‘Ha, the ones with the perfect children in clean clothes doing somersaults?’
‘With the skinny smiling mothers who also don’t have any drool on them?’
‘With their fresh-faced nine-hours-sleep faces?’
‘And their high-heeled shoes?’
Rosie couldn’t help laughing. It was hard to be grumpy when Stephen was teasing her.
‘No. Actually, up until about ten minutes ago, he’s been a total angel all day. It’s not him.’
And she explained.
‘I was just trying to help out, but everywhere we turn …’
She looked at Pamela, who was having a cigarette outside the kitchen door, even though it was absolutely freezing, and still shouting into her mobile phone. Mr Dog was jumping up and down excitedly and trying to bite the lit end; this was more entertainment than he’d seen in months.
‘Who’s she calling?’
‘Oh, she has a full list of requirements for Peak House. You’d think it would be impossible before Christmas, but my sister can be quite persuasive when she wants to be.’
Rosie looked at her for a long moment.
‘What’s she even going to do up there?’
‘Be a dog in a manger,’ said Stephen. ‘Annoy my mother. Take the pressure off us. Get bored and sell Peak House. All that good stuff.’
‘Anyway,’ said Rosie, and she told him the rest. To his credit, Stephen laughed heartily.
‘I don’t think Roy Blaine being an arsehole is going to make the papers … Did you really take our baby to the pub?’
Rosie switched on the kettle and allowed herself a smile.
‘Oh God, I know. I promise, I absolutely wasn’t thinking. I had my jacket done up and he was so quiet and keeping me warm, and Tina and I go to the Red Lion all the time, and …’
‘Who else was there?’ said Stephen, letting Apostil kick naked on a towel to give his nappy rash an airing. The layers of itchy wool had their down side sometimes.
‘Oh don’t,’ said Rosie. ‘Jeremy from Bender’s Farm. Big Pete, of course. Mrs Laird. Everyone. All the worst gossips and everyone who hates me. Why was the social worker in the pub anyway?’
‘Because she’s a free agent?’
‘No, because there’s nowhere else to go in this town. I should open a café.’
‘What, come and have a cup of tea and a lollipop whistle?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘Anyway. It was horrible.’
‘They’ll make allowances.’
‘Plus I have an employee who can’t sit up without bursting into tears. That isn’t helping matters.’
‘No,’ said Stephen, looking grave. ‘This is really getting to Tina, isn’t it?’
‘It would be nothing to Roy Blaine to let her use that damn scout hut,’ said Rosie. ‘Nothing. He’s only doing it to be an arsehole.’
‘I think I should introduce him to my sister.’
‘No,’ said Rosie. ‘His teeth aren’t white enough.’
Stephen made her feel a little better, but it still took her a long time to get to sleep that night, especially with Apostil making his little noises in his crib in the corner of the bedroom – they’d had to move him upstairs; it was just too cold down there. Somehow she knew he sensed they were all sleeping in the same room, and it was obvious he approved of the situation. They were going to have a heck of a job moving him back down.
Chapter Fourteen
God rest ye merry, gentlemen
Let nothing you dismay …
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy
It was a filthy day. Derby had a huge Christmas lights display, big ropes of sponsored adverts hanging over the streets. The traffic was awful. Rosie crawled along in the car. Some of the town centre was absolutely beautiful, and she felt her spirits rise somewhat. But as she squinted at the directions lying on the passenger seat – the car didn’t run to sat nav – she found herself getting further and further away from that part and into the downtrodden rows of closed-down high-street shops, where the street cleaning wasn’t as good; where mattresses and cars and blocks of flats lined the road. There were many beautiful bits of Derby, Rosie could absolutely see. But this was not one of them.
The estate agent, a nervous young chap called Lance, was waiting on the corner of Bendragon Road. It was an enormously long street of hundreds of identical terraced houses, some with dirty nets in the windows. A few of them seemed to be B&Bs. Rosie blinked.
Lance was overweight and sad-looking. His accent was from the south-west.
‘Have you been here long?’ Rosie asked for politeness, hoisting Appy out of his seat into the howling gale.
‘Three months,’ said Lance ponderously. ‘I was in Cornwall. I miss Cornwall.’
‘Is the weather better down there?’ said Rosie.
Lance nodded.
‘It’s always sunny and beautiful in Cornwall.’
‘Not always,’ said Rosie, smiling.
‘Always,’ said Lance. He pushed open the clanking gate, which was off its hinges. A small, scrubby front garden with cracked crazy paving led to a cheap white-painted front door.
Inside, the house smelled of abandonment and loss. There was swirly carpet on the floor, in some places showing the old newspaper underneath. Obviously nobody had lived there for a long time; a huge pile of ancient mail spilled over the hall. Lance didn’t bother to pick it up.
To the left was a tiny sitting room. A faded green armchair with a brown stain on the headrest stood in front of a gas fire. There was ruched wallpaper on the walls, with dirty marks where pictures had been removed. A car drove past at high speed on the street, and its beams passed through the room and across the ceiling. Apostil wriggled crossly.
‘Sitting room,’ sniffed Lance quickly. The house felt cold and damp.
Along the passage was a tiny kitchen with badly fitted units, an ancient and filthy oven and ripped linoleum. There was a back door leading to a patch of grasssy scrub filled with three different types of bins, and a little alleyway. Even in the cold and dark Rosie could hear the shouting and noise of children. Perhaps Apostil could make friends with them, she thought nervously.