Last Christmas Read online

  Gabriel smiled back, his whole face lighting up. He was gorgeous. She’d somehow failed to notice before—he was always so serious and intent, but when he smiled he was utterly gorgeous.

  ‘Well, that makes two of you,’ he said. ‘Half-pint here is my other supporter.’

  ‘Go, Daddy,’ said Stephen solemnly, waving a flag he’d clearly made.

  ‘Surely you’ve got more than that?’

  ‘You haven’t seen how bad I am at this,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘He is truly truly awful,’ said Pippa. ‘I, on the other hand, am married to the Monday Muddle King, so be warned. This game gets really dirty!’

  ‘Right,’ said Marianne. ‘Crikey, they don’t have anything like this in Cricklewood.’

  ‘Well, you’re in the country now, aren’t you, my dear?’ said Pippa, exaggerating her Shropshire burr.‘It’s all differen’ here, don’t you know?’

  Marianne laughed and gladly accepted the sausage bap that Dan shoved in her hand. She was starving.

  ‘I think,’ she said, to no one in particular, ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Gabriel with feeling.

  ‘You’ve only yourself to blame,’ Marianne teased him. She leant back on the kitchen worktop: despite her sudden hormonal rush, she felt at ease and relaxed around Gabriel, he was such good company.

  ‘I’m doing it for him,’ Gabriel nodded at Stephen, who was in animated discussion with his cousins. ‘He was so keen for me to enter this year. And he’s had enough upset. I thought I owed it to him to give it a go.’

  ‘No word from his mum still?’ Marianne remembered how forlorn Stephen had looked on Mother’s Day at church.

  Gabriel looked awkward.

  ‘Turns out she’s staying with my mother-in-law. Stephen rang his granny yesterday, and Eve wanted to speak to him.’

  ‘What did Stephen do?’ Marianne asked, as a sudden cold shockwave hit her. Did this mean Eve was coming back?

  ‘Ran off crying,’said Gabriel miserably.‘He said he didn’t want to know her. He seemed so upset—I think I may have done something rather stupid. I have to tell someone or I’ll burst.’

  ‘What did you do? It can’t be that bad,’ encouraged Marianne.

  ‘I think it probably can,’ said Gabriel, ‘I lied to Stephen and said Eve wasn’t there. I was so cross with her for hurting him. At the time it seemed the right thing to do. But now. Now I wonder.’

  Marianne looked across at Stephen who was now playing happily with his cousins in the garden.

  ‘I’m sure it was the right thing. Anyone can tell you’re a great dad,’ she said. She thought back to the cruel way Luke had ditched her. Would she rather he’d carried on lying to her? On some days, indubitably yes. ‘And sometimes, well, sometimes the truth hurts too much. Sometimes it’s better not to know.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gabriel walked into the throng of men standing in a field on the outskirts of the village, feeling sick to his boots. It was only his feelings of guilt about Stephen that had led him to enter at the last minute. Gabriel had never been much of a sportsman, and had always hated the rough and tumble of the Monday Muddle. Until last year, he hadn’t entered for at least a decade and, much as he liked Dan and his cronies, he wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable ribbing he was going to get when he made a tit of himself as usual. Worse still, Stephen seemed convinced that he was going to be a hero. The thought of failing his son was worse than taking part. And yet, despite his anxiety, he couldn’t also help feeling inspired by the fact that Marianne had said she would be cheering for him. She was so uncomplicated, and spending half an hour with her in Pippa’s crowded kitchen had been incredibly soothing.

  Gabriel glanced round him. The field was full of gossiping villagers who were wandering through all the craft stalls and, by the looks of things, buying plenty. He could see Pippa doing a roaring trade in home-made chutney, while the local butcher in the stall next to her was nearly sold out of hot dogs already. There were the usual Monday Muddle regulars, plus a few first-timers (village rules stated at eighteen, ‘when a lad can buy his first pint’, every boy in the village was eligible to enter). There weren’t too many newbies this year, but Gabriel spotted one or two youngsters he knew as the sons of various acquaintances. He was pleased to note that most of them looked sicker than he felt. The Monday Muddle also attracted people from neighbouring villages, plus the odd rambler who’d been staying in town over the bank holiday weekend and been persuaded when in his cups to take part.

  The field was crowded with well-wishers and supporters. Gabriel glanced over at Pippa’s stall again and got a welcome boost from the sight of Marianne, who grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Only five minutes to go till he met his doom. Stephen and his friends had taken prime position on the stone wall at the edge of the field, and Ralph Nicholas was striding across the grass bearing the ancient leather football that, legend had it, had been used in the Monday Muddle for the previous two hundred years. The sun was shining, which made a pleasant change from the weeks of rain, but there was still a nip in the air. Mind you, he wouldn’t be feeling that once they all got going.

  ‘Fancy a dram?’ Dan came up with a half bottle of Scotch. It was de rigeur to have something to keep the cold away before the great event.

  ‘Why not?’ said Gabriel. ‘I may need something to numb the pain when you bring me crashing to the floor.’

  ‘No hard feelings, mate,’ said Dan grinning. ‘Hey up, I think we might be ready for the off.’

  They looked up to see Ralph Nicholas standing on an old crate and addressing the throng.

  ‘Welcome one and all to this year’s Monday Muddle. Right, you all know the rules—’

  ‘There are no rules,’ roared back the crowd in a well-worn response.

  ‘When I blow my whistle, the ball will be kicked into the crowd and then it’s every man for himself, and first one to bring it home via the usual route will be declared King of the Muddle.’

  A hush descended. Gabriel swallowed hard. Why was he doing this, why?

  The whistle blew. The ball flew high in the sky and disappeared into the middle of the scrum. Gabriel hovered around the edges while there was the usual toing and froing and head-stamping, before finally a newcomer from a neighbouring village emerged with the traditional shout of ‘Mu-dd-dle!’—and they were off.

  ‘Go for it, Daddy!’ Stephen was yelling with all his might as Gabriel set off running down the muddy field. He ran past Marianne and Pippa, who were cheering and wolf-whistling wildly.

  ‘Go, Gabriel, go!’ Marianne yelled, and suddenly his heart lifted, and he was swept with a huge adrenaline rush. He ran, busting a gut, towards the front of the crowd, easily outstripping the more lumbering members of the village. Maybe he was going to enjoy this after all…

  Cat was in the kitchen trying out recipes for her new cookery book. Mel had started off helping her but had quickly lost interest, while James and Paige had gone next door to play. Noel was sitting watching DVDs with Ruby. Really she should get them out in the garden, it was such a lovely day and Noel was going back to work tomorrow, but Cat was enjoying the rare luxury of having the time to cook properly.

  While other aspects of domestic duty were an arduous chore for Cat, cooking wasn’t one of them. She loved the joy of turning basic ingredients into a tasty meal, the almost sensuous pleasure of kneading pastry, the delight of producing something which the whole family enjoyed. Cat could barely remember a time when she hadn’t been able to cook, beginning young and shadowing her mother in the kitchen. Interestingly, of all her children, it was James who showed the same propensity. Maybe he’d be the next Jamie Oliver. Cat associated cooking with peace and harmony, with safety and security. The smell of baking always lifted her spirits, as it did now.

  She checked on the scones she was cooking and returned to the beetroot soup she was making partly from memory. It was an old family recipe of her Auntie Eileen’s, who’d got it
from her Polish mother-in-law. Cat was working her way through various recipes that had been in the family for years. They included her mother’s famous apple tart, Auntie Eileen’s amazing meringues (which she miraculously made without a whisk, instead using two knifes to whisk the egg yolks), and her own grandmother’s tasty Irish Stew.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Noel walked in. Thankfully he’d got over whatever it was that was eating him on Thursday and was less sulky.

  ‘Okay,’ said Cat, testing her soup and pulling a face. ‘Damn, I’m going to have to ring Auntie Eileen. I don’t think I’ve done this right.’

  ‘What on earth is it?’ said Noel peering into the pan. ‘It looks like someone’s bled to death in the saucepan.’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ said Cat. ‘It’s supposed to be beetroot soup. I think I may have added too much paprika. Lucky you grew so much beetroot on the allotment last year as it looks like I may have to scrap this lot and start again.’

  She poured away the soup and started washing up pans. She’d be rubbing beetroot stains out of her fingers for days at this rate.

  ‘What’s in the oven? That smells nice.’

  ‘Granny Dreamboat’s Fabulous Scones,’ said Cat, ‘and yes, when they’re ready, you and Ruby can test some.’

  ‘Ah, well, if it’s Granny Dreamboat’s recipe, it must be all right,’ said Noel.

  ‘Talking of Granny Dreamboat,’ said Cat, as she started putting pans away, ‘did you think she seemed okay yesterday?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just…well, the thing with the Treasure Hunt was a bit odd, wasn’t it? She’s never got the kids’ ages wrong before, but it was as if she was buying them things from a few years back.’

  ‘Well, maybe she was busy and made a mistake,’ said Noel.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Cat doubtfully. ‘It’s just unlike her. And then there’s little things, like the way she rang me the other day to ask how to make pastry. I mean, my mum, ringing me for cooking advice? Plus there was that business of forgetting to pay her bills. I thought she might be in some kind of financial trouble. But now I’m not so sure. She seems to be terribly forgetful of late.’

  ‘So are you,’laughed Noel,‘you never remember anything I tell you.’

  ‘True,’ said Cat, as she took the scones out of the oven and deftly turned them onto a cooling tray.

  ‘It’s probably just her getting older,’ said Noel. ‘It’s just because she’s so capable you tend to think she’s invincible. I think you’re worrying unnecessarily. Mmm, these are delicious.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Cat, unconvinced.

  ‘I know I am,’ said Noel, kissing the top of her head and disappearing into the lounge with a plate of scones.

  ‘Yummy, scones!’ Mel appeared as if by magic.

  ‘Trust you to come back when it’s all cooked,’ said Cat, as she tidied up the kitchen. She’d been cooking so long it was nearly time to prepare tea. She tried to convince herself that Noel was right, that the small worrying lapses in her mum’s concentration were just the signs of advancing old age but, deep down, she knew she was kidding herself.

  ‘What happens now?’ Marianne asked. The last stragglers of the Monday Muddle were heading off down the hill towards the stream, by which muddy back route the Muddlers would make their way back into town. Most of the onlookers had run off down the field cheering them, and she and Pippa were doing precious little trade now.

  ‘Now we pack this lot up and go and find a suitable spot to cheer them on—the bridge over the brook at the end of Willow Valley is always a good place. Sometimes we pelt them with rotten eggs and flour, but I think the committee has vetoed that this year.’

  ‘Blimey, I had no idea the country was like this,’ said Marianne.‘It certainly beats a boring bank holiday in town.’

  She didn’t say she had particularly enjoyed the sight of Gabriel running swiftly through the crowd, looking rather more athletic than he’d let on. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in Chariots of Fire.

  They called Stephen, Nathan and George, and made their way via the road to the brook, where a crowd was starting to gather.

  ‘When are they coming?’ The boys jumped about impatiently.

  ‘Soon,’ said Pippa, ‘be patient.’

  A shout from someone near the stream indicated that the first runner was already on his way. The original catcher of the ball clearly hadn’t kept it, as it was now in possession of one of Dan’s friends. Dan was in hot pursuit, looking fired up and covered in mud.

  ‘One year they’ll do this event in the dry,’ said Pippa raising her eyebrows. ‘It took me ages to get his stuff clean last year.’

  ‘Dad-dy! Dad-dy!’ the boys were chanting and Stephen joined in. Gabriel was making his way down the path, covered in sweat, his shirt sticking to him in a way that made Marianne feel most peculiar, his lean legs spattered with mud. The legs. Oh my God. The legs did it. Marianne couldn’t tear her eyes off them. Then suddenly the leader tripped and Dan and his friends leapt on top of him. To shouts and whistles, four men rolled in the mud like a bunch of school kids. The ball escaped down the bank and, swift as anything, Gabriel was down there scrabbling frantically in the water for the ball, which was in danger of heading off downstream.

  ‘Way to go, Gabriel!’ Marianne leapt to her feet, cheering. The scrummers belatedly realised they’d lost the ball and set off in pursuit of their prey, but their heavy frames, so useful in the scrum, were no match for Gabriel’s fleetness of foot.

  ‘I had no idea it would be this exciting,’ said Marianne. ‘Where to next?’

  ‘If we hurry we should catch them just as they come into the village at the top end of the High Street,’ said Pippa.

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ said Marianne. ‘I haven’t had so much fun in years.’

  Gabriel was on a high. He raced down the path like a bat out of hell. This was completely exhilarating. He’d never known the Monday Muddle could be so much fun. No wonder Dan and the boys were so obsessed with it. He’d been vaguely aware of the cheers when he’d grabbed the ball, but then, as he’d scrabbled his way up the bank, he’d heard Marianne screaming his name. Something about that had fired him up beyond anything he could possibly have imagined. Suddenly it became vital that he didn’t just win this damned thing for Stephen, but for Marianne as well. He wanted to prove himself to her, to show her that he was different from the rest of the crowd.

  He ran on, ignoring the mud and the hammering of his heart, the feeling that it might just burst out of his chest. Never had he pushed himself so hard physically, and never had he felt more joyfully, vividly, brilliantly alive. He was dimly aware of the bluebells in the woods as he ran past, of birdsong and sunshine, but that didn’t matter because he was nearly at the gate that led to the High Street. He heard the crowd roar and it inspired him beyond anything he’d ever felt inspired to do before. He vaulted the gate without a thought, fired up by adrenaline and stupidity. He could do anything. Anything at all. Free running? He could be king. He was going to be King of the Muddle.

  Or not.

  As Gabriel leaped over the gate, his foot caught the top bar and the ground rushed headlong to meet him. The last thing he thought was, That’s going to hurt, and then everything went black.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Gabriel!’ Marianne wasn’t even aware she’d screamed his name, but she was transfixed at the sight of him coming tumbling over the gate. She ran faster than she knew she could up the hill to reach him. Her heart was pounding. He couldn’t be hurt. He mustn’t be. Not now—

  Now what? Hang on a minute? What on earth was she thinking? Marianne paused for a moment, stopped short by the bolt of lightning that had hit her out of the blue. Suddenly it all made sense. Oh my God, she’d fallen for Gabriel, big time, and she hadn’t even noticed. The revelation was cut short. Gabriel was hurt and needed her. Please, please, let him be okay.

  ‘Gabriel, can you hear me?’ Marianne
reached him at last, kneeled down and leant over to check his pulse. Thank God for that first-aid course she’d done last year. She never thought she’d have to put the things she’d learnt into practice so swiftly.

  Good, he was breathing. His pulse was racing, but then he had been exerting himself. He didn’t look like he was going blue around the lips, but you never could tell. Gabriel was Marianne’s first proper patient, she desperately didn’t want to cock things up.

  ‘Is there anyone medical here?’ Marianne shouted above the rest of the crowd who’d followed her. She couldn’t see any of the village GPs.

  ‘I’m okay, I’m okay.’ Gabriel was coming round. ‘Am I dreaming?’ he said, as he looked into Marianne’s eyes. ‘I think I’ve just seen an angel.’ He lay back and shut his eyes. Marianne swallowed hard.

  ‘No, but I think you’re probably concussed,’ she said.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Gabriel, sitting up. ‘I’m the King of the Middle, I mean, Muddle. And I’m going to win this thing. Have ball, will travel.’

  ‘That’s the spirit! Go on, my son!’ the crowd roared.

  ‘Get him!’ shouted Dan, who was running down the path, followed by two other members of the pack.

  ‘Not bloody likely,’ said Gabriel. He stood up, staggered slightly, picked up the ball and, with a herculean effort, ran as fast as he could towards the village pub, followed by a host of besieging onlookers all chanting his name. Luckily it wasn’t too far.

  ‘Gabriel, be careful!’ shouted Marianne, to no avail. What a bloody idiot. Why did he have to go all testosterone-charged on her? ‘This is insane!’ she wailed to no one in particular.

  ‘Yup,’ said Pippa, who had caught up belatedly, ‘but this is perfectly normal for round here. You should see some of the injuries Dan’s had over the years.’

  They watched as Dan made some headway towards Gabriel who was beginning to stagger slightly. Just as it looked as if Dan was going to reach him, Gabriel put on another spurt of speed and, like a man possessed, roared up to the pub entrance and slammed the ball down on the table.