The Gift Room Page 8

  Alexander could never argue with his sister and win. Most of the time her logic was correct and this was not one of those few exceptions. He realised he was in the wrong with his comments and he certainly did not wish to spoil this particularly special time with her. Alexander looked up once again into the night’s sky and watched his breath making a little cloud as he exhaled.

  “Please, let us not argue, Frances. For God’s sake, it’s Christmas, and you know how much Julia and I love having you here.” Alexander hated himself for upsetting his sister.

  “It is just that I guess something must be done about the folks and I was kind of looking for your guidance and support. You were always so much better at dealing with them than me.”

  “I don’t know if that is particularly true, you know,” replied Frances. “Perhaps it is that I am just more forgiving and understanding than you. I visit them, sure. I am polite to them and I speak with them. That does not mean I agree with everything that they say or do. I simply do not judge them in that way.”

  “It is kind of hard for me not to judge them, you know.” Alexander found himself defending a position and he did not really, fully know why. “They told me not to come home for my 21st birthday, remember!”

  “Alexander, I love you dearly - and your family - you are my only sibling - but you really need to get over yourself,” Frances responded.

  “That was how many years ago?” She paused. “In fact don’t even tell me, because I don’t care! If you want to establish a relationship with them then pick up the phone or drive down to see them. If you don’t then who cares? I don’t judge you for your actions, Alexander, so who do you think is judging you? God?”

  “Sometimes I feel so guilty that I have not been in contact and that I should do just that - drive down and see them, I mean - and then I think, why the bloody hell should I? It is not as though I have been a bad person. I haven’t murdered someone or stolen from anyone. I lead a respectable life, work hard and pay my taxes and am a good husband and father and yet they cannot recognise that fact.” Alexander was walking beside Frances and they were still a little way behind the rest of the party heading home in the chill air. Alexander was holding the torch so it shone on the road, a couple of yards ahead of their feet.

  “Alexander, look. If you want to contact them then do so. That will not affect me in any way. It is for you and you alone to make a decision.” Frances had stopped and was holding out her hand to her brother. “You feel you were badly treated by them? I am not here to judge that. If you want to move on, fine. If you don’t, that is fine also. It is you who has to live with the result.”

  Alexander took his sister’s outstretched hand. “I know… I know that I should contact them… I know it is the right thing to do, and if I were alone I would.” He paused. “Please don’t think that Julia is stopping me from making contact. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is just that after they have ignored my family for so long, I feel I am being disloyal to them to start a relationship again.” Alexander was grateful for these few minutes alone to converse with his sister. He valued her advice and counsel over family issues. Perhaps it had been the length of time since he had last seen his parents, perhaps it had been the feeling that they were getting older and he needed to find some peace in the relationship whilst they were still alive that was driving him. Whatever it was, Alexander valued the opportunity to talk through the idea of contacting his parents with Frances.

  “The more I think about it, the more I think the right thing to do is to contact them,” Alexander said. His voice was clear in the crisp black night and his breath left a cloud of exhaled breath in the air. It seemed to represent his determination to proceed to contact his parents and yet as he walked forward the vapour disappeared, much like his resolution in resuming normal relations with his mother and father.

  “My dear, sweet brother, perhaps you need to stop thinking so much about contacting them and playing various scenarios through your mind and just get on and do it!” Frances paused.

  “Now… I know what you are like,” she grinned at her brother.

  “That is not a confirmation from me that you should make contact. Let me be very clear before you quote me totally out of context: this is a confirmation that, if you wish to make contact with them, then get on and do so. Running through every scenario in your mind like some bloody analytical, risk-adverse asset manager, or whatever it is you do now, is not the approach when dealing with personal matters.”

  Frances had finished. She looked at her brother. They had stopped walking a few yards from the end of his drive. The others had already reached the front door and were starting to unravel scarves, hats and coats, and were kicking off Wellington boots on the doorstep. The flood of light from all the ground floor windows was spilling out enticingly from the house, beckoning everyone to come inside to the warm.

  “You are right as always, Sis. I shall get on with it. Perhaps a letter and then I’ll drive down to Devon to see them in the spring. I just needed to chat it through with you. It is kind of painful still.” Alexander was pleased to have had the opportunity to speak with Frances. Little did he realise that this would be the last time they would ever have a proper face-to-face conversation.

  “Now we have got your head straight, my darling baby brother, can we get in? I am freezing! I like working in 40 degree temperatures, in case you didn’t realise! Now, have you any of that decent brandy left from some grateful client? I rather enjoyed it last year!” Frances was now at the front door and had started to pull at her green wellies by placing the heal against the stone step and yanking her foot out.

  “And another thing,” she said as the first wellie came off and fell away against the drive surface. “If I understand the rules of this house correctly, it’s pressie time!” And with that her second Wellington boot fell to the drive and Frances bounded inside, calling her godson to look at the presents around the tree with her.

  The rest of that Christmas had passed in a haze of turkey, silly hats from crackers, and red wine. As usual after the main festivities, Frances had left a few days before the Year End. She had said her usual goodbyes at the railway station and, after hugging Will, had boarded a train to London Waterloo.

  Alexander never saw his sister again.

  The balance of the holiday period had passed in much the usual fashion. After taking Julia’s mother back home, the New Year was spent with friends a couple of hundred yards up the road - although Alexander in particular had somewhat begrudged the rate charged for babysitting, which seemed to be best measured as a proportion of a monthly mortgage payment!

  The news of Frances’ death had come completely out of the blue on a clear fine Saturday in mid May. Alexander had decided on a full English breakfast for the family, with every conceivable item, even hash browns and had therefore entirely taken over the kitchen in his quest for a morning banquet. The postman was usually pretty well on time and everyone had heard the delivery at the front door at around 9am. Alexander was in full throw in the kitchen, with sausages under the grill, bacon in a frying pan and a pile of eggs about to be cracked into a pan for a veritable mountain of scrambling.

  “I’ll get the post, Daddy,” Will had said, sliding off his stool at the end of the kitchen breakfast bar and running to the mat in the hall to collect the usual assortment of envelopes – and, as it was a Saturday, at least two cellophane wrapped trade magazines for his father. He carried everything into the kitchen and dropped it rather unceremoniously on the breakfast bar.

  Julia, who was sitting at the breakfast bar sipping a coffee, quickly started to sort the post into business (for Alexander) and home, for her to deal with, which ranged from bank statements to offers from one of their supermarket loyalty cards. When she came across a plain white envelope with a handwritten address marked to Alexander, she immediately passed it to her husband. It was not because she recognised the handwriting; it was just so unusual to receive a handwritten envelope. Everything was normally in th
ose ubiquitous white or brown window envelopes with the address carefully, or not so carefully, sometimes peeking out of a cellophane window.

  “It’s my Father’s handwriting,” said Alexander without hesitation as he had turned from the hob where the bacon was sizzling nicely in the pan to receive the envelope from Julia, who held it in her outstretched hand. He quickly turned the cooking off, took the envelope and sat down on one of the spare bar stools at the breakfast bar. He opened it with the knife that was already laid for his breakfast and removed the single sheet of paper. Somehow he knew this would not be good news after all these years, yet what he read took him completely by surprise, and in a way far more terrible than he could ever have imagined.

  Dear Alexander,

  You cannot possibly know how difficult this letter is to write. A couple of weeks ago, your mother and I received some terrible news. It appears that your sister had been working in a very difficult area of Africa, at a refugee camp near the Somali border, and there was a rocket attack. We still do not know all the details, and I suspect we may never know. I am sorry to have to tell you that your lovely sister, our beautiful daughter was apparently killed instantly.

  The Foreign Office have been very helpful, as have the charity she was working for. They repatriated her body and we had a very simple ceremony here at Godfrey St John and have laid her to rest.

  Your mother and I will visit her regularly, and will always remember the lovely girl we brought into this world, and the fine woman she grew to become.

  We trust that you and your family are keeping well.

  Regards,

  Dad

  Alexander had read the letter in silence. He looked up at Julia, who was just watching him. Without a word he passed the letter to his wife, walked across the kitchen to the French doors into the garden and walked out into the spring morning. Alexander looked up at the vapour trails left by aircraft in the clear blue sky. After a couple of minutes Julia came out, holding the letter, and placed her arms around his chest while she stood behind him, simply resting her head against his back.

  “Oh darling, I am so sorry. It’s terrible,” she whispered softly, half sobbing, as she held him in a tight embrace.

  The rest of the day appeared to take forever. Julia and Alexander had decided to wait a while before telling Will, who they knew would be devastated when he heard about the news about his Godmother and aunt. They needed to assimilate the information themselves, get used to the news, and find a way to support their son, without themselves getting too emotional. When Will was tucked up in bed just before 8pm that night, Julia and Alexander were sitting together outside on the patio, looking at the garden.

  “Darling, we do need to talk about all of this,” Julia said in a low, soothing tone. “I mean, not just poor Frances, but the fact that your parents did not tell you until after the funeral.”

  “Julia, I love you very much, but please… I just don’t know if I want to.” Alexander stretched out his hand, took his wife’s in his own, and squeezed gently.

  It was a couple of weeks later when Alexander returned from work and found Julia sitting in the kitchen, casually flicking through a magazine. He heard the TV on in the sitting room and called out a greeting to his son.

  “What are you reading?” said Alexander, as he crossed to the kettle to turn it on and make a cup of tea. The commuter train had been particularly hot and stuffy that evening. Julia simply held up the cover of the magazine for him to see.

  “Mother and Baby,” was the title. He turned from the kettle, crossed the kitchen and hugged his wife.

  “Oh my God! I had no idea! When did you find out? How late are you?” Alexander was holding his still-sitting wife as tightly as ever he had.

  “I just found out today; I think I am around seven weeks,” she replied. “I wanted to make sure and was going to tell you a couple of weekends ago, only…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I am so happy. This is simply fantastic news!” Alexander was beaming and pulled away slightly from Julia so he could look into her face.

  “I have been thinking about Frances a lot over the last fortnight,” Alexander said, as it seemed at last the right time to have the conversation with his wife. “I will miss her in my life a great deal. She was somehow the embodiment of all that was good about our family. I had spoken to her about getting back in touch with Mum and Dad at Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know you were thinking about that,” Julia interjected.

  “Yes… yes I was. Only, after they did not call me to tell me about the funeral, and I could not be there for Frances… well, they have made it pretty clear to me that they do not want me in their family.” Alexander paused. “Well, that is it, I will not contact them, although at some point I would like to go down to Frances’ grave. I shall just have to hope I don’t bump into them!”

  “Darling, it must be entirely your decision. You know I will support you 100 percent.” Julia paused. “I am so happy our family is growing though!” She smiled up at Alexander and hugged him.

  Alexander bent down and unwrapped the pink tissue paper box for Natalie. She had been born prematurely that October, and had been very ill, initially. Although it had been a wonderful Christmas, when she had come home in mid December and they had celebrated for the first time as a family of four; nevertheless it had, equally, felt so strange without Frances in attendance. The wrapping paper, once removed, revealed a gift box with a limited edition Steiff Bear, apparently called “Gregory” - although somehow Alexander doubted if he would ever answer when called.

  “Well, Natalie, you may not want to take this cuddly chap to bed now, but I suspect you would still appreciate him sitting on a shelf, so I shall bring him home with me.” Alexander talked to himself as he carried the bear in his box downstairs and placed it by the front door so he would not forget it. He was now very tired. Although he did not look at his watch, he knew it was late. Too late to go and book into the local pub, and in fact he did not even know if they had letting rooms.

  “Idiot,” he thought to himself. “I should have asked Brian.” Alexander turned and walked upstairs, sat on his parents’ bed and pulled off his shoes and just laid down, fully clothed. He felt suddenly exhausted, and let himself drift off to sleep almost instantly.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alexander woke in his parents’ bed early. He was in fact still lying on top of the covers. His tie was rolled neatly on the bedside table, alongside his watch. He did not remember taking either of them off, although perhaps he had done so when he got up for a trip to the toilet during the early hours. He just could not remember. He reached across and looked at the watch face. It said it was 6.15am. He placed it back on the table, rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. It felt awkward to be in his parents’ house, as though he did not belong there. He decided to sit up and propped the pillows behind his back against the headboard. He had not really taken any notice of the room when he had gone to bed, which was not all that surprising since it was late and the wine he had shared with Brian had taken its toll.

  The light was streaming in through the window, which looked out over the front garden. It was no wonder he had woken so early as, when he had gone to bed, clearly Alexander had forgotten to drawer the curtains against the night sky. Now he could see the trees gently swaying in the light breeze. It looked as though it was going to be a nice day. The furniture in the room all seemed to be in matching pine and was clean, with just a few ornaments and a couple of perfume bottles placed upon the dressing table. Alexander leant over and pulled open the draw of the bedside table. He reached in and pulled out a book.

  “Typical,” he thought to himself as he looked at a copy of The Daily Telegraph Unpublished Letters book from the previous December and a gardening magazine. He put both back, closed the drawer and leant back against the pillow.

  “Funny, really,” he thought. “One day my parents are lying on this bed, perhaps having a cup of tea before they start the day, and even r
eading that book or magazine, and then they go out in their car and never come home. Life is so transitory. We should grasp it, live it, enjoy it and share it with people we love.”

  His mind started to replay the events of yesterday. The meeting with the solicitor, and then establishing that his parents were wealthy. The presents in the room, his long evening with Brian, his friendly local vicar, “who clearly enjoyed a glass of wine or three!” Alexander mused to himself in his head. He thought again of those memories concerning his wife and his sister. “Perhaps I shall visit Frances before I leave this morning,” he thought to himself, as he slid to the side of the bed to sit up.

  “Right then, up and a cup of coffee or tea or anything with caffeine, and then I must call Julia.” Alexander stood up.

  “No, wrong word, not must… want to call Julia!” He smiled to himself as he corrected his approach and set about texting her to ask her to call him when she woke up.

  He walked downstairs and into the kitchen. It certainly looked a lot more untidy now than when he had first arrived. There was the debris of his early evening snack and two wine bottles on the table, one empty, one half full, together with glasses also left half full. He noticed a coffee cup from earlier in the day casually abandoned near the kettle. He was not normally an untidy person, but somehow the state of the room seemed to fit with his feeling of camping out in his parents’ house.

  He switched the kettle on, reached for a new mug, dropped a teabag in from the caddie on the side by the kettle and walked across to retrieve the milk from the fridge. He was soon sitting back at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in his hands. He was not feeling hungover, but perhaps a little delicate. His phone rang.

  “Darling, how was your night in the pub? I figured it was too late to call last night,” Julia enquired.