Page 5 of Home This Christmas

FOUR

My voice vanished completely the following morning, but a few days later, I am fully recovered, and the TV station welcomed me back with open arms.

Amanda Lewis, although not exactly a disaster, never lit up the screen as the producers thought she might have done.

I felt a little sorry for her as I watched her from my sick bed and she stumbled over some of her lines.

It is daunting to be in front of a camera on something other than a kids’ programme for the first time – although I imagine being a children’s TV presenter is harder than it looks.

Hopefully, the right opportunity will come her way in the future.

As I never normally get ill, I take it as a sign that I ought to look after myself a little more, starting with upping my exercise.

Sure, I eat good food, but my hours can be irregular, which affects my sleep, and well, maybe I could cut back on the wine a little if I am honest. I decide that there is no time like the present so decide to head out for a walk.

Wrapping up warmly, I decide to take a walk along the river, before I nip into a gift shop I know along the way. Mum is due back in the new year, and I would like to buy her something special.

I breathe out the cold, crisp air. My dark hair is tucked beneath my woollen beret, and my long, quilted coat is keeping me toasty. The twinkling lights threaded through the trees I pass add pops of brightness to an overcast day.

I pass tourists dragging suitcases, chattering excitedly and stopping to take selfies outside of the Tate gallery, ready to embrace a break in the city.

A mist hangs over the river as tourist boats stoically continue their trade, carrying passengers along the river at least until the darkness falls.

I peruse my favourite gift shop and buy my mum a pretty silk scarf and an unusual vintage silver ring that I know she will love.

I contemplate buying myself a pair of soft, blue leather gloves before reminding myself I have several pairs at home.

Not in blue, though. In the end, I talk myself into buying them.

After an hour, I stop at a café for a hot chocolate and a mince pie that I simply cannot resist at this time of year, and a woman, with a young lady I presume to be her daughter, recognises me.

‘Excuse me, are you Ruby Holmes?’ the older woman asks.

‘Yes, that’s me.’ I smile, as I duly pose for a selfie with them, much to the delight of the mum.

We have a little chat, and I am suddenly reminded that I am a bit of a household name. At least to those who watch cookery shows. I get lots of smiles – which is not something generally considered a thing in London – when I walk around the city, so perhaps I am recognised more than I realise.

Walking past couples holding hands, or peering into shop windows, reminds me that I will be alone this Christmas, and although it doesn’t exactly fill me with dread, I feel sad that things didn’t work out with Ade.

I feel so grateful having Coleen in my life, and my friend Sienna at the studio, who always cheers me up if I feel a little low.

Back home, feeling refreshed and energised, I find a cookery book that has a recipe for a Christmas cake that my mother used to make.

As I flick through the pages, I am transported to my childhood home and the smell of brandy as Mum would infuse the cake, in the run-up to Christmas.

I recall her catching Dad having a sneaky shot of the brandy once and she scolded him sharply.

At the time I thought it was a bit mean, but as I grew older, I realised she was simply concerned about his alcohol intake.

Our whole world fell apart after Dad died.

He was a huge presence with his gregarious, some might say loud, personality that lit up a room and his kindness knew no bounds.

The heart attack came on without warning at a Christmas party and his life had ended suddenly.

Mum has hated Christmas ever since and often heads off to volunteer somewhere during the festive season.

Mum went through a period of anger towards my father following his death, insisting he could have avoided the heart attack if only he had paid a little more attention to his health.

As an adult, I can understand her frustration, although I guess there was only so much she could have done.

I grew up in a house thinking it normal to watch my father knock back whiskies in the afternoon, continuing on into the evening.

He was loud and funny, but never appeared drunk, which I now realise was down to a high tolerance to alcohol.

Folding the cake mixture and inhaling the rich spices fills me with a mix of emotions, and as I place the cake in the oven and set a timer, the tears that I have held back since splitting with Ade flow freely.

I cry for the end of our relationship, and I cry for my dad.

I shed tears over Mum too, who I miss more than she might realise.

Finally, I cry for myself, although I am not sure why exactly.

I have everything I need and more, yet I suddenly feel sad and alone.

Later, when the cake is out of the oven, I head off to enjoy a luxuriously scented bath.

Sinking into the soothing warm water, I begin to think that I’m not alone, that everyone has their down days at this time of year.

But we have to believe that tomorrow will be a better day. One that I resolve to look forward to.

After last night’s melancholy, I once more tell myself how fortunate I am.

Christmas can dredge up mixed feelings of nostalgia and sadness for lots of people, many who are far worse off than me.

I felt surprisingly light after shedding all those tears, and sinking into a scented bath, and feel ready to seize the day.

I am back in work for a run-through for Britain’s Best Cook, when my work pal Sienna hands me an envelope.

‘This came for you when you were off ill,’ she says, passing me the handwritten letter. ‘Old school.’ She laughs. ‘They probably want a signed photo.’

Most people contact the studio via email, but occasionally, a handwritten letter will arrive, usually from an older person, often as Sienna said, asking for a signed photograph.

I tear open the cream-coloured envelope.

‘It’s not too early to open these, is it?’ Sienna asks, producing a huge tin of Quality Street. ‘I found them in a cupboard in the kitchen.’

Sienna has a sweet tooth and is annoyingly one of those people that can eat whatever she likes without putting on an ounce of weight. Something to be envious of at this time of year, I would say.

‘Are you sure they are not a gift for someone?’ I ask cautiously.

‘No, they are definitely for us lot; I saw the floor manager hide them in a cupboard under the sink. He complained that all our freebie booze and chocolates had gone before we even reached December.’ She grins.

Last year, one of the young lighting guys, fresh out of university, was found by a security guy as he was locking up, passed out and clutching an empty brandy bottle.

‘So, he is obviously hiding the gifts, for now at least.’

‘Not well enough, it would appear,’ I say as she prises open the tin.

Having finally opened the letter, I slowly digest the handwritten words, as Sienna selects the chocolate in a purple wrapper. Suddenly, my past comes rushing back and I picture myself travelling on a train to London.

‘Tell me to mind my own business, but is it anything interesting?’ asks Sienna, unwrapping the chocolate and popping it into her mouth.

‘Hmm,’ I mutter, as I read the letter once more. ‘It is definitely interesting.’

‘So go on, then,’ she says, rifling through the tin and glancing around the room like a child who is about to be caught red handed. ‘Have you been left an inheritance from an elderly relative you knew nothing about?’ she asks.

‘Nothing nearly so exciting.’ I smile at Sienna’s overactive imagination. ‘The administrator at the village hall of my old hometown in Yorkshire has invited me over there this Christmas.’

‘What for?’

‘They’ve asked me to judge the annual Christmas gingerbread-making competition.’ My mind wanders back to previous years. ‘I can’t think why they have asked me to do that. I left the village when I was eighteen years old and I’ve not really been back since even to visit.’

‘Duh. Because you are a well-known celebrity now,’ she reminds me. I’m finally slowly beginning to recognise this, but sometimes I still forget.

My mum won the competition once, and was very proud as I recall, although Dad had joked that he preferred her Christmas cake. Maybe it was because she had laced it with the brandy.

It all feels like such a long time ago, but it would appear the gingerbread competition is something that still takes place. I wonder if the village hall still looks the same, or whether it has had a refresh and been brought into the twenty-first century? Do village halls ever really change?

‘It would be quite the coup having you there to judge the contest,’ Sienna continues. She tosses the sweet wrapper in a bin, before rummaging around for another. ‘I bet they don’t get many celebrities in that neck of the woods.’

‘Probably not,’ I agree.

Brindleford village, though… I’m not sure how I feel – despite a vague feeling of curiosity – about rocking up to the place I left so long ago.

On the other hand, I don’t suppose it would do my image any harm, giving up my free time in that way.

And someone did go to the trouble of sending a hand written note after all.

‘I suppose it would be.’ I smile, wishing Mum was around this Christmas – I could have taken her along with me. Maybe she would have liked to visit after all this time.

Mum moved away from the village following Dad’s death, preferring to be in the bustle of Leeds and close to her sister, which I always thought was a mistake, as Mum had never been particularly close to my aunt.

All her friends were in Brindleford, yet she was determined to leave them behind and move on with her life.

‘So, will you go?’ asks Sienna, and then immediately curses the corporate chocolate gifts due to her lack of self-control. I remind her that they were not exactly out on display, and she grins.

‘I’m not sure,’ I reply truthfully. ‘Things are pretty full-on at this time of year for me.’ But even to myself, it sounds like an excuse.

‘It might be bad press if you don’t go,’ she suggests as she places the lid onto the tin of chocolates. She’s not wrong. ‘I mean, you don’t want your old village to say that you have become too big for your boots, do you?’

‘Do you think they might?’

‘Possibly. They might say you are up your own backside, that sort of thing.’

‘Gosh, I hope not,’ I say, horrified.

‘I’m joking!’ She grins. ‘Although they might think that…’

Would it matter to me if they did? It probably would, although I am not sure why. I think my mind is made up, though.

‘And, you never know, you might actually enjoy it!’ Sienna winks before heading off to put the box back in its rightful place in the cupboard.

Would I enjoy returning to the village I grew up in? There is no disputing that the villagers would go all out at Christmas, and I wonder if they still do? To this day, I don’t think I have ever seen a more magnificent tree than the one that stands proudly outside the old church.

‘Maybe I would…’ I smile, although truthfully, I cannot imagine spending time in a place that holds so many memories, not all of them great. It’s another world now.

But I suppose I can be there and back in no time. And after all, I do have a bit of a weakness for gingerbread.