Page 15 of So This is Christmas

SOPHIE

Sophie almost thought these last few days since Bea had died had been a bad dream, except this morning she’d woken up thanks to her body clock rather than an alarm and remembered it all. Every single detail.

She briefly thought about staying in bed all day, but after half an hour of trying to close her eyes and push the misery away she knew it would only make her feel worse if she resorted to that.

She got up, wrapped her dressing gown around her and looked out of the window. England had brought the worst of its weather today, as if it wanted to pummel Sophie’s mood. It was raining so hard that she could barely see beyond the water streaming down the glass.

It was miserable outside and there wasn’t much to smile about inside either.

Downstairs she flicked on the television for some company. It was far too quiet in the house when Hayden wasn’t here, and some music or the television usually did the trick.

She went into the kitchen to make a big mug of tea.

As the kettle boiled she stared at the space in the living room that was still waiting for a Christmas tree.

She’d planned to get one from the local garden centre in the next couple of days because she was scheduled to work all the way up to and over Christmas, but now she was free as a bird.

She couldn’t bear to think about how she was going to feel over the festive season, with or without a tree.

She’d called Jessica yesterday to tell her everything, but her husband had answered the call.

Poor Jessica had not only had the terrible cold that was going round but was now down with a tummy bug and probably had no idea what was going on at the lodge – that Bea had died, that Sophie had accused Amber of theft and had subsequently been fired.

She flopped down onto the sofa with her cup of tea.

Christmas was well on its way and not only was she alone, she had nothing much to occupy her time.

A lady of leisure, that’s what she was now, and she wasn’t sure she liked it at all.

She sometimes wondered whether she got her need to be busy from her mother.

Her mother had always worked; Sophie couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t.

She was a dinner lady at the local middle school, plus she spent Saturdays working at a garden centre.

Sophie remembered going with her to the garden centre on one occasion and being allowed to help out, filling the tiny pots with soil while her mother took charge of planting the saplings.

Those days were some of the few she remembered fondly, but at least they were there.

When she met Martin and they talked about her family and her unhappiness growing up, he’d helped her dredge up some of the nicer memories.

With the not so nice parts he’d comforted her and told her that she shouldn’t blame herself for her mother’s behaviour, but she had felt in part like it was her fault.

When the dementia diagnosis came, it had got Sophie wondering whether something might have been happening inside her mother’s brain for years.

But of course she wasn’t a doctor and she didn’t even want to ask the question because somehow her theory had given her enough comfort that she was able to see past her childhood and visit her mother in the care home before she lost her for good.

Her theory had allowed her to let go of some of her resentment.

Still in her pyjamas, she hated having no focus or very much to do and so she fired up her laptop and spent most of the morning online, trawling the web for jobs.

There wasn’t much going. Maybe there would be more opportunities in the new year, but she didn’t even want to think about being out of work for that long.

Financially she was all right for now, but emotionally she needed something. Anything. She wasn’t even picky.

She applied for two jobs she was vastly overqualified for and another that she had no hope of getting because she was underqualified.

There was always agency work too. She preferred to be in one place and get to know the people she was looking after, but if there was nothing else then at least it could be an option.

By the time she looked up from her laptop the rain had miraculously stopped.

She’d stayed inside all yesterday feeling sorry for herself and so she switched off the television, dragged herself upstairs, took a shower and got dressed.

And then, with the rain pelting the windows yet again, she found the big umbrella she kept for such days and set off for a walk.

The rest of her street in Greenwich, less than ten miles from central London, was far more ready for Christmas than she was.

Christmas trees were shown off in front windows, lights around porches and roofs suggested a cosiness hidden inside that she would really love to feel, and she only hoped that somehow she could summon a bit of enthusiasm for the season she really loved.

She thought of Martin throughout the year of course, but particularly in December.

Christmas with Martin had been the first time she’d felt that it really was a wonderful season, the way people described it, magical, a time for family and love, and then with Hayden she’d always thought of it the same way when she gave him everything she’d missed out on as a kid.

Her mother had once referred to the ridiculous amount of presents children received, said that they were spoiled, and while Sophie had bought Hayden some of the things from his Christmas list it had been about so much more than that.

Her mother had never seen past the commercialism.

Perhaps if she had she might have been able to embrace the season for the other things that it brought, like the togetherness and a chance to share traditions and create memories.

She managed an hour’s walk in the rain before she headed for home.

She pushed her keys into the lock of the cobalt blue front door Martin had painted the month they moved in.

The paint was chipped in places and desperately needed redoing, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it.

Whether it was lack of time, energy, or simply the thought of erasing another thing that Martin tenderly saw to in the short time they were together, she wasn’t sure.

She let herself inside the brick terraced house she’d called home for over two decades.

This house had seen the birth of her son, the death of her husband, a struggle to make ends meet.

She’d taken in lodgers one after the other for a number of years, she’d worked hectic hours on occasion, her son had grown from a baby to a man who was making his own way in the world.

This house had been her home, her comfort, her sanctuary in good times and bad.

So much was the same in this house as it had been when she and Martin stepped over the threshold for the very first time as the owners.

The floorboards along the hallway were still the originals and led all the way into the lounge where an enormous wool-blend rug in front of the fire kept the room warm and cosy.

The bathroom upstairs had seen only a partial remodelling, retaining its tiling and layout.

The kitchen was still the original with a repeated need to fix the wooden doors that fell off their hinges time and time again, and the replacing of shelves that had seen too much weight over the years.

Hayden’s bedroom had undergone a major redecoration every time he’d reached a new stage.

Robots had adorned one round of wallpaper when he was first in his big boy bed, and in his teens those robots had been swapped for plain walls and the odd poster.

When he’d turned twenty, Sophie had finally got rid of the same desk and bed he’d had for over a decade and made his space that little bit more grown up, with modern furniture in bigger dimensions with a proper desk lamp and space for his computer as well as a double bed.

He might not move back in fully ever again, but this would always be his home and it was ready for him whenever he needed it.

So much in this house was the same, and yet so much was different.

She was different, but in many ways she hadn’t fully moved on.

She still held on to her frustration and sadness about a childhood that had been lacking in the love she should’ve had, she still clung on to the hurt that Martin had been taken away too soon, she still felt the guilt about her past. But she’d put one foot in front of the other, pushed away all of that, thinking that was what you did as a grown-up.

Perhaps what she should have done then – and would have to do now – was force herself to take a long, hard look and think about what it really meant to be Sophie Hannagan.

In the lounge she clicked the television on for company, and she’d only just set down the remote control when the picture switched to the most glorious-looking Christmas market in Germany.

She gasped. Seeing the programme and picking up the middle of the coverage about Christmas markets dotted all across Europe reminded her that Bea’s boxes and bags were still in her car.

She hadn’t brought them inside when she got home from the lodge after being fired.

She’d had too many of her own things to carry when she first got back to the house.

She’d remembered Bea’s boxes yesterday but had got waylaid answering the door to the postman and signing for a delivery for next door.

She picked up her raincoat which wasn’t that warm but at least had a hood – no use having the big umbrella if she was bringing in boxes and bags – and she brought everything into the house.

She piled it all beside the front door, took off her coat and hung it next to the other one on the hooks she’d tightened only last week – those had been here since they’d bought the house over twenty years ago too.