‘Sounds like someone enjoyed their own nativity as a kid?’ he says, and he’s smiling with his eyes. ‘I’m guessing you were Mary?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Always at the centre of things, making stuff happen? Then hugely overshadowed by others?’
‘Hah!’ I laugh. ‘I didn’t realise I gave off “Mary complex”. Does that make you Joseph?’ I quip, and IswearI was thinking of the whole carpenter thing, not the husband thing, but Patrick still pauses in folding his ladders to raise a questioning eyebrow at me. ‘Because of the tools and stuff,’ I blurt, too late to stop the awkwardness. I start to witter to take the heat off. ‘Seems a shame, though. For the little ones. Maybe if I have a word with him, he’ll see sense.’
Patrick gives me a level look that says he wouldn’t be willing to bet on it but against the floodlights, what I’m really seeing is the way he’s all fine angles, cheekbones and thick, wavy brown hair. I make myself concentrate on the bucket, plunging the cloth in.
He’s unfolding tables and setting them out in an elongated horseshoe shape ready for the exhibition, just as they’ve been set out for years.
‘Your gingerbread sleigh will be above head height right in the middle here,’ he says.
‘Don’t know how I’d manage without you,’ I tell him.
A silence falls as we work our way down the rows of tables, cleaning off the winter’s dampness and dust. By the time we reach each other in the middle of the horseshoe I’m wishing the electric was connected and we could play some music or something.
It’s so quiet and cold, and we’re the only ones in here, so there’s the air of a secret twilight mission shared between us. I feel the warm easiness of our friendship so deeply I’m overtaken by a compulsion to confess about my Birmingham property search. It doesn’t seem right, him not knowing. If I do go, he can come and visit, stay over, maybe? Him and Izz. It wouldn’t mean it’d be the end of everything. Just the grotto.
I’m aware of breathy white vapour curling from our lips as we stop working and straighten our backs to look at one another.
‘Patrick?’ I say, just as he’s sayingmyname, and we both laugh and say, ‘You first,’ and I laugh again, only Patrick’s fallen serious and is looking at me hard.
‘Listen, um, Margi…’ he begins, and I’m suddenly half-afraid, half-bursting with intrigue. What’s he about to tell me? He looks so stern and determined. Just as he’s taking a breath ready to talk, my mobile rings.
‘Oh! It’s Mum!’ I say, having wrenched my phone from the pocket on the front of my dark denim dungarees. I don’t have time to assess whether I’m relieved or annoyed at the interruption.
Patrick’s already stepped away and is busying himself making final adjustments to the layout of the tables.
‘Margi?’ Mum says, very loudly. I turn the volume down a bit. ‘Floodlights? Where on earth are you? A football match?’
‘Huh? Oh, no.’ I turn my phone to show her the lamp. ‘I’m tidying up at the hall.’
‘What’s wrong with the electrics?’
‘They’re not on yet. We’re waiting for someone at the council to get us connected up for Christmas.’
‘Do you need me to phone them?’ she threatens.
‘Not yet,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll give them a chance to sort things before we unleash the big guns.’
‘Hmm, well, don’t take any nonsense from Scrimengor and his lot. Rodney Carruthers has wanted that hall demolished for as long as he’s been on the council. Suits him if it’s mildewed and rotten. He’s got friends in the construction industry, if you know what I mean.’ She mimes someone accepting a backhander, then taps the side of her nose.
I’ve heard all this before, many times, but it’s never come to anything, so I try to divert her. ‘How’s Dad?’
‘He’s still having his siesta. Getting longer and longer these days, and then he’s up rattling around the villa half the night, keeping me awake.’
‘You should come here for Christmas,’ I say. ‘Get into an English winter routine.’
‘Hibernating in the dark?’
‘That’s the one. So why don’t you?’
It’s not the first time I’ve asked, but with Christmas so close, I know it’ll have to be my last attempt to lure them home.
I don’t understand why they’d want to spend midwinter in a new-build retirement community of white breeze block and cold floor tiles where all the summer season businesses are closed up when they could be right here in the middle of England doing the traditional stuff they used to love: midnight Mass, cooking stews on the Aga, bundling under blankets on the sofa with a book and a brew. I suppose what I’m thinking is that I miss them, but I’ve learned not to say so. It makes us all sad.
‘Can’t leave the dogs,’ Mum’s explaining yet again. ‘We’ve had a Dogue de Bordeaux come in this weekend in a right state, found wandering the Playa de Torreblanca. We’re trying to get him an adoption in England already. Lots of paperwork to sort out. Besides, you’ve got Lucy with you, haven’t you? And you’ve the grotto coming along. That’s plenty to be getting on with.’
