Wish Upon A Christmas Cake. Darcie Boleyn

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СКАЧАТЬ memories not wallowing in pain.

      We’d sold so many cakes that we’d had to whip up several more batches in the run-up to Christmas, which wasn’t easy when they were supposed to rest and mature, soaked in brandy, for as long as possible. But supply and demand had spurred us into frenzied action. Once the cakes had been iced, I’d enjoyed placing the tiny decorations on top of them; the fat little snowmen with their hats and scarves, the green Christmas trees and the holly wreaths. There was so much to enjoy about baking cakes then decorating them, it was an art in itself, and I got to do it on a daily basis.

      Since yesterday, I’d noticed a drop in the temperature and the clouds seemed to have that heavy appearance, as if they were filled with the white stuff. The MET office forecast had remained rather vague over recent days, as they were reluctant to commit to a weather warning with so many people about to travel home, or away, for the holidays. But it definitely looked like a white Christmas was a possibility. My stomach flipped and I let out a giggle. Ridiculous to be excited at the thought of snow at my age, but it always takes me back to my childhood when we seemed to have heavy white falls that lasted for weeks and gave us countless fun-filled days off school. How I used to love extra days off, especially when I was in high school and we were overloaded with homework by grumpy teachers who clearly didn’t want to be there any more than we did. They had been good times, the white winters. Even my mother had loosened up a bit and gotten into the Christmas spirit.

      I’d grown up in a comfortable five bed in a quiet cul-de-sac in Sevenoaks, Kent. Dad was the provider and Mum stayed home to keep house and raise the kids. Very traditional. Quite old fashioned. But it worked for them. Karl was born four years before me and he was the golden boy. I think I knew the moment I was born – no, make that the moment I was conceived, that I would be a disappointment. The fly in his ointment. The sprout to his roast potato. The penny to his pound. Not for Karl himself. I knew that my older brother adored me. It was my mother who seemed to resent my arrival. And even now, although I brushed it off most days and got on with my life, whenever I actually thought about her attitude, it could still hurt and confuse me.

      Esther was, to all appearances, the perfect wife and mother. She kept the house spotlessly clean, kept herself toned and tanned, and ensured that Karl and I washed behind our ears and did our homework every evening before dinner. She attended parents’ evenings and sporting events. She accompanied our father on his law firm nights out, to golf dinners and charity fundraising events. It all appeared to be ideal. But as with all things that seem to be flawless, there was something wrong, something missing. I’d known it as a child but had been too young to understand quite what it was. Plus, as most children do, I’d blamed myself for the lack of maternal affection directed my way. I wasn’t pretty enough, good enough at ballet, I was tone deaf and, try as I might, I just couldn’t get the hang of algebra. Then, in my early twenties, I went and confirmed all of Esther’s suspicions about me by getting pregnant.

      I leant forwards and turned up the heat in the car. Yes, there was definitely something cold about my mother and it had made me sad growing up. But reaching my thirties, I’d decided to try to accept her as she was. I only had one mother and she’d been consistent at least. Not everyone has a mother who loves them. I’d watched enough Oprah and Jeremy Kyle to know that. It’s a very sad fact of life and it happens in the animal kingdom all the time; I can’t bear to watch a nature documentary where the female abandons the weakest of her young. However, I also reminded myself how lucky I was because I’d had Karl, my father and Granny offering me love and support throughout my life.

      As if on cue, my bag started buzzing on the passenger seat. I reached for it and felt around, making sure that I kept my eyes on the road. I brought my mobile in front of the wheel and glanced at it. I had a text from Karl but I couldn’t check it now. He was probably just asking what time I’d arrive. As if catching me out, the tinny female voice of my sat nav suddenly spoke, making me jump and drop my phone into the foot well.

       ‘There are long-term roadworks on the M25 between junction thirty and junction two. Expect delays.’

      ‘Dammit! You stupid machine – look what you made me do.’ I scowled at the device as I moved my left foot around, trying to locate my phone through the thick sole of my boot. The journey would take twice as long now and it was already five-thirty. Esther wouldn’t be happy at all if I was later than expected. The car in front of me suddenly braked, so I followed suit. Then waited. And waited. The traffic wasn’t going anywhere.

      I leant forwards to locate my mobile and hit my head on the steering wheel which caused the horn to beep. My cheeks burned instantly. I kept my head down just in case any of the other drivers thought I’d been signalling my impatience with the wait and fumbled around until I found my mobile then popped it back in my bag. I rubbed my head where I’d bumped it but it throbbed uncomfortably. Keen for some distraction, I turned the radio on and some irritating dance track boomed through the car making my seat shake and my head hurt even more.

      ‘Er, no thank you.’ I changed the station and sank into my seat as Adele’s beautiful voice crooned away. I sang through a few of the love songs played on the local radio show before the traffic started moving again. I slipped the gear stick into first, then second, then…Ouch! A sudden shard of ice pierced my chest as Faith Hill’s ‘Breathe’ began. I’d forgotten how much the song made me remember – I usually required wine, cake and ice cream to survive it. ‘Breathe’ was one of my favourite songs in the early days of my relationship with Sam. It perfectly summed up how I felt about him and how whenever I was with him, everything else just seemed to fade away. I’d spent hours just lying with my head on his chest listening to him breathe and to the steady comforting sound of his heart. He’d been my first in more ways than one: my first proper kiss, my first love and my first lover. It had been nine years since we broke up but, deep down, I knew that I’d never feel that way about anyone else and, to be honest, I didn’t want to. Letting go of him and of what we had hurt so badly that I’d truly believed I would die. I never, ever wanted to go through that amount of pain again.

      I quickly pressed the CD button. Yes, there we are, Seasick Steve would have to do for the rest of the journey. His gravelly voice would drag me from memories that were best not dwelt on.

      The remainder of the drive passed without too much bother, or perhaps I just tuned out and went onto autopilot, because I soon found myself in Penshurst. My tinny-voiced companion – who I’m sure became more and more uptight as the evening wore on – directed me to the country estate and, before I knew it, I was ascending a gravel driveway the width of the M4. This movie director must be seriously minted. The impressive driveway was lit by Victorian-style street lamps on either side and I felt like I was driving into another time. Perhaps I had actually driven into the past and would have a true Dickensian Christmas. Wasn’t it Dickens who idealised the festive season at some point and made us all dream of the perfect white Christmas with a perfect happy family sat around a perfect roast dinner? Dickens, I love you! Really, truly I do because I love Christmas and all the little traditions that we now enjoy. It’s just the best time of the year.

      As the driveway curved to the right, I felt the steering wheel lighten under my touch and I gasped as the car skidded on a patch of ice. Within seconds, everything was within my control again and I laughed at my momentary panic, though my heart continued to thud furiously for a while longer. I passed under an archway of ancient elm trees that glistened with frost, then the house came into view and literally stole my breath away. I mean, I had Googled it, but even so, in the flesh – or rather the brick – it was fabulous. The same lamps that had adorned the lower half of the driveway lit up the front of the house, highlighting the warm red of the bricks and the startling white of the sash windows. I could see why they’d chosen this location for the remakes of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. I pictured myself in a high-waisted white morning gown with a lilac satin spencer, my wavy brown hair loosely pinned, Mr Knightley running towards me, his muscular arms outstretched as I skipped along…

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