The Christmas Café (26 page)

‘It isn’t easy for me either. I can taste the disloyalty, the guilt.’ Bea licked her lips as if to rid her mouth of the sensation. ‘I was married to a good, good man.’

John drew breath. ‘I’m glad, Bea. So glad you could find love and happiness.’

I did love him. But not in the way I loved you.
Bea tossed her hair to try and clear her head. ‘His name was Peter. He passed away last year, just before Christmas.’

He squeezed her fingers in solace. ‘Yes, I know. I have no right to feel jealous, but I still do.’

‘When you left that morning...’ Bea swallowed the tears that slipped down the back of her throat. She knew she had to broach the subject soon, otherwise it would sit like an obstacle between them. ‘I thought I might die. I really did. I felt so broken, so bereft. It was a physical pain.’

‘I have never felt such sadness,’ John said, his voice choked. ‘I hated myself. I hated myself for years. It was like I’d tricked you, but that couldn’t have been further from what I’d intended.’ He fixed his gaze on a spot on the table. ‘I was twenty-three years old, thousands of miles from Scotland, doing my first job as a doctor, out there in the sunshine. Life seemed so full of possibilities. It was as though... as though I’d suddenly found myself. As though I was a different person and I was free. Free to be young and to start again.’ He glanced up at her. ‘I couldn’t even admit to myself what was waiting for me back in Scotland, let alone tell you.’

‘It must have changed things for you when you arrived home,’ Bea ventured.

‘Home,’ John repeated, shaking his head. ‘It didn’t feel like home. It felt like prison at times. Margaret and I had always been friends, but the passion that you and I...’ He hesitated. ‘No, that’s not fair. We continued as friends, raised the kids. Moira lives locally too. They’re great kids.’

‘I met Moira today,’ she reminded him.

‘Of course. Of course you did.’ He patted the back of her hand. ‘You broke my heart, Beatrice, clean broke it in two.’

‘And you mine.’

‘I’m a medical man, but I can tell you that it never quite heals.’ He smiled at her.

Bea nodded. This, too, she knew to be true. ‘I have danced with you a thousand times in my dreams. The thump, thump of our feet on the deck. You gave me your scarf...’

‘I did.’

‘I made it into a pillow and have it next to my cheek every night.’

‘You smelt of roses.’

‘It was rosewater. I borrowed it.’

‘I can’t smell their scent without feeling melancholy.’

‘My hand seemed to fit inside yours, as if that was where it was meant to rest.’

‘I’ve imagined it, lying there on so many cold nights.’ He looked at her.

‘And then the day you left...’ Quite unexpectedly the breath caught in her throat and a wave of sadness engulfed her. Her tears sprang and her face crumpled. To her horror, John matched her tear for tear. Sliding off his chair, he knelt on the floor with his head on her lap and the two of them sobbed.

Bea ran her fingers through his hair and let her palm stroke his whiskered cheeks. ‘John, my John! I raised your baby the best I could. I was so frightened, so alone.’ She righted his head until he was looking up at her, reminding her of the twenty-three-year-old man who had left her at sunrise. ‘He was a lovely child and he’s a good man.’

‘I knew it! I knew he was mine!’ John’s composure dissolved again. ‘What did your parents say? They were so upright, judgemental. God, I can’t imagine how they took the news.’

‘They told me to leave Byron Bay, and so I did. I haven’t seen them since, or Diane.’

‘Oh, dear God!’ He gripped her clothing and buried his face in her shirt. ‘I knew he was my son. I saw him and I knew! It took all of my strength not to call out, to run to you! But I knew I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair.’

‘None of this is fair,’ she murmured. ‘I named him Wyatt and he looks just like his dad.’

‘Wyatt! Does... does he know about me?’ he croaked.

‘No. Not yet. But he will. I couldn’t risk telling him and him contacting you; it might have ruined your life. I didn’t know your circumstances, didn’t know about Margaret.’

‘Oh, dear God!’ John said again.

The two sat slumped together in silence for many minutes, digesting the truth, both replaying what had come next.

Eventually John straightened and stood in front of the fireplace. ‘I can’t live with secrets any more, Beatrice. Who knows what lies around the corner for us? But I can’t live under the shadow of truths untold.’

Bea stood and slipped into his arms. She closed her eyes and let him hold her in the warm firelight of the Christmas Café. She might have been thousands of miles from where she lived, but she was home.

It was an hour later that the stairs above them creaked. Bea and John disentangled themselves and stood a respectable couple of feet apart, as nervous as teens. Bea was considering how to act when Flora’s voice broke the silence.

‘Shit! Wow!’ She stared at them both from the doorway.

‘This is Flora, my granddaughter.’ Bea smiled at her beautiful toffee-haired girl. ‘Your granddaughter too,’ she said hesitantly, feeling the blush spread from her neck, suddenly conscious that Flora was part of John’s story too; his flesh, his blood.

John nodded at her. ‘Hello there, Flora.’ He spoke her name with the lilting Scottish fluidity that it deserved.

Bea wondered if he’d noted Flora’s colouring; if, like her, he’d seen similarities between Flora and his grandson, Callum.

‘So, what have I missed?’ Flora turned to her gran.

Bea laughed. ‘Oh, Flora, too much to fill you in on right now!’

Alex came down the stairs. ‘I’d tell her everything if I were you, Dad. She has a mean right hook.’ He winked and strode over to his dad, who gripped him in a hug.

As Bea and Flora made their way back to their hotel, Bea was still feeling shaky, but Flora was very excited.

‘He’s very handsome close up!’

‘Yes, he is.’ Bea had to agree.

‘Are you okay, Bea?’ She linked arms with her gran.

‘I think so.’

‘I just met my grandpa!’ Flora squealed.

‘Yes, you did.’ Bea grinned.

Flora came to a standstill in the street. ‘Peter... Peter will always be my pappy, always,’ she said, not wanting to offend her gran or tarnish the memory of her grandpa; her grandpa who had once given her her very own cigar.

‘I know that, darling, and he knew it too. He loved you very much.’

Flora stared at her gran. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’

‘Not a ghost.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve lived with a ghost for the last thirty-odd years. This was a living, breathing man!’ She grabbed her granddaughter and hugged her tight. ‘I can’t believe it! My John! I saw my John!’

‘I’m happy for you, Bea.’

‘Promise me, Flora, that when you’re older you won’t settle for a man that doesn’t make you feel like your heart might burst with joy! I was so lucky to have John’s love when I was young, and then Peter, my lovely husband, your lovely pappy, to care for me for most of my life. I was blessed. I want you to have that. Promise me you will never settle for less than you deserve.’

Flora nodded against her gran’s shoulder and closed her eyes. ‘I promise.’

Bea opened one eye and sat up straight in the bed. She took in the sash windows, printed wallpaper and tartan carpet and was beyond relieved to discover that she hadn’t dreamt it – she was here in Edinburgh and last night she had sat with her hand inside John’s! Like an excited teen the night before the prom, Bea screwed her eyes tightly shut, wriggled down the bed and with her muscles tense and fists clenched, she beat her heels on the mattress.

‘What are you doing?’ Flora raised her tousled head from the pillow.

‘What am I doing?’ Bea sat up and flung the covers back. ‘I am living! I am feeling! And I am for the first time in a long time looking forward to my future!’ She spun out of the bed, swirling and whirling like a dancer as she bumped into furniture and walls with her arms held high.

‘You’ve gone nuts,’ Flora concluded. She dropped her head back onto the pillow, pulled the sheet over her face and left her gran to go nuts alone while she caught up on some sleep.

Bea danced into the bathroom, slipped out of her cotton pyjamas and stepped into the deluge of water. Closing her eyes, she faced the showerhead, letting the warm stream run over her face and neck. She lathered her hair and soaped her body, humming as her thoughts wandered and her stomach churned with pure excitement.

Standing in front of the large mirror, she reached for the towel and stared at her body. It was something she rarely did, too busy rushing from shower to work or shower to bed. But today was different; she took the time, tried to imagine seeing her naked form from a stranger’s perspective. Having been married for so long, she’d become very used to Peter’s body and he to hers. Familiarity had covered them like a comfortable blanket and she’d rarely thought about how he perceived her physically. They were at ease in their nudity, not flaunting or courting it, but unconcerned about letting their dressing gowns slip, relaxed about cleaning their teeth while the other one dripped in the shower, neither of them blinking when holding the towel as the other slipped into their bathers. Passion had been replaced by friendship, desire by companionship and this, with the mutual respect they had always had for each other, had been the recipe for a lovely, loving life.

What Bea felt today, however, was different. Standing in close proximity to John the night before, she had been stunned to experience a surge of sexual energy she had all but forgotten was possible. It was as if smoking embers had been fanned back to life. They might have a combined age of one hundred and eleven, but this apparently was no barrier to the flames of longing that flared inside her. She pictured her body the last time it had been revealed to John, replaying that night as she always did, as though it were a movie, watching her young self from afar. This time, as she remembered their last cherished hours together, she ignored the emotion of it and concentrated on looking at her form. Her legs had been slender, her thighs and calves curved and well defined; her legs were straighter now, the knees more prominent, the skin a little loose. Her stomach, once milky white and flat, was now pouched with skin that was pulled with silvery stretch marks and at least one size too big. Her arms, though still muscly, had a slight wobble to them that no amount of walking could cure.

She had the body of a woman in her fifties – a great body, but much altered from the one John had once held against him in the dark of night. She felt a shiver of something like fear, but it was tempered by a particular kind of peace, resignation. She was a woman who had lived, loved and survived; that in itself made her beautiful. Bea thought back to her discussion with Kim.
‘There isn’t a switch that gets flicked at forty-seven that stops you thinking about, indulging in or desiring sex!’
She laughed at her reflection. ‘You know what, Bea, if the best you get is doing crosswords and growing tomatoes with him by your side, there are worse ways to spend a life!’

‘Who are you talking to do?’ Flora called from the bedroom.

‘Myself!’ Bea answered.

‘I knew you’d gone nuts! You’ll be talking to your cats next, like Miss McKay!’

‘Tell you what, Flora, if this is what being nuts feels like, long may it continue!’

Half an hour later, the two of them were sitting down to breakfast in the now familiar surroundings of The Balmoral’s restaurant. Flora leant back in her chair as their friendly waitress brought them fresh orange juice and pots of tea.

‘Are you going to get John a Christmas present?’

‘I hadn’t really given it any thought. What do you think he’d like? Money for Uggs?’ Bea winked.

‘Doubt it!’ Flora scoffed. ‘Old men don’t really wear Uggs.’

‘I’ve told you already, he is not old!’ Bea raised her voice playfully.

‘Not to you, maybe!’ Flora countered, hesitating while she phrased her next question. ‘Aren’t you worried that you won’t get on?’

Bea paused from pouring her tea and looked at her granddaughter. It was certainly a consideration. Had she romanticised their liaison so much over the years, applying a tragic
Romeo and Juliet
-style ‘love denied’ scenario that had clouded her view and skewed her memories? It was possible. But the John that had greeted her last night, who had held her hand across the table and wept as he recalled seeing his son for the first time... ‘Not really, Flora. I mean, it’s true, we don’t really know each other, not properly, but I think we have a great foundation to build on.’

Flora pondered this as she chewed her toast. ‘But what do you think you have in common? What interests do you share?’ She thought about how she and Marcus both loved the sea, and how they both hated cheese.

Bea laughed. ‘We share a child!’

‘Good point!’ Flora studied her gran. ‘You look so happy.’

‘I feel it.’

‘Can I ask you something else?’

‘Go for it.’ Bea braced herself, knowing that Flora’s questions could be blunt, offensive, random, or all three.

‘How’s it going to work? I mean, it’s good you’ve found each other, but you live in Sydney and he lives in Edinburgh.’

‘Truthfully, love? I haven’t a clue. There’s a lot of water needs to flow under the bridge before we start discussing that.’

‘I know that, Bea, but will it be Sydney Harbour Bridge or the Forth Road Bridge? That’s the question!’

‘I don’t know, love.’

‘Can I ask you one last thing?’

‘Sure.’

‘What will happen if you properly meet Moira and she hates you, or when Dad finds out about John and meets him and hates him? I suppose what I’m saying is, what would you both do if all of your kids hated you both?’

Bea stared at her granddaughter. ‘Eat your toast, Flora,’ she said.

Bea settled back in her plane seat. Flora, like most of their fellow travellers, was sound asleep on this the final leg of their journey. She glanced at the Topping bag that protruded from the pouch of the seat in front of her, smiling as she recalled their wonderful day at St Andrews.