Page 74 of Rewrite the Stars
‘Ah! A nephew!’ I coo. ‘Oh, we’re all going to love you so, so much, little boy!’
I hug her again, and then I maul Kevin who has big welling tears in his eyes at the mention of his unborn son while Jack gives me a look that pleads with me if it can be us next. He doesn’t know yet, but I’ve some very exciting Christmas news for him that I’m saving for the day itself. I can’t wait to see his face.
Also, I’ve some amazing updates from a lady called Dianna Thompson from Moville Records in London who wants to hear more of my songs after I sent her some samples, having found her details on the back of Tom Farley’s note that day. Looks like Tom was right about one thing – maybe I will end up hearing my songs on the radio one day soon.
Sophie and Harry are next to arrive, with Harry carrying their new six-month-old puppy Rufus like he is made of gold, and I tilt my head to the side and open out my arms to welcome them. Harry hands me the pup on his way past, which is not what I was expecting, while Sophie comes behind him, struggling with their older two pets, Milo and Jess.
‘Give me triplets any day,’ jokes Harry as he marches down the hallway. ‘I swear I’m ready for a beer and a chat with Jack about sport and women and anything but animals. I’m not sure I can clean up after any more dogs. I’m off duty, it’s official.’
Sophie kisses me on the cheek and rolls her eyes as her husband disappears into the kitchen.
‘My mother is absolutely fuming that we got another dog,’ she giggles, her mischievous face reminding me why I love her so much. ‘I’m not sorry, Char, I’m really not even one bit. I just can’t make someone else happy when it’s not what I want myself.’
She lets the dogs loose and they go bounding into the sitting room, much to Emily and Kevin’s delight where they ruffle and play with them on the sofa. Mam and Dad are running late, but when they do arrive Dad confesses how they stopped in with Mary at the art gallery to pick up my Christmas present, which he’s been saving up for months now. I don’t have to ask what it is as I can tell from the size and shape, but my dad’s excitement and the look of pride on his face that he managed to buy a real, original piece of art tells me I need to open it straight away.
We go into the kitchen and I lay the painting down on the table, and then carefully begin to unwrap the paper which Mary has securely taped to keep it safe on the short journey up the hill.
‘Oh Dad, if this is what I think it is!’
‘Open the card first!’ he says, so for a change I do what my parents tell me. I take the Christmas card out of the envelope and I almost choke with emotion when I see my own daddy’s handwriting. Dad never writes Christmas cards, or birthday cards or any type of cards for that matter. He always leaves it to Mam, which makes this moment even more special. He watches and waits with his hands in his pockets as I read his words.
To Charlotte,
Our youngest, our baby, and always our pride and joy. You have made me so proud since the very first day you were born, I hope you know that. Don’t ever change, because as Oscar himself said (or did he?), you must be yourself as everyone else is already taken.
All my love,
Dad
I purse my lips and my eyes fill up, then I hug my darling daddy who has given me absolutely everything he could to get this far in life. For so long I feared I’d disappointed him along the way, but this gift and card have let me know that he loves me just the way I am.
‘This is from me,’ Mam says, not wanting to give Dad too much of the limelight. I swoon at her beautiful floral arrangement, which she reminds me three times she made all by herself at her new class, then she launches into stories of her fellow classmates, even though no one has a clue of who she is talking about.
‘This painting will take pride of place in the sitting room,’ says Jack, admiring the rather unusual portrait of the famous Irish poet. ‘Maybe he might even inspire you to write some more, Char?’
I snuggle into my husband. I was thinking the exact same thing.
‘You never know, I might even treat you all to a song after the turkey tomorrow,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been practising lately and the words are starting to come my way again.’
Jack looks at me with great delight.
‘Well, that would be the best Christmas present ever!’ he tells me and kisses my forehead.
When everyone has drinks in their hand and the conversation is flowing about everything from puppy toilet training, to pregnant bumps, to my new job at the tiny rural school in Ardara (which I absolutely love and adore), to Jack’s promotion and the opening of his new practice, to Dad’s back trouble and Mam’s new flower arranging class, we just have two more guests before our party is complete. And when I see the headlights come onto the driveway, I know my brother and his partner have finally arrived safely.
I go to the door to see them in, and Martin parks right at the porch as he always does so that Matthew doesn’t have to manoeuvre far in his chair. It’s raining lightly, so I open an umbrella and hold it outside to shelter them both on their way in. Martin normally races to the boot to get the wheelchair and bring it round to the passenger side to Matthew but as he opens the boot this time, he tells me to go inside and keep dry.
‘I can manage, honestly,’ he says to me. ‘We’ve a present for you all and it’s in the boot so I’d rather you waited inside. Don’t want to ruin the surprise so gather everyone up, will you, Charlotte?’
‘OK,’ I tell him, my face puzzled. ‘I’ll leave the door open then and gather the others into the sitting room, shall I?’
‘Perfect!’ says Martin. I lean down quickly before I go in and give my brother a wave. He has dyed his hair a blinding shade of blue, taking me back to my student days when my father used to joke that Matthew had experimented with every colour of the rainbow.
‘Martin doesn’t want us to see our Christmas present,’ I tell the rest of my family, ‘so he’s asked me to bring you all into the sitting room.’
Harry, Kevin and Jack grunt as they make their way in from the kitchen, unimpressed, I can tell, that I’ve interrupted some very important rugby chat, and Dad needs convincing that Martin doesn’t need any help with getting Matthew into his chair.
Mam, Emily and I share glances of confusion. Normally our Christmas present from Matthew is something totally impractical and his effort at a joke, which sometimes can be irritating. Like the time he bought Emily a ‘Grow a Boyfriend’ kit when she was sixteen and heartbroken, or when he thought it would be funny to present me with a ‘Hot Firemen’ calendar which ended up in his own bedroom … With hindsight I can see now how that all makes sense.
