Page 52 of The Night Before Christmas
‘Ah, that’s not even the best bit,’ said the woman, looking at her intently. ‘Turn it over.’
And sure enough, there on the other side, there was a picture of the house itself.
There was no story with it, just a small caption. ‘Le Manoir welcomes guests for annual garden party.’
Felicity was stunned. It was Le Manoir, of course, but it looked completely different. The paper it was printed on was faded and old, but the photo popped off the page. The house popped off the page might be more accurate.
It was shining like a bright white beacon even though it was effectively the backdrop. In front of the house, on the gravel where she was standing right this very moment, there was a long trestle table covered in white tablecloths and heaving with plates and cake stands piled high with all kinds of party food.
All around the gravelled area were poles strung with lights and bunting and there were ridiculously stylish-looking people everywhere, in every conceivable pose, some seated at the table, some standing chatting, drinks in hand, and all, every single one, appeared to be laughing or at least smiling. One very slim, elegant-looking lady on the left-hand side of the shot in a pale jumpsuit had her head thrown back, cackling exuberantly.
There were children running, playing in the grass, climbing the beautiful old oak tree next to the drive, which at that point was still standing strong. Some were sitting in the grass, making daisy chains and giggling. One little boy was hiding behind the oak, peering out with his finger over his lips like he had the best secret.
But it was a character in the middle of the shot that took Felicity’s breath away.
It was her mother.
There she was. Right there.
Someone had folded the clipping down the middle right next to her. Felicity tried to smooth it with a cold and shaking hand.
Her mother was sitting in a chair in front of the table staring defiantly at the camera, arms folded. Hooded eyes, long dark hair in two plaits like Pippi Longstocking. She was wearing a kind of playsuit, faded denim and bum-skimmingly short, showing off her long pale legs and slim strappy sandals. Her legs were crossed, and one sandal dangled delicately from her raised foot. So beautiful, heart-stoppingly beautiful, and yet always so serious.
Next to her, his chair reversed at right angles to hers, was her father. Handsome, charming and slightly dishevelled, with thick dark hair, like a young Dean Martin, people always said. He had his legs astride the back of the chair, arms across its back, very close to her mother, smiling broadly and gesticulating as if he was trying to make a point, or perhaps get her attention. Mansplaining something no doubt. Meanwhile she looked as though she was stoically ignoring him, too busy posing for the camera or lost in a world of her own. Was that a hint of a smile? Perhaps.
Felicity traced her parents’ image with her finger fondly.Just look how happy we were once. Or they were, anyway.
The date on the newspaper was 8 July 1992. It was almost impossible to believe this scene could have happened just months before her world fell apart. Almost.
Without a word, the woman handed her a delicate lace handkerchief. Felicity hadn’t even noticed she was crying. She put a hand against the wall of the house to steady herself. It felt cold and rough under her fingers.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me.’
The old woman made another of her dismissive gestures. ‘Pah, it’s nothing, no problem. You were meant to have it,’ she said.
Then she handed her a crumpled slip of paper.
Felicity unfurled it to reveal their name, Bisson, and a phone number.
‘When you are ready to come and talk,’ she said simply, ‘we will be waiting.’
That night, Felicity skipped dinner. It was very unlike her to pass up the opportunity for a meal, especially one that came with gin and the opportunity for a little look at the barman, but she felt as though she might never have an appetite again. Instead, she lay amongst the fluffy pillows and stared relentlessly at the newspaper clipping. She felt that the secret to all the mysteries of her life might be revealed if only she could see it.
Of course, she had known visiting the house was going to be difficult, but this was next level. It had unlocked something inside her. Something she had hidden for a long time. Something she had forced herself not to remember. With time to study the picture of the house more closely, she had managed to pick out herself and her brother from the group scene. There was clearly a very elaborate game of hide-and-seek going on, and if you squinted you could make out a little girl just visible to the left of the house – her, of course – and there was Tristan, hiding under the table, peering out and giggling. He actually looked quite cute. The whole scene was so sweet it made her heart ache. Felicity wanted to shout, to warn them, to tell them what was coming. As if it would have made a difference. Those poor children.
And there in the middle, her parents, in that astonishing tableau. Frozen in time, yet so expressive. Alive somehow. You could almost feel the heat between them. She stroked the image with one finger. Her parents had been so obsessed with each other, so self-absorbed, in many ways, Felicity realised now. Such a weird feeling but even at such a young age she could recall the sense of being a third wheel whenever they were around, regardless of whether they were in love or at war, it didn’t seem to matter with them. What a strange thing for a child to feel about their own mum and dad – like a gooseberry, they would have called it at school – but that’s how it was, as if the children were intruding, first on their romance and then on their drama.
As she stared at the photo, she felt like she had missed something else and was just sensing it about to burst into focus like a bubble when her phone buzzed.
Bex: Hi, lovely, Soph just told me the news! Are you really in Guernsey? How jolly exciting and rather random! I do hope you have a brilliant time. Can you give me a shout when you get back? I MUST tell you something really important. Mwah!!
Felicity cursed. She had lost her train of thought. Bex tended to have that effect on people.
She texted a hasty reply:
Sure, will do xx
Then she rolled herself lazily off the bed and flicked on the kettle. Perhaps she should phone James. Tell him what she’d found. Or maybe Andrea? Or Bex? She felt a twang of guilt that she had been such a rubbish friend lately, so consciousBex was keen to talk to her, and she wondered for a moment whether confiding in Bex about her family might at least show she still valued their friendship. But would she – could she – understand?
