Elaine was standing at my office door with some papers in her hand. She’d got my job off to a T all right, but was dotting the i’s and crossing the other things with a question here and there.
‘Why didn’t you tell me it was Christmas?’ I asked her. ‘I suppose I must have known, but I’d forgotten.’
‘Your boys won’t have.’ Bugger it! Then she softened. ‘There’s a big new toy shop opened in Hastings: you can stop on the way through. And don’t forget a new satchel for Dieter; he’s worn out that army pack you gave him.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘He phones up every week when you’re not here – checking up on you.’
I said it earlier, didn’t I? People never fail to surprise me.
Flaming June was still in Halton’s office – either working out her notice, or having had second thoughts about quitting. I rather hoped it was the latter. After she picked up the phone with a brisk ‘Halton Transport’, I said, ‘I’m glad you’re still there.’
She didn’t ask who I was this time.
‘I came to a new arrangement with Mr Halton. He agreed to let me buy a bigger size of uniform. I look less like a Shepherd’s Bush tart now.’
‘You never looked like one.’
‘Have you ever been to Shepherd’s Bush, Charlie?’
‘No.’
‘Then we can have this conversation again once you have. Did you want me or Mr Halton?’
‘You.’
‘Good – because he’s away. He took the Auster up to Birmingham this morning. Something to do with meeting a car manufacturer, I think.’
‘I just phoned to say that it was dumb of me to expect you to drop everything and come down to my place the weekend before Christmas. I’m sorry, I forgot.’
‘It’s fine. I’ve fixed up my Christmas already. Mum and Dad don’t expect me until Christmas Eve.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. It’s absolutely OK. How old are your boys by the way?’
‘Thirteen, I think . . . and seven. Why?’
‘Never you mind. You can meet me off the train at Chichester on Friday evening.’
Ah . . . an organizer. When I thought about it, I realized that an organizer was exactly what I needed. I wondered if she would stick though, or get tired of me like the rest of them.
‘That was the new girl in the boss’s office, wasn’t it?’ Elaine asked. ‘I’ve spoken to her a couple of times this week. She seems to be pretty level-headed.’
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
‘Me? No, I wouldn’t dare.’ A month ago she was in my bed; now I was pretty sure she was trying to fix me up with someone else. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
‘Oh, all right.’
I don’t know what I was so bad-tempered about. Maybe it was just the fact of change. Maybe I’ve never been so good when things change around me.
I phoned James’s pub; the boys were just back from school. After a few minutes of this and that with Mrs Maggs, who actually ran my life and his without telling us, I got to speak with Dieter.
After a few more minutes of this and that – he always insisted on giving me progress reports for both of them – I said, ‘Can you give Carlo a message for me?’
‘You can speak to him yourself, if you like, Dad.’ I think the fact that he and Carly both called me Dad now, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, may have swung it with the adoption people.
‘In a minute, but I think you’ll want to give him this message yourself. Tell him his dad’s coming home for Christmas.’ You never can tell with kids. I knew he was pleased, but Dieter had been a self-controlled type since I’d picked him up on a battlefield in Germany.
After a pause he asked, ‘Can we still go to Mrs Maggs’s party?’
‘If I can come with you.’
‘Of course you can, Dad. You know she loves you.’
That’s another thing. Talking about love is something that’s difficult for me. It took me a few seconds before I could answer, and a few more before the conversation returned to an even keel.
‘Remember that girl I told you about?’
‘The one who might have a bit of a temper?’
‘That’s right. She’s coming down for a few days before Christmas. That OK?’
I stopped off at Hastings the next day, bought enough presents to fill a kitbag, and arrived at Chichester in time to pick the boys up from school again. It was a routine they quite liked. If we went into a shop afterwards, Carly would always make a point of holding my hand at some time. I didn’t mind: it was his way of showing his classmates that he had a father too. He still wouldn’t talk about his mother, Grace – a woman I’d known for about three years – or agree to see his grandparents. That was a pity because they were as rich as Crœsus, and his mother, although not much of a mother, was, in my eyes, a genuine heroine. He’d have to come to terms with both eventually. The next day was a Friday, and I drove back into Chichester again to meet the late London train. June tottered out of a Third Class carriage on big heels, and with a plain old trench coat thrown over her red office suit. She looked exotic, but cold.
The first thing she said after she kissed me was, ‘Sorry, I didn’t have time to change. I almost missed the train.’
‘Don’t be. You look fabulous.’ I got another kiss for that. The next thing she said was, ‘I have a suitcase and a box in the carriage. Can you help me?’ I kissed her again. The train was waiting to go, and her compartment door was still open. The station master was bearing down
