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Authors: Patricia Scanlan
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was reared to.
He doubted that Shauna and Greg would be practising their religion and that could only be detrimental to little Chloe. It was bad enough calling the child Chloe. What was wrong with a good Irish
name, or, even more apt, a lovely saint’s name like Anne, or Bridget?
With a heavy heart, Noel sat back down to his task, Twiskers at his feet purring contentedly.
Bobby stroked the pale lavender cashmere scarf that he’d bought for Shauna. He hoped that she’d like it. He thought it was gorgeous. He’d bought a pale apple
green one for Carrie. He laid them on the edge of the sofa, pleased with his purchases. He was tired. He’d gone Christmas shopping after work and it had been crazy. Harrods was a mass of
heaving, stressed humanity, and his feet and arms ached from all the walking and bag-carrying. By the time he’d struggled up the steps of Swiss Cottage Tube station he was fit for nothing. It
was a pity it was so late. He could have gone for a swim in the Swiss Cottage Marriott and then gone for a pint in the Washington. That would have revived him.
He took a sip of chilled Chardonnay and nibbled a Tuc cracker smeared with duck liver pâté and sat down in front of the electric fire that, in the dim lamplight of his flat, looked
almost real. He missed a real fire, with the smell of logs and peat briquettes burning and crackling, but at least his fire was welcoming to look at. His mate, Bazzer, had to make do with an
antique gas monstrosity and his flat was a real kip. Bobby was lucky with his gaff on Fellows Road. His landlord had let him paint it in a creamy yellow throughout. His bedroom, though small, was
clean and at least separate from his living room, unlike Bazzer’s large but draughty bedsit.
Bobby liked living so close to Hampstead. He liked its chic cosmopolitan buzz and the fact that he was only a walk away from the green open spaces of Primrose Hill, where he liked to sit and
look down over London and write the poetry that was so dear to his heart. He worked as a receptionist in the Willows, a small, compact hotel that catered to businessmen and women, just off
Hampstead Heath. It was hard work, and the hours were often unsociable to say the least, but he liked the job, his breezy, outgoing personality well suited to dealing with the public.
After the stresses of living with Noel, struggling not to suppress who and what he was, life in London was in complete contrast to the life he’d lived at home. He wasn’t judged. He
wasn’t under pressure to conform to anyone’s idea of who or what he should be. He was free to be himself. He had a great circle of friends, and although he missed his sisters and their
children, and grieved for his mother, he could say in all honesty that he was happier than he had ever been in his life.
It would be nice to see the girls again for Christmas and he could endure Noel and his pious exhortations in the knowledge that it was only for a few days and his life in London was there
waiting for him.
‘I don’t know, Dan, maybe I
should
do Christmas again this year. Shauna will have enough on her hands with that shower.’ Carrie lay snuggled against
her husband’s shoulder sipping a mug of hot chocolate. A sudden squall had blown up and sheets of sleety rain battered the windows. The wind keened around the house like a howling banshee
wailing her grief and anger to the world. The sound of the pounding waves surging and ebbing along the shore added their own symphony to the night. Carrie was glad that Dan was home from work and
that the children were in bed and they had these precious moments to themselves. The fire crackled in the hearth, the flames casting dancing shadows around the walls. An Enya CD played soft music.
Two big cream candles were burning on the coffee table and she was enjoying their relaxing evening together. Well, it had been relaxing until Shauna had phoned with her news.
‘I just can’t believe the cheek of Della.
He doubted that Shauna and Greg would be practising their religion and that could only be detrimental to little Chloe. It was bad enough calling the child Chloe. What was wrong with a good Irish
name, or, even more apt, a lovely saint’s name like Anne, or Bridget?
With a heavy heart, Noel sat back down to his task, Twiskers at his feet purring contentedly.
Bobby stroked the pale lavender cashmere scarf that he’d bought for Shauna. He hoped that she’d like it. He thought it was gorgeous. He’d bought a pale apple
green one for Carrie. He laid them on the edge of the sofa, pleased with his purchases. He was tired. He’d gone Christmas shopping after work and it had been crazy. Harrods was a mass of
heaving, stressed humanity, and his feet and arms ached from all the walking and bag-carrying. By the time he’d struggled up the steps of Swiss Cottage Tube station he was fit for nothing. It
was a pity it was so late. He could have gone for a swim in the Swiss Cottage Marriott and then gone for a pint in the Washington. That would have revived him.
He took a sip of chilled Chardonnay and nibbled a Tuc cracker smeared with duck liver pâté and sat down in front of the electric fire that, in the dim lamplight of his flat, looked
almost real. He missed a real fire, with the smell of logs and peat briquettes burning and crackling, but at least his fire was welcoming to look at. His mate, Bazzer, had to make do with an
antique gas monstrosity and his flat was a real kip. Bobby was lucky with his gaff on Fellows Road. His landlord had let him paint it in a creamy yellow throughout. His bedroom, though small, was
clean and at least separate from his living room, unlike Bazzer’s large but draughty bedsit.
Bobby liked living so close to Hampstead. He liked its chic cosmopolitan buzz and the fact that he was only a walk away from the green open spaces of Primrose Hill, where he liked to sit and
look down over London and write the poetry that was so dear to his heart. He worked as a receptionist in the Willows, a small, compact hotel that catered to businessmen and women, just off
Hampstead Heath. It was hard work, and the hours were often unsociable to say the least, but he liked the job, his breezy, outgoing personality well suited to dealing with the public.
After the stresses of living with Noel, struggling not to suppress who and what he was, life in London was in complete contrast to the life he’d lived at home. He wasn’t judged. He
wasn’t under pressure to conform to anyone’s idea of who or what he should be. He was free to be himself. He had a great circle of friends, and although he missed his sisters and their
children, and grieved for his mother, he could say in all honesty that he was happier than he had ever been in his life.
It would be nice to see the girls again for Christmas and he could endure Noel and his pious exhortations in the knowledge that it was only for a few days and his life in London was there
waiting for him.
‘I don’t know, Dan, maybe I
should
do Christmas again this year. Shauna will have enough on her hands with that shower.’ Carrie lay snuggled against
her husband’s shoulder sipping a mug of hot chocolate. A sudden squall had blown up and sheets of sleety rain battered the windows. The wind keened around the house like a howling banshee
wailing her grief and anger to the world. The sound of the pounding waves surging and ebbing along the shore added their own symphony to the night. Carrie was glad that Dan was home from work and
that the children were in bed and they had these precious moments to themselves. The fire crackled in the hearth, the flames casting dancing shadows around the walls. An Enya CD played soft music.
Two big cream candles were burning on the coffee table and she was enjoying their relaxing evening together. Well, it had been relaxing until Shauna had phoned with her news.
‘I just can’t believe the cheek of Della.
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