I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,92

backs into the armchairs and let Radio Brian’s playlist sink into their souls. Judy Garland serenaded them with ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’. Their hearts were light, their yuletide had been gayer than gay. Robin tried not to read deeper meaning into the lyrics, about their troubles being miles away. Sitting there in a merry crescent around the fire, it was too easy to believe the world would carry on turning for him – for Charlie – as it had done for the past thirty-odd years, and so he allowed himself to believe it.

He yawned, and set off a chain reaction. A day of cooking, eating, drinking, singing, parlour games and laughing had started to take its toll on some more than others.

‘I might have to turn in,’ he said. ‘I need some sleep to generate enough energy to eat my breakfast.’

‘We will feast like kings tomorrow. I can’t wait,’ said Charlie, his expression filled with glee.

Jack smiled at Robin and Charlie struggling to their feet, leaning on each other for support.

‘Goodnight, one and all,’ said Charlie. He stood for a moment, beamed at them. ‘Thank you for making it special for me today. It’s been joyous. I will see you in the morning, God willing.’

‘We will see you in the morning, Charlie,’ said Jack with emphasis. ‘Sleep tight, you two.’

A salvo of more goodnights ensued, then the oldest members of the Figgy Hollow Six lumbered noisily up the stairs, leaving the remaining four, contentedly soaking up the last of the Christmas Day hours in front of the softly flickering flames of the fire. Mary’s eyes were shuttering down; she was too comfortable and struggling to fend off sleep as a result.

‘I think we gave Charlie a good day,’ said Luke.

‘He laughed at all your jokes,’ said Bridge. ‘Even I did, Luke. You haven’t lost your touch.’

‘Praise indeed. Thank you, kind lady.’

‘You should have been a redcoat at Butlins really, shouldn’t you?’

‘If I’d been born a few years before, I probably would have gone for it,’ replied Luke. He turned his head towards Bridge. Her hair was mussed, tousled, natural, though he imagined she wore it straightened like a copper sheet these days. When he met her it was down to her waist and looked like fiery flames trailing behind her. Jack had said she was formidable and she was, and so much more. Small and elfin as she was, she could take up a whole room simply by being in it. Ben was a lucky man.

‘I’m not sure I can keep my eyes open much longer myself,’ said Bridge then, arching her back and stretching her arms up into the air. ‘I didn’t sleep all that well last night. Took me ages to get off.’

In the next chair, Mary emitted a little snort. Bridge leaned over to give her hand a gentle shake as she didn’t want to leave Mary asleep here. Mary’s eyes sprang open.

‘Yes I mean it, I’m leaving, I’m handing in—’ She’d clearly been jettisoned at speed from a dream and was disorientated. ‘Oh sorry, I thought I was at work.’

Jack turned to her. ‘Was I keeping you back to do one last job?’

‘Sorry? Oh yes, something like that,’ replied Mary, not catching his eye. She felt as if the dream had followed her out of her nap and was becoming reality.

‘I’m going up to bed, Mary,’ said Bridge, in a soft voice. ‘I just thought I’d let you know.’

‘Yes, all right, fine. I’ll… er… come with you,’ said Mary, getting up from her chair.

‘I presume we’re staying for a nightcap?’ Luke asked Jack. He didn’t wait for an answer before heading off to the bar.

‘Goodnight, boys. See you tomorrow.’ Bridge said it for both of them.

‘Goodnight, Bridge, Mary.’

Jack’s eyes followed Mary as she walked across to the stairs. She’d sounded quite cross when she’d awoken and said she was leaving, said she was handing in… what? It could only be her notice. It was strange really, but people who worked for Butterly’s tended to stay working for them. It hadn’t crossed his mind, until that moment, that Mary would ever find another job and leave. Why would she be dreaming about it if she wasn’t thinking about that?

‘Here you go,’ said Luke, handing over a generous measure of malt. They’d have no problems sleeping tonight.

‘My dad used to drink this,’ said Jack. He should have been smashed for the amount of alcohol he’d put away today; maybe he was, but the thinking part of