Christmas at Waratah Bay (11 page)

“Bert Harvey and Pete Duggan came in to see me last night,” Harold said. “Bert’s Martha died last month and Pete’s daughter’s gone overseas. They were both going to the pub for Christmas and you know the pub food. So I said . . . I hope you don’t mind, Sarah, love, but I said my Sarah’s putting on Christmas at my place and two more can hardly hurt. Can it, love?” And he was pleading. Pleading!

Max turned to watch Sarah’s face. This Christmas was getting out of hand—but she showed not the slightest sign of perturbation.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s . . .Ten!”

“Ten?” Harold was puzzled.

“That’s our surprise, or part of it. Max has invited you—us—to stay at the homestead for Christmas. You can have your old bedroom. I’m in the little room you let me have. It’s awesome, Harold. Just gorgeous. Only Max’s sister and her husband and her kids are there, too, and Katie’s really, really pregnant, and we have six dogs there now, your two, Katie’s two, Max’s Bing and my new puppy. But you should see my turkey—I think he’s vaguely related to triceratops or whatever those huge birds were that used to cover more sky than a parachute. Only, he’s fatter. And I’ve found this terrific web site that tells me how to make a last minute pudding and if I double the recipe . . . Well, I’ve bought enough ingredients to feed a small army. All I need to do if your mates are coming is stop and buy another box of bonbons and party hats because I only have eight.”

“We can do without bonbons and party hats,” Harold said faintly. “My word . . . Max . . . ”

“No bonbons and party hats?” Sarah was incredulous. “Are you out of your mind? This Christmas is going to be the best Christmas of our lives. What do you say, Harold? Do you want to go home for Christmas?”

And the old man’s eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, please,” he muttered and then groped blindly in his pocket for a handkerchief – another real one, what was it with this place? He blew his nose fiercely and then started struggling to his feet. “Yes, please.”

*

Max drove Harold
home in his truck. It was higher, easier for Harold to get in and out of and the oxygen cylinder fitted at his feet. Sarah followed behind in her little hire car.

Harold beamed all the way, and kept glancing at the rear view mirror to check on Sarah.

“She’s following,” Max confirmed. “You needn’t worry. She’s like a dog with a bone—no one’s getting in the way of this Christmas.”

“She’s a great kid,” Harold wheezed, but he was obviously pushing through his breathing issues to talk of what was important. And then, suddenly he looked like he’d had a brainwave. He swiveled so he was watching Max. Intently. “Isn’t she a great kid?”

“She’s doing the right thing by Christmas,” he conceded.

“She always does the right thing.”

“You mean she wrote to you.”

“She did what she could. She’s been dealt a rotten hand with that family of hers.”

It was the first time Max had ever heard Harold overtly criticize his wife or his step-daughters. He glanced at Harold and thought maybe he could probe more.

But then they rounded the side of the hill on the far side of town. Before them was Pacific Ocean, a vast sweep of sparking sapphire stretching all the way to Hawaii. And below them was Waratah Bay.

“Home,” Harold breathed. “I never thought I’d see it again. Thank you, boy. You and Sarah . . . I’ll be grateful to you as long as I live.”

Which won’t be much longer, Max thought grimly as the old man stared mistily out to sea and wheezed and struggled to fill his lungs with air.

He’d very much like to ask about Sarah’s family, but Harold’s breath was important, and it was rationed. After the effort of getting into the truck, even that tiny amount of speaking had exhausted him.

Breathing was for the really important things, Max thought.

Breathing was for Christmas.

*

She’d done it.
She was taking him home.

Sarah followed the truck and she had to hang back further than normal because she was feeling a bit blurry again and she didn’t have one of those gorgeous handkerchiefs.

All these years . . . all these hopes . . .

She’d come so late. She was hating herself that she hadn’t come until now, but it hadn’t been possible. At least she had now.

She had Max and Max’s gorgeous homestead, so Harold was truly going home. And, she had the world’s biggest turkey. She swiveled and to check the huge parcel on the backseat of her car.

“I’ve got a turkey,” she told Gerome. “And a puppy and I’ve got Harold for Christmas and . . . ”

And Max? He was right in there, but she wasn’t sure where to place him. He kept kind of drifting through her thoughts . . .

That kiss . . .

“It was just a kiss,” she told Gerome, but Gerome had gone to sleep and was no longer listening.

And Sarah wasn’t all that sure she was listening either. Just a kiss? What sort of fib was that?

*

Max pulled up
by the veranda and helped Harold out. The old guy was so weak. It’d be easier if he could pick him up and carry him up the steps, but there was Harold’s pride to consider. He stood by his side, carried the oxygen canister and gripped Harold’s elbow while Harold gripped the veranda rail for dear life and slowly dragged himself up the steps.

Sarah stood behind them, ready to spring into action, watchful but letting them be.

She understood what the old man needed, Max thought, and not for the first time he wondered what her story was. How did she get to be so empathetic? He needed to pump Harold, but Harold was in no mood or in no state to be pumped.

He reached the top step and turned to gaze out over the farmland to the sea beyond. Someone inside—Doug?—had obviously been watching and as soon as the old man’s hands were safely on the rail, as soon as he was steady, the screen door swung wide and the dogs were released.

Harold’s dogs went nuts—there was no other word for it. They were usually beautifully behaved dogs, they didn’t jump up or bark—but now they almost turned themselves inside out with joy.

Harold bent to pat them and then, because it was easier, he sat down hard on the veranda boards and hugged the pair of them—and then Bing joined in and Katie’s two decided this was fun and Harold was under five dogs and if Sarah put Gerome down it would have been six.

But Sarah wasn’t putting Gerome down. Max glanced back at her and saw she was hugging her puppy for dear life and tears were coursing unchecked down her face. So much for never crying, he thought, but in fairness he admitted he was pretty close to it himself.

“Welcome home, Harold,” she whispered. “Oh, Harold, Merry Christmas.”

She was just . . . beautiful. Standing in the morning sun, gazing down in awe at her adoptive father, her eyes brimming with tears, he thought he’d never seen such a woman. He wanted . . . he wanted . . .

To what? Take her into his arms? Make some sort of public declaration? This woman was from the same family that had destroyed Harold’s life. And besides, how long had he known her? Two days? And in that time she’d turned his well-ordered life upside down.

He liked his well-ordered life. He’d had enough chaos to last a lifetime.

Sarah could smile or cry all she liked, he thought. He wasn’t moved.

Liar.

“I’ll show you to your bedroom,” he said, dragging his attention back to Harold, but to his astonishment Harold was pulling himself up on the veranda rail, standing erect, proud, and suddenly fiercely independent.

“I’ll show myself to my bedroom, young man,” he said, and then he eyed his oxygen canister with dislike. Wherever he went, he needed this.

“I’ll cart if for you,” Sarah said cheerfully, swiping her tears away with fierce determination. “I don’t know what’s got into me – I must have hayfever. No matter, you lead the way. Let’s go, Harold. A wee nap, maybe, and then, Christmas proper gets under way.”

‡

T
he turkey was
big. The turkey was very big.

The turkey was frozen.

Christmas Eve had been very satisfactory, Sarah conceded, as she stood in the pantry at midnight and looked at her bird. It had been very satisfactory indeed. Harold had walked into his old bedroom which seemed to be pretty much how he remembered it—thanks maybe to Max who’d done a fast trip to Harold’s cottage early this morning and brought back the old man’s bedcover, pillows and favourite chair.

He’d had his nap but he’d emerged for lunch. Sarah has brought back a heap of deli goods from town—loaves of fresh bread and everything she could get her hands on that went with them.

Plus there’d been mince pies. She was pretty happy with her mince pies.

Her website was doing her proud.

After lunch, Max had put Harold in the truck and taken him for a gentle tour of the farm. The dogs—all five of them—only Gerome had stayed behind—had sat in the tray. Harold had come home looking at peace with the world.

Doug had gone into town and brought back fish and chips for dinner. Masses of fish and chips, for which Sarah was exceedingly grateful.

Meals. She had her website full of advice. She had her ingredients, but tomorrow was going to be a challenge.

She’d sort of hoped Katie might help a little, at least giving her advice, but Katie had backache and had grown increasingly quiet as the day went on. Doug had taken over the kids, plus he’d provided fish and chips. Max was caring for Harold, plus he had his cattle to tend.

It was up to Sarah to do the Christmas cooking.

She could do this. She had it almost sorted.

Almost.

The turkey had been the last one in Waratah. It was truly enormous. She’d been very pleased with herself when she’d bought it, but now doubts were creeping in.

She’d brought it home and popped it into the pantry to defrost. She’d just made an excellent stuffing, her last job before going to bed. The stockings were hung, the kids were asleep, Harold seemed peaceful and content—the whole house was settled. She thought she’d just admire her defrosting turkey one more time before she went to bed herself.

But . . . problem. It didn’t seem to be defrosting. It sat, vast and white and imposing, taking up the whole pantry bench.