Lost Christmas (12 page)

Anthony looked back to the letter box, waiting for Frank's frenzied reaction, but when he spoke his voice was quieter, as if the fight had been knocked out of him with that half-sentence. ‘You're saying it was my fault?'

Alice looked up sharply, shaking her head just a little. Frank had misunderstood and her first instinct was to correct him, but her second instinct said maybe it would be easier if she didn't and that's the one she listened to.

‘You're just the same as all the rest,' said Frank, defeated. The letter box snapped shut and Anthony watched as his silhouette rose up and walked away. Huge sobs reverberated through Alice as she couldn't hold back the dam any longer. Anthony saw movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up the stairs to see Jemma come running down to comfort her mother. Jemma was now nearly eleven. She cuddled into Alice. Mother and daughter both crying …

Without warning, Anthony found himself looking at a brick wall. He turned around to find himself back in Frank's flat. The door opened and Frank entered carrying two bags full of bottles. He threw his leather coat down and slumped on to the sofa, where he sat motionless for several long
moments. Anthony walked around to stand in front of him, but of course Frank didn't notice. Frank wiped his eyes roughly and turned his attention to his bags. He started to unpack them, lining up a bottle of vodka, followed by a bottle of bourbon, another bottle of vodka, two bottles of wine, several bottles of lager and another bottle of bourbon.

Then he stood and strode into the kitchen. He returned with two glasses – a tumbler and a wine glass – and set them on the table. He opened a bottle of wine first, screw top, and poured a large measure. Anthony understood that Frank planned to drink everything in front of him and he wasn't sure if he would be here in the morning. He watched Frank take the first sip. He drained half the glass. Anthony reached out his hand to stop Frank as he raised the glass again, but Frank's arm just passed through Anthony as if he wasn't there, which of course he wasn't. The glass was now empty and Frank refilled it.

Frank leaned back, staring vacantly into space, mechanically raising the glass to his lips and drinking. His demeanour made Anthony think of a factory worker performing some repetitive and mindless task. Frank closed his eyes tightly, blocking tears and memories. He opened his eyes again and was about to take another sip when something caught his attention. He tilted his head to the side, staring across the room at one of the many boxes stacked against the wall. He put his glass down and
clambered to his feet, already a little unsteady as the wine started to take effect. He lurched towards the box and lifted one flap, revealing a book that had been poking out. It was
The Happy Prince
. He opened it up and flicked through the pages. Slowly he started to drift back to the sofa. He sat back down and turned to page one. Tears mushroomed in the corners of his eyes as he read the first line: ‘High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince …'

Another sudden change and Anthony found himself in the Witches later that same night. The pub was heaving. Anthony looked around and saw Frank sitting at a small table in the corner. He was drinking pints with whisky chasers, and he was still reading the book. Anthony sat at the only other chair at his table, and as he did so, Frank stopped reading, put the book down and looked up, straight at Anthony.

‘Can you see me?' asked Anthony. Frank didn't respond and Anthony had his answer. Frank got to his feet gingerly and pulled on his long leather coat. He fumbled to put the book into his pocket and didn't notice as it dropped out. He kicked it across the floor as he staggered to the door.

‘Ni', Mick,' he called to the landlord as he tumbled off into the dark.

Anthony looked down at the book sitting in the corner,
just as a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand reached down and picked it up. The hand belonged to a tall, irascible-looking man in his eighties. His name was Dr Rafe Clarence. He was a regular fixture in the Witches but rarely spoke with anyone. He had a battered old paperback of his own, some Second World War guts-and-glory potboiler. Dr Clarence was an insatiable bookworm. Read anything he could get his hands on. He put his well-thumbed paperback aside and was flicking through
The Happy Prince
as Mick appeared at his table to collect glasses.

‘Same again, Dr Clarence?' asked Mick, gesturing with his chin to the empty pint glass in front of the doctor.

‘No, that's my lot for the night. Mind if I borrow this?' he asked, holding up Frank's book.

Mick frowned as he looked at it and shook his head. ‘Not mine. Someone must have left it in here. Keep it.' Mick walked away, continuing his hunt for errant empties, and Dr Clarence considered his new acquisition. Then he stood, put on his coat, put both books into his pockets and headed out into the cold.

Anthony watched him go. He had his answer.

Back in the park, Anthony finished his description of what he had seen and Frank was lost for words. Though not for long.

‘Dr Clarence. My God! Of course. Man's always
reading. Reads like a book a day, sometimes two, he told me once. I can't believe it. This is amazing.' Frank couldn't stay still. His mind was racing.

Goose could see Frank's excitement, but he wasn't convinced. ‘Aw, come off it, Frank. He touches your hand for, like, a millionth of a second and can tell you something
you
couldn't possibly know. How could he learn that from you if you didn't know it to begin with?'

Frank looked blank and shrugged. ‘I don't know.' He turned to Anthony, who looked just as blank and also shrugged. ‘I don't know either,' he said.

Goose let out a howl of exasperation. ‘I don't have time for this. I need to find Mutt. Please, Frank …' Goose looked imploringly at Frank, who shrugged awkwardly and shook his head.

‘Sorry, Goose. I have to get that book. You understand.'

But Goose didn't understand. ‘It's just a book,' he snapped.
Not a living, breathing thing like Mutt
, he thought.

‘It's not about the book. It's about Jemma and Alice. I'm going to lose them and I can't let that happen. If I get the book, it means I don't lose them.'

Goose still didn't understand how a book could stop Frank's wife and daughter from emigrating to the other side of the world, but there was a determination to Frank that Goose hadn't seen before.

Frank shook his head. ‘I can't lose them, Goose. I just
can't. Sorry.' Frank couldn't look Goose in the eye. He backed off a little and then turned and started to walk away. Goose opened his mouth to protest but couldn't think what to say.

Anthony stepped up in front of Goose. He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it's all connected: book, bangle, dog. Find one; find them all.' Goose frowned: could that be true? ‘You never know,' said Anthony, and he walked off too, after Frank.

Soon both men had disappeared up the embankment and over the bridge. Goose heard Anthony's footsteps echoing from above and then he was all alone. Now what?

Frank marched ahead with purpose as Anthony and Goose followed behind. As they progressed, the neighbourhoods started to change and the houses became bigger and grander. They left behind the two-up, two-down new builds, moved through the 1930s semi-detacheds and approached the detached, four-storey Victorians with their gravelled fronts and high surrounding walls.

Frank had been surprised when he'd discovered where Dr Clarence lived. It had been a topic of conversation one
night in the Witches. The surprise was because he lived nowhere near the pub. There were at least half a dozen pubs much closer to Dr Clarence's home and as Frank walked he remembered that he always suspected there were good reasons why none of those were his local. Dr Clarence was what was politely called a ‘
curmudgeon
' or less politely called a ‘
grumpy old git
'. Frank guessed he had made himself unpopular in each of those venues and now he had to trek the best part of an hour for a pint. Chances were that one day soon enough Dr Clarence would burn his bridges at the Witches too, and then he would be forced to walk even further.

Frank stopped outside Dr Clarence's large and imposing house and waited for Anthony and Goose to catch up.

‘Bloody hell,' said Goose, looking up at the gothic red-brick monstrosity in front of them.

‘Yeah, I know. It's a bit Addams Family,' said Frank.

‘Who?' asked Goose genuinely. Frank shook his head as if to say,
Never mind
.

They stepped through a tall, wrought-iron gate that had been left ajar and crunched across the gravel drive to a set of steps leading up to a tatty enclosed porch. The wooden surround had once been painted green, but its hue had faded with time to more of a dirty grey. Its windows were stained-glass and were once probably beautiful,
but through neglect they had become dull and lifeless under thick grime. Goose couldn't help thinking that a good wash would make them look a hundred times more inviting.

There was an ancient bell pull above a brass plate which read: ‘Doctor R. Clarence', but someone had taken a hammer and chisel to the ‘Doctor' and done their utmost to obliterate it. However, it was still just about legible. Frank pointed to the plaque.

‘He had himself struck off,' he said, by way of explanation.

‘Had himself struck off?' said Anthony, frowning.

Frank nodded. ‘When he retired. Said if he stayed on the register and someone had a heart attack in the street he could get sued if he didn't treat them cos he was still officially a doctor. Not sure that's true, but they don't come much stubborner than Dr Clarence.'

‘Then how come he's still called “Doctor”?' asked Goose. Frank thought about it, and from the look on his face probably for the first time. He didn't have an answer and shrugged. Then he pulled the knob and they heard the sound of a proper old bell clanging somewhere deep in the bowels of the house.

A few moments later they heard footsteps approaching and the inner door opened as someone entered the porch. They saw a turbid eye studying them through one of the
few clear pieces of glass in the stained-glass door. Then they heard several chains and bolts being removed and pulled back and then the door opened. Dr Clarence stepped out and examined the three people on his doorstep with undisguised suspicion.

‘Frank? To what do I owe this …' He left a deliberate pause before completing the sentence: ‘… visit?'

Frank smiled. ‘Hello, Rafe. I was just wondering if you might have picked up a book I left in the Witches a while ago.
The Happy Prince
.'

Dr Clarence's frown deepened. ‘Oscar Wilde? Would have thought
Nuts
was more your sort of thing, Frank.' Frank took the dig in good humour and smiled some more. ‘I suppose you'd better come in,' said Dr Clarence, and he stepped aside.

Frank, Goose and Anthony walked past Dr Clarence, through the porch and into possibly the largest entrance hall Goose had ever seen. It was larger than any of the rooms in his nan's house. Almost larger than all of them put together. There was a black-and-white chequered tile floor leading to a wide curving staircase. There was a big round table directly in front of them, an ornate mirror to their right and a stunning grandfather clock to their left. But this wasn't the first thing a person would notice on entering. On the table, on shelves and in stacks around the
edge of the hall were books. Thousands of books: hardbacks and paperbacks written by every author from Shakespeare to J. K. Rowling and everyone in between. Dr Clarence was more a hoarder than a collector. His house was overrun with them.

Frank looked a little overwhelmed by the sheer volume and disorganization before him. ‘Bloody hell,' he muttered quietly to himself.

Dr Clarence closed the front door behind them and headed over to a door on their right. ‘In here,' he ordered. Frank, Goose and Anthony duly followed.

They entered a large study-cum-drawing room. All available wall space was taken up with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, and every shelf bowed in the middle under the weight of the books piled on to them. Books were stacked both vertically and horizontally. There were also short towers of books scattered all over the floor and piles on pieces of furniture and every available surface.

‘You might have to make some space,' said Dr Clarence as he sat in a worn leather armchair: the one piece of furniture not drowning under literature. Anthony, Frank and Goose looked to a large green couch and had to remove several stacks of books before they could sit.

‘So,' said Frank. ‘About my book …'

‘What about it?' asked Dr Clarence.

‘Well, do you know where it is?' said Frank, gazing around at the thousands of novels surrounding him and suspecting that the answer was no.