Christmas Magic. Cathy Kelly

wanted to be out at night,’ began Genevieve shakily.

      ‘Of course,’ agreed Ben, with no hint that midnight excursions into gardens in the middle of winter might be considered strange by most people. ‘Wonderful for putting you in touch with nature and, er …’ He looked at Genevieve for a hint on which way to go in order to soothe her worried sister.

      ‘God,’ she said swiftly. ‘God loves us to appreciate our world.’

      ‘And His great universe,’ added Ben, who only stepped into churches for weddings and funerals. ‘You had a light to see by and your dressing gown caught fire, perhaps?’

      ‘I had to take it off then,’ said Genevieve, grabbing this explanation.

      ‘Very wise.’

      Ben helped her on to the couch in the kitchen, and Dolores went off to get painkilling tablets and more blankets.

      He took the piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to Genevieve.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at it sadly. ‘Nobody’s ever come to my rescue before. Dolores would be upset if she knew what I had been doing. Going skyclad into the night. I got this magic book by mistake and it made me want to try something different, you see. I wanted to change my life before it’s too late.’

      At that moment, Ben felt a kinship with this old woman.

      ‘I can understand that,’ he said. He thought of Lori and all the bottles, of how she’d lied, and of how he wanted it all to be different.

      If only it could be different.

      ‘Are you all right?’ It was Genevieve’s turn to ask him. There was something about those wise eyes that made him think she’d understand.

      Dolores bustled around making tea. Genevieve told her to go to bed. She’d manage.

      Ben said if they wanted, he’d stay to carry Genevieve up to bed when she felt ready.

      ‘She’ll be safe with me,’ he told Dolores gravely. ‘Plus, the dogs are here too.’

      Genevieve’s painkillers took a while to work, but when they did, the spasms were less painful and she was able to get off the couch.

      ‘Should you do that?’ asked Ben.

      ‘The doctor says you have to move around, not stay in one place.’

      She made more tea, served with home-made mince pies this time, and then directed Ben to the high-up cupboard where Magic for Beginners rested.

      They sat at the kitchen table and flicked through the book and talked about their lives.

      Ben Cohen, who treated his grandmother with respect but never told her what was in his heart exactly, told Genevieve about falling in love with Lori, about their infertility treatments and about finding all the bottles.

      Genevieve, who had never confided to a single person in her life apart from Dolores, whom she tried to protect, told him about the look of pity in Sybil’s face when Genevieve had talked about Mrs Malone.

      ‘Sybil knows and she pities us,’ Genevieve said. ‘She knows the two of us are prisoners here, even if Mother is dead. She doesn’t think we’ll ever go to Italy with her.

      ‘The book and Sybil, it’s made me see it all differently now: the past, that is. I never married or went off around the world. I should have.’

      Ben looked at her face, pale now with pain, but still warm and lively for all the signs of age. He could tell she had probably been a beauty when she was younger, with those high cheekbones and the fine arched brows. He saw suddenly that she was still beautiful. He’d never seen it before when they’d made small talk in the lane. But then, he’d never seen the truth about his beloved Lori either.

      ‘It’s not too late,’ he said suddenly. And he wasn’t just talking about a trip to Italy.

      ‘Do you think?’ said Genevieve.

      ‘It’s not too late for either of us,’ Ben said. ‘You should tell Sybil you’ll go, both of you. I could mind the dogs for you.’

      Genevieve’s eyes filled with tears, but they weren’t sad tears. They were tears with hope in them, hope for a new life because it was never too late.

      ‘Thank you, Ben,’ she said.

      He helped her up the stairs to bed and placed a kiss on her warm papery cheek.

      ‘Maybe you’d come in over Christmas for a –’ Genevieve paused. ‘Some tea and more mince pies?’

      ‘I’d like that,’ said Ben. He meant it.

      He went home and got into his cold bed. He tried Lori’s phone again, and this time she answered.

      ‘Darling!’ she said, her voice clearly telling him all he needed to know.

      ‘How many have you had?’ he asked sadly.

      ‘Three. Honestly. I didn’t want to, I wanted to come home and explain about the bottles. You see, Scarlett at work had a party when Marcus was away, and she needed somewhere to put them because he hates her partying, so we stuck them in my car, and I forgot to get rid—’

      ‘Stop.’

      ‘No honestly—’

      ‘Stop. No excuses, Lori. I get it. Finally.’ He was more forcible this time.

      This was no time to make plans or tell her of discussions they needed to have. That would have to wait until tomorrow when she was sober. He had met plenty of alcoholics over the years. He had never thought Lori would fit into that category.

      ‘Can you get a taxi and come home?’

      ‘Well,’ she sounded so unsure then, almost childlike now that the anticipated scolding hadn’t materialised. ‘I suppose I could,’ she said.

      ‘Do it now. If you’ve no money, tell the driver I have and I’ll pay him. I’ll put you to bed and we’ll start again in the morning.’

      She began to cry then, noisy sobs. ‘I thought you’d be so angry with me. I don’t mean to. I tell myself I’ll just have one and then –’

      ‘It’s OK,’ he said softly. ‘Just come home, love. We’ll start again. We’ll get you into rehab, whatever it takes. It’s never too late.’

      There was more noise and muffled voices, then a car door slamming.

      ‘I’m in the taxi,’ Lori said. ‘I’m coming home.’

      ‘See you in a little while, Lori,’ said Ben.

      He hung up and walked upstairs to where he could overlook Genevieve and Dolores’ garden with the little grouping of ancient trees sending spindly, bare branches up into the night sky.

      What he and Genevieve had talked about that night was true, he knew. It was never too late.

      Dolores didn’t like going away when the daffodils were still out.

      ‘And what about the slugs?’ she wanted to know. The garden would be ravaged by them.

      Genevieve had heard variations on this theme every week since they’d booked the holiday with Sybil to Italy.

      ‘There’s no right time to go away,’ she told her sister now, looking up from her final checklist regarding passports, photocopies of passports, tickets and money. The taxi was coming in an hour to take them and Sybil to the airport. ‘We have to trust that this is the right time for us, Dolores. It’s going to be marvellous.’

      ‘What if something goes wrong?’ said Dolores, looking up at her sister with beseeching eyes like the dogs’.

      ‘Sybil has travelled the world,’ Genevieve said firmly. ‘She’ll know what to do if something goes wrong.’

      ‘The