Fifteen minutes later, we’d hopped off the tram in Nottingham city centre, at a large open area that Beckett informed me was the Old Market Square. Today, it was transformed into a ‘Winter Wonderland’, with rows of fake log cabins, some selling Christmas gifts and goods, others with roast turkey sandwiches, spicy German sausages or hot chestnuts. There was a large ‘ice bar’ with outdoor seating beside a towering Christmas tree. As well as the Nottingham Wheel and a toboggan ride, at the centre of it all was an ice-rink. Everywhere was flashing lights, cheesy Christmas music and seasonal hustle and bustle. Part of me felt in total sensory overload – the contrast to my secluded cottage was dazzling, making me squint as if a torch were being shined in my face. At the same time, the all-too-familiar seasonal sights and sounds triggered a cascade of memories that threatened to knock me to my knees.
I took a deep breath, did my best to shake off the ghosts and forced myself to focus on the here and now.
‘I love this smell.’ I paused to savour the scent of fried onions, doughnuts, and cinnamon.
‘Which one?’ Beckett asked, tugging his scarf tighter.
‘All of them!’
We ambled around the stalls before finding a seat in an alpine-themed bar and ordered wedges topped with pulled beef, melted cheese and slaw.
‘Okay, how about an hour looking at care agencies, then we can do another loop before heading back?’ I suggested, warming my hands on a mug of gingerbread hot chocolate.
After calls with three agencies who could offer a two-hour slot, but no one available for much more than that, the fourth one asked why Beckett didn’t just try a residential home.
‘Because he’s happy in his own home?’ he seethed, abruptly ending the call.
I raised my eyebrows. Happy?
‘Okay, not the best choice of words. But why move him to an unfamiliar place, with minimal control over routines or even what he eats, cared for by strangers? At home he’s comfortable, surrounded by a lifetime of memories. He’s loved.’
‘Maybe someone at the lunch club can recommend an agency?’
Beckett nodded. ‘Do you think Bill would consider coming out of retirement?’
‘To care for Gramps? How could he resist?’
Finally managing to arrange interviews with two different companies, we had another wander, toasting marshmallows and eating them while watching the ice skaters looping in time to ‘Holly Jolly Christmas’ jangling from the overhead speakers.
‘I hadn’t even thought about Christmas until last Sunday,’ I admitted once we’d started to make our way back to the tram stop.
‘Other things on your mind?’ Beckett nodded at Bob.
‘Yeah, I’d been so preoccupied with getting ready for a baby,’ I said, rolling my eyes at my disgraceful lack of preparation. ‘There aren’t many reminders of Christmas in the forest. Although, the farm shop put some decorations out last week, along with a big display of parsnips and Brussels sprouts.’ We reached the stop, huddling into our coats as a few tentative snowflakes began to fall.
‘The supermarkets have been bombarding us since September. Hatherstone market must be almost as bad with the tourist stalls.’
I pulled my hat down another inch, instinctively stepping closer to Beckett’s huge frame in the hope it provided some shelter.
‘I haven’t really been to a supermarket in the past few months.’
He waited for me to share more.
‘I haven’t really been anywhere, apart from the farm shop and midwife appointments. Until I got into a Sherwood Taxi a few weeks ago.’
The tram arrived, and we found a seat in a half-empty carriage.
‘How long have you been living in Sherwood Forest?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Since May.’
Beckett lowered his head so he could talk quietly.
‘I would love to ask what happened, but I’m assuming now isn’t the time or the place.’
‘You’re also assuming something happened worth telling.’
‘The pregnant director of a fashion company moves to a neglected cottage in the absolute middle of nowhere and lives like a hermit for six months. Doesn’t even go to a supermarket.’ He furrowed his brow, as if pained to even contemplate it. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I understand there may be a good reason why you can’t tell me, but, given your prolonged isolation, it might help to finally tell someone.’
