Written in the Stars: a Charity Anthology by Bloodhound Books

Author:Bloodhound Books
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

I’m in the coffee room at work, waiting for the kettle to boil when my mobile vibrates in my pocket. The screen lights up: LAURA CALLING.

At once, I’m on high alert; personal calls are frowned upon in the office and my sister knows this. ‘Hi, are you okay?’ I whisper, closing the door of the tiny kitchenette.

Laura has no time for pleasantries. ‘Katie, it’s happened. We’re getting a baby… a toddler. He’s called Daniel, he’s two, and he’ll be with us for Christmas.’ Her voice catches with emotion and when I speak, mine does too.

‘Oh, Laura, I’m so chuffed for you. That’s incredible. All the months of red tape – being assessed and investigated – and now you and Hannah are going to be parents. How long have you got Daniel for?’

‘We don’t know. Could be weeks, could be months. That’s the nature of fostering and we were warned to expect it. It doesn’t matter – I can’t wait to get him home, give him a stable, loving, happy Christmas. Katie, I wept when I read his file; poor little chap has been through so much in his short life already.’

There’s a brief exchange about timings and logistics; how Laura will work from home to provide full-time childcare, while Hannah will reduce her hours at the hospital.

I nibble my thumbnail. ‘Laura, have you told Mum?’

There’s a brief pause on the line.

‘No. I’m not sure I want to. She’s barely registered Hannah, let alone the fact that we’ve been planning to foster. I think I can safely say she’s not interested.’

‘Love, don’t hate her for it. She’s not herself, is she?’ My tone brightens. ‘I on the other hand am exactly my usual nosey self and I can’t wait to meet the little fella. How soon can I come over?’ Behind me, a door opens and closes; there’s a clank of crockery. ‘Laura, I’ve got to go – I’ll call you tonight from home. Bye.’

That evening, I pass on drinks with colleagues, head home and get off the underground a stop before my usual one. Instead, I walk an extra mile to my flat via leafy suburban streets all lit up for Christmas. It reminds me of being nine or ten; of our parents taking Laura and me to see the lights in the West End. I can almost feel the tingle of icy wind on our cheeks as we sat upstairs on an open-top bus, eyes wide and shining, spellbound by the exotic shop windows – another world, full of magic and sparkle.

Now the festive lights blur as I blink back tears and hurry home to my flat.

Later, mollified by pasta and a glass of Shiraz, I call my sister and am warmed by her excitement and optimism. Neither of us mentions Mum. After all, it is not my place, not my job to share her news.

I picture my mother, marooned by grief and stubbornness, spending Christmas in a dark dusty house, with only ghosts and memories for company. It is my last waking thought that night.

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