Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 36 Jack

Chapter 36

Jack

London, December 1954

W ith only a day left before we were to leave for Sandringham, we were given a few hours off between the tea service and a light evening meal. I pulled on my coat and hat, ready for some fresh air.

“Where are you headed off to?” Mason asked.

“Going for a walk. I’d like to do a little Christmas shopping, pick up something for my nephews, and for Ryan and the family.” What I didn’t say was that I planned to walk by the building on Richmond Street that I’d hoped to buy with Andrea one day. If I worked up the nerve, I might even look into the pricing. I’d thought about the restaurant so often since we’d returned to England, and I’d yet to visit it. After another restless night, I decided I couldn’t put it off any longer. It was time to face it, time to make some decisions, time to inch forward no matter how difficult or painful it may be.

“Mind if I come with you?” Mason said. “I’d like to pick up a few things as well. Can’t have you showing me up in front of Ryan, armed with more presents than me!”

Though I was looking forward to a little time alone, perhaps Mason should come with me to see the building. As potential partners, and all.

“Sure,” I said. ‘Come with me.”

We joined the holiday throngs along Piccadilly, and Regent Street. Though the chill of winter nipped at my nose, it was a bright afternoon. We spent some time at a toy store, where I chose a doll with blinky eyes for Ivy and a fire engine for her little brother, along with some toy soldiers for Andrea’s nephews. I had seen so much of them when she was alive that I still thought of them as family. I also still sent a card and presents each Christmas. It was an aching pleasure to keep in touch with Andrea’s family—the last thread linking me to her.

As I left the shop, I whistled, “Oh Christmas Tree” and, for the first time that season, I felt a little bit festive.

Next, we crossed the street to Hatchards. As we opened the door, a cheerful cluster of bells jingled. The creaky, multifloor bookstore was a favorite of mine. I’d spent a pretty penny on books there over the years. Inside, I climbed the staircase to the children’s books and picked out a few before selecting a couple of novels for Maggie and Ryan. With my arms full, I headed to the cashier’s table.

As I wound through the artfully arranged displays, a leather journal caught my eye. Flowers and vines were carved into the soft surface and the pages were edged in gold. I put my stack down and flipped it open. On the first page it read, “This book belongs to _________.” I imagined Olive’s curled script on the line. She could use it to write notes for her radio pieces.

I closed it, ran my hand over the cover, and brought it to my nose, inhaling the rich leather scent. Someone had made it by hand.

I hesitated a moment, wondering if she’d like it, or if she might think it odd if I got her a gift, especially since we hadn’t seen each other in almost a year. Did friends buy each other such sentimental items? But as I imagined her look of surprise and delight when I gave her the journal, I couldn’t help myself. I tucked it under my arm along with the rest of the books. I’d ask the cashier to wrap it in Christmas paper and add a ribbon, too.

“Find everything you need?” Mason asked. “I spent a fortune.” He held up a stack of books.

I smiled. “I did, too.” As we left the store, I finally mentioned the last stop on my list. “Do you remember the old building I told you about, for our restaurant?”

“Of course,” he said.

“How about we take a look, since we’re out?”

He grinned. “What a great idea! Maybe it will inspire us to sit down with pen and paper and make a proper plan.”

The idea of seeing the building again thrilled me, but as we neared Richmond Street, my heart skipped in my chest. I hadn’t been back to the area since the week we’d returned from Balmoral that summer, and it still brought up a surge of emotions. So much of my old life had played out on this street, and so much of what I’d hoped for my future was wrapped up in the bricks of that one building.

We turned the corner, passing a row of charming little shops and boutiques, including Howard’s Florist which—unusually—was closed, and there it was.

“That’s it,” I said as I stopped directly opposite the building.

The red brick, and the faded white window trim was as lovely as ever, even if it needed some serious sprucing up, but there was one thing about it that had changed. The “For Sale” sign was gone.

I felt a stab of pain. I was too late.

“It’s sold,” I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment.

Mason studied my expression and glanced back at the building. “It is perfect, isn’t it?”

“Was,” I said. “It was perfect.”

Mason placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know you’ve had your heart set on that place for a while. But there’s bound to be plenty of other places we could make work. Chin up. We’ll find something when the time is right.”

I nodded. It was a nice thought, but I didn’t know where or how we’d ever find a more perfect location. The truth was, it felt as if this was it, and we were at the end of the line. The dream I’d harbored for so long was over. It was time to let it go.

“Should we head back?” Mason held up his shopping bags. “These are heavier than I thought.”

“You go on,” I said. “I’ll walk on my own for a bit. I need to clear my head.”

“Of course. You sure you’re all right? Maybe a pint would help?”

I smiled. “I’m fine. I just need to brood for a while.”

“See you back at the palace then.”

That was why Mason was a good friend and would be a great partner—he didn’t pressure me, or push; he gave me the space I needed when the time arose.

I stood for a while, gripped by sorrow and regret. Eventually, the chill in the air got the better of me. I turned up the collar of my jacket and glanced next door to Howard’s Florists. A light had been switched on inside, and the door was slightly ajar. I pushed the door open a little further and stepped inside. The familiar bell rang above the door.

“Hello?” I pushed my hands into my coat pockets and waited for Mrs. Howard to appear. “Mrs. Howard?”

A man I didn’t recognize peered around the door to the back room. “Can I help you?”

“I just wanted to say hello to Mrs. Howard. She knows me. Jack’s the name. Jack Devereux. Is she around?”

The man stepped into the main shop. “You haven’t heard?”

I felt a knot form in my stomach. “Heard what?”

“I’m afraid Alice—Mrs. Howard—passed away last week. I’m her solicitor. The shop will be put up for sale. I’m itemizing the stock.”

“I—I didn’t know,” I said, stunned. I couldn’t believe it. She’d seemed well when I last saw her. A wave of sadness washed over me. She’d been such a dear old woman, and she’d been so good to Andrea, too. First, the restaurant had sold, and now this. I really was closing the book on my former life. “That’s awful news.”

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you. Was there something particular you wanted to see her about?”

I shook my head. “I used to live close by, and my late wife used to work here. We’d always chat whenever I stopped by. I just wanted to wish her a merry Christmas.” Even as I spoke, I still couldn’t believe the awful news. “Is there anyone I can send my condolences to? I know she didn’t have children of her own.”

“There is a reading of her will this afternoon. If you’d like to leave your address and telephone number, I can contact you with funeral details once we know the family’s wishes.”

I scribbled my information onto a sheet of paper and passed it to him. “That would be much appreciated. Thank you.”

“Buckingham Palace,” he said as he read the address I’d provided. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

I smiled lightly. “I’m a chef there. Actually, I’m leaving for Sandringham tomorrow, so I’ll add those details, too.”

As I turned to leave, I took a last look around the little shop. “I’ll sure miss her. And this place. It was part of our Christmas traditions to pick up a sprig of mistletoe from Howard’s. The street won’t be the same without her.”

I strolled for a while, wrestling with my emotions until I reached the cemetery. I had to see Andrea. It was still difficult to go there, but the pain lessened a little as the months and years passed. Years. The thought caught me by surprise. How had it already been two years without her?

Afterward, I walked aimlessly until I reached Green Park. My mind full, and a now-familiar ache of loss in my chest, I sat on a bench for a while and watched the sky as the colors shifted. Late afternoon in winter brought streaks of gray-blue and silvery violet, with a hint of pink that edged the clouds as the sun sank lower. It would be dark soon.

Slowly, I walked the path winding between the magnificent London plane and oak trees. I’d always liked this park; it was less fussy, less manicured and far less crowded than St James Park. Something about that appealed to me, the notion that perfection in nature happened all on its own. And I needed the soothing balm of nature now.

A few hundred yards ahead of me, a couple sat beside each other on a bench, deep in conversation. My heart squeezed at the sight. It caught me off-guard, the longing to be one of a pair again; to while away a winter afternoon in the park with someone I loved.

As I drew closer, the man reached for the woman’s hand, and as they stood, he leaned forward to kiss her. I caught a flash of auburn curls, a familiar winter hat and scarf. Olive? And was that... Peter Hall? It couldn’t be. They couldn’t be seeing each other again, could they?

I turned quickly in the opposite direction and walked to Canada Gate and Constitution Hill.

It had been nearly a year since I’d last seen Olive, and months since we’d been in contact. There was every possibility she was in a relationship with someone. She was a beautiful woman in every way. Why wouldn’t she be with someone? And why was I so bothered by the thought?

A stab of something unfamiliar made me catch my breath. I hadn’t felt it in so long that I hardly recognized it.

Jealousy.

Undeniable and uncomfortable.

And I wasn’t just jealous that Olive was with Peter Hall of all people. I was jealous that she was with someone other than me.