A Gift Called Hope

By Eva Jordan

Will it take a miracle to restore joy this Christmas?

Six-year-old Jack is counting the days to Christmas. But his grandmother is just counting the days until it’s over. For Jill, the holiday comes with painful memories, and she wants to escape the recent past and its tragedies.

It’s only for little Jack’s sake that Jill tolerates the tree and decorations. Her dream is to spend it with the curtains drawn.

But this season, she may stumble onto a miracle that restores hope in her heart . . .

“A beautiful, poignant read . . . straight from the heart . . . heart breaking and heart-warming in equal measure. Once I had started reading it I couldn’t put it down . . . beautiful.” —Amazon reviewer, five stars

Praise for Eva Jordan’s 183 Times a Year

“An emotional roller-coaster . . . beautifully written.” —The Last Word Book Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504081511

Eva Jordan

Eva Jordan is the author of 183 Times a Year, All the Colours In Between, and Time Will Tell. Her career has been varied, including working for the library service and at a women's refuge. A member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, she also writes a monthly column for a local magazine and says storytelling through the art of writing is her passion. She is both a mum and step mum to four adult children, all of whom have, at times, inspired her writing and her family-based novels.

Book preview

PRESENT DAY

PROLOGUE

It’s late Christmas morning and the house is awash with chatter and good cheer. I wander into the living room, red faced, unsure if it’s from standing in front of a hot oven for the last God-knows how many hours or too many glasses of Buck’s Fizz. Both, probably.

The room itself, carnage compared to earlier, all blinking lights and discarded wrapping paper, is full of bleeping toys, half-eaten tubs of sweets, and gifts that, scattered about the room in various odd-shaped piles could just as well be sculptures, or random pieces of modern art.

Christmas songs drift from the TV, while ruddy-faced family members, ensconced on the sofa or squashed into armchairs, talk amongst themselves, the air intermittently punctured by their joyful laughter. In the furthest corner of the room, next to the ridiculously large Christmas tree, I see my son, Davey, and his son, my grandson, Jack Junior, both sitting crossed legged on the floor playing a board game, which, judging by the way his little hand fist-bumps the air, Jack Junior is winning.

Transfixed, I watch them for a moment, and although exhausted, and a little tipsy, I am overcome by a wonderful feeling of love and warmth spreading through my bones, up my chest and into my heart. Davey looks up and spots me, offering me one of his incredible smiles. He says something I don’t catch. Then he takes Jack Junior’s hand and they stand up, turn, and start walking away.

Confused, knowing there is nothing but a solid wall in front of them, I call out, asking them where they’re going. Glancing over his shoulder, Davey signals to me to follow them. Baffled, I watch as the wall stretches and extends, forming a long, thin corridor, which sees them move further and further away until eventually, they are nothing more than dots on the horizon.

Panicking, I run, desperate not to lose sight of them.

Looking round again, Davey puts his hand up, beckoning me. ‘Hurry up. I’ve got something to show you,’ he shouts.

Breathless, but still running, I put my hand to my chest, determined to catch them. The corridor opens and suddenly gives way to an enormous window, which, like a portal of bright light, blinds me, forcing me to stop and shield my eyes. Blinking, mole-like, my eyes adjust, which is when I see Davey standing beside the window, still smiling, still holding Jack Junior’s hand, pointing.

‘Look,’ he says. ‘I made it, especially for you.’

Curious, I walk towards the window, eager to see what is on the other side. One, two, three more steps should do it, but then… BANG! The light vanishes and I trip… and fall… into a gut-clenching pit of nothingness.

Heart thumping, dripping with sweat, I wake with a start. The room, pitch-black, feels unnaturally cold, even for winter. I glance at the clock beside my bed, far preferable to the cathode glare of my phone. 5.29am it blinks; the same time I always wake from this recurring dream.

Pulling myself up, my breathing quick, snagged with emotion, I sit, quite still as, teeth chattering, eyes darting left to right, I search the room for other signs of life. Common sense tells me I’m alone, but something else, something base, something primal, tells me I’m not. Straining my ears, I listen, but all I hear are the familiar sounds of the house waking up: a whooshing boiler, hiccupping radiators, and creaking floorboards. Outside, it’s the same: a soprano of birdsong, a car door slamming, footsteps along the street, and the short toll of a church bell.

Unresolved trauma, I tell myself, dragging the duvet to my chin, my fingers corpse white.

Sad, but relieved, my shoulders relax, and I find myself breathing normally again.

I’m not going mad. He isn’t here, and nor was he.

It was just a dream, albeit one I’ve had many times before.

CHAPTER 1

Jill hugged her mug with both hands and took another sip of coffee, her eye drawn to the gallery of sticky-fingered drawings and paintings covering the fridge. From there her gaze drifted, as it always did, to the picture on the wall where another child’s drawing of a heart, creased and dog-eared, hung in a frame. Worthless to anyone else, it was priceless to her. She looked away again, tears pricking her eyes.

Get a grip, she reminded herself. Mary would be round shortly, and the last thing she wanted was for her to think she’d been crying. Not that Mary would mind. She was an angel and Jill was so glad of her friendship. She wondered, though, if her grief would lessen over time. If there would come a day that she didn’t think about that terrible morning and everything that followed. It was almost two years since it happened, and it still felt as raw now as it did then. So she doubted it.

Glancing at the calendar on the wall, she sighed. It was the 1st of December. That meant she had twenty-five days to prepare herself, or, as she preferred to think of it, twenty-five days to get her shit together. She’d already decided to keep the build-up to Christmas to a minimum, to do as little as she could get away with, but as yet, she still had no plans for the day itself.

If she lived alone, she’d ignore it completely. And not just Christmas Day, the whole thing. There’d be no tree, no decorations, and no Christmas shopping. And come Christmas morning, she’d keep the curtains drawn and stay in bed all day, reading, and drinking coffee. Lunch would be soup and bread, and in the evening, she might watch a film or two, just nothing festive.

On the following day, Boxing Day, she’d head for the beach and walk the length and breadth of it until, hopefully too tired to think anymore, she’d head home and fall into bed, ready to start work again the next day.

But she didn’t live alone. She lived with a six-year-old, and for his sake, and his sake alone, she’d do her best to make it special. Somehow or another, she’d find the strength to do what she’d need to do, to get by, with one exception: Christmas Day. She couldn’t and wouldn’t go through a repeat of last year. As for the year before, well… she wouldn’t wish that anyone. No, this year, although she’d try to make it fun for Jack, she was resolute. Christmas Day would have to be different.

A tap on the window made her jump. Seconds later, she heard the front door open and Mary ambled in, unbuttoning her coat. ‘Oh bejesus, it’s Baltic out there,’ she said, draping it over one of the kitchen chairs, as static, like a minor fireworks display, shot from the hat that she yanked off her head.

Jill grinned. There was something about Mary. About her energy, the way she walked into a room; her thick Irish accent that always lifted her spirits.

‘Is yer man still sleeping?’ she asked.

Jill nodded and pointed to the radiator. ‘His uniform’s there. And the kettle’s just boiled.’

‘Well then,’ Mary replied, glancing at the clock on the wall, which showed a little after 6.30am. ‘Away wit yer. I’ll make meself a nice cup of tea, so I will. Read another chapter of me book, then it’ll just about be time to wake the wee man.’

Jill looked at Mary, her eyes rimmed pink, her hair somewhat dishevelled, and realised how tired she looked. Her heart sank. These early mornings were brutal. And judging by the weariness in Mary’s eyes, it was obvious it was getting too much for her. It was no use; she’d have to make alternative arrangements. She didn’t want to because Jack loved Mary. But it wasn’t easy looking after a boisterous six-year-old, even if it was just a few hours in the morning. Jill struggled herself at times, and at fifty-four, she had over twenty years on Mary.

‘Thanks Mary,’ she replied. ‘But you don’t have to keep doing this, you know? I feel so guilty. It’s such an early start.’ She glanced out the window, greeted by a navy-blue skyline, scattered with stars. ‘Feels worse too, now it’s winter, with the mornings so dark and cold. I’ll look into getting Jack a childminder if it’s proving too much for you?’

Mary stared at her. Her blue eyes; piercing, twinkling; narrowing. ‘Ah, go on wit yer,’ she tutted, wandering past her to flick on the kettle. ‘There’s plenty of life in these old bones yet, missy.’

Jill laughed, shook her head. She wasn’t wrong. At seventy-five, Mary was sprightlier and had more spring in her step than most people half her age. ‘Just didn’t have time to put me slap on is all. Don’t you worry though; I’ll soon get that sorted.’ She gestured towards the table where she’d placed a small make-up bag next to her book and woolly hat. ‘Can’t have the wee man thinking it’s Halloween again now, can we?’ Chuckling, she turned away and busied herself spooning sugar into a mug. ‘Too much, my arse,’ she muttered under her breath; a cloud of steam rising above her head from the now rumbling kettle.

Jill was relieved. The last thing Jack Junior needed in his life was more upheaval. ‘Thanks Mary. I really appreciate it. Plus, I know Jack loves having you around.’

‘Sure, you do. And sure, don’t I love being with the wee man, taking him to school and all? But you don’t have to keep thanking me. If it was too much for me, believe me, you’d be the first to know about it.’ Sipping her tea, she glanced over Jill’s shoulder. ‘See now,’ she said, nodding towards the clock. ‘You’re late. So go on. Away wit ya!’

CHAPTER 2

As Jill rounded the corner in her truck, the sea came into view, which, from a distance, minus the shriek of gulls overhead and the brackish air seeping through the air vents, might just as well have been a sheet of black ribbon billowing on the breeze as slivers of light from breaking waves glistened on its surface.

‘It’s now 7am,’ the staid voice of the radio reporter announced, ‘and it’s time for the news headlines.’ Jill leaned forward and turned it off. She’d given up on mainstream media a couple of years ago. Most of it was negative, trouble in Parliament, trouble abroad, service cuts, housing shortages, homelessness, domestic violence, knife crime, paedophilia, climate change. There was never any good news or stories of hope or inspiration.

One day, she’d deliberately kept note of every single TV and radio bulletin. Come the end of the day, as she’d suspected, she didn’t find one positive story among them. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about the issues reported. If anything, she cared too much. But to simmer, all day, every day, in a soup of so much negativity, so much doom and gloom, was enough to send the sanest person mad. Yes, the problems reported were important. Yes, they were part of life, but so was the good stuff, wasn’t it? So where was the balance? Besides, by that point she was depressed enough, and had her own demons to slay.

So, for her own sanity, she chose not to listen any more, except once a day maybe, helping where she could; ignoring the things she couldn’t do much about, while all the time trying to stay present and grounded, taking each day at a time and, for the sake of her grandson, trying to find something good about each day.

Jill pulled the truck into the bay and parked in her usual spot. It was still dark outside. However, night-time and all its demons was losing its grip and any minute now the sun would begin its ascent, flooding the horizon in majestic brush strokes of magenta, orange, and salmon pink. Every day was the same, but every sunrise was different, and she never tired of it. Yes, winter had cast its heavy blanket across the landscape, but Jill couldn’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.

It had been a dream of hers for a long time: to set up a food truck by the sea, serving tasty vegetarian food alongside fresh tea and coffee. She was a good cook. She knew that. Everyone loved her veggie meatballs and her chickpea curry, including the meat lovers in her family. But although she’d dreamed of running a little place by the sea, mostly that’s all it had been, a dream. An idea she’d toyed with but did nothing about. Little did she know, she’d get her wish. Unfortunately, though, it had come at a cost.

She switched off the engine, mindful of the sea lapping the shoreline; positively soothing after the tractor-like chugging of the truck, and glanced again at the pack of cigarettes in the cup holder. After last night’s little fiasco, her routine of a quick solitary ciggie before work was now well and truly scuppered. She really could do with a drag, though.

It was a stupid move, leaving them in the van. Why hadn’t she got rid of them last night, along with the other packs in the house? Poor Jack. He’d been quite beside himself. Still, she couldn’t help smiling to herself. That boy was far too clever for his own good, like his father.

But it was her own fault. She should have kept a closer eye on him, then she would have noticed he’d switched the TV channel, swapping the end credits of one of the Harry Potter films for some stupid documentary. What surprised her most, though, was just how much of it he’d taken in, how much he’d grasped about the health risks of smoking, including premature death, which is, of course, what ignited his meltdown. It was a rather spectacular one, too. The first in a long time, which was why it had caught her off guard.

He’d been making great progress since they’d moved away. They both had, somewhat, but unfortunately she’d grown complacent, at ease with her grandson’s newfound, easy-going manner. So, this temporary relapse had blindsided her. In the end, the only thing that eased his worried mind was her promise to stop smoking, right there and then, forever. It was an easy promise to make – at the time – anything to stop her grandson’s anguish. But yes, it was doable.

Now, though, as she stared at the half-empty pack, the smell of tobacco lingering from its half-open lid, it seemed impossible. She felt antsy. Twitchy. Her body craved a nicotine hit while her brain sought a million excuses to justify the need. It was easy, though, really. Because Jack wasn’t there. No one was. At that moment, save for a few gulls flying overhead, she was completely and utterly alone, so if she gave in and had one, who would know?

Deflated, she sat back and sighed. ‘I’d know,’ she said, running a hand through her limp hair.

Nope. There was nothing else for it. She’d said she’d quit, so she’d just have to put on her big girl pants and get the fuck on with it, like she’d been doing with the rest of her life for the last two years.

Staring out of the window, she spotted what, with a surfboard clutched under his arm, appeared to be a surfer in the dunes, heading towards the beach. Probably a local, she thought. Or Sebastian hoping to catch a few waves before work. She shivered. She loved the sea, but the idea of swimming in it, in the middle of winter, was horrifying. She’d read that it was supposed to be good for you, that the cold water boosts the white blood cell count or something, forcing the body to react to changing conditions, so that over time it becomes better at activating its defences.

The local U3A swimming group, now regular customers of hers, who swam in the sea every morning, and would arrive shortly, said it also helped release endorphins. But still, the promise of a few feel-good hormones wasn’t enough to tempt her into the icy waters of the North Sea in the middle of winter. She admired their boldness, and that of the surfer, who was now at the water’s edge, fumbling with his board. But no, the only waves she’d be navigating at this time of the year were the ones she and her grandson jumped while wearing thick winter coats and wellies.

Squinting, she leaned forward for a better look at the surfer. Tall and slim, with a quiff of sandy blonde hair, his muscular frame taut beneath his wetsuit, she was pretty convinced it was Sebastian. Physically, he reminded her of Davey, a bit. What would he have made of all this, she thought, as the intrepid surfer, without so much as a pause, waded into the dark blue water? What, too, would he have thought about her and his dad, Jack Senior, now living apart, separated? Or of her and Jack Junior, living here, by the sea, the dream of running her own food truck now a reality.

It wasn’t just wiping its feet, either. Veggi Bakes & Shakes had proved to be a tremendous success, more so than she’d ever expected. Most days she was run off her feet, which was how she liked it; out in the fresh air, too busy to think, then at night, after running around after Jack, too exhausted not to sleep – for a few hours at least, anyway.

Her previous job, working in HR, in an office, stuck behind a computer all day had, despite her heavy workload, afforded her too many opportunities to think. Too many pockets of time to consider everything that had happened. Wondering where she’d gone wrong, what she could have done differently and what the outcome might have been.

It was torture, and she knew if she didn’t escape soon, didn’t get away from her thoughts, from the house Davey had grown up in, from the pitying looks of friends and neighbours, and worst of all from bumping into old school friends of his who, despite their benevolence, their kind words, she hated, for no good reason other than they were alive and Davey wasn’t, she would explode.

The surfer, now fully submerged in the water, lying flat on his stomach on his board, kicked his feet and paddled his arms, drifting out to sea.

Chucking the half-empty pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment – out of sight, out of mind – Jill opened the truck door and jumped out, making a mental note to keep an eye on the surfer, watch for his safe return. She had the coastguard on speed dial on her phone, and although she’d never had cause to ring them during the last eleven months, she wasn’t taking any risks. She worked by the sea, and the sea could be dangerous. Everybody knew that, so in her mind, she had a care of duty to those around her.

At least, that’s what she told herself, but deep down, she suspected it was something else. Deep down, the feeling of responsibility to save those, including complete strangers, that got out of their depth said more about her state of mind, her inner turmoil, than it did about her need to help.

She felt responsible for what had happened to Davey, and no amount of counselling, no amount of reassurance and kind words from friends and family could convince her otherwise. So, this need to be mindful of others felt like redemption. She’d lost her son, and there was nothing she could do about that. No amount of screaming, shouting, or crying could bring him back. Nor would blaming others. However, he’d died on her watch, and she’d be damned if she’d ever let that happen again, stranger or no stranger.

CHAPTER 3

It was 2pm. The lunchtime rush was over, and Jill took a breather. Placing her ‘Back in 10 minutes’ sign on the counter, she exited the truck via the back doors, locked them, and took a leisurely stroll along the sandy beach. Pulling her hat down to cover her ears, she zipped up her coat and slipped on her gloves.

It felt bitterly cold outside, especially after being cocooned in the truck, which, with the oven going, was really quite cosy. Still, it was one of those fine, crisp winter afternoons; powder blue sky, sharp breeze, and a low winter sun which, although weak, felt pleasantly warm on the skin. She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with the fresh salty air blowing in from the sea. It had been a good day. Busy. The pleasant weather had brought everyone out, and as well as her regular customers, she’d gained a couple of new ones too.

The surfer she spotted first thing that morning was Sebastian, and as usual, he stopped by for a smoothie and a quick chat. She had, like she’d promised herself, kept an eye on him, and it was such a relief when, forty-minutes after entering it, he emerged from the sea, shaking his hair like a shaggy dog.

But just as he came out, the swimmers from the local U3A group turned up. He stopped to talk to them and, like her, seemed very familiar with some of them. Most were regular customers of hers now, including a couple of Mary’s friends. However, it wasn’t such a worry when they went swimming because they were a group and there was safety in numbers, but also because, at this time of the year, they didn’t so much swim as immerse themselves for a few minutes then come out again.

When Jill asked Mary why she didn’t join them, Mary said it was because the North Sea was only fit to swim in during the summer months, which made them all mad or, as she so eloquently put it, ‘fecking eejits’.

Jill hadn’t disagreed with her, but she loved this beach. Its golden sands, stretching for miles; a pier one way, cliffs and rock formations the other. The way driftwood, like tiny rescue boats, floated ashore and how the seaweed, like some mythological sea creature, clung to the shoreline before the tide dragged it back again. Then there were the sounds that followed her; squawking gulls overhead, the rhythmic waves, transient, yet always rising and falling, and then, of course, the songs of the wind, whistling through the spikey-haired grasses of the sand dunes; flute-like at first light, a lullaby come nightfall.

She and Jack loved the wildlife too. Jack especially loved the puffins, perched high on the clifftops, chests puffed out, beaks full of sand eels, which he spied on using the binoculars that Granddad Jack had given him for his birthday.

Every second Sunday afternoon, with no work for her and no school for Jack, they’d take a picnic down to the beach, paddling in the sea – weather permitting! – searching the rock pools for crabs, or just watching the wildlife; mesmerised by the diving skills of the razorbills, the dive-bombing antics of the great skua, or the elegant gliding of the northern gannets that, spotting prey, would at once transform into super-fast bolts of lightning. It was an idyllic place to raise a child and thankfully, despite his absent parents, Jack Junior was thriving.

Why hadn’t she done this sooner? she wondered. Why hadn’t she and Jack Senior moved to a place like this when the kids were little? Maybe then, things would have worked out differently and Davey would still be here, and she and Jack Senior would still be together. Placing the heel of her hand on her forehead, she felt suddenly nauseous, her mind tilting with tiredness. That was the one thing that had surprised her about this whole mess: Jack’s cheating.

She never had him down for that. At fifty-six he was still a striking man and had, all things considered, aged well, his greying hair and wrinkles only adding to his ruggedness.

She, on the other hand, looked haggard. Out of the two of them, though, Jack had always been easier on the eye, although he was, and always had been, charmingly unaware of that fact. Which was why, when introduced to work colleagues or new friends, she was often met with a bemused smile, a slight look of surprise. More so by women, if she was honest. What’s a handsome man doing with a plain Jane like you? their unspoken words.

Standing at just five feet five; slim-ish, her once curly, now more wavy, mousy brown hair usually scraped back into a ponytail, a permanent crease between her green eyes, she was and always had been very average. Not that it bothered her. She scrubbed up well when she needed to, but mostly, she’d never been concerned about her looks,