He looked at me over the rim of his reading glasses. ‘I can’t say I’m thrilled by it, no. But I find the minute you let yourself panic, the worse it gets.’
I didn’t want to sound indelicate by asking him if he was bothered that his grandmother was lying stiff as a board in the pantry. Of course, he must have a torrent of emotions inside, he just didn’t show it the in same ways that I did.
We were a fantastic team, we supported each other’s careers in any way we could, we would take on extra responsibilities to give the other space when they needed it and we strove to uphold the same values and instil them in our children. I always felt loved and accepted by Miles, but it would be a lie to say I didn’t struggle when he shut me out like this. I knew it was a by-product of having an emotionally unavailable mother and a distant father, but I would never give up on trying to infiltrate the dam Miles had built up around his emotions. My only concern was, if I did manage to crack it, what sort of carnage might it unleash?
‘Come on,’ he said drolly, ‘there’s nothing better to do than get back into bed, is there? Anyway, we might as well enjoy it; after Christmas, we won’t get this time again for God knows how long.’
‘Hmm?’ I asked, still staring out over the fields.
‘With the move. It’s going to be mayhem, I’m sure. I know it’s impossible with everything that’s happened, but try to take it easy. Mrs Harlow just changed the sheets, it’s so fresh.’ He patted the duvet, putting a dent in the big poofy cloud next to him. ‘Let me take that rather fetching but very itchy-looking Christmas jumper off you.’ His dark eyes glinted as he flashed me a perfect smile.
‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’ I offered, ‘I’m always here for you to talk to, to cry to… There’s no shame in crying.’
‘Oh, I know. I always say that crying is the best outlet, you know that. I have no issue with crying. But right now I just feel too overwhelmed to feel… well,anything. It’s like my nervous system has packed up and hasn’t left a note. It’s like all I can do is switch into survival-mode and power everything down until we reach Australia.’
I made my way to the bed and reached for him. ‘I worry about you and the kids, how what’s happened will affect you all…’
‘I know, my darling. But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve already reached out to a grief counsellor in Sydney. They have availability to see all of us, if we want it.’
‘You have?’ I asked in surprise. Although I don’t know why I was surprised; this man was like a self-cleaning oven, a car that drove itself and never needed refilling. It was his defence: being completely self-sufficient after dealing with his family for so long.
‘Yep.’ He smiled and raised his eyebrows. ‘Sooo, are you getting into bed or what?’
I laughed. ‘There’s no time for relaxing, or forthat, as tempting as it is. Didn’t you get the memo? It’s thegingerbread-decorating competition.’
He let the book fall into his lap, raising a brow at me as if I’d gone mad. ‘I think it’s safe to assume there’s not going to be a competition this year.’
I shook my head slowly. ‘Your mother has already baked the walls and ceilings.’
‘Oh. My. Christ.’ Miles pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You are joking?’
‘Nope– she’s got everything set up in the dining room. Gingerbread houses, icing, gumdrops, the whole works. She said she wasn’t going to let a little snow ruin tradition.’
Miles groaned and sat up. ‘A little snow? We’re practically buried alive out here. Except for Gran, of course.’ He paused. ‘She’s in cold storage with the rest of the pigs in blankets.’
‘Miles!’ I gasped, half laughing at his gallows humour, ‘don’t be morbid.’
‘What?’ he laughed, ‘to be honest she’s better off than the rest of us. I kind of envy her in a way.’
I walked back to the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. The rolling white hills stretched as far as I could see, broken only by the skeletal outlines of trees. It was beautiful, in its way, but also oppressive and claustrophobic. I closed my eyes, picturing Toots’s frail body, carefully covered and stored in the pantry. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wanted to run. My brain and body always felt primed, like I could fly from this place at any moment. I kept admonishing myself about our not leaving the house before the snowstorm hit, but we had already packed up our own home ready to be sold and it hadn’t seemed right to leave a grieving widowandmother. Then we were stuck here… and after that, Toots had expired faster than warm deli meat.
All the while a small voice in my head kept getting louder as the days went on:Were they accidents?Do I need to get my family out of here faster than shit off a shovel? It just seemed so preposterous to consider the alternative. I had been part of this family for nearly twenty years and nothing like this had ever happened before. So why now?
‘Come on,’ I said softly. ‘At least the competition will pass the time and give us something else to think about.’
Miles sighed heavily, sweeping the covers back and swinging his legs out of bed. ‘Fine, fine. Let’s go decorate some bloody gingerbread houses.’ He stood up, stretching his arms above his head. ‘Though I warn you, I’m just about losing my shit with this family. The gingerbread house may well end up looking like something straight out of a true-crime documentary.’
‘That wouldn’t be the worst concept we’ve seen. Perhaps your mother’s been bumping people off to knit their hair into all those cashmere jumpers she wears?’ I joked, then instantly worried that I’d gone too far, relieved to hear him chuckle as he strode over to the wardrobe and pulled on a T-shirt, black jeans and a grey Fair Isle sweater.
I smiled as he pulled the faintly Christmassy jumper over his head and said, ‘Do you like it? Do I at least look the part?’
‘Very much so,’ I replied. ‘You look like you’re modelling for the White Company catalogue, while I haveMerry Christmas You Filthy Animalswritten across my boobs… Not exactly on brand, am I?’
‘But that’s the way I like you,’ he replied mischievously.
We made our way downstairs, the old floorboards creaking beneath our feet, the sound amplified in the eerie quiet of the snow-muffled house.
The dining room was fully decked out in everything you could possibly want or need for decorating gingerbread houses. Jeannie had truly outdone herself. The long oak table was covered in a red and green tablecloth, dotted with miniature Christmas trees and reindeer figurines. At each place setting was a preassembled gingerbread house, piping bags and dozens upon dozens of neat little dishes containingsprinkles, chocolate chips, and gumdrops. The old gramophone in the corner played Bing Crosby’s Christmas hits.
