‘You’re meant to be resting,’ she says, though she smiles my way.
‘I’ll be wicket-keeper – that’s as good as resting,’ he replies.
‘We can bring out the camp stool, he can sit down between balls,’ I suggest.
‘I can sit down between balls,’ he confirms, as though this all but settles the matter.
Luke is already dressed for sports when he gets up, although the neighbourhood game does not begin for another four hours. Everybody is uncharacteristically well rested, and happy to ignore the events of the day prior in favour of focusing our collective energy on victory.
‘Morning, Nor – ready to smash the Kingstons this year, make up for last year’s disgrace?’
‘What happened last year?’ I ask, not even sure if I was here or not. I must have been.
‘What do you mean, “What happened last year?” You don’t remember our humiliating defeat?’
‘No . . .’
‘Must be nice,’ he replies, shaking his head, but with warmth, as he searches the cupboard for breakfast.
‘Ohhh, was that the match where Mr Kingston split his pants?’
‘That’s the one, but what a catch.’
Of course I remember the split pants, while Luke remembers the catch. Olivia enters the kitchen, signalling for quiet.
‘Maeve is still asleep, it’s a Christmas miracle,’ she says.
‘Did she have a nice day yesterday?’ I ask, with as much recognition of Christmas Day as I’m planning to offer.
‘She loved it. Though she’s most excited about her new toothbrush, so I’m glad I spent a small fortune on that handmade organic natural-dyed ethical vegan doll’s house,’ she says, smiling at the hyperbole in her statement, though I am not sure which of those words is out of place.
‘I’m so glad. She deserves to love Christmas for as long as she can,’ I reply.
‘I think I’ll just try to keep it low-key for her every year, let her enjoy the simple moments. She’s easily overwhelmed and she doesn’t need much to be happy.’
‘I hope that means Australian Christmases for the foreseeable future?’ Mum says.
‘If I can afford it,’ Olivia replies.
‘We can always help you out with that.’
‘Or maybe a more permanent trip is on the cards . . .’ Olivia does not say more, but we all absorb her words with quiet celebration.
‘Be careful or you’ll give me another panic attack,’ Dad pipes up, his first recognition of what actually happened on Christmas Eve-eve.
Olivia laughs, Luke laughs, Mum laughs, I laugh. Dad is laughing. We are laughing together. It might be the very first time in our lives we have aligned on something we find to be humorous.
‘Really, though, I want to let you all know that I am aware I have been holding a lot in, and I am going to try to figure out how I can do better. Talk about my feelings, that kind of nonsense. Within reason, of course.’
Dad is smiling, but he is also emoting, and emoting a tricky, vulnerable emotion, which is another Christmas miracle. Mum wraps her arms around him from behind and rests her head on his back. Luke, Olivia, and I exchange glances to confirm we are all seeing this: our parents, showing one another genuine affection, not a hint of passive aggression or bottled-up resentment in sight.
‘Alright, you two, don’t get carried away there. We have a match to prepare for,’ Luke says.
He runs through some pointers on our collective strengths and weaknesses as a team. We will be joining the Baileys to form one team, and the Kingstons will be playing with the Drews and the leftovers to make up the other. Apparently, we possess speed and superior skill, but fall short on endurance and perseverance. Ain’t that the truth.
‘So if we can get ahead early, it’ll be much easier to maintain our lead than to try and claw victory back from the jaws of defeat,’ he says.
Maeve calls out from her cot, and I ask Olivia if I can go to her, to which she happily agrees.
