I can think of other words for it.
As we crunch to a stop, the front door opens, and my eyes widen at the steady stream of people that come piling out heading towards the car.
Suddenly, Bailey and I are standing outside in the snow, and I’m being hugged and asked questions simultaneously. I’m introduced to so many people I can’t remember all of their names. I just nod in a daze. Little kids are running around everywhere, kicking up flurries, laughing, and chattering. Some are making snow angels. Crumpet scampers off with a woof and joins them. Traitor. There are multiple piercing cries of ‘Uncle Bailey, look at me! Uncle Bailey!’
I wince as my eardrums threaten to burst.
‘Yikes, they’ve been inside all afternoon. Simon just opened a bag of mini chocolate Santas, so they’re on a sugar high,’ comments a young woman around my age who’s just joined the throng. She has long blonde hair and is wearing a pink knitted beanie. She smiles at me kindly and doesn’t try to hug me, for which I’m grateful.
‘Hi, I’m Sarah, Bailey’s sister. This must be a bit overwhelming for you. Why don’t we leave them to it and go inside where it’s warm and have a cup of tea?’
I nod, feeling relieved, and let her shepherd me into the house, leaving the noise and chaos behind us.
We walk down a long corridor with uneven wood flooring. The walls are covered in photos. The house smells of wax polish mixed with undercurrents of spice and pine.
‘This used to be an old schoolhouse,’ Sarah tells me. ‘Our parents bought and renovated it around thirty years ago, just before Bailey was born. They needed somewhere cheap to house and raise their brood.’
‘It’s massive,’ I say, gazing up at the high peaked ceiling.
‘It seems that way, but there’s a special nook where you can escape to read a book or think your own thoughts. I’ll show you later,’ says Sarah.
I open my mouth to tell her I’m only here for the night but then close it again. I’m not sure I should be saying anything. Bailey obviously has some kind of master plan in play. I’ll wait and see what it is.
‘This is the kitchen. And Mum.’
A tall woman in a forest-green jumper and skinny jeans turns from the counter, where she’s been chopping something. She has thick shoulder-length golden-brown hair threaded with grey. She’s slim, but there’s something strong and capable about her—like she wouldn’t stand for any nonsense, but if you skinned your knee, she’d instantly be sympathetic and ready with the plasters.
She smiles at me, and her round cheeks dimple like Bailey’s. She has his snub nose as well. ‘Hello, you’re a new face.’
‘She’s with Bailey,’ Sarah explains, and I stiffen when I see his mother instantly brighten. Oh no.
‘Ah ...I see!’She comes over, wiping her hands on a tea towel, and I feel like the biggest fraud ever. I’m going to tear a strip off him when I see him next.
‘Well, he kept that quiet. But welcome, welcome. I’m Jennifer.’
‘Holly,’ I supply.
She looks like she’s about to have kittens. ‘Holly! You even have a Christmassy name—that is so perfect for him.’
‘Mum, Holly needs a cup of tea,’ Sarah says gently. ‘She’s just met everyone, and you know how exhausting that can be.’ I’m starting to like this girl. She seems to know exactly the right thing to say.
‘Of course. Take a seat, Holly, and I’ll put the kettle on. Sarah, do you want one?’
‘Yes please. Sit here with me,’ she says, pulling out a couple of chairs at the well-scrubbed kitchen table, and I flop into one in relief.
I’m halfway through a strong cup of tea and feeling more human when Bailey appears with our bags, one in each hand, and dumps them in the kitchen. He unwinds his scarf, and a small waterfall of white sludge slides off and starts melting on the slate tiles.
‘Whoops!’ he says, stepping over it. ‘Hi, Mum. Sorry about the puddle. I was making snow angels with the kids.’
He goes to give her a hug, which she returns, then whacks him lightly around the shoulders. I stare, fascinated.
‘Bailey,’ she chides.
‘What? I’ll clean it up.’ He reaches for the tea towel.
‘No, not that! Poor Holly is overwhelmed. You could’ve at least warned her.’
Bailey chuckles, and his dimples appear briefly. Grrr, I wish he wasn’t so wholesome. He would be easier to hate if he didn’t look like a cheeky 12-year-old. ‘Och, no, she’s not.’
