This is it. This is my chance to redeem myself. Or will I run away like a lily-livered lion as usual?
Chapter 18
Boxing Day
‘Holly, do you want to go for a walk with me and Mirabelle and check on the sheep?’ asks Sarah.
‘Oh ... OK,’ I reply, instantly on guard.
After the chat with Bailey last night, I’ve been released from exile and felt safe enough to come down to the kitchen with him for breakfast. My reception from his family when I walked into the room was a little on the awkward side, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. There was no mention of yesterday’s drama at all. Whatever Jennifer has been saying about foster children has gone some way towards helping my case. I just wish I knew exactly what it is she’s been saying. Hopefully, nothing like ‘Now, troops, Holly has obviously had a rough time of it. And her attitude towards Christmas is completely understandable. This is the time when she needs our patience and compassion the most. Please treat her kindly’.
I really don’t want them pitying me.
So when I’ve just finished my last mouthful of toast and Sarah asks me to go for a walk, it’s surprising, but not unexpected. She’s showing that she’s stepping up to the mark and doing her bit.
‘Good idea,’ chimes Bailey. ‘I’ll stay here since Lewis and Moira are meant to be arriving this morning.’
Excellent. That will be something to look forward to (not!).
Kirk, on the other side of the table, hoots. ‘Is Lewis still coming?’
‘As far as I know,’ says Bailey. ‘I haven’t heard otherwise.’
‘I can’t wait to see how this plays out,’ says Kirk, smirking at me. I smile back thinly.Starved for entertainment, are we? I still haven’t forgiven him for playing the TikTok for the kids. I don’t think I ever will. They’re staying well clear of me, and I don’t blame them. Aunty Holly has shown her true colours.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m crunching through the snow, wearing a borrowed coat and borrowed wellingtons. Crumpet comes too for some fresh air, and the airisdecidedly fresh. After being stuck inside all day yesterday, the frozen fields at the back of the house stretching out yonder are a feast for the eyes.
‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ comments Sarah as we wait for Mirabelle to climb a fence stile.
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘Is this land all yours?’
She nods. ‘It’s a waste, really, since no one in my family is farming inclined. We could’ve been growing all sorts of things. Mum has a small veggie and herb patch near the house, but that’s it.’
‘Whose are the sheep then?’
‘A neighbour’s. He rents out the field for them to graze, but he’s gone off on holiday. He rang to ask if we could keep an eye on them. There’s a dry shed they can use at night. But they’ve been sheltering in there during the day as well since the snow is so heavy this year.’
‘Ah.’
We crunch along in companionable silence, making our way towards a slate-roofed stone shed in the distance.
‘So Mum mentioned that you were a foster kid?’ Sarah says.
I nod.
‘It’s an option we considered. But then Hazel suggested we use a sperm donor, and Mirabelle got pregnant with the girls. Now I’m thinking we should’ve looked into it more.’
‘Fostering isn’t for everyone,’ I say. ‘Sometimes people think they’re being saintly by taking on a child that isn’t theirs. But they never stop to think the child could be better off not being with them.’
‘Are your foster family real stinkers?’ she says bluntly.
OK, she’s not skirting around anything. I’m a bit taken aback. How do I answer that?
‘They’re not the most convivial of people,’ I reply carefully. ‘And my sister, Violet, their real daughter, tends to make everything about her. I think she would’ve been better off as an only child.’
A memory surfaces of 8-year-old Violet snatching a second-hand Barbie doll that had been given to me at the children’s home, whirling it over her head by the hair and throwing it out the window onto the road. Definitely not convivial.
‘We’ll be your sisters,’ says Mirabelle, linking her arm in mine.
