‘We usually go there for Christmas.’ Roger pops up from scrubbing. ‘To Frida’s parents at Lake Lucerne.’
Shame you couldn’t be there now, Pearl decides.
‘Theo, go inside with the nice lady!’ Roger adds.
Niall has disappeared now, presumably to the sanctuary of his room, and for a moment it looks as if Theo will do as his father asks. But as Shelley and Lena approach, he stiffens again. ‘It’s so cold out here, Theo,’ Shelley starts. ‘Come indoors and we’ll make you a hot chocolate—’ But he scurries to his mother, his face crumpling at the terrifying sight of this bright and cheerful stranger with a blonde ponytail, and he bursts into noisy tears.
‘Theo, just go inside!’ Frida commands as Roger springs up again, brandishing a dripping towel.
‘Could I possibly bother you for some more soapy water?’ he asks.
‘Of course,’ Shelley assures him. And as the crying Theo troops in beside her, dragging his wellies across the icy ground, she wonders how this might possibly come under the banner of holding the fort.
Five hundred miles south, Shelley’s daughter Martha is rather looking forward to being in charge tonight. At seventeen, she feels like a fully-fledged adult, so it’s incredibly frustrating that she has to live by her mum and dad’s rules.
Well, her mum’s really. Her dad isn’t bothered what she does. And today he’s even more distracted than usual because he’s desperate to go out.
Martha has observed him hopping around all day, being overly jolly. He bought them a KFC for lunch and now he’s saying they can have a McDonald’s for dinner later.Veryunlike him. ‘So, you’re going to be okay tonight?’ he keeps asking. ‘Call me, won’t you, if you need me?’
Martha has no intention of calling him, but she wants to be sure of one thing. Otherwise tonight could end up in disaster. So, while her dad is having a shower – he’s been in there for ages already, singing excruciatingly – Martha steps quietly into her parents’ bedroom.
There she sees her dad’s bag sitting on the bed. That embarrassing man-bag in a dull shade of orange that he insists on wearing cross-body style every time he goes out. Why can’t he be like other dads and just stuff his belongings into his pockets? Why, at fifty-whatever-he-is, does he try to be ‘cool’?
As he wails away in the bathroom, Martha quickly opens the bag and peers inside, registering the contents. Immediately, her heart settles. What she’s seeing there isexactlywhat she’d hoped to find. Boxers, toothbrush. Those pokey tooth-sticks he uses, leaving his blood-tinged split splattered all over the wash basin. Martha already knows for sure that she willnevermarry a man.
Keen to leave the room before her dad appears in his mortifying dressing gown, she is about to close the bag when something else catches her eye. At the bottom of the bag is a tiny matt black box, with a gold gift tag attached. She lifts out the box and opens it, and her heart seems to turn over when she sees what’s inside.
The terrible singing has stopped now, which means he’ll be out of the shower and drying himself. Martha quickly reads thegift tag, her brain spinning as she tries to make sense of what she is seeing in her dad’s ridiculously loopy handwriting. Then she jams the lid on the box and stuffs it back into the bag, and hurries out of the room.
22
Everything feels better at Shore Cottage once the fire has been lit in the lounge. Soon it’s crackling and glowing, and Shelley has only had to use an entire bucket of kindling, a mountain of newspaper and three fire lighters. Those Girl Guide skills were useful after all. Meanwhile, Pearl has made pots of tea and coffee, and a mug of hot chocolate has been handed to Theo. Further pantry excavations have revealed a large tin filled with cookies, which has perked up the freshly showered and changed little boy. Neither parent seems to care as he shovels them into his mouth, as if stoking an engine.
At least he’s happy now, Shelley decides, and relief settles over her in the cosy lounge. Theo is sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, stroking Stan a little rough-handedly. Neither Frida nor Roger seems notice this either. His father is scratching his beard and poring intently over the hefty folder, filled with information about walks and places of interest, and Frida is sitting bolt upright, eyes closed. Clearly, watching Roger scrub out their car, making sure he didn’t miss a bit, has exhausted her.
Shelley senses that the Sampsons might prefer to be alone now in the lounge. However, she is reluctant to leave as Theo’s ‘stroking’ of Stan has ramped up into more of a vigorous sports massage, sparking a sudden growl.
Frida’s eyes flick open. ‘Oh, is the dog aggressive?’
‘No, not at all,’ Shelley says firmly. Then to Theo: ‘Please be gentle with him. A nice soft, gentle stroke. That’s what he likes…’ When that doesn’t work, and his parents are clearly oblivious to their kid manhandling an animal, she opts for the distraction technique she used to employ with her own children. ‘So what d’you like doing, Theo?’ she asks brightly. ‘What kind of things are you into?’
‘I like driving,’ Theo replies, and his father looks up from the folder with an indulgent smile.
‘He means he likes sitting in the driver’s seat, hooting the horn.’
Ah, how delightful, Shelley muses. Ruining the tranquillity of the Highlands for all. That’s something to look forward to tomorrow. She glances out of the window, where Pearl is pacing back and forth in the garden, wrapped up again in one of Michael’s hefty jackets and lit only by the single outside light. A phone signal can only be found outdoors, and at 4.10p.m. it’s already properly dark. An unfamiliar thick woolly hat is pulled down low on Pearl’s head, her auburn curls barely visible. But she’s wearing lipstick, Shelley notes. Her mood-boosting I-can-do-anything red. Still determined to locate a takeaway dinner option, she is calling more pubs. But Shelley has given up hope now and, after just one short afternoon with the Sampsons, she has started to form an idea.
Now Lena appears, having insisted that this time she would check on the hens. Shelley suspected she craved a little respite from the guests. ‘Would anyone like a drink?’ she asks, and Frida seems to jolt suddenly into full consciousness.
‘Oh, what do you have?’
‘There’s wine and beer,’ Lena starts. She doesn’t know if it’s against licensing rules to serve drinks outside mealtimes – but sod it. The police are hardly likely to bowl up at Shore Cottage and they’re going to have to get through this somehow.
‘I’d love a white wine,’ Frida says, ‘if it’s chilled…’ Have they remembered to chill it? Lena isn’t sure but, as if reading her mind, Shelley nods quickly.
‘Red for me please,’ Roger says, and drinks are poured, and then Niall appears, going to the window where he stands for a moment. ‘It’s snowing,’ he remarks.
‘Snow?’ Theo asks excitedly.
