‘I’m not drinking from that.’ Frida shudders. ‘Hygiene?—’
‘Maybe don’t give any to the kid.’ Harry chuckles. ‘But yeah, we’re used to walking in snow. You have torches, right?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Shelley asserts. So Harry gives them directions and later, when the fire has died down to its glowing embers, the entire Shore Cottage contingency tramps along the snowy lane with Stan trotting at their side. Soon they find the track that leads to Harry’s farm. They are all beckoned in, and Pearl’s heart seems to swell at the warmth of the welcome here. There is chatter and music and drinks appear miraculously in their hands. A fire is glowing in the hearth and tinsel has been tacked along the wooden ceiling beams. A real Christmas tree is an explosion of gaudy colour and there are people here – actualpeople, Pearl reflects with a smile as she catches Frida’s surprised expression. But soon, as more drinks are drunk and the music is cranked up, everyone – even Frida – seems to relax. Mince pies are abundant and Theo is handed a bowl of foil-wrapped chocolate coins.
Although they have no idea where these places might be, they meet Isla from the post office, Kevin from the bakery and Pam – Harry’s wife – who runs a cheese shop. ‘A cheese shop!’ Frida exclaims. ‘Where mightthatbe?’ There’s the local taxi driver (it seems there’s just the one) and a small, elf-like man who runs a campsite and says they’re welcome to stay any time: ‘No charge for friends of Michael’s.’ There’s Jimmy from the next farm, and his long-haired twin boys, gangly and liberally tattooed and not what Pearl would have imagined as farmer’s sons.
Then Roger suggests that Theo – who so far has been remarkably pleasant – is looking terribly tired. And as the Sampsons are leaving, Shelley and Pearl and Lena decide to head home too (Shelley realises she has actually referred to Shore Cottage as ‘home’). And so, together with Niall and Stan, they all thank Harry and Pam, who insist that they take two frozen chickens plus some kind of peculiar ginger wine and a tub of Celebrations, which they insisted was ‘going spare’. ‘Handy for Pearl,’ Lena whispers, grinning, ‘if the bathrooms are all occupied?’
‘Chicken?’ Frida mutters as they make their way along the snow-covered lane. ‘Not turkey?’
Pearl chuckles, surprised at how happy she is that Niall is walking with her while the others march a little way ahead, laden with Harry and Pam’s gifts. ‘I actually prefer chicken,’ he admits with a smile.
‘Me too!’
They fall silent, a little fuzzy from whisky as their boots crunch into the snow. The moon hangs low over the faint black outline of the mountains. ‘I think Christmas is going to be perfect,’ Pearl announces suddenly, turning to look at Niall. At some point – she’s not quite sure when – she must have slipped her arm in his, just to steady herself in the snow.
‘I think it will be too,’ Niall says. And then they stop suddenly. His arms are round her now and they hug, and then kiss. It’s the briefest brush of the lips, as tender as a snowflake. Pearl’s heart seems to soar like a shooting star, and as he takes her arm again, and they trudge slowly back to Shore Cottage, everything feels just right.
35
‘Oh, Dad, that doesn’t feel right at all.’ Tommy has taken Daisy out for their customary Christmas Eve movie night at the cinema close to her home. Now, at 9.45p.m., they are walking together back to her mother’s place.
‘It’ll be fine, darling,’ he assures her.
She looks at him as they pass a cocktail bar with achingly beautiful choral music drifting out. It’s more Bach’s ‘Christmas Oratorio’than Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’around here. ‘Grandma and Grandpa and you, all together in Lena’s flat?’ Daisy reiterates, as if still trying to make sense of it. ‘Without Lena?’
‘Well, yes,’ Tommy says lightly. ‘It can’t be helped. She’s totally snowed in up there.’
‘But… won’t it be weird?’
‘I don’t see why. It’s a perfectly nice place, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t mean that,’ she says quickly. ‘Of course it is. It’s lovely.’ Daisy seems to be mulling something over as they pass a bookshop, its window filled with twinkling silver lights. ‘I just think they’ll find it really odd, that’s all.’
‘They probably will,’ he agrees. ‘But you know, darling, we’ll just have to make the best of it.’
‘Hmm, yeah. I guess so.’ He senses her quizzical look. ‘So, are you all ready?’
‘Yep, the big shop arrived this morning and the turkey came from a little butcher in Hackney. And believe it or not, I’ve made a Christmas pudding?—’
‘Wow, Dad!’ she exclaims. ‘That’s impressive…’
‘It’s not rocket science.’ He grins. ‘But I did drench it in booze to anaesthetise Grandma?—’
‘Youarebad.’ She laughs. ‘But seriously, it’s a shame you’re going to be doing the whole thing yourself.’
‘Well, you know I love cooking,’ he says, and it’s true. He always has, especially after a full day at the office. He doesn’t mind working in recruitment, and he supposes he’s pretty good at it as he’s organised and affable. But he also enjoys the rhythm of an ordinary domestic life. Ordinary in that it’s how most people live, when they don’t have cleaners and nannies and gardeners and a sprawling home with a library and a snooker room, as is the case at High Elms.
Tommy had never wanted to be like his dad. He certainly hadn’t wanted to follow his lead when it came to fathering: hiding away in a study, or shielded by theTelegraphwhen forced to occupy a family space. When he and Catherine were together they had shared the workload equally. There was no question of Tommy shirking any of his parental obligations.
He glances at Daisy in profile. Her shiny blonde hair is secured in a tidy ponytail, and her neat little nose and curve of her chin are so similar to her mother’s, it could be the young Catherine’s face. Daisy even dresses like her mum, favouring classic cashmere in shades like Elephant’s Breath (Tommy grew familiar with the Farrow and Ball paint chart during his marriage). He treasures their time together and, as theyapproach the little late-night cafe that’s a favourite of Daisy’s, he has a sudden urge to prolong the evening a little.
Over these past few years, Tommy has grown used to the fact that Daisy always spends Christmas Day with her mum. It’s the way they want it, and Catherine, it has to be said, is Queen of Christmas with all her family amassed. But this year, with Lena being stuck in Scotland, he feels differently. He’d love to be with Daisy tomorrow, and the thought of being separated from her triggers something of an ache in his gut.
Tommy stops as they reach the cafe. ‘Will Mum mind if we stop off for a hot chocolate?’
Daisy beams at him. ‘Of course she won’t!’ So they step into the cosy warmth of the cafe with its berry red interior and mistletoe decorations on the tables. As Daisy chatters away about the art prize she won at school, Tommy tells himself that he’s lucky to have this as their annual ritual: he and his beloved daughter together on Christmas Eve. But still, Tommy can’t help thinking that tomorrow she won’t be with him. She’ll be at home, where there’ll bethreeChristmas trees: the vast ten-footer in the living room, a second one in the hallway and a mini one in the sleek kitchen.
