He gave the slightest of nods, trying to hide his happiness at her response. Christmas with his dad and family was different: she saw them a lot in town or when she was bobbing into the farm shop to pick up a bit for her baking or the hotel. She’d met his dad several times and even if things didn’t work out between them, she’d still be part of the community. Meeting his mum was different. She wasn’t in Severton much so introducing Sorrell to her told his family that he was serious about her. “Happy to,” he said, giving her a quick kiss.
Familiar laughter poked him out of his cosiness with Sorrell and he couldn’t bring himself to suppress a groan.
“You are now looking at the holder of three world records!” Jake said, throwing his arms over their shoulders. “And you weren’t there to see it. How very rude!”
Sorrell laughed, turning to him. “You had enough of a fan club. How sick are you feeling?”
“I predict those donuts will re-see the world at around three kilometres,” he said. “And I honestly don’t want to see another again.”
“So if someone breaks your record you won’t be trying to take it back?” she said, egging him on.
Zack rolled his eyes, knowing full well that Jake wouldn’t resist the bone she was throwing.
“I have nothing left to prove,” he said. “My mastery is unquestionable.”
“Mastery at eating donuts?” Rayah said, looking as if she had a bit more colour in her than before. “That’s about the limit of your mastery, Jake Maynard. My money’s on Alex to win this.” She gestured to the start of the race.
“You’ve bet against your own brother?” Jake said. “That’s treason.”
Rayah smiled sweetly.
“Alex is the bookie’s favourite.” Jonny hovered behind, child-free for a change. “Although the bald-headed guy from Underwood Runners is running him close.”
Someone started yelling through a loud speaker, clearly calling for all runners to head to the start, although it wasn’t clear what they were saying at all.
“Have a good run,” Rayah said. “We’ll be here at the end with mulled wine.”
“Take it you’re feeling better?” Zack heard Sorrell asked Rayah. He wondered what else they’d talk about, but pushed that thought out of his mind as they approached the start line. Five kilometres wasn’t Alex’s best distance. He fully intended to give his younger brother a kicking.
The idea behind the mud race, so Sorrell assumed, was a fun way of getting rid of your Christmas hangover and raising money through the entrance fee for this year’s charity. The weather had prevented the mud from the title actually being a feature, but she had seen a lot of fun. There were three people who were attempting a four-legged race it seemed, a couple running it backwards, several Santa Clauses participating and a couple of men dressed as fairies. There was also the baby Jesus, a man in his thirties wearing just an adult sized nappy but she was trying not to look at him or think about how cold he was.
What didn’t seem to be fun were the Maynard men. Jake had puked his guts up as predicted on the second lap of the field, bringing a whole new phrase of ‘don’t eat yellow and raspberry snow’. Scott was purposely running just behind Keren, which led Rayah to predict he was going to overtake her at the end and piss her off. Alex and Zack were currently hammering it out for second place as the bloke from Underwood had stolen away with the lead.
“Welcome to the madness that is the Maynards,” Rayah said.
It was later on that evening when the madness of the race and the snowball war had settled down, and they’d eaten pizza at Scott’s bar to avoid having leftovers from the day before when Sorrell felt the need to take five minutes away from the intensity of the interactions.
She liked all the Maynards and Keren and Jonny, and the other members of Severton Search and Rescue who had joined them over the course of the day. But she was from a quieter family, and Christmases tended to be more of a reserved affair. Not that she would swap today for anything; the Maynards were easy to be with, their friends, too.
It felt as if it had dropped a couple more degrees outside. The night sky was tinged with grey clouds that promised more snow, snow that was already starting to fall. Sorrell hadn’t given an excuse, just slipped away after she’d been to the bathroom, the pull of the fresh, icy air tempting her outside.
She crossed the square, seeing the woman she knew to be Lena’s aunt, wanting to ask after Lena, who had gone to her aunt’s for Christmas dinner.
“Happy Christmas,” she said. “How’s Lena? I hope she’d taken it easy—she works so hard.”
The woman smiled; she seemed nice enough. “Being useful as always although I haven’t seen her since this morning. She went to visit her parents.”
Sorrell nodded, trying to hide her surprise. “I thought she was avoiding someone from the church they’re involved in?”
The aunt gave a brief nod. “She is, but he won’t bother her while she’s at her parents. I don’t think he’s much to do with the organisation. He just had a bit of a bee in his bonnet about her leaving and was a bit intense about her going back. I’ll tell her you asked after her.”
“Thank you. Have a good evening.”
“You too.”
Sorrell headed further into the square, hearing the sound of the ever present Severton choir. The area was almost deserted, most people in their houses or the pubs, getting warm after the mammoth snowball war that had been won by the women, who were far better strategists than the men. Or the men had been happier to be taken prisoner.
One voice began to sing after a slight lull, a simple but strong voice, almost childlike. Sorrell noticed the singer was perhaps sixteen, a slight girl with geeky glasses and thick bangs. She sang the first verse of Good King Wenceslas completely on her own, a fitting song as Boxing Day was the feast of Saint Stephen, traditionally the day when the servants from the manor houses and rich homes would be given the day off to see their families after working Christmas. And the day the alms boxes in the churches would be opened and distributed to the poor.
