‘I would never have thought on that day that we’d be traipsing around stately homes together all these years later. And you weren’t useless, just young. I imagine if it were to happen now you’d elbow me out of the way and try and get the wheel-nuts off with your teeth!’
‘Probably.’ I grin and he looks back at me and my tummy flips a bit.
‘They’re here, they’re here. I saw it, there’s a whole horse, awholehorse, and he’s so big. Quick, quick, come on, before they go.’ Marsha rounds the corner and pelts at us full speed, the words falling from her mouth neatly changing the conversation, and Rory and I start walking again. I hadn’t even clocked that she had disappeared around the corner. How could I? I let her wander around a vast public space with millions of bushes. Millions of bushes that could easily have had murderers sitting inside them, sharpening their knives and practising their scariest looks.
Okay, so she was unlikely to have been kidnapped and killed in the three minutes I’ve taken my eyes from her, but still it’s a reminder not to be remiss about my duties, which are making today super Christmassy for my goddaughter andnotindulging in unattainable romantic imaginings about this man beside me. Bad, Belle, bad.
Rory.
‘You’re right, this horse is huge,’ I say to Marsha as we round the corner and she stands there looking up at it in awe, its head topped by a weird feathery thing.
‘Isn’t he handsome, Rory?’ Marsha answers me, her words breathless and slow as if she’s been placed in front of some kind of magical castle. Which I suppose she has. For the horse is standing in the driveway of Tyntesfield House. A large Christmas tree stands out in front of the house and the pillars of the doorway are wrapped in garlands, interspersed with red roses, in keeping with the red ribbons we had seen bedecking the large shrubs as we drove into the estate. It is pretty Christmassy and, as Belle had promised, pretty Victorian. Tinsel and piped Christmas muzak nowhere to be seen or, thankfully, heard.
‘Are you here for the pony ride?’ a young woman dressed in Victorian attire, complete with top hat and scarlet tie, asks.
‘Yes, we are,’ Marsha says quietly, clearly still awed by it all.
‘Okay, well then, if you and your family would like to hop up here…’ The woman waves us up into the carriage at the back. She isn’t addressing either me or Belle individually, but the three of us as a family unit. Belle’s cheeks flame and she starts to stammer. I hold out my hand to Marsha to help her up the step and to give Belle a moment or two to stop feeling so embarrassed and then realise that I am just as stung by the words as she is. Not embarrassed – Marsha and Belle would be perfect family – but saddened a little.
As I grew up, I hadn’t ever considered not being a father, my determination shaped by my own father’s absence and the solidity of Dave to make sure that when I had children, I committed, I was there. For ever. That had been unswerving. And then Jessica. Jessica and I had planned a family; we were going to have three children and they would have golden hair like their mother and laugh and play in the garden of a house we would buy on the outskirts of… Well, that was a dream that never came to fruition. And after Jessica one of the things I have had to make my peace with is the fact that having a family may not be for me after all. If I can feel that much pain, that much hurt after losing Jessica, then how much worse would it be if it had been the woman who had also given me children, if it had been my child… No. That level of loss does not bear thinking about. It is a very good reason for embracing a solitary life.
I need to distract myself. Belle is her normal colour again and as the carriage fills up she pulls Marsha onto her lap. The two of us are now pushed up close together, our thighs touching, our bodies almost overlapping as we squish together.
‘Are you excited?’ she whispers.
‘I am a bit.’
‘So am I,’ Marsha responds, and I realise the question had been for her. ‘Do you think they’ll go really fast? I want them to go really fast.’
‘I think they’ll go at a speed that keeps us all safe but is still quite exciting,’ Belle answers. Both Marsha and I look at her, our eyebrows raised. That is not the answer I expect from Belle.
‘That doesn’t sound fast,’ Marsha says.
‘It’s as fast as Santa goes,’ Belle says, nodding firmly, ‘and if it’s good enough for Santa, then it’s good enough for us.’
‘That’s true,’ I say, wanting to back her up. ‘Santa is very fast but very safe, wooahh.’ We tip forward as the horses start to move off. Marsha wibble-wobbles and then rights herself, satisfaction all across her face.
‘Yeehah!’
The ride only lasts five minutes, but Marsha is entranced as we trot through the snow, nodding her head to the clip-clop of the horses’ feet on the tarmac.
‘That was so fun, so fun,’ she says after climbing down from the carriage, stroking the horses’ flanks for what seems like an excessively long time as Belle stands staring at her with a crazy amount of love in her eyes and I find myself staring at Belle.
‘We could go in the house, see what they have to do that’s Christmassy. Get in and warm up for a while, what do you think?’
‘Yes.’ Marsha’s answer is quick, to the point. Belle looks at me.
‘Rory?’
‘Yeah, I’m keen.’
‘Keen?’
‘Well, you know, happy to come along,’ I say. It’s true.
Dave has taken the day off and is taking Mum away for the night as a special treat, although she kept trying to cancel, claiming it was selfish to go away when I was in the UK. The only way I could get her to go was to admit that I was spending the day with a friend. The word ‘female’ had magical properties. The grin that spread across her face threatened to overwhelm me as she raced up the stairs to pack her bag, shouting over her shoulder that they would be away all weekend and if I wanted them to stay away longer then I just had to text.
I pointed out that I had my own flat in Bath but Mum was adamant that I might want to bring ‘your new friend’ back here, to see where I grew up, and did she have time to whisk around with the Pledge first? Dave doubling over laughing as she bleached the loo again – just in case – did not help. Neither did me repeatedly (at least five times, maybe more) shouting the wordplatonicup the stairs.
