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“So we’re staying here for now. How long will we stay?” Elsie’s eyes were wide. “Does that mean we’ll be spending Christmas here with you?”

“Christmas? With me?” The idea of it made Mabel feel faint. Panic nibbled at the edges of her brain.

“It’s just that it’s still snowing very hard, and if we can’t get to my grandmother’s house, where will we be staying?”

Not here, Mabel thought. Agitated, she glanced towards the bathroom, hoping for a reprieve. How long did it take for a young child to use the toilet? It could be a lengthy affair, if she remembered correctly.

“I’m sure your father will sort something out. He seems capable.”

“He is. But he can’t control the weather,” Elsie said seriously. “I heard him tell Mummy that.”

Mabel looked at her. “You hear a lot, don’t you?”

“Yes. Mummy says it’s important to be a good listener, so whenever someone is talking I listen hard and try and catch every word.”

No wonder the child’s mother looked exhausted.

“How old are you?”

“I’m eight and one quarter,” Elsie said.

Eight. Mabel felt something flutter inside her. Eight years old.

For a moment it was difficult to breathe.

“Perhaps we should go back to the kitchen.” She headed that way, hoping Crumpet might distract the child. She didn’t want to hear any more talk of spending Christmas together. And she didn’t want to think about the fact that Elsie was eight years old.

Elsie stayed close to her. “Where’s your Christmas tree? Is it in a different room?”

Mabel was in the process of clearing mugs and almost dropped one. “I don’t have a Christmas tree.”

“Why? Don’t you like them?”

“I—yes. I like them.”

Elsie sat down on the kitchen chair and curled her legs under her. With one spring, Crumpet was back on her lap. “Did you used to have a tree?”

Mabel gripped the mugs tightly, keeping her back to the child. Why was this happening to her? What had she done to deserve it? “Yes. Many years ago, I used to have a tree.”

“Why don’t you have one anymore? Is it that you hate when the needles drop? My grandma hates the mess, so she has a fake one. Mummy hates fake trees and always has a real one. But I’m not supposed to tell my grandma that in case it makes her feel bad for only having a fake one. Mummy doesn’t want to make her sad.”

Mabel’s head was spinning. “Seems to me your mother spends a lot of time protecting people’s feelings.”

“She says it’s important to be kind.”

Mabel put the mugs into the dishwasher and pushed the door closed. “She’s right,” she said. “That is important.” And she hadn’t always done that, had she? She’d been bitter and resentful and hurt, and instead of keeping those feelings hidden she’d let them out.

Elsie was studying her. “Does it make you sad not to have a tree?”

The girl should get a job as an interrogator. Or maybe a hostage negotiator. A person would surrender in minutes just to stop the questions.

“I try not to let myself think about it.” It joined the other things she tried not to think about. She’d made a supreme effort not to think about the things she’d lost. The things she’d done wrong. The mistakes she’d made. So many mistakes.

“But if you had a tree you wouldn’t have to try and not think about it.”

Mabel blinked. Was the child really only eight? “I—suppose.” But if she had a tree then she would be forced to remember other trees and other Christmases, and she didn’t have the strength for that.

Mabel glanced desperately towards the bathroom. She was starting to understand why Brooke seemed tense.