stood for a moment gulping in air before shrugging her weekend bag onto her back and picking up the shopping bags full of presents. The bags were heavy and her back was aching before she had got more than halfway down the lane but she welcomed the discomfort. It was her penance.
The cottage stood alone at the end of the lane, a low-roofed half-timber, half-redbrick house surrounded by a wild-looking garden and fruit trees. Her father grew most of his own vegetables and herbs and kept noisy chickens in the back, although he was too soft-hearted to do more than collect their eggs.
The house was lit up against the grey of a late December afternoon, smoke wafting from the chimney a welcome harbinger. All she wanted to do was curl up in front of the fire and mourn but instead Flora pinned a determined smile onto her face and pushed open the heavy oak front door.
Game face on. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she called as the door swung open.
‘Flora!’ ‘Aunty Flora!’ ‘Darling.’ She was almost instantly enveloped in hugs and kisses, her coat removed, bags taken from her aching arms, drawn into the sitting room, a mince pie put into one hand, a cup of tea into the other as the chatter continued.
‘How was Austria? Did you see snow?’
‘Your scarf looked lovely in that picture. Congratulations, darling.’
‘We need to talk strategy.’ Minerva, of course. ‘Boxing Day you are mine. No running off.’
‘Nice journey back, darling?’
And the inevitable: ‘Where’s Alex?’ ‘Didn’t Alex travel with you?’ ‘Did you leave Alex in Austria?’
If she had come back to a quiet house. If it had just been Flora and her dad, she sitting at the wide kitchen counter while he bustled and tasted and stirred. Then she might have cracked. But the tree was in the corner of the room, decorated to within an inch of its life and blazing with light, her nieces were already at fever-pitch point and for once nobody was asking when she was going to get a real job/move out of that poky room/get a boyfriend/grow up.
So she smiled and agreed that yes, the scarf looked lovely; yes, Minerva could have all the time she needed; yes, there was plenty of snow and guess what, she’d even been on a horse-drawn sleigh. And no, Alex wasn’t with her, he had been delayed but he should be with them tomorrow.
And if she crossed her fingers at that last statement it wasn’t because she was lying. It was because she was hoping. Because now she was here she couldn’t imagine Christmas without him. She couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t have him in it.
And even though she wished that he loved her the way that she loved him. And even though she would have given everything for his proposal to have come from his heart and not his head, she still wished he were here. Even if it was as friends. Because friends was still something special. Something to cherish.
She needed to tell him. Before he sealed himself away. Before he talked himself into utter isolation.
‘I’m just going to take my bags upstairs. No, it’s okay, thanks, Greg,’ she assured her brother-in-law. ‘I can manage. Besides...’ she looked mock sternly at her giggling nieces ‘... I don’t want any peeping.’ She kissed her still-chattering mother on the cheek and went back into the hallway to retrieve her bags and hoist them up the wide carpeted staircase that led to the first floor and then up the winding, painted wooden stairs to the attic. There were just two bedrooms up here, sharing a small shower room. To the left was Flora’s room, to the right a small box room they had converted into a room for Alex.
His bedroom door was ajar and Flora couldn’t help peeking in as she turned. The bed had been made up with fresh linen and towels were piled onto the wicker chair in the corner. An old trunk lay at the foot of the bed—his old school trunk—a blanket laid across the top. A small bookshelf held some books but otherwise it was bare. Spartan. He had never allowed himself to be too at home here. Or anywhere. No wonder he was such an expert packer.
Flora’s room was a stark contrast. It was more than twice the size of his with a wide dormer window as well as a skylight. Old toys, books and ornaments were still displayed on the shelves and on the white, scalloped dressing table and chest of drawers she had thought so sophisticated when she was twelve. Old posters of ponies and boy bands were stuck to her walls and a clutter of old scarves, old make-up and magazines gave the room a lived-in air.
She dropped her bags thankfully in a corner of the room and pulled her phone out of her pocket. The message light flashed and Flora’s heart lurched with hope as she eagerly scanned it, but, although she had received at least a million emails urging her to buy her last-minute Christmas gifts Right Now, been promised the best rate to pay off her Christmas debts by several credit-card companies and a very good deal on sexual enhancement products, there was nothing at all from Alex.
Swallowing back her disappointment, she stared thoughtfully at her screen. Call or text? Texting would be easier, give her a chance to phrase her words carefully. But maybe this shouldn’t be careful. It had to be from the heart. She pressed his number before she could talk herself out of it and listened to the dial tone, her heart hammering.
She was so keyed up it didn’t register at first that the voice at the other end wasn’t Alex but his voicemail message. ‘Darn it,’ she muttered while his slightly constrained voice informed her that he wasn’t available right now but would get back to her as soon as he could.
‘Alex,’ she said quickly as soon as it beeped. ‘It’s me. Come home. Please? It’s not the same without you. We all miss you. We’ll be okay, I promise. Just come home. Come home for Christmas.’
She clicked the hang-up icon and let the phone drop onto her bed. She had done all she could. It was up to him now.
HOW HE REMEMBERED the address, Alex had no idea. He must have written it on enough letters that somehow he had retained the information, lying dormant until his need unlocked it once again. It took less than an hour of research to ascertain that his grandmother was still alive and living in the same house. But as he drove along the leafy, prosperous-looking road it was all completely unfamiliar and doubts began to creep in.
What if he had got the name and address wrong?
Or worse, what if he had got them right and she didn’t want to see him?
He pulled up outside a well-maintained-looking white house and killed the engine. What was he doing? It was Christmas Eve and he was about to drop in, unannounced, on a long-lost relative who probably didn’t want to see him. He must be crazy. Alex gripped the steering wheel and swore softly. But then he remembered Flora’s face as she walked away from him at the airport. Disappointed, defeated. If there was any way he could put things right, he would.
And this might help.
The house looked shut up. Every curtain was drawn and there was no sign of light or life anywhere. The driveway was so thickly gravelled that he couldn’t step quietly no matter how lightly he trod, and the crunch from each step echoed loudly, disturbing the eerie twilight silence. Any minute he expected a neighbour to accost him but there was no movement anywhere. It was like being in an alternative universe where he was the last soul standing.
The door was a substantial wooden oval with an imposing brass door knocker. It was cold and heavy as he lifted it, making
