sent her a sharp, searching look. ‘So you think I’ve done the wrong thing?’
Jo gulped. This gorgeous, confident man was acting as if he really needed her advice. She sent him an encouraging grin. ‘No, I’m sure you’ve made the right decision. I always believe it’s best to follow your instincts.’
‘So will you come with me when I collect Ivy?’
Her instincts screamed yes and Jo didn’t hesitate to take her own advice.
‘Of course I will. I’ve got a real soft spot for Ivy and, as you said, with six younger brothers and sisters I’ve got to be something of an expert with kids.’
‘Absolutely.’ Hugh glanced at the clock on the wall near the stove and jumped to his feet. ‘It’s getting late and I’ve taken up far too much of your time.’
Jo wondered if she should warn him about Ivy’s scars, but perhaps that would only make him more anxious about meeting her. Or maybe he already knew. It might be best not to make a big deal about them.
Standing, she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shrugged in an effort to look unconcerned. ‘So we have a date for Boxing Day?’
He nodded stiffly. ‘Thanks. I’d really appreciate your help.’
Then he turned and walked to the kitchen door. Jo followed.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable at the pub,’ she said as they stepped into the hallway. ‘It’s not very flash.’
‘It looks perfectly adequate.’
‘A bit lonely for Christmas.’
‘I’ll be fine.’ Suddenly he looked very English, sort of stiff upper lipped and uncomfortable, as if he couldn’t stand sentimental females who made fusses about Christmas.
Her mother appeared in the hall. ‘Did I hear you say you’re staying at the pub, Mr Strickland?’
Jo wanted to cringe at her mother’s intrusion, but Hugh didn’t seem to mind.
‘Yes. It’s basic but quite adequate.’
‘You’re not having Christmas dinner there, are you?’
‘They’ve booked me in. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Oh, not the pub for Christmas.’ Margie sounded shocked and she thumped her hands on her hips in a gesture of indignation. ‘We can’t let you do that.’
‘I’m sure the food will be fine.’ Hugh was beginning to sound defensive now. ‘I’m told they do a fine roast turkey.’
‘But you’ll be all on your own. At Christmas.’
Jo could tell where this was heading, but it would look a bit weird if she suddenly leapt to Hugh’s rescue by insisting that he would be fine at the pub.
‘And you’re so far from home,’ her mother said. ‘No, Mr Strickland, I won’t hear of it. You must join us tomorrow. I know we’re not flash, but at least there’s a crowd of us. You won’t feel lonely here and we’re going to have plenty of food. I hate to think of anyone being alone at Christmas.’
Hugh’s expression was circumspect—a polite mask—and Jo waited for him to excuse himself with his characteristic, well-mannered graciousness.
But to her amazement, he said, ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Berry. Thank you, I’d love to come.’
Hugh arrived punctually at noon the next day, bearing two beautifully chilled bottles of champagne.
Jo’s dad, who drank beer, eyed them dubiously, but her mum was effusive.
‘Nothing like a glass of bubbles to make the day special,’ she said, beaming at him. ‘But don’t let me have any till I’ve got all the food on the table or I’ll forget to serve something. Nick,’ she called to her eldest son, ‘can you find a bucket and fill it with ice? We don’t want to let these bottles warm up and there’s not a speck of room in the fridge.’
Jo had given herself several stern lectures while getting ready that morning. She’d chosen a cool summery dress of fine white cotton edged with dainty lace, and she’d applied her make-up with excruciating care. But, in spite of her efforts to look her best, she was determined to stay calm and unaffected by Hugh’s visit.
She was so busy helping her mother to get all the food out of the kitchen and on to the table that she had to leave Hugh to the tender mercies of her father and brothers, but she heard snatches of their conversation as she went back and forth.
‘Hugh Strickland,’ said her dad. ‘Your name rings a bell. Should I have heard of you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
‘What line of work are you in?’
‘I’m in business—er—transport.’
‘In the UK?’
‘That’s right.’
Her dad mumbled knowingly. ‘I almost got a job in transport once—driving buses—but I wasn’t fit for it. My chest was crushed, you see. Mining accident. Lungs punctured, so they pensioned me off.’
Hugh made sympathetic noises.
Jo chewed her lip and wondered if she should try to butt in and change the conversation. Her dad tended to carry on a bit.
But if Hugh was bored, he showed no sign. He was fitting in like a local. Clutching his beer in its inelegant Styrofoam cooler, he relaxed in a squatter’s chair and looked surprisingly comfortable.
The family always gathered for Christmas lunch on a screened-in veranda shaded by an ancient mango tree. This was the cool side of the house, but Jo wondered if an Englishman would realise that. It was still very hot, even in the shade.
‘Now, Hugh,’ said Mum after everyone had found a place to sit and the family had been through the ritual of pulling crackers and donning unbecoming paper hats. ‘You’ll see we don’t have a hot dinner.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable.’ Hugh smiled bravely from beneath a pink and purple crêpe paper crown, which should have made him look foolish but somehow managed to look perfectly fine.
Her mum waved a full glass of champagne towards the table. ‘There’s four different kinds of salad and there’s sliced leg ham, cold roast pork and our pièce de résistance is the platter of prawns and bugs.’
‘Bugs?’ Hugh looked a tad worried.
‘Moreton Bay bugs,’ Jo hastened to explain, pointing to the platter in the table’s centre. ‘They’re a type of crayfish. If you like seafood, you’ll love these.’
Hugh did like them. Very much. In fact he loved everything on the table and ate as much seafood and salad as her brothers, which was saying something. And then he found room to sample the mince pies.
And, not surprisingly, he was an expert
