would go and find some cereal or bread to eat and then play in the cold living room until she came downstairs, but this morning was different. This morning was Christmas Day.
In my eagerness to get downstairs, I fell from my bed onto the brightly colored mat that covered the floorboards, scuffing my elbow and hurting my head, but I didn’t care. I scrambled down the steep narrow stairs and burst through the living-room door. The Christmas tree was still there in all its gaudy finery, the presents bought by Mrs. Brown lying beneath it. With a flicker of disappointment, I saw that Santa hadn’t eaten the mince pie I’d left him, nor had his reindeer even nibbled on the carrot, so I ate the pie myself and wondered why he had forgotten to call at my house.
My present was wrapped in bright shiny red paper covered in tiny Christmas trees. It looked so good that I hardly dared to tear the paper. I unwrapped it carefully, wanting the anticipation to last as long as possible.
“Love from Mom,” said the label. When I saw what was inside the parcel, I began tearing at the rest of the paper with eager hands. Jodhpurs! She had bought me jodhpurs to wear when I rode Chocolate.
Dragging them on, I stumbled up the stairs and burst into my mom’s bedroom, eager to share my excitement. I froze in the doorway, though, when I remembered that my dad was home.
He was sitting on the side of the bed in his boxer shorts, his long dark curly hair all tousled and his eyes bleary with sleep, or the lack of it. His swarthy skin seemed even darker with the stubble of a beard. I hopped uncomfortably from foot to foot for a moment, then he held out his hand and I saw the twinkle in his bright blue eyes.
“Happy Christmas, princess,” he said.
My mom was lying very still with her back to me, a long shape beneath the blue-and-white bedspread. When I tried to go and look at her, my dad laughed and grabbed my arm.
“Now, what is this you’re wearing?” he asked, peering at my new blue jodhpurs.
I squirmed with delight, twirling to show them off with such pride that I thought I might explode.
“Your precious Mrs. Brown, I suppose,” he remarked.
I stopped and stared at him. “My mom got them for me,” I told him.
He laughed. “Your mom couldn’t even go and buy a loaf of bread.”
“Mrs. Brown says she just needs to rest.”
I felt troubled by the expression on his handsome face. The dad I remembered was my hero; he made me laugh and bought me presents. When he was there, murmured an inner voice, and a distant memory of him shouting at my mom leaped, unwanted, into my mind.
“Well, we won’t need to bother the wonderful Browns again, will we?” he said. “Now that your dad is home.”
All those weeks I had longed for him to return. All those times I had blamed my poor mom for chasing him away. And now he was here and he wasn’t what I remembered. The world closed in around me and I saw Homewood Farm slipping away.
“Will you come for Christmas lunch with us?” I asked in a wobbly voice, guessing at his answer. He grinned again and held out his arms.
“I think we’ll all just stay here,” he announced. “I’m sure your mom will be able to find something nice for us to eat.”
“My mom’s not very well,” I told him. He turned to eye the motionless form beneath the bedspread.
“Oh, I think she’ll pull herself together now that I’m here.”
For the first time in my life I withdrew from my father’s embrace and walked slowly back down the stairs thinking of the big warm living room at Homewood Farm and the huge turkey I had seen Mrs. Brown preparing the other day. But it would be all right when she found out, I decided. Mr. Brown would be sure to come and get us. Except, I didn’t have any presents for Mr. and Mrs. Brown. I raced into the living room to retrieve the shiny red paper with the Christmas trees from where it lay crumpled in the hearth…but what to give them?
My eyes flicked desperately around the room, before finally alighting on the bowl of fruit. With great deliberation I chose the brightest orange and the most perfect apple to wrap up in the Christmas-tree paper and place beneath the tree. For Daniel I would draw a picture of Chocolate. With a new flood of happiness, I went off to get my pencils.
The knock on the door sounded at a quarter to one. I knew that was the time because I had asked my dad on a dozen occasions when half past twelve was—aware that when we didn’t turn up at Homewood, someone would look for us. The someone was Daniel. When I opened the door, he grinned and stepped straight inside.
“My mom says you’re late,” he told me in a breathless voice. “We’ve got presents for you and I got a bike from Santa. Come see. It’s just outside.”
I followed him out into the crisp air, feeling glad about the presents I had so carefully wrapped that morning and recalling the picture of Chocolate with pride.
“Isn’t it ace?” he cried.
I nodded, gazing appreciatively at the shiny red bicycle.
“So are you ready?” he asked eagerly.
I stared at the ground.
“Tell your mother that Mick McTavish says thank you very much for looking after his family and finding them somewhere to live, but we won’t be needing your help anymore now that he is home.”
My dad was standing behind us in the open doorway, his arms folded across his chest and a satisfied smile on his face. When Daniel gaped at him, he laughed.
“Don’t worry, lad. I’m not going to bite you,” he said. “Now, run off home and deliver my message.”
Daniel gazed at me and I could see my own disappointment mirrored in his deep brown eyes.
“But what about the presents?” he whispered for my ears only.
“Can’t I just go for a little while,” I begged my dad. His face clamped up.
“Not today, Lucy,” he told me.
I wanted to scream at him, but all I did was watch the big fat tears dripping onto my shoes as Daniel rode off down the lane, back toward Homewood Farm and presents and Christmas lunch.
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