Seated between Toby and Rosemary, Gemma watched her son’s manners anxiously, hoping he wouldn’t stuff his mouth too full of scone, and worse, talk through it. Kit sat on the other side of the table, between Lally and his grandfather, while Sam had wedged himself into the small space at the end.
Kit was answering his grandfather’s questions about school politely—if, as Gemma now suspected, less than truthfully—but she noticed he still hadn’t made direct eye contact with Lally.
She shifted her attention back to Rosemary, who was saying,
“. . . we’d planned to go to midnight mass after dinner at Juliet’s, if that’s all right with you, Gemma. It’s a bit of a tradition in our family.”
“I know,” said Gemma. “Duncan told me. We meant to go last Christmas, but things . . . intervened.” It had been work, of course, that had interrupted their Christmas Eve, and matters had gone steadily downhill from there.
A shadow crossed Rosemary’s face. “Gemma, dear, I’ve never had a chance to tell you in person—”
“I know. It’s all right.” Gemma made the response that had gradually become easier, and that realization gave her an unexpected sense of loss. Her grief had given her something to hold on to, an almost tangible connection with the child she had lost, but now even that was slipping away from her.
Casting about for a change of subject, she asked, “Do you always have your Christmas Eve dinner at Juliet’s?” Her own family usually went to her sister’s, although Gemma considered an evening with Cyn’s overexcited, sugar-fueled children more an ordeal than a celebration.
“Yes, she’s insisted, ever since the children were small.” Rosemary gave a worried glance at the large clock over the Rayburn. “I can’t think why she would have stayed so late at the building site on her own, and today of all days. And what could she possibly have foun—” She stopped, her eyes straying to the children, then said instead, “Do you think they’ll be long?”
Gemma hesitated over the truth. If Juliet had in fact found a body, missing Christmas Eve dinner might be the least of her worries. “I really can’t say. Is there anything we could do to help, in the meantime?”
“No. It’s just ham and salads, and those Juliet will have made ahead. Nor would Caspar thank me for messing about in his kitchen uninvited,” she added with a grimace. “Although he’s happy enough s
to help himself to my punch—” This time it was her granddaughter’s quick glance that silenced her. “Let’s give it a bit,” she amended.
“Surely we’ll hear from them soon.”
The younger boys having divided the last scone between them, Sam stacked his plate and cup and pushed away from the table.
“Nana, may we be excused? Can I show Toby and Kit the ponies?”
“You won’t be able to see a thing,” answered Rosemary, but Sam had his argument ready. “We’ll take torches, and Jack will find the ponies. May we, please?”
Toby was already bouncing in his seat with excitement, and Kit looked interested. “Mummy, you’ll come, too, won’t you?” asked Toby, pulling at Gemma’s hand.
“Yes, if Grandma Rosemary says its all right,” she answered, and found she had used Toby’s form of address for Kincaid’s mother quite naturally.
After another quick look at the clock, Rosemary gave in gracefully. “All right, then. But bundle up, and be sure to put the other dogs on leads. You don’t want them taking off across country in a strange place.”
“I should stay and help you,” protested Gemma, but Rosemary shook her head.
“Go with the children. This washing up won’t take but a minute, and Hugh will help with the table. Won’t you, dear?” She raised an eyebrow at her husband, and the gesture reminded Gemma of Duncan.
“Now you see how I suffer for my sins,” Hugh said with a grin, beginning to clear the table. Trying to imagine her dad doing the same, Gemma shook her head. In her family, even though her mother worked like a demon in the bakery all day, her father expected to be waited on at tea.
When Gemma and the boys had put on their coats and collected the dogs, she saw that Lally, who had slipped away up the stairs, had returned dressed for the outdoors as we
The old scullery off the kitchen was now used as a boot room, and Hugh suggested they trade their shoes for pairs of the spare wellies that stood lined up on a low shelf. Gemma, having struggled with boots that were a bit too small, was last out. She found that Lally had hung back, waiting for her, while the boys ran ahead. Jack dashed around them in circles, barking excitedly.
“Oh.” Gemma drew a breath of delight as she looked about her.
“How lovely.” The snow must have been falling heavily since they’d arrived, and now muffled the countryside in a thick blanket of white.
“Did you know that it’s only officially a white Christmas if a snowflake falls on the roof of the BBC in London on Christmas Day?” asked Lally as they started after the boys, the snow squeak-ing as it compressed under their boots.
“That’s hardly fair, is it?” Gemma thought of the occasional London snow, quickly marred by graffiti and turned to brown slush.
This was different, a clean white silence stretching as far as she could see, and she was suddenly glad she had come.
The dog stopped barking, and in unspoken accord, she and Lally halted so that not even the rhythmic squeak of their boots disturbed the peace. They stood together, their shoulders touching, and let the still- falling snowflakes settle on their faces and hair.
Then, faint and far away, Gemma heard the wail of a siren, and her heart sank.
He discovered the joy of possession when he was six. It had been the first day of term after the Christmas holiday, the class fractious with memories of their temporary freedom, confi ned in-doors by the miserable weather, a cold, gunmetal sleet that crept inside coats and boots. Sodden jackets and mittens had steamed on the room’s radiators, filling the air with a fetid, woolly odor that seemed to permeate his sinuses and skin. Odd how smell provided such direct and concrete link to memory; the least scent of s
damp wool brought back that day instantaneously, and with the recollection came emotion, tantalizingly intense.
Their teacher— stupid cow— had encouraged them to show off their favorite Christmas gift. He’d had the latest toy, but so did most of the others, so no one was suitably impressed. But a toady child called Colin
Squires— fat, with oversize spectacles— had
opened a leather pouch filled with agate and cat’s-eye marbles.
Both boys and girls leaned closer, reaching to touch the swirling colors of the agates and the strange, three-dimensional eyes. Colin, perspiring with pleasure, hadn’t been able to resist clicking the marbles enticingly inside his pocket long after show-and-tell was over, and at break he had demonstrated marbles games to a group of admirers.
He, however, had stood back at the edge of the circle, watching with feigned disinterest. Even then, he’d understood the necessity of planning.
Three days later, when Colin’s fleeting charm had waned and the other children had gone back to their usual games, he brushed up against Colin on the playground and came away with the bag of marbles transferred to his own pocket.
He kept his acquisition to himself, gloating over the marbles only in the privacy of his room, where he could fondle them without fear of interruption.
He knew, of course, that he had done something taboo, and that secrecy was the safest policy. What he didn’t realize until he was a few years older was that he hadn’t felt, even then, the prescribed emotion, what other people called “guilt.” Not a smidgen.