Page 85 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

‘Why was she crying, sprout?’ Owen asked, cutting the boy a slice of cheese and fetching the crackers out of the cupboard.

‘Some girls were laughing at her.’

‘What girls?’

‘Dunno.’ Bobby shrugged.

Owen put the cheese and crackers on a plate and handed it to him. ‘Would you like a drink to wash that down?’

‘Yes, please. Apple juice.’

‘Well done on scoring a goal,’ Owen said.

‘Thanks.’

‘Your mum is pleased too, but she’s worried about Sara at the moment.’

‘I know.’ Bobby took a bite of his snack. ‘Are you going to be our new dad?’

Owen blinked. ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ It was far too soon to be having that kind of conversation. Romance was one thing: weddings and stepfatherhood were quite another. Harriet mightn’t want to get married again, for a start.

‘I’d like you to be my dad. My real dad doesn’t care about us,’ Bobby said over his shoulder, wandering out of the kitchen with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other, leaving Owen with a mind full of reeling thoughts and a heart full of swirling emotions.

Wondering if the little boy had said anything similar to his mum, Owen barely had a chance to compose himself before Harriet appeared. Her expression was sombre.

‘Is Sara OK?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure. She was doing her homework when I poked my head around the door and she wouldn’t speak to me. I think she had been crying, though, because her face was blotchy.’

‘Do you think she might open up if we put the decorations up? If you don’t mind me helping, that is? I can always go, if you want.’

‘Stay, please. You’ve got to help me eat the stew.’

Owen found he was spending more time at Harriet’s house lately than he was in his van, and so far this week he had eaten three out of four evening meals at hers. Harriet joked that it was payment for him walking Etta every afternoon, saving her from having to drag the children out after school when it was cold and starting to get dark, but he knew it was deeper than that. She seemed to enjoy having him there at mealtimes, and she especially enjoyed the frantic kisses they shared in the brief window between her arriving home from work and the children coming home from school, like today.

Tingling at the memory, he said, ‘I’m glad you want me to stay,’ and the look she gave him sent every one of his senses into orbit.

‘On Saturday the kids are going to my parents’ for a few hours. Dad will pick them up at eleven, so I’ll have the house to myself.’ She leant in close and whispered, ‘Can you be here at twelve?’

His heart pounding and his mouth dry, he said, ‘I most certainly can. Now, shall I fetch the Christmas decorations down and try to cheer your daughter up, before I do something I regret?’

The house looks lovely, Harriet thought, even if she did say so herself. After they’d eaten the stew, which had been delicious, she had made an occasion out of decorating the tree and putting the trimmings up. With Christmas songs playing in the background and a scented candle filling the air with the smell of cinnamon and berries, she had made mulled wine for the grown-ups, which added to the wonderfully festive aroma in the house, and the children were also given their own special drink.

‘Who wants pink fizz?’ she cried.

‘Me! Me!’ Bobby leapt up and down, waving his arm in the air. Harriet could imagine him doing the very same thing at school, and she smiled.

‘Would you like some, Sara?’ she asked.

‘Yes, please. Can I have ice in mine?’

‘Coming right up.’ Harriet winked at Owen.

‘What’s in it?’ he asked her quietly, after she had poured the children their drinks.

‘Fizzy apple juice with a shot of cranberry,’ she whispered. ‘They have it every year when we decorate the tree. They think they’re so grown-up because they’re drinking it out of a proper wine glass – Bobby especially.’ It made her heart melt to see their little faces as they sipped their drinks. ‘Right!’ She clapped her hands. ‘Where do we start?’

‘With the base of the tree, Mam,’ Sara giggled. ‘She always pretends she doesn’t know how it goes together, but she does, really.’

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