Page 96 of The Christmas Fayre on Holly Field

‘She kept saying that only poor people wore other people’s clothes, and she kept laughing and saying she didn’t want to be friends any more. I didn’t care, Miss, honest, but she told everyone else that they couldn’t be friends with me either. I hate her.’

‘So I see.’ The headteacher’s tone was dry. ‘Is that any reason to hit her, though?’

‘No…’ Sara hung her head and began to cry.

Harriet said, ‘I know children fall out all the time, one minute they are best friends and the next they’re not speaking to each other, but this is different. Sara is genuinely scared of her. I don’t think it’s acceptable to taunt people because they don’t have as much money as her family does.’

‘It’snotacceptable,’ Mrs Cooke agreed, thoughtfully. ‘How is the challenge going?’

‘Some days it’s harder than others,’ Harriet admitted. ‘Birthdays and Christmas especially.’ She told her about the Fayre on Holly Field on Sunday.

‘What a marvellous idea. Do you mind if I come along?’

‘Not at all. The more the merrier. But can we get back to the problem of my daughter being bullied?’

‘Let me look into it. I’ll have a chat with Sara’s form tutor and teachers to see if they can shed any more light on what’s going on. I’ll also have a discreet word with some of the other children. As you can appreciate, I have to be sure of my facts before I speak to Darlene. Please be assured that I will deal with her firmly if she has been bullying your daughter.’

Harriet recognised that this was the best she would get for now, and she fully appreciated that the headteacher needed to investigate first. ‘Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,’ she said politely.

‘It’s almost the end of last lesson, so would you like to take Sara home with you now? I don’t think she’s in any fit state to go back to class,’ Mrs Cooke added, kindly. ‘Good luck with the Fayre. I’m sure it will be brilliant.’

I hope so, Harriet thought, but her heart wasn’t in it any more. She couldn’t wait for it to be over so she could try to forget that Owen Loxton existed.

It’s strange being in my childhood home again, Owen thought, as he ran his hand down the banister of the old former rectory, remembering how he and his brother used to incur their mum’s wrath when they tried to slide down it. He’d been just a kid, but his dad hadn’t had any such excuse, and he used to join them in their antics, hitching his backside up onto the polished wood and laughing like a loon when he almost fell off at the bottom.

Those were the days, when playing in the large overgrown garden behind the house was the only thing that mattered. Or sometimes they would venture into the grounds of the ruined castle which sat on the outskirts of Narberth, and pretend to be knights and kings.

It had been a magical place to grow up, and it was a magical place to return to. But right now, Owen wasn’t feeling any magic at all. He alternately felt numb or in pain, and neither feeling was pleasant, although the numbness was marginally more preferable.

The pain was more acute late at night when he was lying in bed, sleepless and with memories circling around in his head like the red kites which rode the thermals in the fields beyond the garden. And in the morning, when he opened his eyes, for a blissful second he forgot his heart was in pieces, only for it all to come crashing back. The parts in between were a little better, but not much.

He couldn’t believe how much being in love hurt. It tore at him, red-clawed and insistent, and he was so miserable that he didn’t know what to do with himself. There was work enough to keep him occupied but he couldn’t face it. He had been commissioned to write a piece on wild boars in British woodland, but for once in his life he couldn’t summon up the energy to care. Plus, he also had to write a final post to wrap up the ‘Dawn’ series, but the last thing he wanted to do was to immerse himself in that world again.

Maybe he would be able to face it after Christmas.

His phone trilled with an incoming call and his heart almost leapt out of his ribcage, but when he looked at the screen and saw that it wasn’t Harriet’s number, he dropped the phone on a cushion and flopped onto the sofa.

‘Are you going to answer that?’ his mother demanded, bustling into the snug with a mug of cocoa in her hand. ‘Drink up,’ she said, shoving it at him. ‘It’ll do you good.’

He highly doubted a hot drink would make any difference, but he duly took it from her and sipped it, aware she was only trying to help.

The phone continued to ring and Owen continued to ignore it. ‘It isn’t anyone important,’ he said. He didn’t recognise the number, and if it was important, the caller could always leave a message.

His mother huffed and Owen smiled sadly. She was the type of person who could never ignore a ringing phone or a knock on the door, and he knew that him not answering was driving her crazy. Thankfully, it soon stopped and he returned to his morose thoughts.

‘When are you going to stop moping around?’ his mother asked, plopping onto the sofa next to him, the cushions bouncing, almost making him spill his cocoa. ‘You’ve been here a week and all you’ve done is loaf around, looking sorry for yourself. I understand you’re hurting but you’re not doing yourself any favours.’

‘Is that code for you wanting me to do something?’ he asked.

‘Now you come to mention it, you couldn’t split some of those logs in the log store, could you?’ she asked. ‘Your father has been meaning to do it, but you know what he’s like.’

Owen’s dad was a procrastinator, always putting off until tomorrow what he should be doing today, especially when it came to something he didn’t like. Splitting logs wasn’t his dad’s favourite job in the world. Not only that, he wasn’t getting any younger, so the job was probably harder than it used to be.

‘Why didn’t you say? I’m happy to help, you know that.’

His mum snorted. ‘Happy, my bum,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing happy about you. Are you going to tell me what’s going on? You said it was to do with a woman, but you haven’t told me what. Is she married? Is this unrequited love?’

‘No, and I don’t think so.’

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