Page 17 of A Manny for Christmas

‘Don’t shout, Daisy,’ the boy says, a worried crease forming between his eyebrows. ‘Mummy’s tired. Hello.’

He’s the peacemaker. The caregiver. Thank God Mol has one of them to look out for her. But I bet he doesn’t make life easy for himself.

The feral female—Daisy—shoots him alike I give a flying fucklook.

Nice.

Five seconds in, and I’m beginning to get an idea of whata bit of a charactermay mean.

Molly’s shapely legs come into view as she thunders down the stairs in front of me in leggings so nude that for a brief, heart-stopping moment I think she’s naked from the waist down. She has a soft grey sweater on, and her hair is wound round her head, Alpine-style, in one long plait.

Thought number one: the boy is right. She does look tired.

Thought number two: she’s still unfairly beautiful.

‘Hi.’ She sounds flustered. Looks distracted. ‘Come in, come in. Tobes. Daisy. Out of the way—let Max through.’

The children give me an inadequate amount of space, so I inch past them, back grazing the doorframe, trying not to take the girl out with my bag. I get the impression I’ve arrived in the middle of a particularly chaotic moment (unless every moment is chaotic here, which, I suspect, is a distinct possibility).

That’s good, because if everything’s in flux, there will be less time for Mol and I to get weird and awkward—because everything about this situation is weird and awkward.

I place my bag by the door as Molly tugs the kids away from me.

‘Come on through,’ she says, turning towards the kitchen and ushering them ahead of her. My gaze slides to her ass. Peachy and perfect.

The kitchen is cosy, thanks to the AGA pumping out heat, but it’s a lot more—er—lived in than it was when my brother was here alone. The wooden table is barely visible under a jumble of opened and unopened mail, folded school uniforms and massive bowls of fruit.

I wander over to the big standalone fridge that’s groaning under the weight of colourful artwork. The ones markedDaisyin clear, primary-school-teacher writing are heavy on exuberance and light on accuracy. Toby seems to favour colouring squarely within the lines.

‘It’s a bit of a mess.’ Molly rubs her temples distractedly. ‘It always goes downhill at the weekends—they mess it up faster than I can tidy.’

‘It’s nice,’ I tell her. ‘Cosy. A lot more character than when my brother had it.’

She smiles tiredly. ‘Poor Angus. He’s letting us live in his beautiful cottage, and we’re absolutely feral.’

I suspect only one of you is truly feral, I think, but I hold my tongue.

‘He knows the score. Remember when Alastair and Hector were little? They were like weapons of mass destruction.’

‘That’s true.’ She brightens a little. Angus and Audrey lived in Derbyshire when the boys were young, which means Molly got to see plenty of my nephews. ‘They were exhausting, weren’t they?’

‘Yeah. And they’ve turned out well, so there’s still hope.’ I look down and fix Daisy with a pointed look.

As Molly fills the kettle and puts it on the AGA, she chatters to the children. She’s had forty-eight hours since our coffee to prep them for my visit and fill them in on the plan for the week ahead.

‘So,’ she begins, ‘remember I told you Max will be staying with us for a few weeks? He’s an old friend of Mummy’s,’—she clears her throat—‘and he’s going to take you guys to school in the morning! Isn’t that exciting? You can show him your school!’

Daisy comes towards me, sniffs theatrically, and bursts into instantaneous crocodile tears. ‘I don’t want to go to school with the weird man! He’s weird! He smells funny!’

What the fuck? ‘I do not.’ I glare down at her.

‘Oh God,’ Molly says. When I glance over, she’s pressing her lips together to stop herself from laughing. ‘Daisy, that’s not polite. You can’t say things like that—you’ll hurt Max’s feelings.’ To me she says, ‘I think she can smell the mothballs.’

‘Huh?’ I sniff the arm of my jacket. ‘Oh, yeah. They were obsessed by camphor where I stayed in Malawi. I can’t even smell them anymore.’

‘They’re yucky.’ Daisy is still weeping. Molly swoops in and scoops her up, and she snuggles into her mum’s arms while shooting daggers at me.

‘Yeah. Maybe I can wash everything if you have a washing machine?’

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