A Brambleberry Manor Christmas - Rosie Green Page 0,23

you lose someone, you can go for days thinking you’re okay,’ he murmurs. ‘But then a song…a memory…can bring it all flooding back. I lost my dad a few years ago.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ We exchange a sad look, and I take a deep breath. ‘It’s Tavie I worry about. She’s turned from a truly delightful, carefree teenager into someone I barely recognise. She won’t talk to me about her dad, not properly, and I feel so useless, not being able to help her.’

‘Just being there for her is the best thing you can do, though, isn’t it? For when she finally does want to talk. And she will, I’m certain.’

‘You’re probably right.’ I shake my head. ‘God, I’m so sorry, burdening you with my problems.’

‘Please, Jenny…don’t worry about it.’

He’s looking at me earnestly and his presence is so comforting, I find myself smiling. ‘So…what do you do when you’re at your mum’s for Christmas?’

He grins shyly. ‘It’s quite nice, actually. I’m not allowed to lift a finger for three whole days and all I have to do in return is play lots of weird games and drink snowballs with cherries on cocktail sticks.’

‘Sounds good.’

He gets up to make the coffee. ‘Yes. We live life on the edge, my family.’ He says it solemnly, then he turns and I catch the mischievous light in his eye, and we both laugh.

I watch him pour boiling water into our mugs, wondering if he has someone special in his life. ‘It’s funny how people have their own festive traditions they carry out every year without fail. My parents always eat herrings for breakfast on Christmas Day.’ I shudder. ‘What’s that all about?’

He brings the drinks over, sitting back down and pushing his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. ‘The Swedes burn a giant straw goat every Christmas.’

‘Do they?’ I laugh at the unexpectedness of this.

‘Yeah.’ He looks down at his hands. ‘They erect this massive model of a goat and the whole nation watches to see if it will survive the festive season intact. But someone always succeeds in burning the thing down.’

‘Weird.’

‘Very,’ he says, still not quite looking me in the eye. ‘But not half as weird as the Catalonians.’

‘Oh?’

‘Every Christmas, they make models of people pulling their pants down and doing what comes naturally.’

He says it with a straight face, as if he’s telling me that they decorate Christmas trees, and for a second, I wonder if he’s joking.

‘They don’t really.’ I eye him uncertainly.

‘Yeah, they do.’ His eyes flick up to mine and he grins.

‘You mean pooing? What on earth for?’

He shrugs. ‘It’s a symbol of fertility, apparently. Even Lady Gaga and Donald Trump have been immortalised with their pants down, dropping a big yule log.’

I laugh. ‘Bummer for them.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You’re a mine of information, Fergus.’

‘Yeah. Mostly useless,’ he murmurs.

‘So are you enjoying yourself? It must be nice meeting up with old friends after all this time.’

He looks down again, staring wistfully into his coffee. ‘I almost didn’t come. I don’t know. Sometimes revisiting the past can be…difficult. You don’t know how you’re going to feel.’ He looks up. ‘But actually, I’m having not too shabby a time.’

‘Christmas fayres notwithstanding, of course.’

‘Obviously.’ He smiles – a really warm, eye-crinkling smile. Then he tucks his newspaper under his arm and stands up. ‘I should go. But it was good talking to you.’

‘You, too.’ I smile up at him.

‘Better not keep you from your work. Or we’ll be having a take-away tonight.’

‘Is that what you’re secretly hoping for?’ I joke.

‘Definitely not.’ His dark eyes twinkle shyly behind his glasses. ‘If the food is as good as last night, we’re in for another treat.’ He raises a hand and goes out. And I’m left with a lovely warm feeling inside. People like Fergus light up rooms in a quiet, modest way, but the effect can be just as dazzling…

*****

When Flo arrives half an hour later, I’m busy making the dessert.

I peer at her. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Fine.’ She sounds a little defensive and I look at her curiously. Her eyes seem more puffy than usual today.

‘Did you get it checked out?’

She looks puzzled for a second.

‘The mole? At the doctor’s?’ I prompt.

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, I did. It’s fine.’

‘So nothing to worry about?’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ she repeats, turning away to hang up her coat and scarf in the cupboard.

She’s definitely not herself, but something in her closed-off posture makes me hesitate about probing deeper. She’ll probably tell me what wrong when she’s ready. I just hope