‘Don’t worry, I just really need a wee. I’ll be back in a jiffy – make yourself at home. Thomas! Make our Mally a cuppa, would you? Then we can all sit down and have a nice little natter.’
Thomas!This was turning into a fun evening. I looked around the room while shopping-unpacking and kettle-boiling sounds emanated from the kitchen. Every single wall had floor-to-ceiling Billy bookcases from IKEA packed with all manner of objects ranging fromPuzzlermagazines to thimbles, Lilliput Lane ornaments to jigsaw puzzles. It would’ve been easy for it to have felt oppressive, but somehow it felt warm and fun. Everything seemed to be meticulously organised and I couldn’t spot a speck of dust, unlike the permanent air swirls of the stuff back at my own flat in London.
All of a sudden, the cushion next to me moved, and a sleepy pair of eyes looked up at me with curiosity. It wasn’t a cushion, after all – it was a little sausage dog. I instinctively scratched behind one of his ears.
‘I see you’ve met Chippie, then?’ Tom said, as he re-appeared.
I clocked he was wearing a well-worn pair of cosy slippers in lieu of his shoes. He set down a tray on the coffee table with three mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate Hobnobs. Ah, the king of dunkers.
‘I think I’ve woken him up. Sorry, Chippie.’
‘Ah, don’t worry, he sleeps most of the time these days. He was born a sausage dog, but pretty much identifies as a cat.’
‘That’s my kind of dog,’ I said, as Tom moved the old suitcase onto the floor and took its place beside me.
‘Wow, your mum really loves… stuff, doesn’t she?’ I continued, looking around the cosy room, stroking Chippie as I did so.
‘Yeah, she’s an avid collector, that’s for sure. Can’t rest until she’s completed every collection before moving on to the next fad. Recently it was those M&S Little Shop miniature things.’
He pointed to a shelf on the opposite wall of the room where, lo and behold, all the scaled-down groceries were proudly displayed in a branded collectors’ case.
‘Right now, it’s…’
He leant over me – I had to actively restrain myself from confirming the softness of his cardigan – pulled out a canvas box from the shelf adjacent to his mum’s chair and peered inside.
‘Ha! Oh yeah. Pokémon cards. She’s even set up a swap group on Facebook, keeps doing deals with all the local primary-school parents.’
‘Seems perfectly reasonable.’
‘Yeah. It makes her happy, so…’ He stretched and scratched the back of his head.
Jo made her way back into the room and sat back down in her chair. ‘Ooh, that’s better. Hope Chippo’s giving you enough space on there?’
‘I thought his name was Chippie?’ I asked, not sure if I was directing the question to Jo or Tom. Jo answered.
‘Ah, Chippie, Chippo, to-may-to, to-mah-to. His proper name’s Chipolata, y’see, since he’s a…’
‘…sausage dog!’ I finished her sentence and cackled. I liked it here.
‘Exactly! So where are you staying, Mally?’
‘Oh, just a little holiday rental in the centre of the village for a few days.’
‘And have you got anyone special waiting for you back there?’
Let’s be honest, if there was ‘anyone special’ in my life, I wouldn’t have ended up stumbling about, car-less, in Scarnbrook ten days before Christmas.
‘Nah, I’m here solo, just for a quick work trip.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of anyone coming to Scarnbrook on business before, have you, Thomas?’
‘I reckon it’s a first. But Mally’s been asked to write an article about childhood Christmases for a news website.’
‘You’re a writer! How wonderful. Thomas harboured dreams of writing when he was younger, didn’t you, love?’
‘Mum, I don’t think Mally needs to know about this…’
‘I most certainly do. Tell me more, Jo.’