Page 88 of Knots About You
Isla and Jeff cuddled up on the sofa, drinking Snowballs, unusually close for the two of them. Morag chased Meowrse down for a pet, while he dodged her entirely. Alistair filled in the crossword in the paper, occasionally requesting suggestions when he became stumped over an answer.
Claire drifted through to ‘assist’ which mostly meant stealing my pigs in blankets and flirting.
When Let it Snow burst into the room, Claire pulled me into a kitchen dance. A surprisingly regular occurrence in our house.
Our house.
God, it still sounded so fucking good.
‘It’s been years since I had a big family Christmas, thank you for having me be part of it.’
‘You’d be here if I had to tie you to the chair and feed you myself.’
Her eyes glittered. ‘Maybe for Boxing Day leftovers?’
‘Bubble and Squeak?’
Claire gave a mock shocked face. ‘No, Boxing Day toasties, you maniac.’
‘What’s a Boxing Day toastie?’
‘Buttered bread, leftover oatmeal stuffing mixed with gravy, chicken, sliced potatoes, cranberry sauce, pigs in blankets and cheese. Toast it all in a frying pan and voila, only the best meal of the year.’
I kissed her then, unable to resist when she got excited. ‘Deal. We’ll do that this year and do bubble and squeak next year.’
Scruff did a drive-by, bashing the table and sending a tray flying, before jumping on Claire and sending a ladder climbing her tights. I leapt for the tray and caught it just in time, but we lost a pig-casualty to the floor. Scruff bolted under the table and snatched it up.
‘Scruff!’ Claire called, and he went running through to the sitting room, passing the stairs, where Meowrse promptly popped him on he head.
Scruff yelped and dropped the bacon-wrapped sausage to hide beneath Morag’s legs. Meowrse landed deftly on the floor and snaffled the stolen treat before eyeing Scruff. Scruff looked personally betrayed, so much so that Claire fished another sausage from the tray and went to give it to him.
The door blew open on an icy gust, and our final guest tumbled in in a sea of red and green. ‘I brought cake! And Advocaat!’
In came Henry, the Manor House’s gardener. Hot gardener, according to half of the village. I wasn’t into men, but I could see it, I guessed. Broad shoulders, easy smile, blonde curls on top of his hair. He looked wholesome. As if Arnold Schwarzenegger impregnated a Care Bear or something. All cable-knit, pinkcheeks, and arms stacked with presents and a messily iced Christmas cake that read ‘JOY OR ELSE’.
‘Thank you for the invite, I was at a loose end, bumbling around the grounds on my own. I—ooft!’
Scruff ran full throttle into his shins. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn the dog had been on sugar all morning. Henry laughed and dumped his presents on a chair, handing the cake over to Isla and best to scrub the rascally mutt. Mum took his coat and slotted him between Alastair and Morag on the sofa.
Claire and I laid the table with the feast turkey in the centre, and sides all around. With a bubble of chatter, everyone made their way to the table, taking their seats and immediately beginning to pull the Christmas Crackers.
‘How do Christmas trees get their email?’ Jeff asked, reading his joke on the tiny scrap of paper. He waited the standard pause before finishing it. ‘They log on!’
A series of groans rolled around the table.
I poured wine, going glass to glass until Isla put a hand over hers. Mum slapped the table, and Jim looked up, confused.
‘We’ve got news.’ Isla squirmed in her seat before taking Jeff’s hand. ‘We’re having a baby.’
The cheer rattled the cutlery and sent Meowrse back to safety under the Christmas tree. Mum burst into tears, and Morag jumped up, the news making her more sprightly than her years, and she pulled Jeff and Isla into a cuddle.
‘We’ll knit that bairn a full wardrobe. You can be the Knitting Club’s new project.’
‘Neutral tones,’ Alastair offered.
‘Isla doesn’t want one of those bad beige bairns,’ Morag looked aghast at the idea.
‘Are you stepping back from the distillery?’ Dad asked. He’d only just got his head around Isla running the show.
