Page 97 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
I’m one step out of the car and the fan-club mobs me. “Aunty Trouble,” Ellie squeals, clamping my legs. Her three boy-cousins echo the chant.
I roll my eyes at Teddy. “This is your fault.”
Stuffing stockings of sweets and toys into eager hands buys us a few child-free minutes. As we head up the path, my nerves flare, despite me telling Teddy I’m totally fine to meet the clan.
Juniper—Briar’s twin in blonde hair but softer hazel eyes—hugs me at the door, mouthing “she’s gorgeous” at Teddy. Charles appears in neat jeans and a banker-blue shirt, pumping Teddy’s hand.
In the lounge, Rowan sweeps forward, cinnamon curls and a green gingerbread man jumper. Her husband Tim, tall and wiry in the same design but red, copies her hug-then-handshake routine.
Finally, I spot Briar on an ottoman by the hearth. She looks like a cat deciding whether to bolt. I stride over and wrap her slender frame in a hug.
“Let’s call that doorstep fiasco our meet-cute, and start over again, yeah?”
She exhales, mouth curving up in a slow smile. “Test of your commitment,” she says. “You passed.”
“Bring her through, Teddy,” calls his mum from the kitchen. “I’m elbows-deep in brandy butter and your father’s licked the spoon twice.”
Gina Cosgrove, light-blonde hair cropped in a pixie cut and wearing Teddy’s grin, brandishes a wooden spoon. “Can’t give you a hug, love. Save it for later, eh?” I like her already, with her hazel eyes and laugh-lines that say I’m welcome here, as she stands guard over a bowl.
River dodges a tea-towel swipe, copper hair flopping over one silvered eyebrow.
“Teddy tells me you’ll do a solo at the sing-along,” River says, rescuing the brandy bottle, while dodging a second crack of the tea towel. “Always room for another musician.”
I shoot Teddy a look.
He grins. “Might’ve oversold your talents, Rache. Duet, Dad. Got just the song for you.”
Lunch is loud, messy, perfect. Gina sneaks extra roasties onto every plate; River snaps candid photos with a Polaroid between courses; the sisters bicker over gravy then burst into laughter. The easy affection tugs a pang from me—this is what unconditional looks like.
Teddy’s family may have started out unorthodox—I’m still not sure how I feel about his father’s philandering past—but the love that binds them together hums in the air. I’ve never had that. My mother and my brother sure—we’ll always be tight—but with my father’s dour presence hanging over us, it’s always tainted. Still, this family seems to have become my family now, scooping me into their midst like I’ve always been part of it.
After turkey, and before plum pudding, River hammers out jazz-tinged carols on the upright piano. Teddy and I riff through ‘Little Drummer Boy’, then Briar’s haunting ‘O Holy Night’ has Gina dabbing her eyes.
By 3pm, adults sprawl in food comas while the kids race Ellie’s toy ponies across the sofa.
Teddy nudges my knee. “Fancy a quick drive?”
I groan, hand on my overfull belly. “Short one, please.”
“Twenty minutes. Coat and gloves.”
We leave town behind, zip along country lanes hemmed by towering hedgerows, thread through a postcard-perfect Cotswold village,and finally roll up to a pair of iron gates. Teddy fishes a grey fob from his pocket, aims, and the gates swing wide.
“Where is this place?”
“Just outside Ramsden.”
Trees stand like sentinels on either side of the driveway, spiky fingers clawing at the scrappy clouds. Ahead sits a house the same soft gold stone as Juniper’s, only much grander, with a neat cottage tucked to one side; stone-tiled outbuildings peek from behind. Tyres crunch over gravel as we draw up to the front door.
“Okay, different question.Whoseplace is this?”
He grins. “Mine.”
“Teddy Hargrove, have you gone and bought another house without telling me?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Please tell me a decent lawyer checked the contract.”
