Maybe a wee dram of whisky before his tea would help. And some time with the children. He could read them a story before bed.
The words of the song were audible now. ‘“Little donkey, little donkey, on the dusty road …”’
Maybe the children would prefer to hear songs than a story.
Adam stepped into the kitchen. He was expecting warmth and the smell of hot food. The loving greeting his children always gave him and the prospect of winding down in the comfort of his favourite part of his house. He wasn’t expecting to be hit in the face with a blinding kaleidoscope of colours.
‘What in heaven’s name is
going on
in here?’
‘
Daddy
…’ Poppy flung her arms around his legs. ‘We’ve made decorations. Aren’t they bee-
yoot
-i-ful?’
Adam took another upward glance at the desecration of the ancient, oak beams.
‘And we’ve learned a song all about Jemima.’
‘It’s not about Jemima.’ Oliver was right beside his sister now. ‘It’s about another donkey. The one that Mary was riding to get to Bethlehem.’
Christmas again. How did it manage to accentuate the worst of life in so many ways? Impossible not to think about a donkey carrying the pregnant Mary. With a full-term pregnancy that everybody knew ended up with a healthy baby, despite less than adequate birthing facilities. Unlike poor Aimee who had access to the best of modern care but now had a scrap of a bairn who was on life support in a neonatal intensive care unit in Edinburgh.
Adam tried to push the concern away. To focus on his own healthy children. Tried to centre himself by a glance around the room below ceiling level. At least that looked relatively normal. Or did it?
‘
What
…’ he actually had to swallow before he could find any more words ‘… are
those
?’
The children had fallen strangely silent. Even Poppy, who could never be called a quiet child. It was Emma who answered.
‘They’re Advent calendars. You get to open a little door every day until Christmas Eve and there’s a new picture and a little chocolate. Very little and the children haven’t eaten them all from the doors that already needed to be opened. They saved them. For
you.
’
She sounded nervous, Adam realised. He looked over the twins’ heads and looked at her properly for the first time since he’d come into the room. He still hadn’t got used to the way she looked, with that air of being a stray gypsy waif, but he was certainly letting go of the idea thatshe could be unreliable or unable to commit to anything. She’d thrown herself into being his children’s nanny with her heart and soul, hadn’t she? They loved her.
And she loved them. The way she’d said how much she loved being with them this morning had touched his heart in the way that only total honesty could.
And now she was looking at him with eyes that looked too large for her thin face. With a glow that was telling him that she was doing this to make his children happy.
Because she already loved them.
And because it was Christmastime.
There was a hopeful expression in those eyes, too, that was a plea that he wouldn’t spoil it all by being cross.
He found himself unable to look away. Adam got a sudden vision of what it would be like to be seeing himself through her eyes and he didn’t like what he saw. He forced a smile to his lips as he managed to break the eye contact with Emma.
‘As long as you don’t eat too much chocolate before dinner.’ He looked up again. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such long paper chains. You must have been busy all day.’
‘I did my practice, too. D’you want to hear what I learned today, Dad?’
‘Aye. Let me get my coat off, son. And I need a wee something to drink.’
He glanced across at Emma, feeling like he should apologise, although he wasn’t quite sure why. ‘D’you drink whisky, Emma?’
She shook her head but smiled. ‘Let me find one for you while you listen to Ollie’s new tune. You’ve had a long day.
The words of the song were audible now. ‘“Little donkey, little donkey, on the dusty road …”’
Maybe the children would prefer to hear songs than a story.
Adam stepped into the kitchen. He was expecting warmth and the smell of hot food. The loving greeting his children always gave him and the prospect of winding down in the comfort of his favourite part of his house. He wasn’t expecting to be hit in the face with a blinding kaleidoscope of colours.
‘What in heaven’s name is
going on
in here?’
‘
Daddy
…’ Poppy flung her arms around his legs. ‘We’ve made decorations. Aren’t they bee-
yoot
-i-ful?’
Adam took another upward glance at the desecration of the ancient, oak beams.
‘And we’ve learned a song all about Jemima.’
‘It’s not about Jemima.’ Oliver was right beside his sister now. ‘It’s about another donkey. The one that Mary was riding to get to Bethlehem.’
Christmas again. How did it manage to accentuate the worst of life in so many ways? Impossible not to think about a donkey carrying the pregnant Mary. With a full-term pregnancy that everybody knew ended up with a healthy baby, despite less than adequate birthing facilities. Unlike poor Aimee who had access to the best of modern care but now had a scrap of a bairn who was on life support in a neonatal intensive care unit in Edinburgh.
Adam tried to push the concern away. To focus on his own healthy children. Tried to centre himself by a glance around the room below ceiling level. At least that looked relatively normal. Or did it?
‘
What
…’ he actually had to swallow before he could find any more words ‘… are
those
?’
The children had fallen strangely silent. Even Poppy, who could never be called a quiet child. It was Emma who answered.
‘They’re Advent calendars. You get to open a little door every day until Christmas Eve and there’s a new picture and a little chocolate. Very little and the children haven’t eaten them all from the doors that already needed to be opened. They saved them. For
you.
’
She sounded nervous, Adam realised. He looked over the twins’ heads and looked at her properly for the first time since he’d come into the room. He still hadn’t got used to the way she looked, with that air of being a stray gypsy waif, but he was certainly letting go of the idea thatshe could be unreliable or unable to commit to anything. She’d thrown herself into being his children’s nanny with her heart and soul, hadn’t she? They loved her.
And she loved them. The way she’d said how much she loved being with them this morning had touched his heart in the way that only total honesty could.
And now she was looking at him with eyes that looked too large for her thin face. With a glow that was telling him that she was doing this to make his children happy.
Because she already loved them.
And because it was Christmastime.
There was a hopeful expression in those eyes, too, that was a plea that he wouldn’t spoil it all by being cross.
He found himself unable to look away. Adam got a sudden vision of what it would be like to be seeing himself through her eyes and he didn’t like what he saw. He forced a smile to his lips as he managed to break the eye contact with Emma.
‘As long as you don’t eat too much chocolate before dinner.’ He looked up again. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen such long paper chains. You must have been busy all day.’
‘I did my practice, too. D’you want to hear what I learned today, Dad?’
‘Aye. Let me get my coat off, son. And I need a wee something to drink.’
He glanced across at Emma, feeling like he should apologise, although he wasn’t quite sure why. ‘D’you drink whisky, Emma?’
She shook her head but smiled. ‘Let me find one for you while you listen to Ollie’s new tune. You’ve had a long day.
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