cream
complexion and not a blemish on her young skin, rolled
her eyes to heaven.
‘The only thing I fancy with lemon in it is a vodka and
Red Bull,’ she said wickedly.
Evie stopped in her tracks. ‘Rosie! I’ve told you before:
no drinking here. Granddad would have a canary if he saw
you drinking spirits. Wine at dinner and that’s it. I know
you drink beer with your friends, I’ve smelt it. But not
here. This isn’t Dublin, you know. It you drink here, the
entire village will know about it and, believe me, they’ll be
talking about you. I don’t want that to happen.’ She
marched into the kitchen.
Her daughter scowled. I suppose a smoke is out of the
question? Rosie thought crossly as she blew on the logs in
the grate. What’s eating her? she wondered. Her mother
had been like a bear with a sore head all day. It was that
drippy Simon, she knew it. He was such a wet it was
unbelievable. Exactly what her mother saw in him Rosie
had no idea. At least he wasn’t going to be there for
Christmas; watching Simon’s irritating little mannerisms
for three whole days would have driven her to distraction.
Well, she was having a cigarette and if her mother didn’t
like it, tough. She wasn’t a kid anymore. With her head
angled towards the kitchen, listening for her mother’s
approaching footsteps, Rosie fished her pack of ten cigarettes
from her pocket and lit one. Then she stealthily
opened one of the windows, sat on the ledge and blew the
smoke out.
Knowing this place, some old bag would undoubtedly be
on the phone in five minutes telling the entire village that
Rosie Mitchell was chain smoking Rothman’s, she thought
crossly. It was like the middle ages. If they saw her drinking Budweiser, they’d probably try and burn her at the stake for being a witch.
Half an hour later, Evie had drunk two cups of lemon
tea, neither of which had filled the gap in her stomach like
a couple of sausage rolls would. She felt desperately guilty
for taking her temper out on Rosie and sternly told herself
to stop being such a grumpy pig. It wasn’t anybody else’s
fault that her fiance preferred to spend the festive season
with his mother and a selection of ancient relatives playing
Scrabble instead of with her.
She’d also put away the food she’d brought, amazed to
find that instead of having none of the drinks party stuff
organised, her father had trays of beautifully prepared
nibbles ready in the fridge.
Evie, who’d spent some of her meagre Christmas
budget buying large quantities of ready-made sausage
rolls, mini pizzas and sesame prawn toasts, realised that
the things in his fridge were wildly superior to her
shop-bought offerings. Delicate little savoury pastries and
smoked salmon parcels lined the fridge, elegantly arranged
on gold-edged china platters she’d never seen before. Evie
hadn’t known he could make stuff like that. He must
have had help.
When she’d brought her luggage upstairs, she’d been
surprised to find a small blue and white china vase of
winter flowering jasmine on the bedside locker in the twin
room she was sharing with Rosie.
How sweet, she thought fondly, smelling the delicate
sprigs. Her father had never been much of a man for
flowers. He never painted floral still lifes in his watercolour class: he preferred rugged landscapes. Still, it was a lovely,
welcoming gesture. At that moment she heard the sound
of dogs barking, the slam of the back door and Rosie’s
voice raised in greeting. Dad!
She hurried downstairs, taking two steps at a time.
‘Dad, I was so worried about you,’ she said happily, but
the words died on her lips as she rushed into the kitchen to
find he wasn’t alone.
Rosie was crouched on the floor rubbing Jessie, an
ecstatic black spaniel, while Gooch, a golden retriever, was slurping water from his bowl, slobbering all over the stone flags and showering great lumps of white fur into the air as
his
complexion and not a blemish on her young skin, rolled
her eyes to heaven.
‘The only thing I fancy with lemon in it is a vodka and
Red Bull,’ she said wickedly.
Evie stopped in her tracks. ‘Rosie! I’ve told you before:
no drinking here. Granddad would have a canary if he saw
you drinking spirits. Wine at dinner and that’s it. I know
you drink beer with your friends, I’ve smelt it. But not
here. This isn’t Dublin, you know. It you drink here, the
entire village will know about it and, believe me, they’ll be
talking about you. I don’t want that to happen.’ She
marched into the kitchen.
Her daughter scowled. I suppose a smoke is out of the
question? Rosie thought crossly as she blew on the logs in
the grate. What’s eating her? she wondered. Her mother
had been like a bear with a sore head all day. It was that
drippy Simon, she knew it. He was such a wet it was
unbelievable. Exactly what her mother saw in him Rosie
had no idea. At least he wasn’t going to be there for
Christmas; watching Simon’s irritating little mannerisms
for three whole days would have driven her to distraction.
Well, she was having a cigarette and if her mother didn’t
like it, tough. She wasn’t a kid anymore. With her head
angled towards the kitchen, listening for her mother’s
approaching footsteps, Rosie fished her pack of ten cigarettes
from her pocket and lit one. Then she stealthily
opened one of the windows, sat on the ledge and blew the
smoke out.
Knowing this place, some old bag would undoubtedly be
on the phone in five minutes telling the entire village that
Rosie Mitchell was chain smoking Rothman’s, she thought
crossly. It was like the middle ages. If they saw her drinking Budweiser, they’d probably try and burn her at the stake for being a witch.
Half an hour later, Evie had drunk two cups of lemon
tea, neither of which had filled the gap in her stomach like
a couple of sausage rolls would. She felt desperately guilty
for taking her temper out on Rosie and sternly told herself
to stop being such a grumpy pig. It wasn’t anybody else’s
fault that her fiance preferred to spend the festive season
with his mother and a selection of ancient relatives playing
Scrabble instead of with her.
She’d also put away the food she’d brought, amazed to
find that instead of having none of the drinks party stuff
organised, her father had trays of beautifully prepared
nibbles ready in the fridge.
Evie, who’d spent some of her meagre Christmas
budget buying large quantities of ready-made sausage
rolls, mini pizzas and sesame prawn toasts, realised that
the things in his fridge were wildly superior to her
shop-bought offerings. Delicate little savoury pastries and
smoked salmon parcels lined the fridge, elegantly arranged
on gold-edged china platters she’d never seen before. Evie
hadn’t known he could make stuff like that. He must
have had help.
When she’d brought her luggage upstairs, she’d been
surprised to find a small blue and white china vase of
winter flowering jasmine on the bedside locker in the twin
room she was sharing with Rosie.
How sweet, she thought fondly, smelling the delicate
sprigs. Her father had never been much of a man for
flowers. He never painted floral still lifes in his watercolour class: he preferred rugged landscapes. Still, it was a lovely,
welcoming gesture. At that moment she heard the sound
of dogs barking, the slam of the back door and Rosie’s
voice raised in greeting. Dad!
She hurried downstairs, taking two steps at a time.
‘Dad, I was so worried about you,’ she said happily, but
the words died on her lips as she rushed into the kitchen to
find he wasn’t alone.
Rosie was crouched on the floor rubbing Jessie, an
ecstatic black spaniel, while Gooch, a golden retriever, was slurping water from his bowl, slobbering all over the stone flags and showering great lumps of white fur into the air as
his
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