Other People's Children by Joanna Trollope

muffled by the cushion his face was pressed into, ‘Who’s gonna look at it anyhow?’
    â€˜We are,’ Josie said. ‘You four children, and your father, and me. It’s a Christmas tree for – for the family.’
    The moment the word was out of her mouth, she wished she hadn’t said it. Each child became suddenly and perfectly still and the room filled with a palpable air of cold offendedness. She bit her lip. Should she say sorry? Should she say oops, sorry, my mistake, shouldn’t have said that word so soon? She looked at them. She thought of those rooms upstairs and the pasta and salad almost ready in the kitchen with the table laid, and a red candle, because it was the week before Christmas. Then something rose in her, something that elbowed out of the way her first feelings of apology, of needing to acknowledge herfirst failure at being angelically, superhumanly patient.
    â€˜It’s a
word
,’ Josie said to the still children. ‘Family is a word. So is stepfamily. Stepfamily is a word in the dictionary too whether you like it or not. And it’s not just a word, it’s a fact and it’s a fact that we all are now, whether you like that or not, either.’ She paused, then she said to Rory, ‘Get up.’
    He didn’t move.
    â€˜Get up,’ Josie said. ‘Get up and put those cushions back.’
    With infinite slowness, he dragged himself to his feet and began to dump the cushions back on the sofa and chairs, not putting them where they belonged.
    â€˜Properly,’ Josie said. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Rufus silently imploring her not to antagonize Rory. ‘Go on.’
    Rory sighed.
    â€˜You heard me.’
    Clare moved from her position by the tree and began to sort the cushions out. She kept her head bent so that Josie couldn’t see her face. Rory watched her, his hands in his pockets.
    â€˜If your father was here,’ Josie said, ‘is this how you’d go on? Or are you just saving up the hard time for me?’
    Clare put the last sofa-seat cushion back, the wrong way round so that the zip showed.
    â€˜Where is Dad?’
    Her voice sounded uncertain, as if she were on the verge of tears.
    â€˜At school,’ Josie said. ‘Doing all the end-of-term correspondence.’
    â€˜I want him,’ Clare said. Her eyes were brimming.
    Me, too, Josie thought. Oh God and how. Me, too.
    She tried to touch Clare and Clare twisted away and hid herself behind her brother.
    â€˜He’ll be back soon. He’ll be back after lunch.’ She fought down the urge to scream and said instead, in a voice rigid with control, ‘Shall we have lunch?’
    â€˜I don’t want any,’ Becky said now.
    â€˜Won’t you take your mittens off?’ Josie said.
    Becky put her hands on the table.
    â€˜I’m cold.’
    â€˜But you can’t eat in mittens—’
    â€˜I’m not eating,’ Becky said, glancing over at Josie and the steaming pans on the cooker,
‘that.’
    Rufus looked blanched with tension. Rory and Clare looked as if they were quite accustomed to hearing Becky going on like this.
    Josie said, ‘Everyone likes pasta. Everyone likes spag bol.’
    Becky gave her a brief, pale-blue glance.
    â€˜I don’t.’
    Josie took a breath.
    â€˜Did you have breakfast?’
    â€˜No,’ Becky said.
    â€˜Have you had anything to eat all day?’
    Becky said nothing.
    â€˜Look,’ Josie said, ‘if you left Hereford at eight something and it’s now half-past one and you haven’t hadanything to eat, you must be starving.’ She ladled out pasta and sauce onto a plate and put it down in front of Rufus. ‘There. Doesn’t that look good?’
    Becky began to fumble with the knot she had tied to secure the plastic bag.
    She said to Clare, ‘Where’s a plate?’
    â€˜I don’t know—’
    Clare looked