back in the room, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palms, the way he always does whenever he’s really exhausted.
‘Everything OK?’ Andrew asks politely, glass in hand.
‘That was Beatrice Kelly,’ Dan replies and I know with absolute certainty what’s coming next. Beatrice is an elderly widow who lives on her own and is passionately devoted to her horses, which she treats almost like surrogate children. In fact, it’s a kind of joke around here that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, then to come back as one of Beatrice’s horses would be karma of the highest order.
‘It’s that hunter she had trouble with last week,’ Dan tells Andrew.
‘Oh, the hyperperistalsis case?’
‘That’s the one. Now she thinks it’s full blown colic and she’s panicking. Right then, sorry to break up the party, but I’d better get out there.’
I get a justifiable flash of irritation when I see that neither Andrew nor James as much as offer to go with Dan, but just sit there nursing their mulled wine, nibbling on mince pies and looking at him blankly. So, silently fuming, I dump down my tray of empty glasses and follow Dan down the freezing cold kitchen passage and out the side door.
‘Sorry about this,’ he says, pulling on a pair of Wellingtons. ‘But it’s all my own fault. I told Beatrice that if she had the slightest concern about that horse to ring me immediately. And you know what she’s like when it comes to her horses.’
I force my mouth into a stretched smile and utter the one phrase that pretty much summarises my life at The Moorings to date.
‘It’s fine, it can’t be helped.’
‘No, course not.’
‘I’m only sorry you’re missing the party, that’s all.’
‘I’ll be well back in time for Midnight Mass, don’t worry.’
I manage a genuine smile at this. Although neither Dan nor myself are the slightest bit religious, still Midnight Mass is the one time of year you can count on us heathens to cross the threshold of the local church. Useless pair of hypocrites, I know, but it’s just such a lovely service, with the kids singing carols and the big tree and most of the town there, half pissed.
‘I’m not a bit worried about the party,’ I say calmly, even managing to make myself believe it. ‘Sure we’ve still got all day tomorrow and the day after. Don’t we?’
I reach up to gently brush a tufty bit of his thick, black hair that’s standing upright on his forehead, then go to gently stroke his cheek, but he’s distracted and doesn’t respond.
And two seconds later he’s gone out into the dark, icy cold evening.
Half eleven that night and he’s still not back, so after I’ve tidied up the house, Jules and I walk to Midnight Mass on our own. Well, that is to say I walk and she staggers, having spent most of the evening knocking back approximately half a bucket of the mulled wine. I’m still hopeful that Dan might meet us at the church or even join us late during the service, but when we get there, there’s no sign of his mud-soaked jeep anywhere.
A sudden stab of worry: he shouldn’t have taken this long, should he? Maybe there’d been some kind of accident? So I call him but he doesn’t answer. Which only makes worry work like yeast in my mind.
By the time the choir get to Silent Night , Jules has fallen asleep and actually snores for the rest of the service.
Holiday = not off to a good start.
Christmas morning and the sound of a mug being plonked down on the beside table next to me wakes me up. It’s Dan, still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and looking more shattered than I think I’ve ever seen him. And older too; for the first time in the bright morning light I notice grey hair starting to sprout round his temples. All the ridiculous hours he’s been working finally taking their toll.
‘Hey, Happy Christmas, sleeping beauty,’ he says softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside me and rubbing his eyes exhaustedly with
‘Everything OK?’ Andrew asks politely, glass in hand.
‘That was Beatrice Kelly,’ Dan replies and I know with absolute certainty what’s coming next. Beatrice is an elderly widow who lives on her own and is passionately devoted to her horses, which she treats almost like surrogate children. In fact, it’s a kind of joke around here that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, then to come back as one of Beatrice’s horses would be karma of the highest order.
‘It’s that hunter she had trouble with last week,’ Dan tells Andrew.
‘Oh, the hyperperistalsis case?’
‘That’s the one. Now she thinks it’s full blown colic and she’s panicking. Right then, sorry to break up the party, but I’d better get out there.’
I get a justifiable flash of irritation when I see that neither Andrew nor James as much as offer to go with Dan, but just sit there nursing their mulled wine, nibbling on mince pies and looking at him blankly. So, silently fuming, I dump down my tray of empty glasses and follow Dan down the freezing cold kitchen passage and out the side door.
‘Sorry about this,’ he says, pulling on a pair of Wellingtons. ‘But it’s all my own fault. I told Beatrice that if she had the slightest concern about that horse to ring me immediately. And you know what she’s like when it comes to her horses.’
I force my mouth into a stretched smile and utter the one phrase that pretty much summarises my life at The Moorings to date.
‘It’s fine, it can’t be helped.’
‘No, course not.’
‘I’m only sorry you’re missing the party, that’s all.’
‘I’ll be well back in time for Midnight Mass, don’t worry.’
I manage a genuine smile at this. Although neither Dan nor myself are the slightest bit religious, still Midnight Mass is the one time of year you can count on us heathens to cross the threshold of the local church. Useless pair of hypocrites, I know, but it’s just such a lovely service, with the kids singing carols and the big tree and most of the town there, half pissed.
‘I’m not a bit worried about the party,’ I say calmly, even managing to make myself believe it. ‘Sure we’ve still got all day tomorrow and the day after. Don’t we?’
I reach up to gently brush a tufty bit of his thick, black hair that’s standing upright on his forehead, then go to gently stroke his cheek, but he’s distracted and doesn’t respond.
And two seconds later he’s gone out into the dark, icy cold evening.
Half eleven that night and he’s still not back, so after I’ve tidied up the house, Jules and I walk to Midnight Mass on our own. Well, that is to say I walk and she staggers, having spent most of the evening knocking back approximately half a bucket of the mulled wine. I’m still hopeful that Dan might meet us at the church or even join us late during the service, but when we get there, there’s no sign of his mud-soaked jeep anywhere.
A sudden stab of worry: he shouldn’t have taken this long, should he? Maybe there’d been some kind of accident? So I call him but he doesn’t answer. Which only makes worry work like yeast in my mind.
By the time the choir get to Silent Night , Jules has fallen asleep and actually snores for the rest of the service.
Holiday = not off to a good start.
Christmas morning and the sound of a mug being plonked down on the beside table next to me wakes me up. It’s Dan, still wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday and looking more shattered than I think I’ve ever seen him. And older too; for the first time in the bright morning light I notice grey hair starting to sprout round his temples. All the ridiculous hours he’s been working finally taking their toll.
‘Hey, Happy Christmas, sleeping beauty,’ he says softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside me and rubbing his eyes exhaustedly with
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