Page 7 of Christmas at the Home Farm Vets (Hartfell Village #2)
Yorkshire, thirteen years ago
Erin directed Oli to her street, her discomfort growing with every mile as she wondered how she might be able to avoid inviting him into her home.
Outside the house he switched off the ignition and rubbed his temples.
The traffic had been heavy around Leeds, and it was fully dark now.
She glanced at the house, not needing daylight to read the familiar signs: the stone blackened over the years; the old plastic Santa she’d stuck in the window of her front bedroom every Christmas since she was eight.
This year someone else, probably her grandad, had put it up for her and it was a welcome sign of home.
‘I honestly don’t know what to say,’ she told Oli quietly. ‘I appreciate this more than you know. If you give me a minute, I’ll google a hotel for you.’
Erin turned her phone over to unlock it and shrieked as a hand thumped the window. Her head snapped around to see her nan’s cheery face beaming at her beneath a thick woolly hat. She wound down the window, chilly winter air rushing into the car.
‘I thought it was you, love. I’m just on me way t’bingo with Margery, then I saw the car an’ I said to meself that looks like our Erin inside, but it can’t be, cos she’s at university.
’ She bent down awkwardly to stare past Erin to Oli.
‘Hiya love, I’m Joyce, Erin’s nan. What are you two doin’ sittin’ outside our ’ouse? ’
‘I was worried about Mum.’ Erin was squirming in her seat, hand on the door handle ready to escape. She couldn’t open it yet, not without sending her nan flying. ‘She didn’t reply to my messages, and you know she always lets me know she’s okay.’
‘She’s takin’ it easy, love. She’s feelin’ rough, but she’ll be all right in a day or so. She won’t be ’appy if she thinks you’ve come all this way on ’er account. Anyway, who’s your friend?’
‘Nan, this is Oli,’ Erin said weakly. The relief that her mum was okay was huge, but she was embarrassed too; that she’d dragged him all this way in a panic when there was no need.
And now she’d have to explain him to her family and her family to him, and her face was hot. ‘He was kind enough to give me a lift.’
‘Now then, Oli. You’d best get inside, the pair of you, it’s proper cold.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you too, Joyce.’ Oli caught Erin’s eye, her hands twisting together in her lap as she fought the indecision over what do to.
‘Well, are you comin’ in or not?’ Joyce made up Erin’s mind for her and tugged the door open. ‘You’ll need a brew to warm you up.’
‘Oli’s not coming in, Nan,’ Erin said desperately, tempted to slam the door and hope he would just take off somewhere else.
‘Not comin’ in? Don’t be daft.’ Joyce heaved the door wide. ‘The lad’ll need summat to eat if you’ve come all the way from Cambridge, an’ I’ve been bakin’. Get inside, the pair of you, I’ll get t’kettle on.’
Erin’s shoulders slumped. Her nan might be tiny, but she was mighty, and most people didn’t mess with her. ‘What about Margery and the bingo?’
‘It’ll keep for another time, she’s goin’ with ’er daughter anyway. I’ll ring an’ let ’er know we’ve got visitors.’
‘Nan, I live here.’ Erin got out and went to the boot to fetch her bag, and Oli did the same, locking it after them. ‘I’m not a visitor.’
‘No, but your friend is. Do you like mince pies, Oli?’
‘I love them.’ He smiled at Joyce, waiting for Erin to walk up the paved path to the front door ahead of him. ‘It’s very kind of you to invite me in.’
‘Any friend of our Erin’s is always welcome ’ere, Oli. Just you remember that.’
Inside, Joyce hollered for her husband and Bill came through to the hall, pumping Oli’s hand before wrapping Erin in a hug.
She took Oli’s jacket and hung it up with hers on the battered old coat stand, its small round mirror reminding her that her face was flushed and her curls wilder than normal.
She was trying not to view the house through his eyes as they followed Joyce into the living room, wondering what he’d make of the Anaglypta wallpaper painted a murky shade of magnolia, the 1960s fireplace with its brick surround, green swirly patterned carpet and old beige suite.
Joyce pointed to the sofa and Oli took a seat as Bill settled in his armchair beside the fire, his beloved radio nearby and a folded newspaper on the floor.
‘I’ll just run up and see Mum,’ Erin said quickly, still hovering in the door.
They’d have a cup of tea, then she’d make their excuses and get Oli out of here as quickly as possible.
He had rarely spoken to her of his family, and she knew only that he had a sister.
Her grandad was questioning him about Cambridge, so she raced upstairs and knocked quietly on her mum’s door in case she was sleeping.
‘Mum? It’s me.’ She carefully opened the door, a lamp illuminating Heather pushing herself up in bed.
‘Erin, love, what are you doing here?’ Heather smiled and held out her arms. ‘Not that it isn’t wonderful to see you, because it is. Are you home for the holidays already? Have they let you off early?’
‘No, that’s next week.’ Erin crossed to the bed and held her mum gently, trying to impart some of her own strength and energy in the gesture. ‘Just popped in to make sure you’re okay. You know what Nan’s like with the phone and Grandad’s no better.’
‘Please tell me you haven’t come all this way because of me?’ Heather drew a cardigan around her shoulders as Erin settled on the edge of the bed.
‘I was worried, Mum, I didn’t know what was happening when you didn’t reply.’ Erin wiped away rare tears before her mum noticed; sitting beside her, the concern this morning and then the hasty decision to accept Oli’s offer felt out of proportion now.
‘I’m sorry to have worried you, love, but you can’t be rushing back every time I forget to charge my phone. There’s your studies to think of, and then the cost. I really don’t want you spending money on me. How did you get here anyway? The train must’ve taken hours.’
‘A friend brought me, in a car.’ Erin jumped in before her mum could list any more reasons why she shouldn’t have come. And she still wasn’t used to the idea of describing Oli as a friend. He was a stranger in so many ways, and yet.
‘Carys? Where is she then, let’s go and say hello. I’d love to meet her after all you’ve told me.’ Heather, her own curls already turning grey at forty, pushed the duvet aside. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll be down.’
‘It’s not Carys.’ Erin’s face was pink; she was aware her voice wasn’t conveying the nonchalance for which she was aiming. ‘It’s someone else.’
‘Well, I still want to meet this guardian angel and thank them for bringing my wonderful daughter all the way home from Cambridge.’
‘We’re not staying long.’ Erin got up and edged towards the door. ‘Don’t get carried away, okay? He’s just a friend.’
‘He, is it? Well.’
Downstairs she found herself a bemused spectator as her nan bustled about, popping into the living room to ask Oli how he drank his tea, did he like sugar or not, and how many mince pies could he manage after a long drive like that?
Erin perched on the sofa, listening to her grandad sharing the delights of his vegetable garden, offering to show Oli the sprouts he was growing for Christmas and the potatoes he’d safely stored in his shed for winter.
The Christmas decorations were already up, because Joyce liked to be ahead of the curve when it came to chores.
A red, green and white paper chain hung across the chimney breast, dangling in front of a round mirror in the centre.
The ancient artificial tree they’d had since Erin was small shimmered in a corner and one half of a low sideboard was laden with mini Christmas trees in various seasonal shades.
A pair of matching biscuit tins with Santa balanced on top were sat either side of an old wooden advent calendar, and she felt a rush of homesickness as she wondered who’d be opening it in her absence.
She was thinking of Christmas Day, and the usual rhythms and routines of home she found so comforting.
The early morning start so her nan could get the turkey in the oven, Joyce and Bill grumbling, getting in each other’s way as he peeled potatoes for roasting.
The radio blaring Christmas classics in the kitchen while a brass band played carols on a record player in the living room.
All so soothing and familiar, and a million miles away from the new life in Cambridge she was still trying to forge.
‘You’re stayin’ for your tea?’ Joyce glanced at Erin as she set a tray down on Bill’s lap. ‘It’s your grandad’s stew an’ I’ve told ’im that many times about the carrots, but does he listen? Make yourself useful, Bill, an’ ’old this whilst Erin gives Oli a cup an’ a mince pie.’
‘Where’s mine?’ Bill winked at Erin, and she grinned. At least some things never changed.
‘You’ve already ’ad two, Bill Johnson, an’ you don’t want the doctor after you again if your cholesterol goes back up.’
Erin stood, even more flummoxed to see her nan using a teapot in honour of their guest. She poured Oli a mug and handed it to him with a mince pie.
She poured her own tea and took a mince pie too; she was hungry, and no one made mince pies like her nan.
Maybe she could scrounge a few and take them back to Catz to keep her going until the end of term.
‘These are amazing.’ Oli tried to catch the crumbs falling to his lap and missed, grinning when he caught Erin’s eye. ‘By far the best I’ve ever had.’
‘Go on with you, lad, you’re just sayin’ that.
’ Joyce, perched on the arm of Bill’s chair, beamed delightedly.
Erin smothered a smile as she heard him muttering about it breaking under her weight.
Their banter was the backdrop of her life, and she missed it; she couldn’t imagine one without the other.