Page 7 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

Bella snorted out a laugh.

Aunt Cam sighed. “I wish Fred knew what you gave up for her.”

Bella shook her head.

“That’s not her burden to carry. Besides, I was so young, I needed you and Aunt Aggie. I could never have managed without you. Fred deserved stability. I was a kid raising a kid, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“And you think we did? Aggie and I had resigned ourselves to a life where children weren’t in the cards for us, and then suddenly we had a pregnant niece turn up at our door.

We didn’t know which way was up. The only difference between you and us was that we were old enough to know how to fake it till you make it. Trust me, you did just fine.”

“Tell that to Fred.” Bella stretched out her back. “She still thinks I’m the worst mother in the world.”

“And yet it’s you she’s come running home to.”

“Only because she doesn’t have any other choices.”

“There is always a choice. The bottom line is, Fred’s coming home because she needs her mum. She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet.”

—

Fred drove slowly up to the gates of Hallow House and stopped.

The house itself was virtually unchanged, aside from a new roof and the sensitively designed double-glazed windows replacing the originals, which had practically flopped out of their rotted frames.

She’d been born and raised here, and had left as soon as she could, afraid that if she didn’t, she might be lassoed into staying by whatever force held the rest of the Hallow-Hart women in Pine Bluff. Maybe that would have been better.

Some of the generous front garden had been repurposed to make way for a gravel drive and a triple garage, but the largest part was still a wildflower meadow in the summer and planted up with shrubs and trees including holly, viburnum and dogwood to give color in the winter.

The old wrought-iron railings around the boundary remained, but the new gates were electric and a black box on a pillar to one side required visitors to buzz in.

The engine idled. She opened the window but somehow couldn’t bring herself to extend a finger and press the intercom.

Here was a resting space. Behind her was the life she’d had.

Beyond those gates was acceptance that her old life was over.

But all the while she remained in this place, neither here nor there, she wasn’t yet a failure.

She could imagine that she was only visiting, that the back seat and boot of her Ford Fiesta weren’t stuffed full of her possessions, and that there wasn’t a man-with-a-van somewhere on the motorway who would deliver the remaining detritus of her city life within the next few hours.

“Hellooah!” Aunt Aggie’s voice crackled through the intercom, jolting her out of herself.

“H-hello. Sorry. I was just…” Fred stammered.

There was a loud click, and the huge black gates began to open. Fred revved the engine hard. What if I just turn around, drive away, keep on driving…?

“Spit spot!” came Aunt Aggie’s voice again. “Come along now, the kettle’s on.”

Taking a final, deep breath, Fred released the hand brake and crossed the boundary onto Hallow-Hart ground.

The front door was open, and Fred only made it as far as the entrance hall before a billowing cloud of flowing tangerine kaftan barreled up the hall toward her, shrieking her name.

The low winter sun poured in from the kitchen window behind her aunt, illuminating her white-and-gray tightly coiled hair like a halo.

Fred’s left eye twitched as the voice rose up again. She was pulled into her aunt Cam’s pillowy bosom, engulfed by the scent of her patchouli oil perfume.

“Hello, Aunty,” she mumbled, trying not to breathe her aunt’s hair into her throat.

Aunt Cam released her, stepped back to assess her, then leaned back in and squinted into her face.

“Too thin,” she declared. Cam was the only person who would describe Fred as being too thin; her bottom filled her size 12 jeans like two space hoppers shoved into a pillowcase.

“You’ll get wrinkles if you let yourself get scraggy.

A bit of good home cooking is what you need.

We’ll soon have you looking rosy again.”

“I do home cooking ,” Fred said, a little testily, but that hadn’t been true for a few months now.

Her aunt tsked. “Low fat, low carb, low flavor, no doubt.”

Moments later, Aunt Aggie—who, these days, was almost completely spherical in appearance—stomped into the hallway, dressed in a royal-blue velvet maxi-dress (though at just over four feet six inches tall, most dresses were maxi on her) with appliqué moons and stars all over it.

She had pale blue eyes, a cherubic face full of freckles, and long gray hair that fell like a waterfall down to her bottom.

“Greetings and salutations!” she boomed, leaving a trail of mud behind her. “What magnificent joy!”

Fred was squeezed and kissed by the second octogenarian aunt—Aggie, as ever, smelled of a heady mix of rose talcum powder and cigars—before being ushered into the kitchen.

“Have you eaten?” asked Aunt Cam.

“I had breakfast at the inn.”

“But not second breakfast,” Aunt Aggie trilled, with a note of triumph.

“We’re not hobbits, Aunty,” Fred retorted. “Is Mum working?”

“Yes, love,” answered Aunt Cam. “Let’s get you in, and breakfast on, and we’ll call her.”

Fred settled herself at the chunky Victorian pine table that dominated the large kitchen. The sun streamed in through the windows and fell across the scratched and pitted surface, highlighting its many years of service.

Aggie dumped a mug of coffee in front of her and she took a big gulp. She recognized the nutty roast and bitter chocolate richness.

“Is this Coast Roast?” she asked, incredulous.

“It is,” said Aunt Aggie, holding up the bag of coffee. “You’ve got a good nose.”

“I drink this at home. My old home. But I could only get it in my local deli.”

“Ah, you’re surprised we have access to such fine artisan products up here in the back of beyond.” Aunt Aggie gave her a sidelong look. “Coast Roast is a local business—big cities aren’t the only birthplaces of innovation, as you well know, being a Hallow-Hart.”

She didn’t answer, thinking indeed of the Hallow-Hart crackers; they graced the pages of all the glossy magazines in the run-up to Christmas.

She might have left her family home far behind her, but it was impossible to outrun the family legacy, especially living and working in London around the festive season.

Fred cast her eyes around the kitchen. The old Aga on the back wall was still the main source of heating in the house, though they had invested in a second oven for cooking.

Either side of the Aga, and running the whole length of another wall, were fitted dressers hailing from the Georgian era with ample cupboards below and open shelving above.

These were painted a chalky white and held a mishmash of crockery, mixing bowls, books and glass jars containing homemade preserves, buttons and dried herbs.

In the last decade she had only visited home a handful of times.

Though her family was a persistent source of contention between her and Tim, she hadn’t needed much of an excuse to stay away.

And then, in those last couple of years with him—when she was equal parts terrified of losing him if she left or losing herself if she stayed—she’d known that being here would seal her decision that she needed to leave him; and back then, she couldn’t conceive of a worse fate than failing at the perfect life she’d invested so heavily in.

After Tim, it was her pride that kept her away. But there’s a fine line between pride and stupidity, and even Fred could see that becoming homeless, rather than asking for help, was crossing that line.

There was a hiss as Aunt Cam slapped thick rashers of bacon into an iron skillet, and the smoky smell of searing meat infused the kitchen.

“Here,” said Aunt Aggie, plonking down a large loaf of bread and a knife in front of Fred.

“Fresh from Eadie’s bakery this morning, her granddaughter Bettina made this one.

My godmothers, she’s a witch with the sourdough.

Now, cut it into slices, and don’t be mean.

” She pushed a butter dish toward her. “And don’t skimp on the butter either, I want it so thick you can feel your teeth sink into it, we’ll have none of your city-spreading in this house. ”

Fred shook her head but stayed quiet. City-spreading?

After adding butter to another pan and waiting for it to turn brown and bubbling, Aggie carefully added ten fat scallops.

“Ahh, a bacon and scallop butty, my favorite,” said Fred dreamily.

“I remember,” said Aunt Cam, turning from the stove to give her a wink. “Fresh off the boat this morning. Do me a favor when you’ve finished slicing, and call your mother in.”

Fred piled the last buttered slice onto the breadboard and moved to the deep butler sink below the picture window that looked out over the garden.

On the wall above the drainer a walkie-talkie hung from a hook.

Her hand hovered over it. She’d vowed to be the antithesis of her mother, to leave Pine Bluff and make her own life, fully independent of her family and its name.

All she’d wanted was a perfect relationship with a perfect man, a perfect career, and one day some perfect children to fill her perfect home. Was that so much to ask?

Of course, those plans had all rather gone to hell in a handbasket, but she had made peace with that.

What concerned her now was that one look at her mum would unravel the tightly plaited resentment she’d so carefully woven into her resolve.

She knew it wasn’t healthy to rely on old peeves as a means of drawing strength, but she had used them for so long that she wasn’t sure what would happen if she simply “let it go”—as both her therapist and Elsa from Frozen had repeatedly suggested.