Chapter 37

The four men exchange wary expressions, none of them exactly moving, but all shifting in their seats.

Michael caves first. He fills his lungs then, pulling the creation over his head, tugs it into place. The
pullover is a perfect fit on chest and arm and only the Let It Snow logo looks in any way out of place.

As he moves, James, Richard and Larry unfreeze, donning their joke-wear.

All sit, refusing to meet each other’s eyes. Finally, Richard says, “Well, at least we know the worst is
over.”

Mitch’s mouth twitches and she whips something from her pocket, aiming at him: a small control panel.
She squeezes a button and Santa’s nose starts flashing in time to the tune of Deck The Halls With
Boughs Of Holly…

Charlotte and Beth both crease up laughing. Mitch extends the controls again to James and his
sweater bleeps out Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer, then Michael’s bursts into Frosty The
Snowman…

Larry turns, raising a finger… “No…” But it’s too late. His own woolly launches into Let It Snow…

James erupts from his seat. “Absolutely not!”

He makes to take off Rudolph, but Mitch clicks again, and the jingle stops. Then she paints on an
expression of fake contrition. “I’m so sorry, Ryan. If I’d known you’d be here, I’d have made one for you
too.”

Ryan inhales. “I’ll live.”

*****



“What else have we then?”

Michael delves into the heap of gifts, this time extracting another small neat package. He glances at the
tag then offers it to Mitch.

She, in turn, looks at the label then turns eyes on Larry.

His voice neutral, “I hope you like it.”

She slips open the wrap, lifts the lid of the box inside. “Oh, Larry, they’re beautiful. Thank you.” She
takes out some small object then starts fiddling with her hair.

It’s a comb, made in silver…

Platinum?

… set with green gems, made in the pattern of a butterfly. It fixes into her hair on one side, pinning
back long red tresses; a match to the silver and emerald collar she is already wearing. She sets its
partner in her hair on the other side.

Beth peers close. “They’re very unusual. Where did you find them, Larry?”

“I had them made. I knew what I wanted but couldn’t find it. So, I found a talented jewel-smith instead.”

Wonder what he’s given Charlotte?

*****

I poke my head around the kitchen door. James is there ahead of me at his workspace, be-aproned,
sleeves rolled up on the Christmas sweater, trimming the rind from bacon.



At the table, Charlotte sits peeling carrots. Beside her, Mitch wraps bacon around sausages. Between
them on a thick furry blanket, Cara burbles and blows bubbles.

“Can I help?” I say.

James looks up, smiling. “Absolutely you can help. You can peel the chestnuts for the stuffing.”

I eye the contents of a bowl close by, already containing onions, breadcrumbs and judging by the smell,
garlic. “Isn’t that the stuffing?”

“Yes, it is, but since this is a special occasion and we have plenty of people here to eat the results, I
thought we would have more than one kind. This is going to be sage and onion. Those are for the
chestnut and cranberry.” He waves across to a cupboard. “Aprons in there. Find something that fits.”

As I tie the bow on my apron, “I see you have another helper already?”

James looks blank for a moment until I drop my eyes below his worktop. Archie wags his tail and gives
an ingratiating grin, displaying more teeth than should reasonably be claimed by a shark.

“Ah, yes… That helper. He volunteered his services around the time I took the bacon from the fridge.”

Archie turns beady eyes on me then shuffles his position a little to sit directly under James’ cutting
board, nose up

“Is he being a nuisance? I’ll get him out if you want.”

“No, we set up a bit of a rapport when your tribe stayed with us before. He knows how to stay out of the
way and still get what he wants.”

Michael appears, takes a step inside the kitchen, takes one look and tries to reverse out again.



“No, you don’t,” says James. “Grab yourself a peeler. You can help too. Parsnips, potatoes, sprouts.
Take your pick. We want plenty so I don’t have to cook again tomorrow.”

Something like a grumble emanates from deep inside Michael. “I was planning on… um…”

“On what?” James’ face is blandly enquiring, but he doesn’t look away.

“On… um… clearing snow from the front path.”

James’ eyes narrow, but apparently, he can’t find anything in the words that doesn’t qualify as a
reasonable excuse. “Okay…” He brandishes scissors in Michael’s direction… “But back in here
afterwards.”

“I’ll clear a path for Mitch across the yard too…” And in a sweep of aftershave, he’s gone.

As I set myself up with chestnuts and knife, Ryan appears, thumbing back out to the hall. “Michael
seemed in a hurry. Is everything…?”

James snips at a rasher, trimming away the skin. “Just a nasty attack of avoiding the inevitable.” A
fragment drops to the work surface and from somewhere underneath comes a canine groan. James
angles, eyeing downwards, sighs, shakes his head then simply scrapes fat and skin off the board and
lets it fall. Not a morsel reaches the tiles.

Ryan stands, looking a bit helpless. “I came to see if I could help. And since the kitchen seems to be
where it’s at right now…”

James nods him to the veggie cupboard, points to a drawer. “Parsnips. Peeler.”

As he reaches for the last slice of bacon, James leans backwards, shifting his head one way then the
other, as though triangulating on his workspace. Then, “Fuck this.” He rips off the eye patch and tosses



it into the bin.

He passes his plate of bacon slices to Mitch. “I think you’ll find there’s enough there.” Then he heads
for the fridge, rummaging inside.

“A choice of starters,” he announces. “Melon, soup or smoked salmon.”

He exhibits a cantaloupe with its greeny-grey mosaic’d rind, places it on the table, then returns to the
fridge, producing a paper-wrapped parcel

“No one's tied to their choice now, but if I have an idea of numbers...” He unwraps the parcel; smoked
salmon lying in thin pinky-orange slivers.

Mitch shudders. “Melon for me.”

There’s something visceral about her reaction. James’ brow crinkles. “You don't like smoked salmon?”

“Can't bear anything like that. It's raw isn’t it.”

He rocks his hand. “Well, not raw exactly. It’s smoked. In effect, it’s pickled by the smoke.”

She grimaces, shaking her head. “Melon.”

*****


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