“Are you in the same class at school, then?” he asked, trying to mask his discomfort by taking the initiative.
Lally answered without looking at him. In spite of her bravado, she stood with her back to the arch of the old carriage entrance and kept her eyes on the square. “Yeah. We go to Marlborough School, not the comprehensive. We passed it on the way into town. But we were in primary school together, so we’ve known each other for yonks, since we were in nappies, practically.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Leo, mocking. “I’m sure I never wore the things.”
Was it possible that Lally and Leo weren’t a couple? Kit wondered. That if they’d known each other for years, they were just friends who hung out together? They hadn’t touched, or shown any signs of wanting to sneak off for a snog. Kit felt a leap of hope that he didn’t care to examine too closely.
“Oh, shit,” hissed Lally, startling Kit out of his daydream. Before he could respond, she grabbed him and yanked him back into the shadow of the archway, dropping her half-smoked cigarette to the ground in the process. “There’s my granddad. And your mum.”
“She’s not my mum,” Kit responded automatically, then felt a stab of guilt for disowning Gemma so publicly. “I mean—”
“Did they see us?” Lally interrupted, her voice rising.
Leo looked casually out towards the square. “Don’t think so.
They’ve gone on, although the woman looked back. So that’s your stepmum?” he said to Kit, his eyebrows raised in appreciation.
“Yeah,” Kit answered shortly. Not only did he not intend to explain his complicated family situation to Leo, he felt protective of Gemma. He hadn’t liked Leo’s salacious leer one bit. He was about
to add “Mind your own business” when he caught sight of Lally’s tense face. For someone who had said she didn’t care what her parents thought, she was awfully worried about getting caught.
“We’d better get to the church,” she said. “There’ll be hell to pay if there aren’t any seats left.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something to explain it, Lally, darling.” Leo’s grin was knowing. “You’re good at making up stories.”
Kit thought he saw Lally’s face darken at the dig, but instead of answering, she peeked out to ensure that the coast was clear, then towed him across the square, leaving Leo to trail in their wake.
When they reached the church, the pews were already filling and Lally swore again, this time under her breath. As she craned her neck, trying to find the best spot, Leo said, “I’d better find my dad, then. He’s expecting me to meet and greet and press the old birds’
willing flesh.”
“Leo, that’s disgusting,” whispered Lally, but she was distracted by her search for seats.
“Get your dad to let you come to my house tomorrow,” said Leo, unperturbed. “We’ll show coz here a good time.” With that worrying remark he’d disappeared, and Kit had watched with a frown as the other boy slipped through the crowd.
Now, in the clear light of morning, the prospect had not improved.
Kit had had enough experience with boys like Leo at school—they had made his last few months a misery. He knew he was on dangerous ground, that if he made one wrong step, Leo would crucify him in front of Lally.
A sleepy voice interrupted his troubled thoughts. “Is that bacon?” said Toby as he threw back his covers and sat up, his hair standing on end like a little blond hedgehog. Kit realized that beneath his preoccupation he’d been aware of the smell of bacon frying, too, and his stomach rumbled in response.
The house hold was stirring. Kit could smell coffee, now, too, and hear an occasional muted laugh from downstairs. It was time to get
up, to see what the day had brought, and he found he was glad of an excuse to think of nothing more complicated than presents and food for a few hours.
“Look, Toby,” he said as his brother spied the stocking, “Father Christmas found you after all.”
The distinctive low-throated rhythm of a diesel engine came first, then the rocking wash that followed the passage of another boat through the canal basin.
Annie, who on the boat usually woke with the dawn, opened her eyes and blinked against the brilliance of the light spilling through the window over her bed. For a moment she felt disoriented, then memory flooded back. It was Christmas, and she had been late back from the midnight mass at St. Mary’s the night before.
She lay quietly, letting her eyes become accustomed to the light, enjoying an unexpected sense of well- being. She had, she realized, slept deeply and dreamlessly for the first time in months. Had it been the singing? If so, she should do it more often. She’d wanted to sing as a child, but it hadn’t been an accomplishment her parents thought important.
When her need for coffee overcame her unaccustomed laziness, she threw back the covers and pulled on several layers of fl eece.
First she turned up the central heating, sending up a silent prayer of thanks for generators, then she stoked the woodstove. Assured that the ambient temperature in the boat would eventually rise above arctic, she put water on to boil and ground her coffee beans.
Fresh filter coffee was one of the small luxuries she allowed herself. Even though she’d read somewhere recently that fi lter pressed was less healthful than coffee brewed using drip or percolation, she loved the thick, syrupy strength of it. She drank it without sugar, but when she could get cream, she kept a small carton in the boat’s fridge. Marina shops weren’t always that well stocked, and not all
towns on the canal system offered moorings as convenient to the shops as Nantwich.
With her coffee in hand, she opened the salon door and stepped out onto the deck. Sun glinted off snow on the towpath, and from the accumulation on the decks and roofs of the unoccupied boats.
Although the weather had cleared, the temperature had not risen enough to cause a significant melt. The basin seemed oddly deserted, even considering the weather. No smoke rose from any chimney other than hers, and there was no movement on the towpath.
Of course, those who kept the narrowboats as second homes would be spending Christmas in their primary residences, and even most of those who lived marginal lives on the boats had someone to go to at Christmas.
Not that she’d been without an invitation, she reminded herself as the abyss of self- pity cracked open before her. Roger had asked her to come, as he always did, and she had refused, as she always did. What would he do with her, she wondered with grim amusement, if she should change her mind?
He had stayed in her family home when they had separated. It had seemed a sensible solution to her at the time, as she wasn’t ready to sell the property but didn’t want to leave it unattended. He paid her a nominal rent, and she’d told him that if they divorced and decided to sell, she would give him first option to buy the place. She didn’t like to think that only self- interest had kept Roger from dissolving their marriage, although she knew that, realistically, it was unlikely he could ever pay her what the house was worth.
Nor could she deceive herself into thinking he missed her terribly.
Roger was an even- tempered man who disliked disruption as much as he liked his creature comforts—living with her had not been easy for him. Still, he was thoughtful when it suited him, and she remembered that he had sent her a Christmas gift.
Nipping back inside, she retrieved the package from the drawer where she had stowed it and took it out into the sunshine. It was
neatly wrapped in hand- printed paper, and she felt sure Roger had done it himself. He was a competent, thorough man with an artistic flair, all qualities that made him a good journalist—and a good husband. It was she who had not been able to function in the marriage.