Page 69 of Always, in December

‘Oh, I don’t—’

But Max cut Josie off. ‘That sounds amazing. I love gingerbread.’ He settled the matter by taking Beth’s shopping bag from her to carry, then gesturing for her to lead the way.

Josie remembered Beth’s house from her teenage years, when she’d spent a few group sleepovers there, but she wasn’t prepared for the wave of familiarity that hit her when she stepped into the warmth. They stripped off hats and coats and Beth’s parents came out from the kitchen, both of them wearing matching aprons.

‘Josie Morgan, that isn’t you?’ Beth’s mum exclaimed, coming up to her with sparkling, delighted eyes.

‘I bumped into her on the way,’ Beth said. ‘Thought we could use a hand.’

‘Oh, we certainly could. We were so worried when we heard your grandmother was being taken to hospital last night, weren’t we, Simon?’ Beth’s dad, completely bald now, nodded obediently. ‘That’s why you’re here?’ Josie nodded, getting the distinct impression that this was the reason she and Max had been brought along for gingerbread-making at eleven in the morning. ‘Well, try not to worry, distraction is the best thing, I’d say. Beth was right to bring you along.’

‘Thanks, Mrs Cope.’

‘Oh, come now, Josie, you’re not a child anymore – you go ahead and call me Pippa.’ She brought her into a hug, then pulled back, and to Josie’s surprise those sparkling eyes looked a little tearful. ‘You look so much like your mother, do you know that?’ She’d been told that before, of course, mainly by Memo, but it always gave her a little jolt, hearing it. ‘She used to do all this, you know,’ said Pippa as she led them into the kitchen, where there were a few racks of gingerbread men already cooling, the kitchen pleasantly steamy, smelling of cinnamon, ginger and spices, flour on every surface as far as Josie could tell.

‘The gingerbread, you mean?’ Josie asked, glancing back at Max to check he was ok. He was already in conversation with Beth’s dad, nodding along to something.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Pippa. ‘It’s for the Christmas tree, you know – decorations, but we always put them on last minute, because obviously they all get eaten. And for the annual bake sale to raise money for the homeless – you remember that, of course?’

‘Right. Yes, I do.’ Her grandparents had taken her along as a child, though they’d stopped making her come as a teenager, when she insisted she’d be happier at home reading. They’d brought her something back from it every year though, and Josie felt a slight tightening in her stomach at the thought, at how she’d so adamantly refused to get involved in any of the traditions after her parents had gone. And there was another flash of memory now, one she’d forgotten or buried, of her mum in their orange-tiled kitchen, with trays and trays of gingerbread surrounding her. Her hair tied back in a bun, wearing a red polkadot apron covered in flour, telling Josie she was only allowed to sneak away the misshapen biscuits to eat. It was nice, she realised, to get that back, to know that she still had those memories tucked away somewhere, just waiting for the right trigger.

A few more helpers arrived over the course of the morning, and together they mixed the batter, rolled it out, cut into shapes, set the timer, and put the biscuits on racks to cool, like a little, very relaxed, assembly line. She was laughing along as Max got dough stuck all over his hand, as Beth’s dad – Simon – nearly burned his fingers because he wouldn’t listen to Pippa, as Pippa told her stories of people sneaking out at midnight to get the gingerbread off the tree because it was just so damn good. Pippa put Christmas songs on in the background, and though Josie exchanged a grin with Max at that, for once she didn’t hate the sound of the music, rather found herself humming along with the tunes.

At lunchtime, Pippa offered around mulled wine – saying that it being a Monday was cancelled out by the fact it was Christmas time – though Josie declined and was given a peppermint tea instead. Max opted for the tea too, potentially just in solidarity. He was sitting down now, having insisted that being stood up around all these beautiful women was making him lightheaded, and making them all coo in response.

Pippa seemed to have an endless amount to talk about saved up inside her, but it never seemed forced, rather felt easy, almost soothing to listen to. ‘A psychological thriller this time,’ she was saying now, about Memo’s book club. ‘It’s very exciting, I’d be surprised if Cecelia doesn’t manage to finish this one at least.’ Then, when someone brought up the last badminton game of the year, happening tonight at the local village gym, Pippa piped up with, ‘Oh yes, Simon will be going to that, won’t you, Simon?’ Simon nodded. Josie glanced at Pippa from where she was hovering by the oven, with her oven gloves on, ready and waiting, and Pippa smiled. ‘Your dad used to go to badminton all the time, you know. Malcolm was always on the winning team, wasn’t he, Simon?’ Another nod.

And so, instead of it making her sad and bringing up memories of the crash, instead of being haunted by the thought of her parents’ lives here, Josie felt comforted by it all, being surrounded by people who knew them, who had memories of them, who knew that they’d been real people, just like they knew her grandparents.

It was thinking about her parents that made her realise she hadn’t written her letter yet this year. She’d been planning to do it in Budapest, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen now. Being here, around people who knew her parents, made her think that now was the perfect time to do it, so she slipped off the oven gloves, set them on the side. ‘Pippa?’ Pippa looked over to her from where she was showing Max precisely how she wanted the biscuits iced. ‘I don’t suppose I could borrow a piece of paper and a pen, could I?’

‘Of course, love. Down the hall and to the left – Simon’s study is in there.’

Josie brushed a hand over Max’s shoulder as she left. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’ He smiled up at her and nodded, then went back to concentrating on the decorating, his tongue poked out in concentration. It made something flutter in her heart, seeing him there, willing to get involved in things like this, just to stay with her and make sure she was ok.

She found the study and helped herself to paper and pen, then sat down to write the letter.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I’m missing you, as always – maybe more so this year, because I’m back home. But it’s nice, being here, and knowing I’m not the only one thinking of you. I should have come back here at Christmas before now, I know, but I hope you know it wasn’t because I didn’t want to think of you both on the day you died – it was because I was too scared to.

Memo is in hospital – maybe you already know that. I hope so much that she’ll be ok, but whatever happens, I promise I’m going to try harder to come back here. I don’t want to lose this place, or lose any part of you both.

Merry Christmas and lots of love,

Josie

Josie pressed her lips together, but it felt somehow cathartic, writing a slightly different letter, and she knew she wasn’t about to cry. She found an envelope, sealed it, and tucked it inside her coat on the way back to the kitchen.

An hour or so later, most of the gingerbread was finished and Josie and Max took their leave. Pippa gave them a gingerbread man each, wrapped up so they could eat them later. Josie hugged Pippa and Beth, and when she promised Pippa that she’d come back to visit soon, she meant it.

Josie hadn’t realised it had started to snow while they were inside, and she gasped slightly at the sight of a very thin layer covering the pavement. As they walked, tiny snowflakes nestled into Max’s hair, like flecks of blue ice in the fire. There had been no word from Helen all morning – Josie had texted a few times, but knew that she’d hear if anything drastic happened, one way or another. Still, now she was outside, away from the distraction of people and baking, the fear was starting to creep back in.

She took Max’s cool hand in hers and he squeezed it. Without telling him, she led him towards the same post box she used to run to as a child, the same one to which she’d delivered her letters to Santa. Because he already knew about it, she didn’t have to explain when she slipped the letter inside, and this time neither of them said anything at all – it was enough for Josie just to have him with her. She couldn’t help wondering, briefly, if this was the start of a new Christmas tradition – delivering her letter with Max, every year – and knew that the hope that squeezed her heart at the thought was potentially a dangerous thing. Now was not the time to think too much on that, though, so she said nothing as they turned and walked hand-in-hand back to the cottage.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Josie sat curled up on the sofa once more, toasty warm from the fire. There was something comforting, and a little mesmerising, about watching it eat away at the wood, sparking occasionally as it did so. Memo and Grandad’s red stockings hung above the fireplace as part of the Christmas decorations – sticklers for tradition, they did one for each other every year. She knew they would have kept doing one for her too, if she’d ever spent Christmas here.