2: Chocolate Box Girls: Marshmallow Skye (16 page)

‘Coco?’ Mum says. ‘There’s one present left for you … it’s in the kitchen.’

Coco’s eyes open wide. ‘What is it? Is it a pony?’

Paddy laughs. ‘In the kitchen?’

‘You never know,’ she says. ‘My friend Amy says that you and Mum are quite eccentric, so anything is possible, right?’

She runs to the kitchen with us at her heels, and right at the door a thin whickering sound peals out, and we begin to wonder if the pony idea is actually as far-fetched as it sounds.

And then we’re inside, and there is no pony, but a big cardboard box has appeared in front of the Aga and we crowd round and the sound peals out again and this time it is very definitely a bleat.

‘A lamb!’ Coco squeals. ‘A baby LAMB!’

‘An orphan,’ Paddy says. ‘She was born down at Joe’s, yesterday. He has some New Year’s lambs every year, but this one was extra early and her mum didn’t make it. Joe
says he doesn’t have a foster-mum for her, or the time or the space to raise her by hand. So we thought that maybe you might –’

‘YESSS!’ Coco yelps, leaning down to wrap her arms round the tiny lamb. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you!’

22

It’s chaos after that, with Coco learning how to make up little bottles of milk to feed the lamb and Mum cooking and Paddy chopping vegetables for lunch and Fred the dog sticking his head over the top of the cardboard box every few minutes to suss out the newcomer.

Paddy tries to explain that the lamb can’t actually live in a box in the kitchen once the B&B is open again, and that he’s cleared out one of the old stables next to the workshop, but Coco isn’t listening. She manages to wrap the lamb in a blanket and brings it into the living room where we’re loafing about eating chocolate coins and trying to think up names for her while watching
A Christmas Carol
on TV.

‘What about Holly?’ I say. ‘It should be something Christmassy!’

‘Woolly Jumper,’ Summer suggests. ‘Because she is.’

‘How about Mint Sauce?’ Cherry teases, and Coco throws a cushion at her.

The lamb lets out a long, plaintive baaa and that’s when the onscreen Scrooge says ‘Bah, humbug,’ and we all agree that the only possible name for a lamb born at Christmas is Humbug.

We’re having so much fun it’s like we’re a proper family. I can almost forget the weirdness of the past few months. Almost.

Then Honey yells at us from the breakfast room. ‘Hey! I’ve got Dad on Skype! Quick, come and talk to him!’

Summer, Coco and I run through – Coco with Humbug still in her arms. Honey has Mum’s laptop on one of the breakfast tables, and filling the screen is an image of Dad, tanned and smiling in a blue shirt. My heart hurts, suddenly, unexpectedly.

‘He wanted to talk to you,’ Honey says, as if she might have hogged him all to herself otherwise.

‘Dad!’ Summer says. ‘How are you? Is it hot there?’

‘Happy Christmas!’ Coco says. ‘I’ve got a lamb!’

Honey nudges me, but all I can do is smile and bite my lip and hope that I won’t cry.

‘My girls!’ Dad grins. ‘Let me have a look at you!’

He leans forward and the picture dissolves, then reappears again. ‘Summer! Skye! You’re looking so grown up! What are you, almost twelve now?’

‘Almost thirteen,’ I whisper, and the words seem to stick in my throat because my own dad doesn’t know how old we are.

‘Amazing,’ Dad says. ‘And Coco … still animal mad, I see! Where did you get that lamb from?’

‘It was a present!’ Coco says, and Dad shakes his head and says Mum must be crazy.

‘What time is it in Australia?’ Summer asks.

‘It’s evening now … Christmas is almost over, here. We had Christmas lunch down on the beach! You’d love it here, girls! Always sunny, and a real land of opportunity. You’ll have to come out and visit!’

‘We will!’ Honey says, all smiles. ‘Did you get your presents?’

‘Yeah, yeah … great, thanks, girls!’ he says, as if he can’t
even remember the gifts we each spent so long making, choosing, buying. Dad’s parcel was wrapped and ready on the first of December, ready to go long before the last posting date to Australia because we didn’t want any chance of it being late.

‘I didn’t have time to get you anything,’ Dad adds apologetically. ‘Still settling in … I’ll send some money!’

‘Could we come out to visit soon?’ Honey presses. ‘I’d love to see Australia, it has to be better than this dump. When would be a good time?’

He laughs. ‘Better wait until we’ve settled in a bit,’ he says. ‘Give your mum a chance to save up the air fares!’

Honey’s face falls. We all know that Dad has plenty of cash to spare, but Mum has hardly any, and what she does have is spent on us or ploughed back into the business. If we have to save our own air fares, it’s going to take a very long time indeed.

Dad yawns. ‘Girls, it’s been great talking to you, but I have to go … things to do … Merry Christmas!’

‘Do you want to speak to Mum?’ Honey says. ‘I’ll go and tell her –’

‘No, don’t bother,’ he says quickly. ‘I’ll give her a ring in a day or two …’

There’s the sound of someone talking in the background and Dad smiles and waves and the screen goes dead as he cuts the connection. We stare at the silent laptop, slightly stunned.

‘Things to do?’ Summer says. ‘What things?’

I put an arm round her shoulder and she wipes a hand across her eyes, then smiles bravely. It’s the first time in months where I look at her and think maybe we are not so different after all.

‘There was someone there with him,’ Coco frowns. ‘And did you notice, he kept saying “we”. Like,
we had Christmas lunch down on the beach
. And
wait until we’ve settled in a bit
. Do you think he’s got a girlfriend?’

‘No way,’ Honey says. ‘He wouldn’t.’

I’m pretty sure he would.

After Christmas dinner, minus the sprouts and with added nut roast in honour of Coco, the awkward, sad feeling of talking to Dad begins to fade. We decide to use Skype again, this time to talk to Grandma Kate and her husband Jules over in France.

Mum sets the laptop on the coffee table, and we crowd
round, still in our paper hats from the crackers we’ve pulled, perched on the squashy blue sofa, Humbug included. Last year Grandma Kate and Jules came over for Christmas, but this year they won’t be over until the wedding so we won’t see them properly for ages.

Grandma Kate has sent over a little parcel of presents with
Do not open until instructed
written on the back. She says she wanted to see our faces and we can open them now. Grandma Kate and Jules munch on the chocolates we sent them, modelling the hats and scarves that made up the rest of their prezzie.

It is kind of chaotic, with everyone talking at once and wishing each other a Happy Christmas and Humbug bleating loudly. We open our prezzies, which turn out to be silver charm bracelets – Honey’s has an artist’s palette charm, Coco’s a little horseshoe, Cherry’s has cherries, Summer’s a pair of ballet shoes and mine a little silver bird.

My heart flips over.

‘I’m sorry yours isn’t very inspired, Skye,’ Grandma Kate says. ‘I was looking for something with a vintage feel, but then I saw the bird, and somehow I thought of you. There’s no particular reason, but … well, it just felt right!’

The little bird is exactly right, more right than anything else she could have chosen.

‘I love it!’ I tell her. ‘It’s perfect!’

It is, because it reminds me of Finch.

23

It’s almost sunset and Finch and I are climbing the hill behind the village, the tawny lurcher racing on ahead, our shadows trailing behind across the daisy-strewn grass. The day is warm and the walk is steep, and somewhere along the way Finch takes hold of my hand, pulling me along, and we finally make it right to the top.

The breeze lifts our hair and ruffles our clothes and we look right out over the village, over the bay, at the silver-blue ocean that stretches on forever. We sit for a while and talk, still holding hands, watching as the light turns to pink and yellow and gold, as the sun drops gently into the sea
.

In my dreams, there are no unwanted thirteenth birthday parties to plan, no boy-crazy best friends, no stroppy, off-the-rails older sister, no boy mates who just happen to be in
love with my too-perfect twin. No wonder I’m hooked on being there. My dream world is a whole lot less stressy than the real one.

On New Year’s Eve, while the rest of the family are curled up on the squashy blue sofas watching back-to-back Harry Potter DVDs, I am in my room, hunting for the lost letters – again. For the hundredth time I check the desk, the trunk, the dressing-table drawers. I search under the beds, in the wardrobe, on the bookshelf, but find nothing. It’s as if they never existed.

Summer puts her head round the door. ‘Skye?’ she says. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m searching for Clara’s letters,’ I sigh. I have asked Summer about them a couple of times since the day they went missing, but she has always said she hasn’t a clue where they might be. She’s so weird about everything to do with Clara I don’t want to push it, but I have to ask one last time. ‘Summer, are you absolutely sure you haven’t seen them?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugs. ‘I don’t remember, OK? Could Mum have chucked them out?’

I eye the wastepaper basket. ‘I don’t think so. She wouldn’t. Would she?’

‘Might have,’ Summer shrugs. ‘She’s so busy lately, she might not have been paying attention. Anyway, forget those stupid letters, Skye, please! I swear, it’s like you’re obsessed! Come downstairs – we’re just about to start
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
. Mum’s made popcorn …’

I go with her to keep the peace, and in the end we stay up till midnight, our eyes square from too many DVDs, our bellies full of pizza and popcorn. Seconds before the clock strikes twelve we run outside to wish each other a Happy New Year, singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ to the sound of Coco on the violin, which is pretty painful but fun all the same. All of us except for Honey, anyway, who has gone to a New Year’s party down in the village and isn’t back yet.

There are fireworks going off in the distance somewhere, and the stars hang above us in a velvet sky as we hug and laugh and pretend that Coco’s playing isn’t hurting our ears.