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 ce. The


    pullover is a perfect fit on chest and arm and only the Let It Snow logo looks in any way out of ce.


    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 shing in time to the tune of Deck The Halls With


    Boughs Of Holly…


    Charlotte and Beth both crease upughing. 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 toote. His own woollyunches 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 nces at the


    tag then offers it to Mitch.


    She, in turn, looks at thebel 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 ab, made in silver…


    tinum?


    … 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 cor 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 nket, 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.”


    N?velDrama.Org (C) content.


    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 asion 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 nk for a moment until I drop my eyes below his worktop. Archie wags his tail and gives


    an ingratiating grin, disying more teeth than should reasonably be imed 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 nning on… um…”


    “On what?” James’ face is ndly 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 underneathes 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 thest slice of bacon, James leans backwards, shifting his head one way then the


    other, as though triangting on his workspace. Then, “Fuck this.” He rips off the eye patch and tosses


    it into the bin.


    He passes his te 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, ces 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.”


    *****