‘Let’s have some more of that port, then,’ Digby said after a few moments. ‘It was intended to be drunk, after all. What time do you think we should eat? We’ll have to cook that goose, if it’s not to go to waste.’
Ant groaned. ‘It’s already too late to have it ready for lunchtime. It’ll have to be dinner. Say six o’clock. We can have ham and eggs or something now – a sort of brunch.’ He eyed the remaining parcels under the tree. ‘Are we going to open any more of them?’
‘Best not. If I remember rightly, goose has to be done slowly. It’ll be in a cookbook somewhere. I know we did one a few years back, and it was disappointingly tough.’
‘That was about twelve years ago now. Deb was still here.’
‘Tastes a lot better than turkey, even so. Lovely skin, if you get it right.’
‘You can find some instructions on the Internet, I suppose. We might not have all the right ingredients, though. They’re sure to say garlic and fancy spices.’
‘Could be your mother ran off just to get out of having to cook a goose,’ joked Digby. ‘I know she wasn’t looking forward to it.’
‘I think she expected you to do it, all along.’ Ant knew better than to take his father seriously, or offer any sort of argument or reproach for his flippancy. But inwardly he winced at what felt like a lack of concern over something that he personally was finding very worrying indeed. The disappearance of his sister’s ashes had compounded the mystery tenfold, as well as deepening his dread. If Beverley had taken them with her, that could all too easily mean that she never intended to come back.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally attempted to eat the goose. It was at least thoroughly cooked and much less tough than Ant had expected. He was, he had to admit, hungry. The past hour had been filled with tantalising smells that his empty stomach had yearned for with increasing urgency. He realised that he had half believed his father’s assurances that Beverley would come walking in sometime during Christmas Day, with a supremely rational explanation of where she’d been. But darkness fell on a household that still only contained two men and a dog.
Chapter Fourteen
Mid-afternoon found the Slocombe family amid a sea of wrapping paper and new possessions. Thea had issued each child with a cardboard box to put their presents in. Jessica had a big canvas bag for hers, while Drew and Thea were making piles on the sofa. Thea was starting to think she should phone her mother, who was spending Christmas with Jocelyn, her youngest daughter. Everything had run smoothly all day, the two different sets of expectations and habits combining without much friction. And then Jessica spoilt it.
‘I wonder how your friends in the cottage are getting on,’ she said unthinkingly to Thea, thereby opening a box worthy of Pandora.
‘Poor Ant,’ sighed Stephanie, making it worse. ‘He must be awfully worried.’
‘It’s ever so sweet of you to think of him,’ Jessica told her. ‘Not many people your age worry about others the way you do. Kids are generally completely self-absorbed. I know I was.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ Drew asked, looking from face to face.
‘Ah,’ said Jessica. ‘Sorry. We weren’t going to bring that subject up until tomorrow. I forgot.’
‘So why is my daughter so sweetly worrying about him and why should I not know about it?’ He was addressing his wife, under no illusion that the answer lay with anyone but her.
‘It’s a long story. There’s been a lot of trouble over at Crossfield since you went off the day before yesterday. A world of woe, you might say.’
‘I honestly hadn’t given them a thought until now,’ Jessica claimed, as if that made any difference.
‘I have, a bit,’ Stephanie admitted. ‘I was wondering if Mrs Frowse has come back. And I was a bit sad for the Russian lady, even if she is rather nasty.’
‘You’re too good for this world,’ said Jessica. ‘Drew – you’ve bred a saint.’
‘It’s just the way we brought her up,’ said the proud father, momentarily diverted from the main issue. ‘She watched me arranging funerals for weeping families from a very early age. It made her realise that sad feelings are normal and nothing to be scared about.’
‘Hmm,’ said Jessica, with a sceptical tilt of her head. ‘Or maybe it’s just her natural character, and nothing to do with you at all.’
‘Can I humbly suggest that we do not raise the matter again until tomorrow?’ begged Thea. ‘We all agree that Stephanie has very fine sensibilities, that put us all to shame. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Suits me,’ said Drew, with a little frown of irritation.
Stephanie was powerfully affected by this exchange, taking it to heart and brooding over it for the rest of the day. There had been no hint of mockery in it, or any criticism that she could discern. It was pleasing, on the whole, to have such close attention for a few minutes. It made her feel more substantial, more of a person. At Drew’s acceptance of Thea’s edict, she sighed with relief and returned her gaze to Timmy, who was sitting with a good-sized box on his lap. ‘What’s that?’ she asked him.
‘A game.’ He frowned. ‘Something to do with trains. It’s from Jessica. You saw me open it before lunch.’
‘Oh, yes. I forgot.’
‘We can play it later,’ said Jessica. ‘A friend of mine in Manchester’s got it, and it’s really good. It takes a while to set it up and get the hang of the rules, but it’s not too complicated, compared to some.’
Timmy nodded. ‘I do like games. Thank you very much.’
‘We can play it in a little while,’ said Thea, who had been sitting with
