‘Drive past Murphy’s Pets towards the hotel, then left,’ he says.
She has passed the estate of mock-Georgian houses many times before. The tidy front gardens and short garden paths. There are no pedestrians, only cars with iced-up windscreens in driveways where perfectly round Christmas wreaths of fake leaves hang from identical front doors.
Her father tells her to stop the car. They are outside a house she finds even more horrible than the others. For in the bay window stands a teddy bear and it is dressed as Father Christmas.
‘Vi, this is Amy,’ says John.
‘Hallo Amy, come in. Happy New Year.’
The woman’s curls frame her face like a helmet. Her silvery-pink lips remind Amy of wriggling worms.
John stamps his shoes on the mat as though to shake off snow.
She follows the woman into a room. Christmas music is playing. On a comfy chair is a cushion crocheted in snowflakes. She indicates where Amy should sit, then settles herself on the sofa. She tucks silvery-pink-painted toes under her bottom.
‘Put that on, will you John? It’s parky out there, eh Amy?’
John seems familiar with the electric fire. Rising warm air makes the Christmas cards on the mantelpiece tremble.
‘Shall you get us tea and some of that lovely fruit cake, John?’ Vi’s nose wrinkles when she smiles. Amy suspects Vi thinks it looks appealing. ‘I bet Amy would like some.’
‘I bet she would. Amy? Would you like cake?’
John and Vi look at her. Amy’s brain has ambled to a stop. It is as though she has crashed a private party but no one has noticed she is a stranger. She forces her head to move up and down to save having to speak.
John disappears from the room. A kettle boils; she can hear the chink of china. From the corner of her eye she can see the back of the Santa teddy. Something in her waits for the bear will turn around and wink.
‘How did Christmas go?’ Vi asks.
Amy notices the pink cardigan that Vi is wearing. With a jolt she realises it’s the same one that she is wearing, the one her father gave her, only hers is green.
‘My niece and nephew were here for the day. We had turkey.’ Vi’s tone suggests she has said something utterly surprising. ‘Then pudding with brandy butter. I don’t like cream and brandy butter on Christmas pudding, do you?’
The constriction in Amy’s throat is making it hard to breathe. Spit pools in her mouth. ‘Yes, no, I don’t, I…’ The words won’t form words.
She is relieved when her father returns with a tray. He hands Vi a cup of tea. Amy looks away. She cannot witness their eyes meeting or their hands touching. A horrifying image of the two of them kissing flicks through her mind.
‘And for you, love.’ John offers his daughter a plate. ‘Festive in here. Vi’s made it nice, don’t you think?’
The only other Christmas decoration she has noticed is an artificial Christmas tree on a box covered in wrapping paper. She says, ‘Um,’ and then after a moment, ‘yes.’
‘So any New Year resolutions, Amy?’ There’s a lamp that makes Vi’s ears glow as pink as her lips. ‘John tells me you’re starting secretarial college in the spring.’
Mid-way through cutting himself another piece of cake, her father stops, knife poised, waiting for his daughter’s reply.
‘That was my plan,’ says Amy slowly. ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’
John jumps as though he’s stabbed himself. The motion sends crumbs of cake scattering across the pale carpet. ‘Oh shit. Pardon me, Vi! You what, Amy? That’s news to me, I thought we agreed you’d fill in that. ’
‘I’ve decided to stay in the country.’ She surprises herself with the confidence her voice contains. ‘I’ve been, yes, I’ve been offered work there. Seymour, that’s Mr Stratton, the owner, has said he will pay me from January.’
A plan forms in her mind as she speaks. She will replace Mrs Morle on Monday mornings, saving the cost of her wages, and use the Christmas money she got from her father and an Aunt to pay for driving lessons. She will pass the test. She will do all the errands that are required, so Bob, Helen and the others can concentrate on building the cottage. Once the vegetable garden produces food and there are eggs from the hens and milk from Daisy and bread that she, Amy, makes, it will cost almost nothing to feed everyone.
‘Like a commune then? Back to nature and all that?’ Vi says.
At the same time John blurts out: ‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’
‘It’s what the young people want these days, John and why not? Alternative life. Being a hippy. So is that what you are then, Amy?’ Vi smiles.
‘It’s not what you think, Dad. We work hard and we have a plan,’ Amy says proudly, ‘and Mr Stratton is happy with what we’re doing.’
Strange to remember how she’d first lied to her parents about Seymour living at the farm. She didn’t realise then quite how often he would be there. Sometimes she wondered why he did visit so often. ‘Of course he’s not always at the farm. He’s a photographer. He leaves us to get on with things. He trusts us. He likes what we’re doing.’ Her tone is defiant.
Vi says: ‘Don’t know if I could do that, live in a group. I like to keep my space just the way I like it, y’know. Sharing with everyone makes that difficult, doesn’t it, Amy?’
‘I’m not that concerned about tidiness,’ Amy sneers.
But she is. She hates it when the men tramp in from the puddle-pitted yard tracking footprints all over the hall. She tries to forget the conversations they used to have about how men and women should share domestic tasks equally. Because it doesn’t happen that way; she does everything in the house.
‘I’m sure you don’t mean to sound rude,’ John
