“They smell lovely,” she said, and Sunshine blushed proudly.
“Just in time,” said Freddy as he came in through the back door accompanied by a blast of freezing-cold air. “Time for the lovely cup of tea and an even lovelier mince pie.”
As they sat round the table, drinking tea and fanning mouthfuls of mince pies, which were still a little too hot, Freddy gazed thoughtfully at Laura.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing.” It was a reflex rather than an answer.
Freddy raised his eyebrows. Sunshine shoved the rest of her mince pie in and then spoke with her mouth full.
“That’s a lie.”
Freddy laughed out loud.
“Well, no points for tact there, but ten out of ten for honesty.”
They both looked at Laura expectantly. She told them. About the dressing table; the music; even about the shadow figure in the rose garden. Sunshine was unimpressed.
“It’s just the lady,” she said, as though it ought to have been obvious.
“And what lady might that be?” Freddy asked, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Laura.
“St. Anthony’s wedding wife. The Lady of the Flowers.” She reached for another mince pie and dropped it under the table for Carrot. Freddy winked at her and mouthed, I saw that. Sunshine almost smiled.
“But why would she still be here, now that Anthony’s gone?” Laura surprised herself by taking the idea seriously enough to ask.
“Yes. Why would she still be here making a mess and disturbing the peace? And after we gave her such a lovely wedding too?” Laura had no idea if Freddy was being serious or not.
Sunshine shrugged. “She’s upset.”
Despite her skepticism, Laura’s stomach tipped like a tombola machine.
Christmas day dawned bright and sunny, and as Laura ambled round the garden with Carrot, her spirits lifted. Christmas Eve had passed uneventfully, and she had even been to midnight mass at the local church. She’d had a few words with God and maybe that had helped. Laura and God didn’t get together too often, but he was still on her Christmas-card list.
Sunshine and her mum and dad arrived at twelve on the dot.
“Sunshine’s been ready since eight,” her mum told Laura as she took their coats. “She’d have been here for breakfast if we’d let her.”
Laura introduced them to Freddy. “This is Stella and this is Stan.”
“We call ourselves the SS.” Stella chuckled. “It’s very kind of you to invite us.”
Stan grinned and thrust a poinsettia and a bottle of pink cava at Laura.
“There’s nothing like a drop of pink fizz at Christmas,” said Stella, smoothing down the front of her best dress and checking her hair in the hall mirror. As Sunshine proudly gave them a guided tour of the house, Stella and Stan oohed and aahed appreciatively. Back in the kitchen, Freddy was whisking gravy, basting roast potatoes, stabbing boiling Brussels sprouts, and drinking vodka martinis. And occasionally sneaking an appreciative glance at Laura. A couple of times, their eyes met, and he refused to look away. Laura was beginning to feel rather warm. He had insisted on helping to show his appreciation for the invitation. He raised his glass to Laura.
“If they’re the SS, then I’m 007.”
Christmas dinner was every bit as glorious as it ought to be. In the fairy-tale setting of silver and white and sparkle, they ate too much, drank too much, pulled crackers, and told terrible jokes. Carrot camped out under the table taking tidbits from whichever hand offered them. Laura discovered that Stella was in a book club and did flamenco, and Stan was on the darts team at his local pub. They were currently second in the league, and with three more matches in hand, they were hoping to take the championship. But Stan’s real passion was music. Much to Freddy’s delight, they shared a broad and eclectic taste, from David Bowie to Art Pepper to the Proclaimers to Etta James. It was easy to see where Sunshine’s love of music and dancing came from.
While Laura, Sunshine, and Stella cleared the table and then set about tackling the bomb site that used to be the kitchen, Freddy and Stan slumped back in their chairs like a pair of deflated soufflés.
“That was the best Christmas dinner I’ve had in years.” Stan rubbed his belly affectionately. “Only don’t tell the missus,” he added, winking at Freddy.
Carrot had ventured out from under the table and was sleeping contentedly at Freddy’s side. Freddy poured Stan a glass of whiskey.
“So is it as great as it sounds being a train driver? Every schoolboy’s dream?”
Stan swirled the amber-colored liquid in his glass and sniffed it approvingly.
“For the most part,” he replied. “Some days I feel like I’m the luckiest man alive. But I nearly packed it in before I really got started.”