When they arrived, it was more like a scene from Halloween as opposed to Christmas. The broken reindeer looked forlorn on the lawn, almost as melancholy as the faerie lights, half dangling from the gutter. However, the abject look on Dan’s face as he opened the door quickly turned to relief.
He and Ben fist-bumped, then came in for an awkward hug, slapping each other enthusiastically on the back.
For Alice, it was a bear hug and whispers of, “It’s bad, really bad.”
Dan released her, grabbing their overnight bag, thrusting it into the boys’ hands behind them, with instructions to leave it in the spare room and fetch their cousins down. Fragments of baubles littered the carpet and where decorations had been wrested from temporary positions, matching chunks of paper or paint were still attached to the ends.
Heavy rock music issued from the kitchen, inviting temporary hearing loss, as she stepped over the threshold. Purple spattered the cabinets and oozed across the floor, the mini-tide of maroon, threatening to breach the dam of flour, spilt from an upturned bag. Her sister sat propped against a cabinet swigging brandy from the bottle, her face stained with streaked mascara, the experimental false eyelash bowing every few seconds. Lipstick was smeared across her cheek.
Alice wrestled the bottle from her sister, pushing a fragrant mug of fruit tea into her hand, as she gently deposited her on the sofa, to stare vacantly at sugary festive scenes on the screen. She wrapped a blanket around her sister and rescued the family cat from under the wonky tree, plonking it on her knee. Her sister’s hand immediately began to stroke the feline.
Back in the kitchen, Alice surveyed the skirmish, relieved the pie was the only casualty. Thumping on the stairs heralded reinforcements, who were quickly despatched, with subdued energy to salvage the decorations. She plugged her phone into a socket and while soothing music filled the space, pushed trays of raw sausage rolls and mince pies into the oven to bake.
The broken pie dish and contents were swept away in the newspaper, then into the bin with a mental note to find a similar ceramic, sometime in the new year.
A little later Ben’s head poked around the door. Swinging her cool bag from one hand, he proffered her a glass of wine with the other.
“You’re an angel, you know that,” he gave her an apologetic smile, pushing his hand into his jeans.
Much later, seats were pulled out and eight people claimed nine of the seats at the table. Dishes were passed around. Words of appreciation were voiced and a calming sensation began to settle over the room.
Tentatively dessert was brought to the table. Alice looked at her sister whose freshly washed face showed no earlier signs of distress. They both raised a spoonful of store-bought cherry pie, a pale imitation of the original recipe to a photograph on the mantelpiece and Alice squeezed her sister’s hand.
