My mum’s already humming away to ‘The Snow Waltz’, her newly gloved hands conducting as we all file inside the cave while my dad unzips his coat, determined to show off his jumper to anyone with eyes. Kate’s been quiet since she got back from her walk with Mum, but I’m not pussyfooting around her anymore. If she wants to spend the next few days sulking, that’s up to her, but for our family’s sake, I hope she doesn’t make everyone as uncomfortable as she obviously feels.
The rough, cracked walls of the cave glow under brightly lit Christmas trees and candle decorations which make the exceptionally cold cave appear cosy. It isn’t, though. Right now, I’d wear ten stupid Christmas jumpers just to feel anything close to warm.
Most of the seats at the front are already filled but we find four at the side: Mum and Dad in front, with Kate and me behind. Within thirty seconds she’s pulled out her phone and started typing.
‘Oh, relax,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I’m just replying to my mum.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to,’ she replies, still typing. ‘I can sense that fucking scowl a mile away.’
‘Well, maybe if you weren’t always on your bloody phone, I wouldn’t need to.’
‘Maybe if you weren’t always on my bloody case, I’d—’
‘Sherbet lemon?’
Mum holds out a little paper bag, filled with sweets. I decline but Kate takes one and thanks her. And before we can continue our argument, the band starts playing ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’. The crowd laughs as the local primary-school children stand at the front with large cards depicting what happens on each day. I can’t help but chuckle because the partridge looks like a winged gerbil, but Kate remains stony-faced. I get the feeling that if she were to leave, the temperature in the place might rise by at least ten degrees.
By the time we get to ‘Silent Night’, my mum has leaned into my dad, and I can hear them singing softly. Normally, Kate and I would be doing the same, but we’d be trying to make each other laugh by hitting the wrong notes or singing in weird voices. This year, though, she’s practically sitting on the lap of the woman beside her, in order to be nowhere near me. I want to grab herand ask her how we can make this better, how we can have what my parents have, but I already know the answer. My parents have this because they want the same things; and we can’t make this better because we don’t.
After a rousing rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’, everyone piles out and heads back down to the village where food stalls have been set up to tempt hungry carollers.
‘I fancy a pie,’ Dad announces. ‘Anyone else?’
‘I’ll take some chips,’ I reply. ‘Kate, you want anything?’
‘Pie, definitely,’ she answers. ‘You need a hand, Chris?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’ll be fine, dear. Yvonne, do you want any—’
‘Sausage roll,’ she replies, before he can even finish. ‘I’m starving.’
The Christmas tradition of ordering decidedly suspicious-looking meat pies from a van after carolling is one that we’ve maintained for as long as I can remember. My last one was around 2001, before I became vegetarian and I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss it just a little bit.
‘Ed?’
I turn in the direction of my name, my eyes scanning the crowd of bobble hats and winter coats until they fix upon a familiar face. It’s one I haven’t seen since university.
‘Carly Richardson? Holy shit. I don’t believe it!’
Carly gives a little squeal, and she skips towards me, throwing her arms around my neck.
‘I knew that was you!’ she chirps, squeezing me. ‘I’d recognise that hair anywhere!’
I first met Carly when I was sixteen and my mum signed me up for a three-week music camp in Cheshire. We both played clarinet, though she was far more skilled, and she took pity on me, giving me tips with my breathing.
‘Mum, look who it is!’
‘How are you, Mrs Morrison?’ Carly says, before waving at my dad who’s walking back with a meat pie. ‘You’re all looking so well.’
‘You haven’t changed a bit, lovely,’ Mum says. ‘Gosh, how long’s it been?’
Carly and I look at each other and laugh. ‘Six years,’ she replies. ‘Or is it seven? God, I feel so old!’
‘So, what are you doing now?’ I ask. ‘Still with the English Chamber Orchestra?’
‘No,’ she replies. ‘I actually just accepted a position in Berlin. I leave after New Year.’
