Heather glances towards the nearest Perspex display case, where a finger-sized rodent is mounted on a weathered branch. The artificial grass on the false ground has leached to a putty grey. The bark from the mount is now stripped bare, but the animal’s fur remains intact and is even glossy in places.
‘When I was a little girl, about ten years old, I had a pet gerbil called Tiny.’
No other words are needed. Georgia looks at the box contents, looks at Heather and clasps her hand in front of her mouth. ‘No!’
‘He didn’t tell me she died. He told me he’d feed her when I was on a school trip. When I came back four days later, he gave me this case. He thought I’d feel better about her being dead because I could look at her whenever I wanted.’ Georgia makes a gagging motion into her hands. ‘My dad was always looking for mammals to work on and I guess, there was a part of me that wondered if he was pleased when one of my pets died because then he could …’
Georgia’s attention moves to the larger case, where a sulphur-crested cockatoo is displayed, the right wing extended, and the bird’s head tilted to the side as though examining its armpit. The angle of the head highlights the curve of the beak and the mustard-coloured plume on the back of its head.
‘That’s Polly. I came home from my first term at university to find her in there. Dad had never attempted a larger bird before.’ Heather’s voice is monotone as she remembers the horror of seeing her beloved pet encased in Perspex.
‘How did she die?’ She’d asked her father in a confrontational voice all those years ago. ‘Tell me! How. Did. She. Die?’
Neither of her parents ever answered that question.
‘So, is this why you don’t talk to Grandad?’
‘Not entirely. But it was the first sign that my adult relationship with him was in serious trouble.’
A beat of silence stretches between them as Heather reflects on the fallout from that argument. ‘I suppose one good thing came from it.’ Georgia looks at her mother quizzically. ‘Did you see the paintings?’
Heather retrieves the paintings from the loft while Georgia washes the cobwebs from her hands and face. She returns downstairs with three of the best pieces in her hands and props them up. She examines them as she waits for Georgia to return.She did the paintings whilst on maternity leave. They were her therapy whilst Georgia slept, her distraction from the sense of abandonment after Dougie left, and a process of contemplation as she reflected on what was next for both her and her daughter. The paintings were consigned to the attic once Georgia began to crawl and Heather began to pursue accountancy seriously.
She can see now where her colour work needs a little refinement and areas where the shadowing might benefit from greater depth. Nevertheless, she’s proud of the work she achieved all those years ago.
‘That’s Polly,’ Georgia says when she sees the pictures. Heather smiles, thrilled that the bird is recognisable as her beloved pet.
‘I think the paintings were my way of defying my dad. Showing that you didn’t need a stuffed animal to best remember it. I painted them in their natural surroundings. I’d always imagined I might get them framed one day.’
‘They’re fantastic, Mum.’
The praise from her daughter is like a shot of dopamine.
‘Thanks, love. It was a million years ago. Okay, right. Let’s get on. Help me finish the mince pies, then after lunch, we’ll get everything down from the loft. Let’s make sure Brianna has the best at-home Christmas ever.’
Georgia skips into the kitchen, leaving Heather alone for a moment or two of quiet contemplation. What would her father think and say if he were to see these paintings now? There’s simply no time to entertain these thoughts. They’re expecting Brianna in three days. And Scott.
Did she mention Scott?
SCOTT
‘So, this is what Christmas at home is like.’
Scott watches his daughter let out a contented sigh. She sits on the floor and leans back onto his knees. There’s plenty of space on the sofa beside him, but Brianna insists she prefers to sit with the heat from the fire on her face. Scott allows his fingers to fall into his daughter’s hair and gently teases a curl from her ponytail.
Is this how things might have been if he hadn’t whisked them around the world to avoid Christmas Day at home? Might Brianna have preferred childhood Christmases like this, even with her mother gone?
The smile on Heather’s face is unmissable as she watches them. Scott smiles his gratitude towards her, trying not to think about how hot she looks in her flowing green dress with red belt and co-ordinating Santa hat. The fire provides a focal point in the room, and he knows those flames are a result of hours of gentle coaxing. Heather was probably fighting with the kindling at six o’clock this morning.
‘So. Presents,’ Heather says.
The girls sit up taller, wipe the crumbs from their morning pastries onto their plates and make a collective whooping noise.
Scott prises himself away from his daughter and joins Heather at the Christmas tree, where a seemingly excessive number of presents are piled.
‘First up, Brianna,’ he says, tossing the lightweight parcel in the girls’ direction.
Brianna catches the hastily wrapped gift in two hands while Heather scrambles by his feet to find the equivalent present forGeorgia. Heather hands her daughter an exquisitely wrapped gift with a tag in the shape of a holly wreath and a green ribbon holding the recycled paper in place.
