Page 17 of The Christmas Letter

‘What kind of artist are you, then?’ Emma asked, leading Holly into a small kitchen, complete with an Aga, tiled floors and rustic wooden cabinets.

Holly glanced at Emma. ‘What?’

‘Are you a sculptor or painter or . . .?’

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m not, I mean, I am, sort of, but I don’t . . .’ Emma raised her eyebrows and Holly bit her lip. ‘I don’t really do it anymore.’ She could help others with it, could find a way to describe how the clay should feel beneath your palms, and had found there was a certain kind of joy in seeing one of her students bring something to life, in seeing that elation that came from taking something that exists only in your imagination and giving it life. But she couldn’t do it for herself, not anymore.

‘No talent?’ Emma asked bluntly, dumping two teabags unceremoniously on the kitchen counter and reaching for the kettle. She’d asked for the teabags only from the café, telling Holly that the teas would only get cold by the time they got back otherwise, and Mona had given them over free of charge, along with a discount on the carrot cake.

‘No, I—’

‘No time?’

‘I . . . Well, sort of.’ Teaching took up most of her time, after all – not just the hours in the classroom, but the preparation, the marking.

Emma snorted. The sound wasn’t unkind, not exactly. More like . . . disbelieving. ‘Sounds like an excuse to me.’

Holly said nothing to that – she wasn’t sure how to explain. How what had driven her to sculpt, to create, had disappeared after the crash – after what she’d done to Lily. She’d tried a few times in recent years, feeling that she should practise what she preached, but she’d all but fallen apart once the clay was in front of her. So she’d decided that part was done with, along with her chances of seeing her work in a gallery. No, she was content with helping others to create art they loved – that was her calling now.

Emma didn’t pry anymore as she waited for the kettle to boil. Holly shivered in her damp jumper and stepped instinctively closer to the Aga. She looked out of the back door, leading to a big garden. She couldn’t help but admire the wildness of it, something that was only highlighted by the brewing storm outside: the way the wind battered the bare branches, the way the grass, long and overgrown, quivered in the unrelenting rain. But the wildness was also sad, somehow. Because it didn’t seem wild on purpose: like the front garden, it had signs of once having been lovingly tended.

‘It used to be a hobby of mine,’ Emma grunted, following the direction of Holly’s gaze and shoving a cup of steaming tea into her hands. Holly flicked a glance at Emma in question, and she elaborated. ‘My husband and I used to get out there together, sunhat and shovels and muddy knees and all. I tried to get my son into it, but he never quite got the green fingers. My grandson did, though. He and I . . .’ Her face tightened. ‘Well. I couldn’t face doing it, after I lost them both.’

Holly looked out again at the wild, abandoned garden and felt a lump swell in her throat. She blinked and looked down at her tea instead. ‘I have to say,’ she said, relieved to find her voice was steady, ‘I know nothing about gardening. I bought a tomato plant and tried to keep it alive in my bedroom while I was at university, but I failed.’

‘Love and time,’ Emma said simply.

‘I gave it love,’ Holly said, wrinkling her nose. And she had – she’d cried when she’d had to admit defeat and throw out the dead plant, even though Lily had laughed and said she was being silly.

Emma grunted, taking a sip of her Earl Grey. ‘And knowledge – each plant is different, needs different things. Some are stronger than others and do just fine, even if you make mistakes, and are best left mostly alone – get one of those next time. An aloe vera or a spider plant – they make good house plants.’

Maybe she would get one, Holly thought. She could call it Fred, have a little spider plant pet. She didn’t know what they looked like, but they sounded cute.

Emma took Holly through the living room, which smelled a little musty and had an old fireplace in the corner that looked barely used. There was a pile of newspapers on a glass coffee table in the centre of the room, one sofa, a faded red with a multicoloured blanket lying on top of it, and a single armchair. As with Holly’s flat, there was no sign of any Christmas decorations here.

Emma took a seat on the sofa, pulling the blanket up around her knees, so Holly went for the armchair, though she found herself sinking too deep into the squishy cushion and having to try to pull herself back upright, looking quite the fool.

Quiet descended on the room, so that the only sound was the wind howling, the rain battering the windows. The curtains had been drawn already, and the light was low – it would be homey, in another situation, but the awkwardness felt thick in the air and Holly cleared her throat to try to dissipate it. ‘So, umm, you live alone now then?’ She regretted it immediately – she already knew that – but she was floundering for small talk.

Emma gave Holly a wry look, as if she knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘No point looking all disgruntled, my girl,’ she said, confirming her mind-reading abilities. ‘You were the one who decided to act on the letter and lord only knows why. But yes, I live alone. I thought about getting a dog, but it felt cruel – what if the dog outlived me?’ She glanced at the mantel above the fireplace – at the photos there.

Holly followed her gaze. The first frame held a photo of Emma and a man that must have been her husband. It had a yellowing edge to it and had clearly been taken about forty years ago. In it, Emma was smiling – her hair was brunette with only the slightest tinge of grey and was more bouncing curls than lacklustre waves – but she had the same angular chin, the same turquoise eyes. Her husband looked softer – warm, brown eyes that crinkled in the corners, a deep tan giving him a weathered look, despite the fact he wasn’t old in the photo. The next one was of a man that Holly presumed must have been Emma’s son, standing alongside the husband, both of them with the same brown eyes, both smiling awkwardly into the camera. The last photo was Emma again – an older Emma but still clearly many years ago – with a small boy on her lap, around seven or eight, with curly brown hair, and the same brown eyes as the other two men, only deeper somehow. He was grinning a toothy grin, full of open, childhood innocence.

‘Three generations.’ This time, her voice wasn’t a snap. It was brittle, vulnerable. And it made Holly’s heart constrict. ‘All taken from me.’

Holly looked at Emma’s face, at the pain etched there, along with the lines of laughter and sadness, accumulated over the years. She wanted to reach out, lay a hand on Emma’s in comfort – but she suspected that would not go down well.

Emma shook her head. ‘And here I am, sounding bitter when I promised myself I wouldn’t spend whatever time I had left being so.’

‘Is that why you signed up to Dear Stranger?’ Holly asked tentatively.

‘No, I did that because my ridiculous neighbour forced me to. It’s easier just to say yes, to get her to go away.’

Holly hesitated. ‘Do you want to talk about it? About them?’

‘No, not really. Does no good to go over the past.’

Holly took a breath. ‘I was in a car crash a few years ago.’ She felt a need to explain, to give more of a reason as to why she’d showed up out of the blue. ‘I was driving.’ She usually left that part out, if she was ever forced to tell the story, but Emma’s frankness made it easier. ‘My sister miscarried as a result – and she hasn’t been able to get pregnant since.’