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She exhaled quietly with relief.
‘That probably would be better.’
Was it her imagination, or did Barbara’s smile suddenly seem brighter? Wider?
‘That will do just fine,’ Barbara approved, leading her over to where a young girl sat, with a unicorn T-shirt and pink jeans, her hair plaited exceptionally neatly either side of her head.
‘Libby, I’ve got another set of helping hands. This is Anouk. You remember Izzy and Katie mentioned her.’
A six-year-old girl glanced up with a wide, toothy smile.
‘And Sol talked about her, too,’ she added. ‘You’re just in time to help me decorate the next lot of faces to stick on the goodie bags. Can you bring those cotton-wool balls over there for the beard? I’ve got the googly eyes but we’ll cut little red hats out of the felt and use a mini pom-pom for the bobble.’
Before she knew it, Barbara had gone, leaving Libby and Anouk alone. Not that it seemed to matter since Libby was quite happy to take charge.
‘What if you cut the felt hats and I’ll stick them on?’ Libby suggested. ‘Wait, no, not like that. Like this. Let me show you.’
Quickly, efficiently, Libby demonstrated what she wanted, talking Anouk through each step, not that it seemed particularly complicated. Yet the way the girl approached the crafting task with such meticulousness and attention to detail, in a way that was common in six-year-olds, reminded her of Libby’s experience as a young carer.
Her chest kicked. It was an unexpected reminder of her own childhood, when she had organised her mother with care and discipline as though she were Annalise Hartwood’s personal assistant rather than her daughter.
And verbal punching bag, of course.
Her brain skittered away from the unwanted memories.
‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ Anouk asked milliseconds before it occurred to her that it might not be the most appropriate question for someone like Libby.
For a moment, the little girl looked thoughtful and then, to Anouk’s relief, she managed a slow bob of her head. Anouk hadn’t realised she’d been holding her breath until that moment.
‘Yes, I think so. It’s a lot better now that I have this place to come to.’
‘Right,’ Anouk agreed, swallowing quickly. ‘And these are for the Christmas Fayre?’
‘Yep, it’s a lot of fun. There are stalls and fairground games, and Sol and Malachi usually arrange something special. Like, one year it was an ice rink, and another it was fairground rides. It can be a chance for the centre to get out into the community and show them that we’re good kids.’
‘I understand.’ Anouk bobbed her head, carefully concealing her surprise.
The maturity with which Libby spoke belied her six years. But then, that was likely a result of being a child carer for her parent. It was testament to her resilience how this little girl could talk so eloquently one moment, and be excited about making Father Christmas faces to stick on paper bags of stocking fillers.
‘Plus, we raise money to help keep the centre running,’ she added proudly. ‘And to buy new pieces for our Christmas village scene.’
Anouk wasn’t quite sure what that was, but before she could ask Libby was reaching for a small box beside her to lift up a handful of faces from Santa to Rudolph, and from elves to gingerbread men.
‘I made these already.’
‘They’re amazing.’
Libby beamed, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
‘And, don’t tell the younger girls, but I know that Father Christmas isn’t real.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Anouk asked carefully. Most six-year-olds she knew still believed.
Libby shot her a cynical smile.
‘Please. I know he isn’t. Last year, when I was five, we went shopping together and Mummy bought me presents without me knowing. But over Christmas she got unwell again and couldn’t get out of bed without my help so she couldn’t put them out overnight. She tried to pretend that Father Christmas had got lost and left them under her bed by mistake.’
‘That’s entirely possible,’ Anouk replied steadily, her eyes deliberately focussed on her task.
