grated apple as it simmered on the back of the hob. ‘But I thought, you know, Toby’s first Christmas . . . And it’s not
even two weeks since she gave birth. Wouldn’t you think tha—’
‘Darling.’ Duncan cut the potato he’d just peeled into four. ‘They’ll be here soon and they’re staying until tomorrow night. Can’t we just enjoy having
them? They were only at Marcus’s mum and dad’s for a couple of hours, so I think we got the better deal, don’t you?’
‘I know, but—’
‘Oh, come on. You’re not saying you’d rather have had them here for Christmas lunch than staying overnight?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ I sighed. ‘I’m just a bit worried about her, that’s all. I get the feeling something’s not right. Do you know what I mean?’
‘She was a bit quiet when I saw her, but that was just after she’d had him. And when you think of what she’s been through . . .’ He paused and looked up at me, his eyes
suddenly dark with concern. ‘Do you really think there’s something wrong? Seeing the look on his face reminded me of how much Duncan cared for Hannah. He loved her, as he promised he
would, as though she were his own child. I sighed. ‘Probably not. I expect I’m worrying over nothing.’ I kissed the top of his head. ‘Sorry.’
*
It was what had really sealed our relationship. I could never have made a life with someone who didn’t love my Hannah as his own. The first Christmas we spent together,
I’d been worried how a man who wasn’t used to children would cope with a seven-year-old waking him up at four in the morning to show him the presents he’d already seen and had
helped to wrap the night before. But he was enchanted, and he took the whole business very seriously, even suggesting we hire a Santa costume in case she woke up and saw me filling her
stocking.
On Christmas Eve, we found Hannah a pair of stretchy old boot-socks so she could hang one at the end of her bed while I smuggled the other into the living room. We stuffed the spare sock with
tiny gifts, chocolate coins, pink-and-white sugar mice, shiny pennies and a satsuma until it bulged and rustled tantalisingly, then we crept into her room together to swap it for its limp, empty
partner. ‘I love Christmas Eve,’ Duncan had whispered. ‘Do you remember waking up and feeling the weight of that knobbly stocking on your feet and thinking,
he’s
been!’
I did remember, but for me, those happy Christmases had come to an end too soon. ‘Hey, look at this.’ Duncan stooped to pick up an envelope that had slid off the bed
and onto the floor. ‘I didn’t know she’d written to Santa.’
‘Neither did I.’ We took the letter, along with the mince pie, the glass of sherry and the carrot for the reindeer, into the sitting room. All around the edge of the page, Hannah had
drawn bauble-bedecked Christmas trees, holly, and twinkling stars.
Dear Father Christmas, if you are real, please wake me up when you come to my house. If you do not wake me up, I will not
believe in you. Your friend Hannah Matthews. PS. I hope you are well and I hope you have a happy Christmas.
And then she’d added several lines of kisses. ‘Oh my God,’ I
laughed. ‘I can’t believe this – my daughter is blackmailing Father Christmas!’
Duncan smiled. ‘Clever! But do you notice, she hasn’t actually asked for anything, just wished him a happy Christmas.’ He put his arm round me and kissed me on the nose.
‘What a very nice, well-brought-up little girl.’
We had a lovely time that year. Duncan loved putting up the fairy lights, decorating the tree, and reading
The Night Before Christmas
to Hannah on Christmas Eve. ‘It’s like
being a kid again,’ he said. ‘It’s magical.’
‘It’s what a child’s Christmas should be.’
I still played Santa right up until Hannah went to university; it was a bit of a joke by then and it was one gift instead of a filled stocking, but I’d wanted to keep
David Sherman & Dan Cragg