Free The Magic of Christmas by Trisha Ashley Page A

this helium-filled thing bobbing about on a string — or that’s what it felt like, anyway — but there’s no accounting for dreams.
    And Tom, apart from his thin, handsome face being a whiter shade of pale, looked absolutely fine. He was always one to land butter-side up …
    ‘Is this your husband?’ the policewoman asked formally.
    ‘Yes — Thomas Pharamond. Are you
sure
he’s dead? Only he looks just like he did when he was playing Lazarus.’
    She gave me a strange look, but assured me that Tom had broken his neck in a very final manner. Then she offered me yet another cup of tea, which I didn’t want, and took me home again, sitting beside me in the back seat while the adolescent did the driving. He feasted on his fingernails at every red light and I don’t know why, but it suddenly reminded me of the stewed apple with little sharp crescents of core snippings that they used to give us at school for pudding.
    The policewoman whiled away the journey by telling me that they thought the car (
my
car, which was now a write-off) had been at the bottom of the quarry for a few hours before it was found, and he must have died instantly, but I expect they say that every time. There would have to be a post-mortem examination, and probably an inquest. I
think
she said there would be an inquest. I wasn’t taking it all in, because of course it wasn’t real.
    When we got to Perseverance Cottage, she asked if there was someone who could stay with me.
    ‘Oh, yes — I’ll phone the family right now,’ I assured her, suddenly desperate to get rid of her. ‘Thank you for … for — well, thank you, Officer. I’ll be fine.’
    She looked a bit dubious, but drove off leaving me to it, and I thankfully closed the front door and leaned against it: that seemed solid enough. So did the cold quarry tiles beneath my feet when I kicked my sandals off …
    It began slowly to dawn on me that this really was happening and Tom was actually dead! In which case, I could only be glad that Jasper was at his dig, since I’m sure he would have insisted on coming with me to identify Tom, though actually his face had looked peaceful enough, if vaguely surprised by the turn of events. I felt a sudden pang of guilt, remembering how glad I had been that it was Tom who had died and not Jasper.
    But now I’d have to break the news to him about his father … and to Unks and Mimi and Tom’s mother out in Argentina …
    Stiffening my trembling legs I tottered into the sitting room and dialled the Hall, getting Uncle Roly.
    I don’t think I was the mistress of either tact or coherence by this stage, but he took the news well, if quietly, and offered to phone Tom’s mother and stepfather in Argentina himself, which was a huge relief. Then he said he would also try and contact Nick, still off touring the eateries of the rural North-West.
    ‘And Jasper?’ he asked. ‘I take it he is at the dig, and doesn’t know?’
    ‘Yes, and I think I’ll just wait for him to come home before I tell him,’ I decided, for why rush to give him the bad news? ‘Anyway, Tom was driving my car — his van broke down — so I haven’t got any transport.’
    When I phoned Annie she was out and the message I left was probably unintelligible.
    Roly thoughtfully called in later in the Daimler to say Joe Gumball was driving him over to the dig to collect Jasper and he could break the news to him on the way home, if I wanted.
    ‘Oh, Unks, you are kind!’ I said, gratefully. ‘But it must be just as hard for you. You don’t have to do it.’
    ‘My dear, having lived through the war, I’m inured to breaking bad news.’
    I offered him some of the damson gin I’d been drinking to try to dispel that feeling of being underwater with my eardrums straining, but which had just seemed to make everything more unbelievably bizarre, and said anxiously, ‘I can’t believe Tom isn’t going to walk back in through that door at any moment, the way he always turned up