"Don't start now, Dennis. It's Christmas." Mum reached out and laid her hand on his arm. She was wearing all her rings, gold, sapphire and diamond.

"Aye, but it in't Christmas for them, is it?" said Dad, always the internationalist.

The Christmas lights on the tree winked on and off, competing with the turned-down TV in the corner, where King's College choirboys were soundlessly singing their heads off.

"What d'you think of this turkey breast?" asked Mum, changing the subject. "It were on special."

But Dad wasn't to be deflected.

"I'd sooner 'ave 'ad Tony Blair trussed up and roasted. Wi' all 'is gizzards in."

Mum leaned over to me and whispered loudly, "I don't know what it is, but Christmas always gets 'im gooin'."

As she said it, I had a sudden vivid image from another Christmas-it was long before the strike, I must have been about ten at the time, and Keir five. A group of carol singers had come to the door. They were kids from the local school. They rang on the doorbell, and when Dad answered it, they started to sing in their little squeaky voices: We three kings of Orient are We three kings of Orient are , , Bearing gifts we travel afar Bearing gifts we travel afar.

Dad stood patiently and waited for them to finish. When they got to the end of the second verse, they fell silent. Probably that was as much as they knew. Dad reached in his pocket and gave them some change. Then just as they were mumbling their thanks, he burst into song: The people's flag is deepest red The people's flag is deepest red , , It shrouded oft our martyred dead It shrouded oft our martyred dead...

His voice was deep and loud. Keir and I crept away and hid behind the sofa. The children stood there gawping. When he got on to the bit about the limbs growing stiff and cold, they suddenly turned and made a dash for it, and didn't look back until they'd got to the end of the street.

"What d'you do that for, Dennis?" Mum scolded.

"They should teach 'em in school," said Dad mildly. "Proper history, not fairy tales."

When we went back to school after the Christmas holidays, the kids were there waiting for me.

"Your dad's potty," they said.

"No 'e in't." I stood and faced them out. "It's because your singing were c.r.a.p."

I saw Dad wince now, as he shifted in his chair, and a stab of his pain got to me, too. Dear Dad-he'd never been afraid to jump in deep, and he'd always done what he thought was right, regardless of the consequences. I thought with a pang of sadness of Rip, Stella and Ben, spending their Christmas at Holtham without me. The food would be better, the gifts more extravagant, the decor subdued and tasteful. There would be no Santa slippers or reindeer antlers, no political arguments, no Highland-scene placemats or plastic tree with winking coloured lights. Stella would wallow in the Jacuzzi and flirt shamelessly with her grandpa. Ben would come back with some hi-tech gizmo for his computer, which he would discreetly hide in his bedroom so as not to upset me.

"Never mind, duck," said Mum, reading my face. "There's nowt like being wi' yer own family at Christmas."

We clinked our gla.s.ses together, Mum's filled with the last of the Country Manor, Dad's and mine with Old Peculiar. The mystery of the bread sauce was solved when Dad poured it over the Christmas pudding.

That night I lay awake in my old bed, listening to the voices in the next room. Mum had left a thick Danielle Steele out for me, but I couldn't get into it, my mind was wandering into the past, retracing the journey I'd made away from my family. It was books that had changed my life-had catapulted me out of the coal-smoke semis of Kippax into university and a wider world beyond. When the careers teacher at Garforth Comp had asked me what I wanted to do, I said I wanted to be a writer. "Writing's a great hobby," he'd sighed, like one who knew. "But you'll need a day job, too."

I took an English degree at Exeter, then a postgraduate course in journalism at the London College of Printing. I was the first in my family to go to university-I know it's a cliche now, but it wasn't a cliche for us. After a traineeship on the Dulwich Post Dulwich Post, I came back up to Yorkshire for a junior reporter's job on the Bradford Telegraph and Argus Bradford Telegraph and Argus, in order to be nearer to home. Then I got a lucky break on the Evening Post Evening Post in Leeds. Somewhere along the line, it happened so gradually that I didn't notice, I stopped talking Yorkshire and thinking Kippax. Nowadays you might just notice the flatness in my vowels when I say 'bath'; and marrying Gavin Connolly is no longer the pinnacle of my ambition. They didn't resent it. Mum kept a sc.r.a.pbook of news clippings with my byline, which she brought out on any excuse. They were proud of me, my mum and dad. in Leeds. Somewhere along the line, it happened so gradually that I didn't notice, I stopped talking Yorkshire and thinking Kippax. Nowadays you might just notice the flatness in my vowels when I say 'bath'; and marrying Gavin Connolly is no longer the pinnacle of my ambition. They didn't resent it. Mum kept a sc.r.a.pbook of news clippings with my byline, which she brought out on any excuse. They were proud of me, my mum and dad.

They'd made their own journeys, too. Dad had gone into the coal industry after the war, and when he'd had a pint or two he would wax lyrical over the post-war settlement, when the family, the community, the pit, the union, the government, the nation, the United Nations, had all flowed seamlessly one into the other. It had given him all he had, and he'd done his bit in return, studying at night school to get his deputy's ticket, reading his textbooks at the coal face by the light of his lamp, because it was his belief that he should use his abilities on behalf of those less able than himself. When Ledston Luck closed in 1986, along with 160 other pits that closed in the wake of the strike, men like my dad and my brother were thrown out of that embracing society into a different kind of world. 'Maggie's Britain', Dad called it, and he never said it without a sneer. It wasn't his country any more.

Keir-he was just twenty-one at the time-survived by finding himself a new family: the Royal Engineers filled the gap left by the pit and the NUM. There were postcards of Keir building bridges in exotic places surrounded by smiling dark-skinned children; Keir wearing civvies and drinking a beer against the backdrop of an awesome snow-capped mountain; Keir and his mates grinning under their helmets, posing beside a jeep in a desert somewhere. "Look where 'e is now, our lad," Mum would murmur, running her fingers over the glossy prints.

Dad was shifted to the Selby coalfield, and when that closed, too, he was still young enough to get the redundo, old enough to get a decent pension and free coal for life, and bolshie enough to take on the chairmanship of the local Labour Party. He dedicated his life to the overthrow of Maggie, and pursued it with the same dogged diligence as he'd once sniffed out the firedamp. He never quite forgave Keir for joining the army, nor me for marrying Rip, but he never gave up on us either, just as he never gave up on the Labour Party, even when Tony Blair turned out to be, as he called him, the mini-Maggie.

Mum, on the other hand, had blossomed during the eighties. She loved the shoulder pads and the jewellery. She loved gadding about on coaches during the strike, and shouting at the top of her voice. Afterwards, rather than accept defeat, she put her new-found organising skills to good use and enrolled in a night cla.s.s in Castleford to learn bookkeeping. Just as Dad was squaring up to retirement, Mum was opening the door on a new career, doing the books for Pete's Plaice, Annie's Antiques, Sparky Steve, All-night Abdul, Curl Up and Dye, and various other small businesses that came and went in the former pit villages. For the first time in her life she was financially independent. Then around the time Rip and I were splitting up, she started to lose the central vision in her left eye. It would be slow, the doctor said, but progressive.

Somewhere in the darkened house, a door clicked and a toilet flushed. It must be Dad, battling with his prostate as stubbornly as he'd once battled with global capitalism. Then there was a second flush and a sound of voices in the kitchen. The whistle of the kettle, the clink of cups. In the daytime, they'd put on a brave face for me, but at night all their worries crept back and beset them. They couldn't get to sleep, so they were having a cup of tea together. My mum and dad.

I lay there in the dark, listening to the murmur of their voices and thinking about Christmas. Really, when you consider, it's not a very nice story. Okay, a baby was born, and there were angels, and a star in the sky-that bit's not so bad-but what about poor Mary having to travel all that way on a donkey-in her condition? The three kings with their sinister gifts? Then the slaughter of the innocents? And that was just the beginning; after that, there were crucifixions, a resurrection-with Armageddon and the Second Coming still to look forward to.

My mind flashed to the conversation I'd had with Ben about Jesus and the end of the world, the look of fear in his eyes as he tried to rationalise the irrational. Yes, Christmas is a dangerous time, I thought. Sometimes it can be better just to stay at home until it all blows over.

20.

The festive season When I got back to London on the day after Boxing Day, Wonder Boy was waiting for me at the front door with a dead bird. I supposed it was his idea of a gift, so I let him into the kitchen and gave him a saucer of milk, even though I'd previously resolved not to encourage him. Well, it was Christmas. He thanked me by lifting his tail and spraying against the dishwasher. Thanks, Wonder Boy.

Ben wasn't going to be back for a few days. Even Adhesives Adhesives was having a break-the next issue wasn't due out until early March. Nathan phoned me to wish me a happy New Year and share a joke with me. was having a break-the next issue wasn't due out until early March. Nathan phoned me to wish me a happy New Year and share a joke with me.

"What beats glue when it comes to bonding?" he murmured in his conspiratorial voice.

"I don't know. Tell me."

"Hybrid bond. Glue and a screw. Geddit?" I imagined him with his white coat casually unb.u.t.toned, chuckling glueily at the end of the phone. After he'd hung up, the silence of the house closed in around me.

That first night at home, I tossed and turned in my half-empty double bed and wished I was back in my old room in Kippax with the TV on too loud and Mum and Dad making cups of tea in the middle of the night. Of course, I knew that if I'd been there I'd only be wishing I'd stayed here-it wasn't here, and it wasn't Kippax-the bug was inside me, gnawing away.

It's at moments like this that you seek consolation in literature. I made myself a cup of tea and reached for my exercise book.

The Splattered Heart

Chapter 5.

Christmas at Holty Towers was an orgy of gluttony and conspicuous consumption which Gina found dangerously tempting dangerously tempting absolutely disgusting. Mrs absolutely disgusting. Mrs Sinclair Sinclair Sinster gave Mr Sinster gave Mr Sinclair Sinclair Sinster a Sinster a yatch a private jet yatch a private jet a a Rolox watch a silver hip flask set of golf clubs, although he already had four sets Rolox watch a silver hip flask set of golf clubs, although he already had four sets, because he already also had everything else. because he already also had everything else.

Actually, let's face it, I have no idea what those sort of people would give each other. Although the Sinclairs weren't the super-rich Sinsters of The Splattered Heart The Splattered Heart, Ben and Stella were their only grandchildren, and they did tend to go overboard on the gifts at Christmas. Stella accepted everything with effusive thanks and, when she was old enough, wheedled the receipts out of the donors and took the items back to exchange for the things she really wanted. Ben accepted everything guiltily and donated the unwanted gifts to the Animal Sanctuary, where he'd developed a special relationship with a rescued donkey called Dusty. Ben and Stella; so dear, so different. I closed up my exercise book and lay quietly in the dark, calling up their faces into my mind, missing them.

The day before New Year's Eve, the phone rang at about five minutes to midnight. It hauled me up abruptly out of a deep groggy sleep. I fumbled for the receiver and the bedside light, and managed to knock my gla.s.s of water on the floor.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"It's me." The voice sounded m.u.f.fled and squeaky.

"Who's that?"

"It's me. Ben."

"Ben! Whatever's the matter? D'you know what time it is?"

"Mum, will you be in tomorrow? I'm coming home. I forgot my key."

His voice sounded unfamiliar-slightly croaky, with a touch of London that I hadn't noticed before.

"Of course. But I thought you were staying until after New Year."

"I was. But now I'm coming back tomorrow. The train gets in ten past three."

There was just the hint of a tremor as he spoke. If I hadn't been his mother, I wouldn't have noticed it.

"Do you want me to meet you at Paddington?"

"No, it's okay. I'll get the bus."

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"But why...?"

"I'll tell you when I see you."

Click.

After that, it was at least an hour before I could get back to sleep. Something must have happened, I thought. There must have been a row.

In fact it was about half past four by the time Ben got back next day. Either the train was late, or there'd been no bus. I found myself glancing at the clock, waiting with the same anxious eagerness as I'd once waited for Rip to come home after a business trip. Then the doorbell rang, and there he was, my boy, standing on the doorstep in the wintry dusk, with his bulging backpack and a carrier bag in each hand. My heart bounced with joy, even though it'd been only just over a week since we'd said goodbye.

"Hi, Muni."

"Hi, Ben."

He dumped his bags down in the hall and stood there, grinning stiffly with his arms by his sides while I hugged him, tolerating this embarra.s.sing ritual, but not actively taking part. He looked both thinner and taller, as if he'd sprouted up an inch or two in the last week. There was a shadow of a moustache on his upper lip. His hair had grown, too, and he had it tied up in a little red kerchief knotted behind his ears, pirate-style. This was new.

He'd only taken the backpack when he went away, so the extra stuff in the carrier bags must have been presents. There was even a present for me from the Sinclairs-an enormous box of Belgian chocolates, a bit similar to the one that I'd sent up for them, but bigger and more expensive.

"How was your Christmas?" I asked.

"Fine."

There was something scarily grown-up about the way that Ben had handled the separation between me and Rip; it filled me with admiration and awe. He never played us off against one another-he was fiercely loyal to both of us. But I was burning with spiteful not-grown-up curiosity to find out what had happened at Holtham at Christmas.

"So what made you come back early?" I said it very casually.

"Oh, I just got fed up."

I might have believed him and just left it at that, but I remembered the phone call, his trembling voice at two minutes to midnight. That was more than just fed up.

"And Stella? Was she there?"

"Yeah. But then she left. I think she went to stay with her boyfriend."

I'd sent a present for her, a hand-made silk shawl in different shades of rose-she would look lovely in it-it was her colour. I was hoping she'd ring, but all I'd got was a text message. Thanx mum great prezzy happy xmas c u soon x.x.x Thanx mum great prezzy happy xmas c u soon x.x.x.

Although I'd left him a message before Christmas, it wasn't until the morning of New Year's Eve that Mark Diabello phoned me back. I remembered I'd been trying to get to the bottom of Mrs Shapiro's turned-off water, and I was sure that either he or Nick Wolfe were responsible.

"Mrs Sinclair. What can I help you with? Did you see your aunty over Christmas?"

So, okay, I hadn't been quite truthful either.

"Look, Mr Diabello, I just want to know what's going on. You offer Mrs Shapiro half a million for her house. Then you up it to a million, just like that. Then your partner offers her two million."

There was only a second of hesitation.

"With a unique property like this, Mrs Sinclair, it's difficult to arrive at an accurate evaluation, because there's nothing out there on the market to compare it with. At the end of the day, the market value is-how can I put it?-whatever the highest bidder will pay. That's why I suggest we float it on the market and see what offers come in. Does that make sense?"

Actually, it sounded pretty plausible.

"Then he goes round in the middle of the night and turns the stopc.o.c.k off."

"Nick did that?"

"I'm sure it was him. He'd been round there the same morning, plying Mrs Shapiro with sherry."

A pause.

"I don't think you should jump to any conclusions, Mrs Sinclair. Do you mind if I call you Georgina?"

Did I mind? Didn't I mind? I couldn't hear myself think above the chatter of my hormones.

"I'll have a word with him if you like. Sometimes he...he does get a bit carried away. He falls for a property, and he forgets that it belongs to somebody else." He hesitated. His voice changed. "You know, this may surprise you, Georgina, but being an estate agent is a labour of love. You go into this game because you're pa.s.sionate about property. The elegant terraces, the cosy cottages, the grand mansions, and the stylish apartments-each property is a life to be lived-a dream come true for someone. Our job is to match the dream to the property."

"So now you deal in dreams?" I was trying to sound hard-headed, but as he spoke, I was thinking, there's something exciting about black treacle-it's subtler, more complex than bland sugary golden syrup.

"We try to make dreams come true, Mrs Sinclair." There was a breath like a sigh on the other end of the phone. "But you spend most of your time flogging ex-council maisonettes to people who dreamed of something better, and converted buy-to-lets to amateur landlords who want to make a quick buck. Your pa.s.sion goes cold; you just keep doing it for the money. Then once in a while something really special comes along, something you can lose your heart to. And your brains. Like Canaan House."

Like I said, I'm not a woman who automatically thinks of s.e.x when she talks to a man, but Mr Wolfe seemed to have started a trend, and I found myself wondering what it would be like with Mr Diabello. And, mmm, I have to say, it was quite a lot nicer. But-I shushed my boy-racer hormones-he was was still an estate agent, and probably a crook. still an estate agent, and probably a crook.

"It's not a property-it's a home. It's not for sale," I snapped.