Annie was thrilled with her new angel, but the little doll wasn’t happy at all.

Annie’s Angel

Annie’s tummy bubbled and fizzed with Christmas fever as she stood behind the thick living room curtains, watching her father struggle through the snow with an enormous tree under one arm and a long red box under the other.

‘Oooh, I can’t wait,’ she whispered, and her breath made little patches of mist on the glass as she hopped from one foot to the other. Each day was more thrilling than the last as Christmas approached. There were cakes to ice, puddings to stir and presents to wrap, and Annie had a special job that nobody else could do.

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Who can you turn to when the law is on the wrong side?

Footprints

I haven’t done this for a long time. Not since Ma died. She got upset so I promised not to do it again, but she’s gone now. What she can’t see won’t hurt her and I’ll be really careful. This time no one will know except me.

I’ve been watching the house from my room across the road. I’ve seen them come and go, the tall girl with bouncy red curls like shiny new chestnuts, the smaller one with long golden hair and a coat that almost touches the ground and the tiny little guy who looks like one of Ma’s garden gnomes, but without the fishing rod.

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Trapped in a difficult marriage, Dilly turns to systems for comfort. A new friendship helps to rebuild her confidence and changes the course of her life.

Never Too Late

“Anally retentive indeed!” She grabbed the wrong sort of clothes peg in her fury. “Who does he think he’s calling anally retentive?”

Dilly wasn’t exactly sure what it meant, but she knew it wasn’t a compliment.

She jammed the peg down onto the shoulder of Ray’s vest as if she were plunging it into his flesh.

She replayed his voice in her head, picturing his sly sideways look and that nasty twitch of a smile. “I only did it to help.”

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What right did I have to my daughter’s forgiveness? As the seventh Christmas without her approached, at least I still had a loving son. But did I deserve him?

The Seventh Christmas

My daughter’s Christmas card has pride of place in the centre of the mantelpiece, surrounded by a sumptuous fir and pine cone garland. I pick it up for the umpteenth time today and study the picture for a hidden message; something only I might see. It’s a photograph of a robin standing on the handle of a snow-topped shovel. She knows I’m fond of robins. Is it a sign that she’s softening towards me? My heart flutters and I take a deep breath. I open the card and run my fingers lightly over the signature. I close my eyes, the better to concentrate, half-believing that the ink will rise beneath my touch, and I will conjure a living image of my beautiful girl.

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