cold and dark. As she opened the door her eyes blinked with the sudden blaze of light and rush of warmth. Margaret’s mother was sitting by the kitchen table. She rose as Margaret entered.
“Warmed cider and mince pies, like we used to do.” She nudged a plate towards her daughter. “I killed the hen,” and she nodded towards the larder. Then her eyes lighted over Margaret’s shoulder.
“Mother this is Johnnie Wilde, an old friend of Jack’s from the army.”
As her mother rushed forward to take Johnnie’s hand her eyes lit up in a way Margaret hadn’t seen for too long.
“You knew my Jack?”
“I did. He said, when I left the army, I was to come for Christmas. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”
Margaret let her mother lead him to the table and force mince pies upon him. She went to the window and looked up at the stars, choosing the brightest one to pinch her fingers around as Samson danced purring between her legs.
“You bloody bugger Jack,” she muttered under her breath to the sky, “he’ll do.” She said with a quick backwards glance to the table where her mother and Johnnie were animatedly talking over warmed cider, “Yes, he’ll do.”
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