Katie Oliver - Christmas At Pemberley

‘Alanna was all I had,’ he rasped. ‘She was mine, Helen. My everything. I never had a proper family growing up, no one to give a shit whether I lived or died. Alanna was my one true friend, my wife, my rock – my home. She was so excited to have our baby. She had so many plans for the cottage, for the nursery. But because of me, because I fell asleep ,’ he spat the word out ‘it all came to naught.’

‘You were exhausted,’ she reminded him, her words gentle. ‘You were working extra hours so you could provide for your family. You did it because you loved them.’

Helen stroked his hair, so soft and thick, and murmured meaningless words of comfort – meaningless, because really, what words could mitigate the pain and emptiness of losing someone you loved? – until Colm’s shoulders stopped heaving, until his grief and anger and pain eased.

‘I didn’t go anywhere for days, weeks afterwards,’ he said dully. ‘Just sat in our flat and drank and slept and stared at the walls. Finally, when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I gathered up the baby’s things – the tiny clothes and the shoes and rattles and suchlike. I couldn’t bear to look at it...any of it. I threw it all in a couple of bin bags and left it on the church steps.’

‘I know how much that must’ve hurt.’

He lifted his head and saw the sadness in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, lass,’ he said softly. ‘I dinnae mean to burden you with my troubles. Or to remind ye of your own.’

In answer, she managed a smile. ‘We’re a pair, aren’t we? “Colm and Helen’s Lonely Hearts Club”.’ Her smile faltered. ‘Tell me, Colm ‒ why is life so unfair? Why do some people sail through it without a hitch, and others – like us – suffer such awful tragedies? Why?’

He pulled her down beside him and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t know, lass. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.’ He paused. ‘But I know this ‒ I’m glad you’re here.’

She lifted her head to look at him quizzically. ‘Really? I thought you despised me.’ She gave him a watery smile. ‘“Ye daft Sassenach”,’ she mimicked.

‘You are a daft Sassenach,’ he retorted, ‘sometimes.’ His voice softened. ‘But you have one redeeming quality. Well...two, actually.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘You make a decent pot of tea. And you put up with myself.’

Later, when the fire had died down to embers and it was fully dark outside, Helen’s eyes drifted open. She and Colm had fallen asleep on the floor, sprawled together in each other’s arms. His breathing was regular, his heart beating steadily against her ear. He smelt of wood smoke and, faintly, of damp wool.

‘I love you, Colm MacKenzie,’ she whispered against his chest. ‘You daft Scotsman.’

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