She stared in amazement, opened her mouth to say something, caught my eye, and changed her mind. Her ladle dripped, unheeded, onto her spotless kitchen floor. At the other end of the kitchen table, Kevin and Sharon were still grappling with the dimension-defying chaotic tangle that our Christmas lights and tinsel together had somehow managed to achieve during the eleven and a half months they’d been stored under the stairs. They also stared at him. In the silence, we could clearly hear the cat snoring, belly-up in front of the range. In deference to the vicar’s religious sensibilities, Mrs Crisp had covered certain areas with a strategic tea towel. Nobody spoke and I realised, with no sense of surprise, that it was up to me again. These days, I’m almost completely OK with talking. There’s just a slight stutter every now and then, especially if I’m tired or upset. Today, it was surprise that tripped me up. ‘I’m … sorry, Mr Wivenhoe, you want to … borrow our donkey?’ He put down his mug and smiled at me, wispy white hair curling around his head, beaming like a cherub.
