November

 

 

Grandpa brings us back from Dad’s. All the way back, I expect Grandma to be angry with us and I think Grandpa does too, because he says, “It wasn’t their fault, Edie,” almost as soon as we come through the door.

Grandma runs her hand through her hair.

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” she says grimly. Then she sees Hannah’s face. “Oh, come on, Miss,” she says. “Looks like we’ve got you for a while longer. Let’s see if we can keep the new kitchen set in one piece, eh?”

 

But Hannah doesn’t smash anything else.

It’s November now and the nights are drawing in. Every day it’s getting darker. If my man’s right, that means the Holly King’s getting stronger. Since we came back from Dad’s, everything has been heavier and duller. Even the sky is heavy – grey clouds, with grey sky behind them.

Dad only comes to visit us twice in all of November. He doesn’t stay in the house long – I think he’s frightened of what Grandma might say to him. They’ve hardly spoken since our weekend at home. He doesn’t take us anywhere interesting instead, though. We go and have fish and chips by the sea in Alnmouth once and we go for a walk round the village the other time – the same boring walk we always do when we come to Grandma and Grandpa’s.

Hannah doesn’t fight and she doesn’t break anything, but she droops. When Dad talks to her, she pulls away. Twice, when we’re out together, she starts crying for no reason at all.

I don’t cry. I haven’t forgiven Dad either, but I can’t say so. Not after what happened last time, I can’t. Dads are supposed to love you whatever you do, but maybe that bit of Dad has broken, if he can send us back here after one fight. What if one day we fight and he just runs to our house in Newcastle and never comes back home?

I start to dream about the Holly King. He’s snuffling round the house at night. He’s bringing the winter. He sends icicles down the chimney and frost creeping up the walls of the house. He blows through the cracks in the doors and taps on the glass of my window. He’s trying to get in.

I read a lot. I finish all the Secret Seven books and start on a series about mysteries. Grandma complains about how much it’s costing her to order them all for me and aren’t there enough books in the library already? But I’ve read all the Enid Blytons and Jacqueline Wilsons in Hexham Library, so what am I supposed to do? I help Grandpa in the shop.

I get very slightly taller.

December comes.