On Christmas Eve, Makena came downstairs to find Ray sitting on the sofa beneath a pile of blankets. He was eating Marmite toast and watching a documentary about penguins in the Antarctic. Though as gaunt and grizzled as a scarecrow, he had more colour in his cheeks.
A smile flitted across his lips when he saw Makena. He seemed on the verge of speaking, but Helen walked in and he turned his attention to the screen.
That day was one of the loveliest Makena could remember. A friend of Ray’s came to keep an eye on him for a few hours and she and Helen went to the Glencoe Café near Loch Leven. There was a life-sized reindeer made of willow on the doorstep. Makena ordered a hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and pink marshmallows. The waitress who brought it was wearing a Santa hat.
The main street bustled with thirty or so people doing last-minute shopping. Helen described it as ‘packed’. For the first few days in Scotland Makena had wondered where everyone was. The Highlands seemed virtually uninhabited. Then she figured it out. The perishing cold discouraged visitors.
Makena found Glencoe charming but not nearly as interesting as The Three Sisters, Devil’s Staircase and Buachaille Etive Mor and Buachaille Etive Beag. Those were the mountains that gave Glencoe its frontier-town atmosphere.
Ben Nevis, Britain’s tallest mountain, was only one thousand three hundred and forty-six metres, less than a third of the size of Mount Kenya. But what the mountains of Scotland lacked in height, they made up for in wind-blasted ruggedness. The wildness of the crags and clouds that sent dragon-shadows swooping across the village set Makena’s skin tingling. She was forced to revise her opinion of Ray. If he’d been a guide here, he must once have been tough.
That afternoon, she helped Helen bake mince pies. They ate them warm and smothered with cream in front of the fire. Somehow the fact that the wind was howling outside made them extra scrumptious.
When night drew in, Helen and Makena took turns at reading The Velveteen Rabbit out loud. Ray had recovered enough to sit whittling away at a block of wood with a small knife. Gradually, a pair of pointy ears emerged. Makena was startled to realise that he was the artist behind the exquisite animal carvings dotted around the cottage.
‘First time I’ve seen him work with wood since Mum died,’ confided Helen, relief mingling with sorrow in her voice.
Worryingly, Ray was still weak and coughing. They looked up from a passage in the book to find he’d slipped off to bed. Makena was weary too. The fox cubs were divine but the lack of sleep was catching up with her.
Before going up to her room, she went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. The Christmas tree twinkled contentedly in the conservatory. Makena wished her mama could have been there to see it. She’d always adored Christmas. The spruce’s luxuriant lower branches curled around a pile of presents tied with gold, pink and red ribbons and bows.
Guilt thwacked her over the head. What was wrong with her? Was she so faithless that she’d already forgotten that her parents, Aunt Mary and her best friend were gone and did not have the luxury of enjoying Christmas?
She glared at the tree. It was still missing an angel.