A Little Christmas Magic

by Alison Roberts

  That last addition of the grandmother to the interview panel was the one that made her a little uneasy. Her imagination could conjure up a fierce, elderly Scot with no trouble at all. Short and wiry, with a hairnet keeping the corrugated-iron waves of her hair in place and a disapproving glare that would miss nothing remotely unsuitable about an applicant.

  She’d be the one to convince.

  Emma rested her head back on the faded seat and watched green hills and paddocks and the occasional river drift past. Beautiful country. A long, long way from London and big hospitals and fear of what the new year might bring.

  She couldn’t go back.

  She had to get this job. It would be a reprieve from the fear. Time out. A family to spend Christmas with even, and wouldn’t that be magic?

  A touch to her hair reassured her that the unruly curls were suitably restrained. How good was it that her hair had grown back so enthusiastically after all the chemo? It would have been better to have had the time to buy some new clothes, though. She didn’t have a skirt or dress to her name and, having lost so much weight, she was swimming in her jeans and pullover. Hardly the outfit to make much of an impression with but it was personality that mattered, wasn’t it?

  And this Dr McAllister sounded perfectly nice, with his deep voice and broad Scottish accent. A bit brusque maybe. Possibly a little terse after she’d replayed the conversation in her head a few times but he’d definitely sounded keen.

  Almost … desperate?

  Maybe the children were little monsters that ate nannies for breakfast and the granny would be glaring at her from a corner and constantly criticising her every move. And the doctor would take one look at her and ask what on earth she was thinking—that she could look after his precious children when it was obvious how sick she was herself?

  No. Emma slammed a mental door shut on her unfortunately vivid imagination.

  Fate was bringing her here. It had been the first advertisement she’d seen and, when she’d rung, the phone had been answered virtually on the first ring. She hadn’t even had to queue for a train ticket. It felt like it was meant to happen.

  She needed a bit of faith, that was all. Hardly surprising that that particular mental resource was somewhat depleted at the moment but it felt good to scrape a bit up and hang onto it.

  Very good indeed.

  It felt remarkably like hope.

  The village was every bit as pretty as she had imagined with stone buildings and cobbled streets. Not that Emma had time to admire more than a passing impression because the train had been a bit late and now she had to hurry. That it was much darker for the time of day and probably a lot colder than London didn’t seem to matter when the brightly lit shop windows revealed colourful decorations already in place.

  She found herself smiling when she hurried past a pub called simply The Inn, which had sprigs of holly on the door framing a handwritten sign that said, ‘There’s plenty of room.’ Maybe the innkeeper with the sense of humour was one of the group of people under the streetlamps, installing a massive Christmas tree in the village square that needed men with ropes and a lot of shouting in a brogue so thick it sounded like a foreign language.

  Her heart sank, however, when she entered the medical centre and the grandmother of her imagination fixed her with a look that could probably strip paint.

  ‘D’ye have an appointment? The doctor’s no’ got time for extras unless it’s an emergency. Clinic hours are over.’

  The bell on the door behind Emma clanged again before the grandmother had finished speaking and her attempt to decipher more than half the words she had just heard was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

  ‘I’ll take care o’ this, Eileen. We’re expecting Emma.’

  Her jaw dropping, Emma turned to face an elegantly dressed and very beautiful older woman, who was smiling warmly. ‘I take it you are Emma?’

  ‘Um … yes. And you’re …?’

  ‘Catherine McAllister. Adam’s mother.’ She looked past Emma’s shoulder. ‘Is Adam in, Eileen?’

  ‘Aye. The wee bairns as well.’ The sniff was disapproving. ‘I’ve told the doctor it’s no’ a good idea, having bairns in there. They’ll break something. Or—’

  ‘Why don’t you head off early, Eileen?’ Catherine was still smiling. ‘I know how busy you must be at the moment. Isn’t there a choir practice this evening?’

  ‘Aye … well, if you’re sure, Mrs McAllister.’

  ‘I’m just sorry I won’t be here to hear all the Christmas carols.’

  ‘It’s tomorrow you leave, aye?’

  ‘Mmm. I hope so.’ She turned back to Emma. ‘Adam’s sister is having her first baby. In Canada.’

  ‘Oh … how exciting.’ Emma couldn’t miss the play of emotion on the older woman’s face. ‘She’ll be so happy to have you there. I … I lost my mum last year and I miss her all the time but that’s when I’ll miss her the most, I think.’

  When she had a baby? If she ever had a baby would be more truthful. But she’d said too much already, hadn’t she? Maybe revealed too much as well, judging by the searching look she was getting. Emma bit her lip but Catherine was smiling. Her eyes were full of sympathy and the touch on Emma’s arm was more like a reassuring squeeze.

  ‘Come with me, Emma. We’ll go and find that son of mine.’

  Could she leave her backpack and guitar in the waiting room? About to step away, Emma caught another glare from Eileen that was punctuated by another eloquent sniff. Hastily, she picked up her luggage and followed Catherine across the waiting room and through another door. She was still trying to readjust her mental image of the children’s grandmother and, because she wasn’t watching, the guitar was at enough of a sideways angle to catch on the door in front of her so she almost fell into what was obviously a consulting room.

  The man, who had one hip perched on the edge of a large wooden desk, jerked his head in her direction. The two children, who were on the floor in the middle of a game that involved a stethoscope and bandages, looked up and froze.

  There was an awkward silence and Emma could feel herself blushing furiously as she manoeuvred herself into the room. What had possessed her to bring such an unwieldy extra piece of luggage, anyway? Did she think she might go busking in Braeburn’s village square if she didn’t land this gig of being a nanny?

  What made it so much worse was that the doctor who’d sounded nice but brusque on the phone was just as different from what she’d imagined as the grandmother had been. The fuzzy image of a plump and fatherly country GP had just been bombed. Adam McAllister was tall and fit. More than fit. With his jet-black hair, olive skin and sharply defined angles of his face, he was probably one of the best-looking men Emma had ever seen.

  Except that he was scowling. While his mother had surprised her by being so unexpectedly nice, the pendulum had swung in the opposite direction now. Adam McAllister looked uncompromising. Fierce. Angry even?

  At her?

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, the words rushing out. ‘The train was … it was …’ Oh, help. He was looking at her as if he knew. Had he somehow managed to access her medical records or something?

  ‘The train’s always late.’ Catherine was pulling out a chair. She smiled down at the children. ‘What’s happened here? Has Poppy broken her leg again, Ollie?’

  ‘Aye. I’m fixing her.’ But the small boy’s attention was diverted now. ‘Who are you?’ he asked Emma. ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I’m Emma. And this is my guitar case.’

  ‘I want to see.’

  ‘Maybe later.’ Adam McAllister’s offer did not sound promising. ‘Your gran’s going to take you to see the tree going up in a minute. And then you’re going home for your supper.’

  ‘After some proper introductions,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘Emma—this is Oliver and this is Poppy. Ollie and Poppy—this is Emma … Sinclair?’

  ‘Miss Sinclair,’ Adam corrected.

  ‘Emma’s fin
e,’ said Emma. ‘Hello, Poppy and Ollie. You’re twins, aren’t you?’

  They stared at her. They had brown eyes like their father but their hair was much lighter. Poppy still had golden streaks in her long braids. She also had something clutched in her hand.

  ‘Is that Barbie?’

  Poppy nodded. ‘She’s got a pony,’ she offered. ‘At home.’

  ‘Lucky Barbie. I love ponies.’

  ‘I’ve got a pony, too.’

  ‘Jemima’s not a pony,’ Oliver said. ‘She’s a donkey.’

  Emma blinked. Catherine laughed. ‘Adam probably didn’t say much on the phone,’ she said, ‘but there are a few pets at home. Do you like animals?’

  ‘Yes. I had a job in a pet shop once. We had lots of puppies and kittens and rabbits. Oh, and hamsters and mice and rats, too.’

  Poppy’s eyes were round. ‘I love puppies. And kittens.’

  ‘I love rats,’ Oliver said. ‘Can I have a rat, Daddy?’

  ‘We’ve probably got some out in the barn.’

  ‘I want one for a pet. Inside.’

  ‘No.’ The word was almost a sigh. ‘You can’t have a rat, Ollie.’

  ‘But why not?’ With a bandage unfurling in his hand to roll across the floor, Oliver scrambled to his feet. ‘You said I could tell you what I wanted most for Christmas. And I want a rat.’

  ‘They smell bad.’ Emma had been the cause of what was becoming a family disagreement. She needed to do something. ‘And they’ve got long tails that are all bald and pink and … icky.’

  ‘Icky?’ Adam was looking at her as if she was suddenly speaking Swahili.

  ‘Icky,’ Poppy repeated. She giggled. ‘Icky, icky, icky.’

  ‘You’re icky,’ Oliver told her.

  ‘No. You are.’

  ‘Time to go,’ Catherine decreed. ‘You’ve met Emma and she’s met you. Now it’s time for her to talk to Daddy.’

  In the flurry of putting on coats and hats and gathering schoolbags, Catherine found time to squeeze Emma’s hand.

  ‘I do hope you’ll still be here when I get back,’ she said softly. ‘I’d like the chance to get to know you better.’

  She managed to say something to Adam as well, just before she ushered the children out of the room. Emma couldn’t hear what she said but, as she sank into the chair as the door closed behind Catherine, he was still scowling at her.

  Strength. That was what he needed.

  This was his one shot at finding the help he needed so that his mother would not cancel her trip to Canada and this young woman was clearly … He closed his eyes for as long as it took to draw in a new breath. A complete flake?

  She looked like a refugee from the sixties or something, carrying a guitar and a backpack. So pale he could almost count the freckles scattered over her nose and she was thin enough to have a waif-like air that probably made her look a lot younger than she was. And what was it with those oversized clothes? It reminded him of when Poppy clopped around the house with her feet in a pair of her grandmother’s high-heeled shoes and a dress that was trailing around her ankles.

  She was so obviously unsuitable that it was deeply disappointing. He’d have to go through the motions of an interview, though—if only to have ammunition for the argument he’d have to have with his mother later. Her whispered impression had been very succinct.

  She’s lovely. Give her the job, Adam.

  How had this musically inclined waif managed to impress Catherine so much in such a short time?

  ‘So …’ He did his best to summon a smile. ‘You’re fond of animals, then?’

  ‘Mmm.’ She was smiling back at him. She had blue eyes, he noted. And brown curls that had a reddish glint where the light caught them. ‘I am.’

  ‘And children?’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I like children, too.’

  ‘Do you have any experience with them?’

  ‘I’ve taught music classes. And … and I had a job working with children over a Christmas period a while back. I loved it.’

  Because she’d never quite grown up herself? How many adults would use a word like ‘icky’ with such relish?

  ‘But you’ve never been a nanny?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any younger brothers or sisters? Friends who have small children?’

  ‘N-no.’ The smile was fading now.

  ‘Do you have a full driver’s licence?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a motorbike licence, too.’

  The image of this child-woman astride a powerful two-wheeled machine was disconcerting.

  ‘I’ve even got a heavy-vehicle licence. I had a job driving a bus once.’

  Maybe that image was even more of a worry. How had she had the strength to even turn such a large wheel? Or was it the overlarge sleeves on her pullover that made her arms look so frail?

  ‘Can you cook?’

  ‘Well … I did have a job in a restaurant once. I—’

  But Adam was shaking his head. ‘How old are you, Emma?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  Really? Only a few years younger than he was? Hard to believe but the surprise wasn’t enough to disturb his train of thought. ‘Just how many jobs have you had?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emma admitted. ‘Quite a lot. I tend to like part-time or temporary work. That’s why this job appealed so much. It’s only for a few weeks, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’ But just because he only needed help on a temporary basis it didn’t mean that he wanted to employ someone who was incapable of commitment or even reliability, did it?

  Perhaps he should have tried to find something permanent instead of a stop-gap, but who went looking to move and start a new position in the weeks right before Christmas? How many people wanted to move to an isolated Scottish village anyway?

  His mother was due to drive to Edinburgh tonight, ready for an early departure tomorrow. If he didn’t take a chance on Emma, she would cancel her trip and she’d miss the birth of her new grandchild. She’d be miserable and Adam would feel guilty and the children would pick up on the tension and it could quite likely spoil Christmas for all of them. Not that Adam had found much joy in the season in recent years but the children were his priority now, weren’t they?

  And Emma had made Poppy giggle with that ridiculous word.

  That delicious sound of his daughter’s merriment echoed somewhere in the back of his head and it was enough to soften the disappointment that Emma was so unsuitable.

  ‘It is only for a few weeks,’ he heard himself saying aloud. ‘But … ach …’ The sound encompassed both defeat and frustration. How bad could it be? He really only needed a babysitter for the hours he had to be at work. ‘Fine. The job’s yours if you want it, Emma.’

  ‘Oh …’ Her eyes widened with surprise. ‘Yes. Please. But … don’t you have other people to interview?’

  ‘You were the last.’ She didn’t need to know that she had also been the first, did she? ‘I’ll lock up here and then we’ll head off.’ He looked at the unusual luggage on the floor beside Emma’s chair. ‘Is that all you’ll need?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And you don’t mind being here over the Christmas period? You don’t have family who will be missing you?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head this time and dipped her chin so that her gaze was hidden, as if she didn’t want him to see how she felt about that.

  Maybe it stirred too many memories that were too painful—like it did for him? An emotional cocktail of grief and anger that the season of goodwill and family togetherness only served to exacerbate? The thought gave him an odd moment of feeling potentially connected to this pale stranger in her oversized clothes. Or maybe it was the poignant tilt of her head as she looked down.

  He shook off the unwelcome sensation. He had more than enough people to worry about, without adding someone else. Emma’s job was to make life easier for him for a little while, not to complicate it any further.

  ‘Righ
t, then.’ His movements were brisk as he logged out of his computer and flicked off the desk lamp. ‘It’s getting late. I suppose I’d better take you home.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE DARKNESS OF a winter’s night engulfed the vehicle as it left the outskirts of Braeburn village behind.

  Emma eyed the dashboard radio controls longingly. Driving anywhere without music was an alien experience for her but Dr McAllister clearly wasn’t going to allow distractions while he was driving. Fair enough. It was raining hard now and the lights were catching a mist of white speckles that suggested it was trying to turn into sleet.

  Would conversation also be deemed a distraction? She risked a sideways glance and had to tilt her chin upwards. Even sitting down, Adam McAllister was tall. Well over six feet. Walking beside him into the clinic’s car park had made Emma feel very small. He hadn’t said anything then either, apart from an offer to carry her bag, which had sounded more like a command than an invitation.

  Clearly she hadn’t really made a good impression on her new employer but at least he was prepared to give her a chance. Any optimism that she could change his mind was fading now, however, as she took in a profile that was stern enough to suggest an inability to suffer fools gladly.

  Imagine running the gauntlet of that snappy little terrier of a receptionist in order to see such an unapproachable GP? You’d have to be really sick, Emma decided. And I’ll bet his patients never forget to take their pills.

  ‘What?’

  The terse query was enough to make Emma jump. Coupled with the effect of Adam taking his eyes off the road to glare at her for a second, it actually made her heart skip a beat, but the fear that she might have spoken aloud was forgotten as fast as it had appeared.

  In the dim reflected light of the dashboard controls, Adam’s eyes looked black under equally dark brows. His hair was long enough to be a little unruly and a single lock had detached itself from the rest to flop across his forehead. The crazy desire to reach out and put that curl back where it belonged was so inappropriate that Emma caught her breath in an audible gasp.