Somewhere Over England by Margaret Graham Page B

woman’s eyes had been hard since Heine had come back to them.
    She climbed out of the car and opened Chris’s door, holding out her arms to him, breathing in his warm scent as he clung to her. The picnic basket was on the seat and Heine reached in past her and picked it up.
    ‘Clever girl,’ he said. ‘I thought he was going to look in there for one moment.’
    Helen laughed quietly, her headache gone now that they had arrived. ‘Men don’t like dirty nappies or mess, surely you haven’t forgotten.’
    He pulled a face and Helen remembered the woman in the park.
    ‘Man and boy, you’re all alike,’ she murmured and as he kissed her the front door opened, flooding the garden with light, and she was glad they were spending Christmas in Germany.
    They sat at the dining-room table eating by candlelight. Frau Weber had brought down from the attic two honey wax candles to celebrate their arrival, and their sweet Christmas aroma was everywhere, mingling with the pine of the Advent candles. Chris sat next to Helen, smiling because his Oma, his grandmother, had said that he could light the last Advent candle on Christmas Eve. They ate asparagus soup, as theyhad on their last visit, oh so long ago, Frau Weber said. Venison, chestnuts, sprouts and potato puffs followed decorated with sliced orange. The Bordeaux was thick and strong on Helen’s tongue and she smiled when Heine’s mother said she must call her Mutti.
    Heine and his father spoke quietly when they spoke at all, but both seemed content to share the sight of the child and the women talking of St Nicholas and Christmas stockings. Chris leaned his head on his mother’s arm when he had half eaten his venison. His lids were heavy and the talk spun around him. There were strange smells and sights and voices but the German was familiar and it made him remember the men who had come to his home, the men with thin faces and shaking hands who had been kind; who had sat him on their knees and seemed to drink in his laughter as though it was something they had never heard.
    He turned to his mother. ‘My uncles liked me to laugh, didn’t they?’
    She didn’t hear and so he pulled at her sleeve. It was silk, so soft and smooth and he wanted to sleep. His mother turned and smiled. ‘My uncles liked me to laugh, didn’t they?’
    Her face was close to his. ‘Oh yes, my love. It was a sound that was very sweet to them.’
    He saw her look across to his father but his chair was empty and he felt panic. Had he gone again? He had always been away, but not for months now. He turned again to his mother and she was there. She was always there and he leaned his head against her again. But then he felt strong arms around him and his father’s rough chin against his cheek. His Oma rose and kissed him and then they left the warm honey-scented room and climbed the stairs, and his face was against his father’s chest as he drifted in and out of sleep.
    Helen went ahead, into the room which was to be Christoph’s for the next two weeks. It was cold, so cold. There was ice frosted on the inside of the double windows and she scraped a finger from top to bottom, collecting frost beneath her nail.
    She marched from his room into theirs. It was warm from the stove. She walked quickly to the top of the stairs, hissing at Heine to stop, pointing towards Chris’s bedroom. ‘There is no heating in there. It’s freezing.’
    Heine stopped. ‘In Germany the children sleep in cold rooms.’
    She turned. ‘In my family, children sleep in warm rooms even if it means the adults go into the cold one.’ Her hands were on her hips, anger in her voice.
    Heine shifted his son’s weight slightly and then laughed. ‘My darling girl, do not prepare to do battle. I am too tired and too intelligent to risk my life fighting over something which is easily remedied.’ He passed Chris to her, walking quietly into their room, riddling the stove as she stood behind him and watched, feeling the heat from