Boxing Day Revelations

 

by Katherine Eileen Dowling

Angel Bay: Boxing Day

The Long Road Home

Dremeda let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief as she followed Gus to the car. The heavy weight of Christmas was finally behind her. There was still the harrowing task of the eulogy to complete, and the cold reality of her mother’s funeral to face, but for now, the immediate pressure had lifted. This year had been a strange, disjointed dream—a blur of frost, blood, and miraculous survival.

She looked down at her phone, scrolling through the photos of Shimmer and the foal. "So, that foal... he’ll really save Shep's farm, then?"

"Miracle could be the next Red Rum," Gus replied, tossing his bag into the trunk. "He’s got the bone structure for it. Needs a bit of growing up, of course, but he’s a champion in the making."

"Hey, you two! Wait!" Amber came hurrying out of the farmhouse, her pink hair windswept and wild. She held out a small parcel wrapped in wax paper. "I made fudge. I thought you could use the sugar for the drive."

"Thanks, Amber," Dremeda said, leaning in for a brief, genuine smile.

"You stay safe now," Gus insisted as he hugged Amber. "No more hammerheads or dogfish until the thaw. I mean it."

Amber laughed, a bright sound that seemed to chase away the lingering chill. "Sure, sure. I’ll stick to the shore for a while. Bye-bye!"

"Dre! You forgot your tea!" Shep’s voice rumbled across the yard as he hurried out, a thermos in one hand and a small tin in the other. He stopped beside Dremeda, taking a final look at her hands. The skin was supple, the bruising almost entirely vanished. "I made up some more of the green salve. Apply it twice a day—it’s like butter for dry hands."

"Shep, thank you. That’s so kind. I don't know how I can ever..."

"You saved Miracle, lass. That’s all the thanks I’ll ever need," he said, patting her shoulder. "Keep up with the tea as you need it. Gus, you have the recipe, I take it?"

"Send it over to me. I’m not sure I’ll have all the herbs in stock," Gus admitted.

"I have Melissa in the garden at home, and rosemary is easy enough to find," Dremeda assured him, her mind already drifting to her own soil. "Shep... will you get Shimmer back?"

"No," Shep said, his gaze softening as he looked toward the stables. "She deserves a paddock with fresh green grass and her son. Miller and I agree; she’s done her work. She’s not for foaling anymore."

Dremeda’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of protective worry crossing her face. "They won't... they won't kill her, will they?"

"No, lass. She’s off to take care of her boy. They’ve formed a bond you can’t break. She’ll watch him race, maybe even meet her grandchildren. Angus Callender is a kind horseman, and I don’t think his wife would take kindly to anything else. They can ride her—she’s a grand runner—but no more foaling."

Gus checked his watch and grinned. "Well, it was wonderful to see you again, Shep, but we’d better head off. We’re likely expected for dinner, and no doubt it’ll be leftovers."

"Enjoy your turkey curry, then!" Shep chuckled, waving them off. "Come back for the pup!"

"No pets!" Gus retorted firmly, though he looked at Dremeda with a fond, questioning glance. "Do you want pets?"

She shook her head firmly, climbing into the passenger seat and waving one last time. As the car pulled away from the rugged coastline, the silence of the cabin felt heavy but peaceful. "It wasn't a bad time, was it?" she whispered.

"Nope," Gus agreed. "It definitely wasn't. I suppose it’s A-ha all the way home, then?"

"It’s okay. You play what you want," she smiled, closing her eyes.

Gus switched on the playlist. The melancholic, driving synth-pop filled the car, the extended mix of 'I'll Be Losing You' thrumming through the speakers. The beat was infectious, an upbeat pulse that masked the sadness of the lyrics. He found himself tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, the rhythm grounding him as the snowy landscape of the coast gave way to the familiar roads of Ashbury.

Beside him, Dremeda drifted off, a small, tired smile on her face. "Cats indeed..." she mumbled dreamily, her mind lost in the strange, shimmering memories of the night before.

Ashbury: The Boxing Day Fracture

While the car wound its way through the snowy peaks toward home, the atmosphere in the Ashbury kitchen was vibrating with a different kind of intensity. Grace was caught in the throes of a manic Christmas high that showed no sign of breaking.

“I can’t believe they’re coming home today!” she chirped, her voice a pitch too high, her movements jerky and erratic.

“What on earth did you feed her?” Jamie demanded, her voice low as she watched her granddaughter vibrate with nervous energy.

“Just cereal,” Ava replied, leaning against the counter with a weary sigh. “She’s just excited, Mum. It’s been a big week.”

“She’s over-excited. It’s not as if they’ve been away for a lifetime, just a few days,” Jamie countered, rubbing her temples. The air in the room felt thin, charged with a static that made the hair on her arms stand up. “Grace, settle down. Come on, let’s go and make some more cookies. Occupy those hands.”

“More sugar?” Jamie groaned under her breath, catching Ewan’s eye.

“Are we staying over tonight?” Ewan enquired, looking at the mounting tension.

“I wasn’t planning on it, Ewan,” Ava said. “Sadly, we have work tomorrow. Double bank holidays are always ‘all hands on deck’ at the clinic. You know how it is.”

“Roslin has already worked out the rota,” Ewan assured her, though his eyes remained fixed on Grace, who had grabbed a mixing bowl.

“One hundred grams of flour, one hundred grams of sugar, three eggs, one hundred grams of butter!” Grace announced in a sing-song voice that sounded hollow, like a recording.

“Fifty grams of sugar is plenty, Grace. And fifty of butter. Two eggs,” Jamie corrected firmly. “Grace, concentrate. You’re making cookies, not a sponge cake.”

“Can we do both?” Grace demanded, her head snapping toward her grandmother.

“No. One or the other. And for goodness' sake, don’t sulk,” Jamie snapped, her patience finally fraying.

The silence that followed was oily and thick. Grace looked at her grandmother, her eyes darkening until the pupils seemed to swallow the irises. It was a look of cold, ancient calculation. Then, without warning, she let out a piercing, glass-shattering scream and lashed out, sending the ceramic bowl flying across the room. It shattered against the range, scattering flour like a shroud.

“Grace!”

“I hate you! I hate all of you!” the girl roared, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. “I wish I could go with the Golden Lady and never, ever come back!”

The mention of the 'Golden Lady' sent a physical chill through the room.

“That is enough!” Alex said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped forward, catching his daughter by the arm. His grip was firm, his face set in a grim line. “You apologize to your grandmother right now, and then you go to your room.”

“I won’t,” she stammered, staring up at him. There was no fear in her eyes—only a terrifying, defiant challenge.

Alex felt a jolt of something—coldness, perhaps—radiating from her skin. He let go of her arm as if burned. “Alright then. You have two choices: you clean up this mess right now, or you go to your room. Decide.”

“What’s the third choice?” she challenged, her chin tilting upward.

“Don’t push your luck, Grace,” Alex warned, his voice vibrating with a suppressed roar.

“Alex...” Ava protested, her voice trembling. “Leave it. Grace, do as your father tells you. Go. Now.”

The parental barrier was shattering. Jamie looked at her husband, her hand itching. She wanted to step into the breach, to end this with a sharp smack—not out of a desire for violence, but out of a desperate, primal need to break whatever spell had taken hold of the child. Grace was pushing every button they had, systematically and cruelly.

“I am going to count to ten,” Alex warned, his eyes narrowing.

“Then what?” the girl whispered, a tiny, cruel smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Alex bit back the urge to shout. Instead, he spoke in a cool, level tone that carried the weight of a death threat. “You’ll find out.”

“Alex,” Ava whispered plaintively, her eyes pleading with him to stop. “Don’t, love.”

Grace opened her mouth to say 'I dare you,' the final thread of domestic peace about to snap, when Ewan intervened. He moved with a quiet, solid authority, taking her hand firmly.

“That is enough,” he said, his voice brookng no argument. “You’re coming with me right now. It’s not like you to test your father’s patience like this.”

He led her away from the wreckage of the kitchen and sat her down in the lounge. The fire was low in the grate. “We’ll get you a glass of water, and we’ll see if that helps...”

“I don’t want a glass of water!” she protested, but as she looked at Ewan, the mask finally cracked. Huge, silent tears began to roll down her cheeks. Ewan sighed and reached for her, pulling her into a firm hug.

“Talk to me, Grace,” he commanded softly.

Back in the kitchen, the door clicked shut. Alex stood over the broken shards of the bowl, shaking his head. He looked at his hands; they were shaking. “She has never... she has never pushed me to the limit like that. Never.”

Ashbury: The Mask of the Father

In the kitchen, the silence that followed Grace’s departure was heavy with the scent of spilled vanilla and the metallic tang of adrenaline.

“I wonder what you would have done if you’d reached ten, Alex,” Ava said, her voice brittle. She began picking up larger shards of the ceramic bowl with trembling fingers. “You can’t use magic on a child. Especially not your own.”

“I know that,” Alex snapped, his voice tight. He leaned against the counter, his knuckles white. “It was the furthest thing from my mind. I just... what is going on with her? One minute she’s acting like a toddler, and the next she’s looking at us with that... that cold defiance. It’s not right, Ava.”

“Perhaps we need to seek advice,” Ava suggested softly, not looking up.

Alex let out a sharp, angry huff. “If you mention Ian bloody Hamilton, I am going to roar!”

“He might be able to help,” Jamie interjected. She usually avoided interfering in their parenting, but the memory of Grace’s face was still vivid. “Alex, I wanted to smack her. I’ve never felt that way with her before, but I was ready to step in. It was like she was daring me to.”

“Mum!” Ava protested, her face pale. “Look, the bowl isn’t broken—it’s just a mess. But this... this situation is worse. You’re a psychologist, Alex. Behavioral. And you let her push every button. Were you going to condition her?”

“How could you even think that, Ava?” Alex sighed, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a profound weariness. “I would never condition our own daughter. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“I suppose, in a way, we’ve encouraged it,” Ava whispered, looking around at the festive decorations that now felt mocking. The tinsel looked like lead; the lights were too bright. “Well, Christmas is really over, isn’t it? Might as well take it all down and wait for next year.”

She sounded deflated, a woman at her breaking point. Grace had always been their light, but that light was turning into something sharp and blinding.

A faint, rhythmic knock at the front door broke the gloom. Jamie smoothed her apron, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

“That’ll be them,” she muttered, heading for the hall. “Hi Dre, Gus! Merry Christmas. How was the journey? How was Shep?” Her voice hitched as she saw Dre’s bruised hands. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“Hi Jamie. I need coffee. Immediately,” Gus remarked, stepping inside with a weary grin. “Dre saved a horse. Her hands are much better today, honestly. Journey was fine, Shep was fine, but the coffee situation was dire.”

“You stopped three times!” Dre laughed, though the sound was a little forced. “Hi Jamie, I’m fine. They looked much worse yesterday, but Shep is a genius with herbs. Did you all have a good Christmas? We saw the paper—the ‘Miracle Delivery’!”

“Yes, we had a lovely time. And you two?” Jamie asked, leading Dre into the warmth of the house.

Gus didn't wait for an answer; he was already headed for the kitchen, desperate for a caffeine hit. It wasn't his preferred Colombian blend, but at this point, he would have settled for battery acid.

As Dre stepped into the kitchen, she felt the atmosphere like a physical weight. The "tea" she’d taken earlier was wearing off, leaving her raw. She looked at Alex, the man she now knew was important to her she felt the weight of the wallet in her mind. Part of her wanted to scream it out—to shatter the polite Ashbury veneer and tell them everything.

“Hello there, Dre,” Alex said gently. He looked tired but managed that warm, fatherly smile that usually put people at ease. “Did you have a good time? And oh... what have you done to your hands?”

As he reached out to inspect the bruises, Dre baulked instinctively, stepping back a half-pace. She looked up at him, her heart hammering. If only you knew, she thought. If only you knew what I am.

“Hello, Alex,” she said, forcing herself to stand still as he took her hands. “I’m fine, really. Please don’t worry. No tendon damage, and they don’t even hurt anymore.”

Still, his fingers pressed gently against the skin, his physician’s instinct taking over. “Are you never off duty?” she teased, trying to break the tension. “And I heard about your delivery. Why the costume? Planning a career change?”

Alex chuckled, that familiar sparkle returning to his green eyes. “Oh, I was Father Christmas at St. Philip Neri. Edgar’s fault, entirely. I’d only just got home when the call came. The snow was thick—we had fourteen potential deliveries that night. I didn’t have time to change.”

Dre laughed softly, the genuine warmth of the man making her secret feel even heavier. She hugged Ava, looking around the kitchen. The floor was damp, and Gus was already helping Jamie scrub at a white flour stain on the rug.

“Where are Grace and Ewan?” Dre asked, noting their absence.

“Just having a moment,” Ava replied, her voice carefully neutral.

In the lounge, the door remained firmly shut. Inside, Gus could hear the faint, muffled sound of his greatniece sobbing, and Ewan’s low, steady voice trying to bridge a gap that felt wider than ever before.

Ashbury: Shadows of Birch Hall

Ewan emerged from the lounge, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. He looked exhausted, his usual composure frayed at the edges.

“She’s very mixed up at the moment, Dre,” he said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Lovely to see you.” He leaned in for a gentle hug, but his eyes lingered on her with a professional intensity—a blurring of lines between a future brother-in-law and a concerned clinician. His gaze dropped immediately to her hands, which were mottled with deep purples and sickly yellows of her hands.

“What happened here then?” he demanded, his tone shifting to that of a doctor on rounds.

Once again, Dre recounted the story of the horse and the reigns. She endured Ewan’s examination, which was far more thorough than Alex’s. He checked the capillary refill in her fingertips and the tension in her wrists with a frown.

“Leave her be, Ewan,” Jamie intervened, sensing Dre’s growing discomfort. “If she were having any real problems, they’d have materialized by now. Dre, have a cup of tea and a mince pie. We’ll leave the medical talk and sit in the other lounge. Is Grace okay?”

Jamie led the way into the family lounge, a room that felt more lived-in. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights twinkling with a cheerfulness that felt entirely at odds with the mood of the house.

“She’ll be alright,” Ewan replied, following them in. “But she’s clamming up. I think there’s more to this than just what happened yesterday. It goes deeper—back to her worry about that school. It’s too academic for Grace. It’s a pressure cooker.”

“She’s bright, though,” Ava added, sinking into an armchair. “Maybe she’ll talk to her Uncle Gus? He always had a way of getting through to her.”

“Maybe,” Alex said, sitting heavily on the sofa. He looked over at Dre. “Any good with troubled teens, Dre? You seem to have a calm head on your shoulders.”

Dre managed a tight smile. “I’ll give it a go, but I’m not exactly a professional...”

“Before you say it, you are family,” Jamie interrupted firmly. “And family is often the only thing that works when the professionals fail.”

“Cooler heads, that’s all we need,” Ava explained, her eyes pleading. “She’s just acting out. We’re almost certain it’s the stress from Birch Hall.”

At the mention of the name, Dre felt the blood drain from her face. She took a sip of her tea just as the words left Ava’s mouth and she choked, the liquid burning her throat.

“Sorry,” she gasped, coughing into her hand as she tried to regain her composure. “Mum always said there must be bones in the tea when I did that.” She forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow in her own ears.

Gus leaned over, patting her back with a knowing, concerned look. “You okay, kid?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, though her heart was racing.

“We might get going actually,” Gus said, looking at Jamie. “You’re not planning on staying tonight, are you?”

“No, we weren’t,” Jamie replied, her eyes flitting to Ava. “But I don’t like leaving when you’re struggling, Ava.”

“Mum, you’re only five minutes away,” Ava insisted. “Grace will come out of it. It’s just... this time, she was so defiant. It was like looking at a stranger.”

“I don’t mind talking to her,” Dre said, her voice stronger now. She set the teacup down on the coaster.

She felt a cold shiver go down her spine. Talk to her about Birch Hall? The very thought made her skin crawl. She had spent years trying to bury the memories of that place—the sterile corridors, the way the teachers looked through you, the subtle, psychic weight of the "academic excellence" they preached. Driving past it a few days ago had been bad enough; the idea of sitting in a car in that gravel parking lot, waiting for a girl who was slowly being swallowed by the same darkness, was almost too much to bear.

“I’ll go in,” Dre said, standing up before she could talk herself out of it. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone who isn't 'Mum' or 'Dad'.”

As she walked toward the lounge door, she felt the weight of the wallet in her pocket. She wasn't just Alex’s daughter; she was a survivor of the very world they were unwittingly pushing Grace into.

Ashbury: The Peace of Christmas

Dre stood and took hold of Grace’s hand. The girl’s skin felt cold against the fading marks on Dre’s palms, and as they stepped out into the hallway, a small, involuntary whimper escaped Grace’s throat. It was the sound of a child who had reached the very end of her tether.

“Come on, you can do this,” Dre murmured, leaning down so only Grace could hear. “I am right beside you. I won’t let go.”

As they entered the main lounge, the room seemed to shrink. Grace looked smaller than she had moments ago, her frame dwarfed by the high ceilings and the shadows of the flickering fire. She gripped Dre’s hand with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity—the pressure was so sharp it made the deep bruises on Dre’s hands throb in protest, but Dre didn’t flinch. She was the anchor now.

“Dad?” Grace whispered. She looked at him pensively, her eyes wide and rimmed with red.

Alex looked up from the sofa. The hard mask of parental authority he’d worn earlier had crumbled, replaced by a weary, paternal ache. “Hi there, Grace,” he said softly. He didn’t wait for her to approach; he reached out for her other hand, drawing her into his space. “Are you okay?”

“I'm sorry I made you all mad,” she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. “And that I broke the bowl... and the mess in the kitchen...”

Alex nodded slowly, pulling her closer until she was standing between his knees. “I know you’re sorry, Gracie. I can tell just by looking at you. I forgive you. And I’m sorry I was so cross that I made you feel you had to be defensive.”

“I was cheeky,” she murmured, looking at her feet.

Alex shook his head, his thumbs stroking the back of her hand. “No, Grace. I put you into a situation where you felt you needed to protect yourself. That was an unpleasant moment for both of us—for the whole family. Let’s just move forward now. No more looking back.”

“I love you,” she sobbed, the dam finally breaking. “I ruined Christmas.”

“Hey, hey, now... you didn’t ruin anything,” Ava insisted, moving quickly to the other side of her daughter. Both parents reached for her at once, pulling her into a protective huddle.

Across the room, Jamie stood by the mantelpiece. She caught Dre’s eye and offered a small, knowing smile—a silent acknowledgment of the bridge Dre had built. “Thank you,” Jamie mouthed.

Dre nodded back, though a hollow feeling remained in her chest. She felt she had done so little, yet hearing the girl’s jagged sobs turn into the rhythmic breathing of a child who finally felt safe was a reward in itself.

“You have a gift there, Dre,” Gus whispered, appearing at her side. He spoke low, his voice a rumbling vibration. He scanned her face, noting the pallor of her skin. “You look exhausted. Do you want to head home?”

Dre looked at the family unit on the sofa, then at the festive lights reflected in the window. “No. If we leave now, it might make Grace uncomfortable. She’ll think our departure is because of her—that we’re leaving 'too soon.' We don't want to ruin the peace.”

Gus pulled her into a tight, grounding hug, his coat smelling of woodsmoke and the winter air. “Spoken like a true martyr,” he sighed affectionately.

“Will you have a sherry, Dre?” Ewan offered, appearing with a crystal decanter, his face etched with relief that the domestic storm had passed. “I think we could all use a little something to settle the nerves.”

Ashbury: The Warmth of the Kitchen

When everything was finally calm and the kitchen had been cleared of the midday debris, Ava reached out and caught Grace’s hand. The girl looked exhausted but lighter, the shadow of the earlier row beginning to lift.

“Let’s go and bake those cookies you were so eager to make?” Ava suggested, her voice soft and encouraging.

Grace’s eyes brightened, and she looked over at the woman who had stood by her in the lounge. “Can Dre help us?” she whispered.

Ava nodded, looking around at the gathered family. The tension of the morning was replaced by a quiet, determined desire to mend the day. “I think we can all help. You and I on the pastry; Dad, Grandad, and Gus cutting and baking; and Dre and Mum on the icing,” she suggested. “And we can swap roles as we go. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Grace said, her voice gaining some of its usual strength. “Is Grandma doing pie today?”

“It’s already done, just needs baking. We don’t want to overdo the beef,” Ava replied.

“No Turkey Curry?” Gus teased, leaning against the doorframe.

Jamie laughed, a sharp, genuine sound. “I have never done turkey curry, thank you very much! Right, let’s get to it. Take our drinks to the kitchen—though Dre and I can drink ours here while the rest of you prep and bake,” she suggested, gesturing for Dre to stay behind for a moment.

The house soon filled with the sounds of a family in motion—the clatter of baking trays, the dusting of flour, and the low rumble of men’s voices as Gus and Alex argued playfully over the shape of a cookie cutter.

When the kitchen door swung shut and the others were occupied, Jamie turned to Dre. Her expression was maternal and searching. “You didn't really get the Christmas break you expected, did you?”

Dre smiled, though it didn’t quite reach the tired corners of her eyes. “It’s okay. Christmas Eve was... odd. But Christmas Day was nice. We had goose and spent most of the day with Shep and his friend—the police officer with the pink hair. She even took a dip in the sea.”

Jamie laughed sharply. “She would. But are you okay? Apart from the hands, love... you and Gus are okay?” she persisted, her eyes lingering on Dre’s face.

“We are fine, Jamie. Separate rooms, nothing untoward. He’s lovely. Friendly. You know I have known him for a long time. Are you afraid we’re getting too close?”

Jamie sighed, reaching out to pat Dre’s arm. “Dre, I just want you to know that whatever happens, you are family now. Don’t let him pressure...”

“Pressure? No, never. He’s different,” Dre insisted, shaking her head firmly. She thought of the way he looked at her, the way he had held her while she cried, and the strange, ancient weight of the Ashbury name. “He’s not like that at all.”

Jamie watched her for a long moment, seemingly satisfied by the conviction in Dre’s voice. “Good. Then let’s go and see what kind of mess those men have made of the kitchen.”