“I think someone enjoyed themselves, don’t you?” said Simon as he carried Mima up to her bed. She was fast asleep in his arms, having fallen so, after tea, while she was unashamedly flirting with him. Little minx.

I changed her and we tucked her in, she cuddled her dormouse and sighed, “Daddy.” Simon went all gooey and I felt like strangling her, even asleep she was flirting with him. As we went back down, I calmed down a little and examined her motives. Maybe it’s a survival thing, suck up to the dominant male, you survive a bit longer. Nah, maybe she just loves him, he is quite loveable–at times. Maybe I’m not. Maybe she had no relationship with her birth father, so this is special or she’s trying to cover lost ground. My head was spinning, so I gave up. I felt like shouting at her, ‘Tough luck kid, he’s marrying me–na na na na na!’ I’m glad I didn’t Simon would probably have thought I was crazy, I’m not it’s simple jealousy. She’s cute, I’m not.

We were sat sipping our wine, just the four of us, except Stella was on fruit juice. “I think that was quite a successful Christmas, thanks to Cathy,” said Tom.

“Everyone helped,” I said with false modesty.

“That’s right we did,” said Simon, avoiding my elbow.

“Yeah, but Cathy did the bulk of it, and organised us.” Stella was my supporter.

“That’s what I meant. To Cathy,” Tom raised his glass and so did the others, “Our own Christmas angel.”

Just before it got dark, on Christmas Eve, he and I went to the churchyard, it’s about quarter of a mile away. He carried a wreath and I took some flowers–some hyacinths in a pot.

We walked arm in arm until we approached the grave. It was so peaceful. A plain marble slab with the name of his daughter and wife, their dates of birth and their deaths. I found it incredibly moving. He laid the wreath and I stayed back while he spoke to the grave. I mean, I don’t believe in anything afterwards, so he was talking to the grave, right?

“There’s someone I want you to meet, another Catherine, whom I’ve adopted unofficially as my daughter. She looks after me, although she has a busy job and is engaged to Simon. She knows all about us and asked to meet you. I agreed because I think it’s important you know about these things. Come along, Cathy, come and say hello.”

Um, well I did say I wanted to meet them–only I’m not sure it was what I had in mind. Oh well, if it will make things easier for Tom. I walked up to the grave.

“Hello, I’m Cathy Watts, although I suppose you know that already.” What am I saying? “I work with Tom, and it’s true I’m engaged to Simon, who’s a really nice man. Tom likes him too, and he thinks the world of Tom. His sister currently lives with us too, she’s expecting a baby in about three months. Um, I’m sure Tom has told you, Catherine, that we have a lot in common. Thank you for teaching your dad how to cope with girls like us, he’s a wonderful man and I’m happy to keep an eye on him for you.” Then I started to cry, as if some emotion had worked itself up in me and I couldn’t stop. Tom hugged me for several minutes.

Logically, how could it be important that I made a good impression to two stiffs? Yet they weren’t were they, they were part of Tom and it was to this that perhaps I was speaking. That under this cold wet earth, lay someone like me, whom he’d loved as his daughter, until she’d been taken away from him. Life is so short.

It was also important because I had intruded into Tom’s life and then into his home, finally into his affections. I had filled a gap, so he told me, so it was important that we achieved some closure here. Made my position legit to any doubts he might have. It also answered some curiosity for me, about which I felt a little ashamed.

We both spoke to the grave and I placed my pot of flowers in a recess at the foot of the stone. I think perhaps it was my imagination, but I felt approval–from whom or where, I couldn’t say–so it probably was imagination or wishful thinking.

I started to get cold and shiver and Tom, noticed. “Come on, young lady, let’s get home.”

We said goodbye, and I stupidly said, “Merry Christmas,” I mean, to what? Probably nerves, or tiredness.

“They like you,” he said, wrapping his arm around me as we walked back.

“How do you know?” I asked in wonderment.

“They have ways of saying so.” He said smiling as darkness began to fall. What would have happened if they hadn’t approved of me? No, I wasn’t going to go there. A cemetery in the dark, no way. I put my arm around him and we quickened our pace a little.

“Thanks for taking me,” I said wanting to show gratitude for what he’d shared with me.

“I’m glad I did, I knew they’d like you, everyone does.” He gave me a fatherly squeeze.

“Not everyone, Tom, I do seem to provoke hostility from some.”

“Take no notice of them, they’re either fools or they have their own agenda.”

I wasn’t going to argue, it was Christmas and I needed to get our little demon up to bed and asleep, so I could organise things. “How do you know they like me?”

“This probably sounds silly, but in my mind’s eye, I can see them as they were when they were alive. If I tell them something they don’t like, they frown or occasionally cry. When it’s good things, they smile. They smiled as soon as you entered the churchyard, they can recognise a good heart, when they see one. Catherine thinks you’re an angel, too.”

I’m not sure I really wanted to know all that, if he was correct it made a few things uncomfortable for me as far as the universe and my understanding went. If he wasn’t, then it means his delusion is his way of coping with his grief. We reached the lych-gate and as we went through, I waved to the grave or what it represented. Why not share in the delusion? Tom squeezed me again. It pleased him anyway.

I was busy thinking about the occasions when I thought I’d seen or spoken to my mother since her death. At this moment, I was covered in goosebumps and my poo-pooing it, didn’t seem so certain. Maybe I needed to think this through again sometime, preferably where it was warmer and light, yes bright light. God, it’s cold.

When we got back I changed into my jeans and top, and we had a hot drink to warm us up. At least it hadn’t rained, so I should be grateful. Then it was back to the bedlam which I described earlier.

Christmas drew to a close, Stella excused herself and went to bed, and Tom went shortly after sharing a whisky with Simon. I sipped my wine and felt very sleepy.

Once in bed, Simon lay on his back, his arm around me. “I think we had a splendid Christmas, thank you.”

“Eh?”

“I said, I enjoyed my Christmas, thank you.”

“Oh? Simon, do you think there’s such a thing as life after death?”

“What’s that got to do with Christmas?”

I didn’t answer, the wine and lack of sleep had taken their toll and I’d drifted off.