Saturday December 24th 2011 – 2.43 pm:

It is unlike her to be this spontaneous. Her years of late night partying, followed by two hours of sleep before turning up for work the next day are now little more than a dim memory. She has acted on a whim, a sudden urge to do something unplanned, to surprise someone she's not seen in months. It just seemed … right somehow, so here she is, sitting in her car outside his cottage in the country. He'd emailed early in November, inviting her to visit. He'd included his new address, and for reasons she wasn't yet ready to examine too closely, the news had annoyed her. How like Harry to do an about turn, to retire to the country after all these years of sacrificing his family and his own personal life for the safety of the nation - an abstract concept, if ever she'd heard one.

She has been sitting in her car, watching the cottage, for at least fifteen minutes. She is sure she sees a light on inside, but it could also be a reflection on the window pane. What if he is inside the cottage, looking out, wondering who would be sitting in their car on a cold midwinter day? Realising that to sit there any longer could be considered stalking, she grabs her coat and her keys, hurrying across the lane.

The cottage is not what she'd expected he'd choose. There is a feminine quality to it which belies his brusqueness, and his inherent masculinity. The gate stands open, so she walks straight to the front door, where peeling paint tells her that perhaps he only spends the occasional weekend here, in his country hideaway.

She has reached out, and is about to lift the door knocker when she hears footsteps approaching. Turning, she sees him walking along the lane towards his cottage, his stride steady and rhythmic, his walk as familiar to her as her own. She feels herself smiling, and is about to call out to him when he lifts his head and sees her.

"Did I forget something?" he calls, standing in the gateway, a frown deepening the worry lines on his forehead.

"I don't know. Did you?" She slowly walks towards him, and is pleased when his face relaxes in a smile.

He drops his gaze, and meets her half way between the gate and the door. "It's good to see you," he says, reaching out to her with his arms, "even if you forgot to let me know you were coming."

"I didn't forget," she says, reaching up to place a kiss on his cheek, before sinking against him, revelling in the comfort of his warm body, the smell of rain and his cologne on his clothing. She has missed this. She has missed him, and that thought surprises her.

"So," he says, disengaging from her, and giving her elbow a gentle squeeze before ambling ahead of her towards the front door, while he digs into his pocket for the keys, "did you lose my phone number as well as my email address?" His last words are spoken with a raised eyebrow as he glances back at her.

She shakes her head. If he's sending her up, he must be happy, and that can only be a good thing. "I thought I'd surprise you. You know, being Christmas."

As she moves past him into the house, she hears his voice near her ear. "It's so good to see you … after all this time."

"And you." She stands just inside the doorway, waiting for him to close the door and remove his coat. She knows she'd answered him glibly, but that is their way. That is the way they have always been, at least, since she'd reached womanhood, and was no longer his little girl. "It's nice, Dad," she says, removing her coat for Harry to hang beside his own.

"It's more than nice. Would you like a cuppa?"

Things have changed. "I would. Lead on, McPearce," she says, smiling.

Catherine's eyes take in everything, from the soft beige of the walls, to the gentle woodland green of the woodwork. The cottage smells of fresh paint and hope, neither of which she had ever associated with her father. A glance into the living room just as she's about to join Harry in the kitchen gives her a glimpse of a comfortable room furnished in shades of green and soft burgundy, again not colours she would associate with him. She sees Harry as more of a blue and grey kind of man. An open fire across from a generous sized sofa warms the whole living area. Adorning the edge of the mantelpiece is tinsel which matches the tinsel on a small Christmas tree in the far corner of the room. A sudden thought pops into her head, but she'll not ask him about that .. at least, not yet.

They are sitting across the kitchen table from one another, a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits between them, Harry having thrown a dozen questions at her, some of which she had answered, and some of which she'd ignored. "Mark had a call from his dad," she'd said, by way of explaining her boyfriend's absence. "His mum is in hospital again, and she might not be well enough to go home tomorrow, so he's … it's hard on them all, and I thought the family could do with some space."

"Why not visit your mother?"

"Mark's parents live not too far from here, so you were closer. Besides, we'd planned to spend tomorrow with Mum, but she's having some friends around, and you know what her friends are like."

Harry does. He makes a face, and then grabs another biscuit, a chocolate covered one. Catherine is surprised. She is sure he appears slimmer, fitter. "Have you retired?" she asks carefully, since thus far he's shared next to nothing about himself.

Harry has a mouthful of biscuit, so he shakes his head, before chewing and then swallowing. "Not yet, but I'm here most weekends, along with ..."

He doesn't finish his sentence, but Catherine's attention is elsewhere. She has just noticed a sky blue cardigan draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. Suddenly, she has a flash of understanding. The cottage, the colour scheme, the furniture, and now the cardigan – they all add up to one thing.

"Dad," she says, more loudly than she'd meant to, "are you sharing this cottage with someone?"

Catherine is watching her father closely, and she sees his eyes widen, and his mouth open as he prepares to speak. Then he sighs heavily, leaning back in his chair. "I suppose I should have said something before this," he says quietly, lifting his spoon from the saucer, and flipping it from side to side.

"Don't tell me you're married."

He lifts his eyes quickly. "Not married, no, but we're ..."

"Committed."

"Yes. That's a good word for it." Again Harry sighs.

Catherine looks around the room, and through the door to the living room. "Is she here? Do I know her? Does she have a name?"

"She's at the church in the village. The choir are practising for the Christmas service in the morning. I was walking home from there when … I saw you." He glances at the clock on the microwave oven. "She'll be home soon. And no, I'm sure you haven't met her. Her name's Ruth."

Again, Catherine has a moment of recognition, of understanding. "Ruth. Wasn't that the name of the woman who died … a few years back?"

Harry has been watching his daughter, waiting for the expected outburst. "She didn't die. She was exiled. I'm not at liberty to share the details."

"I know. Why haven't I heard about her before this?"

Harry lifts his hand and passes it down his face in a gesture of weariness. "I don't know. I suppose I was worried you'd react badly, and there's a part of me wanted to keep her … to myself."

"So .. it's serious."

"Yes, it is. Technically, this is her house, but she bought it with both of us in mind."

"Which means you're a kept man," she says, watching her father as he glances up and lifts one side of his mouth in a characteristic gesture.

"In a way," he says.

Again, Catherine looks around her, this time noticing so much more, the pieces of the puzzle sliding into place, forming a clearer picture. They are drinking from cups with saucers; the kitchen chairs have cushions which match the leaf-green of the tiles which form a border above the white tiles in the kitchen; beside the sofa in the living room she can see a pair of fluffy blue slippers. How had she missed these clear signs of female occupancy?

"I was afraid you'd be angry, Catherine," Harry says, bringing her attention back to him. His facial expression conveys wariness, and perhaps a little fear.

"How can I be angry about something so …?" She can't find the right word, so she stops.

"I'm hoping you'll be happy for me."

"Of course I'm happy, Dad." Catherine gets up and walks around the table to place a kiss on Harry's cheek, before she gives him a quick hug. "I can't wait to meet her."

As if her words have conjured a response through the ethers, the subject of their discussion calls from the hallway. "I'm home. Where are you? Brendan drove me home."

Catherine watches her father as his face relaxes into softness. Any woman who is capable of creating a transformation such as that must be rather special. "In the kitchen," he calls, turning towards the door.

Catherine is still standing beside Harry's chair, her hand resting on his shoulder, when Ruth enters the room. She's aware she's staring, amazed that her father is capable of attracting the attention, the love of this much younger woman. Ruth stops just inside the doorway, glancing from Harry to Catherine and back. "You must be Catherine," Ruth says, her face relaxing as she moves towards her, holding out her hand.

Thankfully, Harry catches up, and standing, makes the formal introductions, and once Ruth and Catherine shake hands and utter the usual nice-to-meet-you's, he leans down to kiss Ruth hello, before looking deep into her eyes, hoping she'll interpret his beseeching expression in the manner in which it is meant. "How was choir?" he says quietly, his face still close to hers. "Are you ready?"

"Not quite," Ruth replies, pulling away from him, his hand still holding hers, "but we've improved since last week."

"So progress is being made."

"In all quarters, it seems," Ruth says, smiling into his eyes, and then towards Catherine.

Harry takes a step back while Ruth asks Catherine about how she managed to find her way to the cottage without getting lost, waiting for what he considers to be the inevitable moment of discomfort once the two women run out of things to say to one another, but that moment never comes. Noticing him watching them, Ruth turns to him. "Harry, we need more wood for the fire. Would you?" He nods and leaves the kitchen, hoping all will be well when he returns from the woodshed.

Once the wood is deposited in the box by the fireplace, Harry climbs the stairs to the bathroom, giving himself time to gather his thoughts. The meeting of his daughter and his lover, whilst presenting potential for calamity, is clearly more difficult for him than it's been for either of the women involved, and will likely run more smoothly without his own special brand of foot-in-mouth. He takes his time upstairs, wiping his hands slowly, and then combing his hair, now longer than usual, and prone to curling at the ends, something which, to his bemusement, Ruth finds particularly appealing. Who knows? He may never have his hair cut again.

Downstairs, he fiddles with the fire in the living room, piling on more wood than necessary, while with one ear he listens to the two women, chatting and laughing, their conversation flowing. Truth be known, Ruth is the only person with whom he feels completely at ease, and so it should hardly surprise him that Catherine is also comfortable in her company.

When he drops the poker with a clatter on the slate hearth, their conversation stops. "Harry -" Ruth calls, "you can join us, you know. You don't have to hide yourself away."

"I'll make us a fresh pot of tea," he says, entering the kitchen to see them both standing in the kitchen area, chatting like old friends who'd known one another for years.

He stands at the counter, just behind Ruth, preparing the tea as they discuss Catherine's recent visit to Cyprus. He listens while Ruth breezily mentions having lived in Paphos, wondering whether the subject is still as painful for her as it is for him.

"Things were a bit .. difficult during the time I was there," Catherine added. "I couldn't be sure that the exchange rate would hold, and then Mark needed me back here to be with his mum while he was stuck in Cairo, and his sister was holidaying in Spain." With that, the conversation slid to North Africa, and Mark's experience in Egypt, and then Morocco. "His current contract with Xander Films expires in a month, after which he's unemployed, so I thought I might use his skills … as a cameraman, that is."

Both women laugh knowingly, and Harry wonders should he stay and drink tea with them, or sneak off to his office upstairs. He has just decided to leave, when he feels Ruth's hand grasp his arm. "I suspect Catherine is here to visit you, Harry, especially since she hadn't known I existed." Her voice is gentle and kind, and he interprets her words as an invitation for him to stay.

The three of them sit at the kitchen table, sipping tea, Ruth and Catherine across the table from one another, with Harry in the chair beside Ruth. The two women chat some more, and when there is a lull in their conversation, Harry asks the question which had been on his lips since he'd first seen his daughter at his front door.

"So, Catherine," he says quietly, "what cataclysmic event has brought you here today?"

"Truth?"

"Yes, please."

Catherine focuses her attention on her cup of tea while she organises her thoughts. Harry knows her well enough to see he has hit a nerve. Both his children avoid seeing him, and whilst he can understand their reasons, he believes it's high time they all moved beyond the past. She lifts her eyes to his. "It was Mum's suggestion."

"Do tell." Feeling Ruth's hand resting just above his knee, her fingers gently squeezing his thigh, he self edits, leaving Catherine free to relate her version of events.

"Well … she asked me how long it was since I'd seen you, and when I told her I hadn't seen you since my birthday in June, she said something like, `He'll not live forever, you know. Don't wait until he's dead to make the effort.'"

"Charming."

"I believe she means well," Catherine says defensively, "but, knowing Mum, her suggestion is more about her, and how infrequently I visit her. She has become rather adept in the guilt-tripping department."

Catherine ends her tale with an exaggerated lift of one eyebrow, something Harry himself is in the habit of doing. The apple never falls far from the tree. "And what will you tell your mother, Catherine?"

"I'll tell her you're fine, and that you're happy and contented, and looking forward to retirement. The less Mum knows, the better."

A little later, Ruth sends Catherine and Harry into the living room, while she heats soup for an early dinner.

"Not many people know that three months ago Ruth survived a stabbing," Harry says, once he and Catherine are sitting in the living room – he on the sofa, and she in a chair close to the fire. "She came here to recuperate, and we thought that … the fewer people know she's here, the better … for a while, at least. It will be difficult to hide her existence forever."

He watches his daughter while she digests the news. "I won't tell Mum, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not especially worried about your mother. The people from whom we need to keep the truth about Ruth are potentially dangerous, unlike your mother, who just likes to think she is."

Catherine begins to giggle, reminding Harry of when she was twelve or thirteen. He's relieved she seems to have let go of the anger she'd for so long carried towards him.

Harry waits a moment, and then says the very thing he's been wanting to say to her since she'd arrived. "It's so good to see you, Cate. Would you like to stay the night? We have a spare room."

"I have an overnight bag in the car, but I didn't want to presume."

Harry shoos her out of the room to get her bag, taking the opportunity to head to the kitchen to help Ruth with the soup.

Some time later, the three of them are sitting in the living room, their early dinner eaten, a second bottle of wine opened on the coffee table in front of the sofa. With encouragement from Ruth, Catherine opens up about her concern for Mark, given he has been working in dangerous environments.

"Not like you, though, Cate. You've always remained in conflict-free zones," Harry quips, the edge of sarcasm in his voice.

"That's a cheap shot," she says, suddenly annoyed with him. How very like Harry to focus on the bombing in Lebanon.

"I heard of your plight only days after Ruth had left to go into exile. During the following days I feared I'd never see either of you again." His voice is quiet, the only other sound being the crackling from the open fire.

Ruth reaches across the sofa to place a warning hand on his arm. "Harry.." she says.

"I hadn't known that," Catherine says, another curtain being pulled aside, shining a light on her father's private life. "Why didn't you tell me? I wondered at the time why you were so panicked."

"Aside from not knowing whether you'd ever walk again?" Harry is not angry; he is informing.

"You could have told me about Ruth then."

"The focus needed to be on you, rather than what I may or may not have lost."

Harry watches as Catherine shuffles through the information. "I had no idea you'd been together that long."

"We haven't, Catherine, although I've loved Ruth for years."

"That's not like you to be so … patient."

Ruth stands, turning to Harry and then to Catherine. "I have work to be doing, which can best be done upstairs, where it's quiet. The spare bedroom is ready for you, Catherine, so I'll say goodnight." She turns back to Harry to place a quick kiss on his forehead, and lifts her hand towards Catherine.

"We've been rude, Dad and I, talking about you like you're not here."

"You have much to talk about," Ruth says, "and it would be easier were you to do it without me here," and then she heads from the room and towards the stairs.

"Shouldn't you go after her? Is she upset? Have we offended her?"

"No on all counts, Catherine. Among other things, Ruth is wise, and she's right, and were she offended, she'd have let me know by now." He smiles at his daughter, hoping to allay her worries, although Catherine still appears uncomfortable. "Catherine ..." Harry says quietly, "Ruth is working for the Home Office from home. She is using an assumed identity – at least, for the time being – and she has to grab every spare hour she can to catch up on her work load. With your being here, she has no need to entertain me to prevent me getting bored."

"You get bored?"

"Not with Ruth, no."

"You clearly love her dearly -"

"Completely and utterly. It was only on the day she was stabbed – a little over three months ago – that she let me know she was ready for what I was offering."

Catherine has been watching him, as though not believing what he is saying. "So … this is your first Christmas together." Harry nods. "Then ... I can't possible intrude on that."

"Catherine -"

"No, Dad, I need to leave. I can join Mark and his parents for Christmas. After all, they invited me, and it's only just over an hour from here -"

"But the roads are icy."

"They're not. It's not yet cold enough."

Harry sits back, letting out his breath in a sigh. "Then come into the kitchen and join me for coffee before you leave."

It is after nine-thirty when Harry climbs the stairs, to find the upstairs in darkness. Ruth has been rising early to work, but then retiring to bed early. He makes a detour to the bathroom before entering their bedroom, where he undresses in the dark, and then climbs into bed, wearing only his undershirt and trunks. He shuffles across the bed to be closer to Ruth.

"Harry. Your feet are freezing."

"Sorry," he says. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was." She turns over to face him, her eyes dark in the low light. "Did Catherine find everything okay?"

"She left just under an hour ago," and he tells her about his daughter's decision to leave them be on their first Christmas together.

Ruth waits before speaking, digesting the information. "Perhaps you should have tried harder to convince her to stay."

"Ruth … she'd give you a run for your money in the stubborn mule department. Once her mind was made up, there was no moving her, but I asked her back for Boxing Day."

"Good. You're a good man," and Ruth leans into him to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

"You missed, Ruth."

"Missed what?"

"My lips."

Ruth then she leans closer and places her lips on his. "You did well today," she says, reaching down to kiss him again.

"How do you mean?"

"With Catherine. You appeared to make progress."

"I think so, but I couldn't have done it without her cooperation, and of course, your help."

"That's true." Ruth lies back against her pillow, grasping Harry's hand beneath the duvet. She rubs his hand between both her own. "Now there's only your son to go." Harry groans. "What?"

"He might be tricky."

"Not if Jane can convince him he should see you before you die."

"Even that threat may not work on Graham. Maybe next Christmas."

"When you retire in six weeks you'll have all the time in the world."

The text message tone on Harry's phone echoes through the room. He picks it up, and opens his phone, holding it at arm's length to read. "Jesus," Ruth hears him utter, "you'd never guess."

"What is it?"

"It's from Catherine. She's been busy. Listen to this: I've been talking to Graham. How do you and Ruth feel about seeing us both on Boxing Day?"

"You'll say yes, of course."

"Of course." Harry retrieves his hand from her grasp, and reaches across to kiss her soundly, humming against her mouth.

"What was that for?"

"For being wonderful. I love you."

"I did nothing, Harry. It was you who built bridges today."

Harry doesn't hear her. He is busily typing his reply. "What do you think of this?" he asks her. "Ruth and I can't wait to see you both."

"I think that's just about perfect."

"It is, isn't it?" He presses Send, then places his phone on the bedside table, and once more reaches across to kiss Ruth before settling down beside her ... but several minutes pass, and he can't sleep. "Are you awake?"

"I am now."

"I was thinking … about when Catherine was small, and she'd ask me to sing her to sleep. I'm not much of a singer, but I knew the words to Ruby Tuesday. I'd no sooner begin than she'd ask me to stop, because the song hurt her ears. Her mother suggested I should learn a Michael Jackson song, because at five years of age, Catherine loved him, and so with Jane's help, I learned the lyrics to Beat It-"

"God."

"My thoughts exactly. I hated that song – still do. I'd butcher the melody, but I managed the lyrics and the beat fine, and I'd sing it to my daughter when she couldn't sleep. I'm hoping perhaps she remembers that."

"I'm sure she does." Ruth reaches out to grasp Harry's hand, and in response he gently squeezes her fingers.

"Only two more sleeps to go," he says.

"I think the emphasis needs to be on the word, `sleeps', Harry."

Taking the hint, he turns to face her, sliding one arm around her waist. This time, the gentle rhythm of her breathing calms him, and he follows her into sleep.