Lincolnshire, England
She is shelling peas and watching the changing light in the garden. She hates winter days. They are hardly days at all; sometimes, the streetlights don't even switch off. The leaves drip with excess moisture. Constant rain; no promise of snow. The Archer's on the radio.
The door creaks open and in comes Amir. He smiles weakly, his greying beard moving with his cheeks.
"You're Dad's settled in." He informs her.
"He didn't find the Port yet?"
"No; not yet."
He wraps his warm, jumper clad arms around her shoulders. The peas clatter into the colander over the sink.
"You didn't have to cook, love. I said I'd do that. You've had a long day."
"Amir, it's fine."
He reaches to take the colander away from her, but his wife shrugs him off. From the corner of her eye, she sees an expression of hurt fill his face. And she regrets it. She knows how callous she has become, but in truth, the numbness blocks out all other feelings. She is almost too tired to care.
"June," Amir sighs. His drooping eyes focus on the kitchen tiles. "Look; I know this is going to be difficult, but we're all doing our best. I know it won't be the same..."
"I don't see the point." June lets the colander drop with a clatter.
"Darling-"
"No, Amir. I don't see the point in pretending anymore. I don't want a Christmas. I don't want everyone cluttering up the place, and asking how things are. They can all go to hell for all I care."
The spout of honesty is exhausting. Amir looks shocked. She shakes her head. She could cry, but the tears are long gone.
"I don't want to hurt you all, love. I mean it."
Still shocked, her husband pushes past her, and picks up the peas.
"I'll finish this." He tells her. He is a little mouse of a man. She wishes he would get angry sometimes. Scream. Break something. But he never does. His docility is a form of status quo; pretending that everything is okay.
As June pushes open the door to the living room, Amir draws in a shaggy breath.
"I just want you to know this has been hard for all of us. I'm trying June."
She closes her eyes, and lets the door shut behind her.
Her father is standing by the mantlepiece. His little round head sits comfortably in the collar of his green sweater, his corduroy trousers ending in a pair of brown tartan slippers. He is holding a photo frame. The fire has been lit, filling her with suspicion.
"Did you light the fire Dad?" She demands.
The little elf of a man turns, his old tanned face lighting up.
"June! I didn't hear you come in; you're so quiet."
"Dad, I told you. It's not safe for you to be using matches."
"Ohhh," He waves a leathery palm at her, "don't listen to the nonsense the home is telling you."
It is, admittedly a good fire; like the ones she remembers as a girl in their old stove. It is too warm for a fire, but it sets the mood, twinkling in the golden tinsel set under their festive cards. But he's made a mess. Tutting, June crouches and sweeps at the ash.
Outside, in gloom of the rainy evening, the church bell tolls a cheerful rhythm. The sound used to bring her joy. Nightmare on a Sunday morning. But now, she could give or take them.
She glances at her father's hand and notices, although perhaps she already knew, who the photograph is of.
"Did you get any tea?" She asks, her voice high and strained, even to her.
"She really looks like your mother, you know. It's the eyes; they just have the same look about them."
She should have put the photograph away. Amir wouldn't hear of it, but for the love of God, she didn't want to have this conversation. She knew what her father would say.
"When did you say she was coming home?"
"She isn't, Dad."
Her father appears not to have heard, then he looks down at her, aghast.
"Not coming home? But it's Christmas, love! I know she's having a nice time with that nice young man of her's, but we're her family!"
"No Dad. I told you at the home the other day. Karima is missing."
"Missing?"
"Missing, Dad! Remember? After she went on her backpacking trip. They recovered Chris, but they never found her."
And the pain, again, sinks through her father, Oliver Cotes.
"Our Karrie?" He murmurs.
June finds that she is crying. Well, crying is a word for it. Her eyes feel wet, but the pain isn't the same. It is frustration, despair, but she can't sob.
"No...but there must have been a mistake! Our Karrie can't be dead."
"Well, the police over there didn't say that, did they? But I don't...I don't keep my hopes up."
Her father is shaking his head. He seems confused rather than sad, as if the knowledge will not compute. And then a wiser, understanding look fills his face. She is reminded, cruel as it is, of the man who took her mother and her on long walks in the country; who taught journalistic writing at the University, who was always level headed and understanding.
"You can't give up hope, love." He says warmly.
June Caroline Luthra shakes her head. He's a fool now. Every month, his memory has become worse and worse.
But must he be such a ruthless optimist?
The door creaks, and Amir appears. He looks at her, as if frightened that only being there will make her angry.
June never wanted to become a tyrant.
As she cries, her father holds his little girl, and the sweet, heart broken man to whom he gave her hand strokes her arm.
"We'll make it all right. We'll have a lovely time, love. I promise."