As the Ellacott house began to fall into the well-worn paths of family tradition, Strike was making a conscious effort to behave as tactfully as he could. The net result of this was that Michael and Linda Ellacott seemed to be taking it in turns to ask him a series of, to Strike, uncomfortably personal questions. He supposed this was how polite people got to know one another, but Strike thought inwardly that he favored trauma bonding as a means to making friends. However much he was naturally uneasy about divulging too much of his complex and difficult past, he also wanted to appear at least somewhat likable to them and also prove that he was capable of a domesticated conversation that didn't stray into the realm of his shocking, dark and strange working life.
"Where did you actually go to school?" asked Linda curiously, "Robin said it's difficult to explain."
"Well, Cornwall, mostly." Said Strike, "St. Mawes- when we sometimes lived with Ted and Joan. On the whole though, we never stayed put long enough to attend more than a term or two consecutively at the same school. It didn't really help that mum also fancied she could educate us out of western thought by 'homeschooling' us" he twitched his fingers on the word homeschool, "but it only lasted until it started to get too tedious for her. She couldn't slave herself to anything for too long."
"Hmm." said Linda, frowning slightly at this, "It must've been hard for you to be so unsettled."
"I managed." said Strike, with a healthy dose of ease borne of time and distance, "Lucy had a harder time. She ended up moving to St. Mawes to stay with Ted and Joan full time when she got a bit older."
"You didn't?" Said Michael sounding surprised.
"No." said Strike shrugging, "Leda was a bit peripatetic, but she was also my mum."
Robin was surprised at how open Strike was being with her parents. She knew him too well to think this was usual. He avoided sharing personal details of his childhood as a rule. Robin had the idea that it was to avoid the extreme array of emotions the tales of his roving childhood evoked. Perpetually surrounded as he was by rockstars, drugs, and uncertainty. Robin knew that people were apt to romanticize it or undoubtedly worse for strike, pity him. He was laying his personal life open to examination to her family, which Robin could not help but feel was an unprecedented olive branch.
"Did you spend any time with your father?" Asked Michael, seeming to think this an innocent question.
"Ah, no." said Strike, clearly struggling with what Robin knew was his instinct to leave it at that and some inexplicable desire to reveal himself to them, "Johnny didn't want anything to do with me as a kid. I imagine it was because I was the proof that ended up costing him a marriage. I was inconvenient at best- at worst I was a secret that should've been hushed up at a clinic long before I was born."
This bold admission left Michael looking as though he regretted asking. Strike knew it was a bit too far for polite conversation, but a long seated bitterness towards Johnny Roekeby had made the words flow fairly effortlessly out of his mouth.
"He sounds like a right piece of shit." said Jonathan over his shoulder as he inspected the gifts stacked neatly beside the little fake tree in the corner.
"He is." said Strike truthfully.
"I never cared for the Deadbeats, personally." said Martin, "I always thought their stuff was a little like a knock off of the stones."
"Well, I'll keep that in mind next time I'm handing out tickets to one of their shows." said Strike, grinning sarcastically, "Mind you, he wants to claim me now that Robin and I have made the business a success worthy of the times…..That, and I think he wanted to put our names together in print when I lost my leg."
"People change." Said Linda after a slight pause, "Maybe he's grown up a bit."
"Joan wanted me to give him a chance too," Said Strike dismissively, "as far as I'm concerned Roekeby has enough kids to be getting on with. I'm not interested in his money, his band, or his fame. Ted was my dad."
Robin had never heard him say as much, although she'd alway suspected it. Strike not only more closely physically resembled his uncle Ted, but he'd followed his example in joining the Army as well. Although Robin had not yet met Ted, she carried a secret fondness for him, the man she imagined taught a young Strike how to be a man with integrity of Character despite the rough edges his mother's negligence had given him. She hoped to meet Ted someday, and with a giddy rush, she suspected it would be sooner rather than later.
Later that afternoon, after a particularly satisfying meal that lacked all the pomp and frill that Lucy always insisted on. Strike felt a buzz tickle his thigh as his phone began to vibrate in sharp intervals. Reaching hastily into his pocket, he pulled it out glancing quickly to see Ilsa Herbert's name on his screen. He debated briefly about letting it go to voicemail, but feeling slightly magnanimous with a full belly and persistent glow of contentment that had settled over him, he moved to the corner of the house and answered.
"Hello?"
"Merry Christmas, Corm!" Said Ilsa brightly.
"You too, Ils." Said Strike smiling with warmth, "How's Benji's first Christmas?"
"I don't think he cares to be honest- except I think he's a little tired of changing outfits and taking pictures." said Ilsa dryly, "He got too many Christmas outfits, and he'll be too big for them in a week- so no chance we can save some for next year."
"Nobody got me a Christmas outfit." Said strike.
"You can borrow one of Benji's Rompers- I'll give you the one with the bells on."
"Probably need to lose a few stone to do up the zip." said Strike laughing comfortably.
"Are you alright?" said Ilsa curiously.
"Yeah." said Strike faintly confused, "Why?"
"I don't know? Why do you sound so…. Happy?" she said with an oddly suspicious note in her voice, "Is Charlotte there? I hear voices."
"Christ no!" yelped Strike indignantly.
"Hmmm." said Ilsa doubtfully, "Well Nick and I were thinking of dropping a gift off for you tonight. We thought Benji might sleep if we drove around in the car for a bit."
"Oh…" said Strike, trying to decide what he should say, " well… I wont be home until tomorrow afternoon."
"Where are you?" said Ilsa, surprise making the question sound like a demand, "I thought you said you were going to stay in and work."
With a brief glance at Robin, who was watching him curiously with raised eyebrows from across the little house. He gave her a small smile, and then decided on the truth.
"I'm with Robin." he said simply.
"Oh." said Ilsa, stunned into silence for a full ten seconds, "That's lovely, Corm." She sounded oddly misty, and Strike fervently hoped that she was not crying.
He decided to beat her to the question he knew was coming next.
"We're in Yorkshire with her family." he said as casually as he could- knowing full well he was dropping a bomb into the conversation.
"Well- that's… well…. " she trailed off at a loss, "... are you… with her, Corm?"
"As of last night" said Strike, smiling as he imagined Ilsa's face, "I think so."
The line was quiet again for a long moment before Ilsa finally responded,
"Well, maybe you both can come over for a beer when you get back. I want to hear what Robin has to say about it."
"Yeah, we will." Said Strike, "I should probably get back."
"Ok- well, give us a call on friday." Ilsa said, still sounding faintly emotional.
"Will do. Merry Christmas." said Strike, hanging up.
Strike rejoined Robin, flashing her a crooked smile,
"It was Ilsa- she says Merry Christmas and she also wants to have us over for a beer when we get back." He gave Robin a look and a barely perceptible shrug as if to say, 'she figured it out' before turning to help Linda with the washing up.
After dinner, they moved to the small sitting room to open gifts. Robin watched as Strike passed out three neat little black bags with red ribbon handles to her parents and to her brothers. Robin estimated that the bags were roughly the size and shape of a whiskey bottle and the faint tinkling slosh she heard as he passed the last one to Martin confirmed her suspicion that he'd chosen to give the gift of universal size and nearly universal taste. As Strike settled on the couch next to her, she waited for him to produce a fourth bottle of something to give to her- but it didn't come. After a slight hesitation and an air faint embarrassment he reached down to the small carrier bag he'd used to transport his gifts and produced a small box wrapped in neat gold paper- decorated tastefully with a small holly sprig fastened securely to one corner. The gift looked far too delicate to come from Strike, and yet, the self consciousness he'd displayed while passing it to her spoke of a gift chosen with effort and deliberation. She felt oddly nervous as she looked down at it, her hands suddenly aware of the smooth cool paper under her fingers.
Hastily she drew her eyes from the small gift in her hands, reaching down to retrieve a simply wrapped gift decorated only with her name and a kiss. She pushed into his hands with a small smile. He took it smiling back at her as with no ceremony he ripped back the paper to reveal a tiny, and clearly very old book with a small card attached.
'To my Watson.
Sherlock xx'
It was a small, and very old copy of 'A Study in Scarlett' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Strike touched the cover with some reverence. It looked to be a very early edition and he knew it must have been nearly impossible to get.
"Thank you." He said simply. Returning his gaze to the book in amazement.
Robin smiled, pleased that he seemed touched by her gift. Impatiently she returned her attention to the small package now burning with curiosity.
As the sounds of tearing paper and laughter filled the small house Robin carefully slid a finger under the neat flap of paper that sealed the gift. Beneath was a small black box with a card fastened to the front bearing strikes small neat script,
'I know you said no more flowers, but hopefully you'll forgive me for this one.
Strike xx '
With a small ripple of excitement, Robin carefully lifted the lid of the box to reveal the thin, delicate, silver chain of a necklace adorned with a finely made outline of a Yorkshire rose, inlaid with smooth black stone. A card fell out from beneath the pendant, and glancing down she read, "Pure Whitby Jet- product of Yorkshire".
It was lovely.
Robin felt emotion rise in her as she delicately touched the small flower. Tears pricked in her eyes as she struggled to find words important enough to say. Her mouth opened as she gazed at the little black flower.
"I bought it a year ago." Strike murmured under the buzz of talk, "After the Ritz. It reminded me of you."
Now Robin did cry. Quietly, she watched as small drops fell into the little box, one pooling on the smooth black surface of the rose. She didn't know how to respond. They had talked of being in love long before it was spoken between them, but here was the proof. A tiny flower he could not give to a friend. Bought, with the hope that they would someday find more in each other. It was no diamond pendant, costly yet mass produced- it was a link between her past and present. Delicate, yet durable and robust- like her.
She flung her arms around his neck, heedless of the startled eyes of her family upon them.
"Thank you." she whispered, burying her face in his chest, overcome with feeling. She vaguely remembered that people were watching, but she did not care.
Strike kissed the top of her head tenderly, folding her into his embrace.