Twins For Christmas: A Little Christmas Magic / Lone Star Twins / A Family This Christmas

‘It means that you’re going to have a baby.’

‘Auntie Marion’s going to have a baby.’

‘Aye … she is. So’s Kylie.’

‘But Kylie looks after us. She’s coming back, isn’t she?’

‘No. She’s going to Australia—where her boyfriend comes from.’

‘What’s Australia?’

‘It’s a country a long way away.’ Adam had gone as far as the door to see that the standard lamp had fallen in the living room, sweeping a photograph from the corner of the mantelpiece onto the hearth. Nothing life-threatening. He could sort it out later when he had a minute to spare. Stooping, he picked up an abandoned shoe.

‘Ollie? Where are you? It’s time for school.’

A small, tousled head with wide eyes appeared slowly from behind the sofa.

‘Come and see your gran. You need your hair brushed too.’

‘It’s even further away than Canada.’ By some miracle, his mother had found ribbons to tie on the ends of Poppy’s plaits. ‘Where Aunty Marion lives.’

She looked up as Adam came back with Oliver in tow but then her gaze shifted to take in the pile of books and papers on one end of the kitchen table. A milky spoon from a bowl of cereal was sitting on top of a school book. Turning her head to look at the dishes piled up on the kitchen bench, she clicked her tongue.

‘I can’t do it,’ Catherine McAllister said. ‘I’m no’ going to take off for Canada and leave you to cope with this lot alone.’

‘You have to. Marion needs you. The bairn’s due next week.’

‘She’ll understand.’

‘This is my sister we’re talking about.’ Adam’s smile was wry. ‘She’d never talk to me again. She’d say I’ve had years of your help and she only needs you for a few weeks. It’s not her fault my nanny’s run off to Australia.’

Catherine raised her gaze to the old clock on the wall. ‘You’d better go, son. Or you’ll be getting the evil eye from Eileen Stewart. She’s bad enough when an emergency comes in and puts out all the waiting times. I’ll get these wee lambs off to school.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Adam pushed his arms into the sleeves of a coat that hadn’t made it off the back of a kitchen chair last night. ‘And you’re not to even think of cancelling your trip. I’ve got ads in papers everywhere for a temporary nanny. I’ll find help for while you’re away at least, and then we can worry about something more permanent.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Catherine sounded unconvinced. ‘My flight’s not till Tuesday. If you haven’t found help by then, I’m staying and that’s an end to the matter.’

The train from London to Edinburgh arrived on time. The connecting train Emma needed to get out into the middle of a Scottish nowhere was clearly less reliable. The wicked draught coming into the waiting room was chilling her to the bone and Emma huddled between the backpack full of clothes and her guitar case.

How crazy was this?

But that Dr McAllister had sounded so enthusiastic on the phone yesterday. Said he’d pay for her travel if she could come up for an interview and he was sure she’d be suitable so she might as well bring what she needed for the next few weeks and that way, if she was happy to take the position, she wouldn’t need to go all the way back to London again.

And it all sounded so perfect. She already had the image of a pretty, old Scottish village with the stone buildings softened by a layer of fluffy snow and the sound of Christmas carols being sung by rosy-cheeked village children. What better place to spend these few weeks of the unbearable waiting? It wasn’t as if she would have the responsibility of caring for a tiny baby or something. Looking after six-year-old twins—how hard could that be?

A piercing whistle and then a squeal of brakes announced the arrival of her new train. Emma picked up the straps of her backpack with one hand and the handle of the guitar case with the other. Then she put it down again to fish in her coat pocket. To make sure she had the appointment details for the meeting later this afternoon.

Yes. Four p.m. at the medical centre in the village of Braeburn. Only a short walk from the station, apparently. Across the square at the end of the high street and down the street. She couldn’t miss it but if she got as far as the village hall she needed to turn around. She’d be able to meet not only the nice-sounding doctor but the children and their grandmother.

Gathering her courage, Emma got herself and her belongings stowed into an eerily empty train carriage. Braeburn didn’t appear to be a very popular destination. With no one to distract her with conversation, there was plenty of time to think about what lay ahead in her immediate future.

That last addition of the grandmother to the interview panel was the one that made her a little uneasy. Her imagination could conjure up a fierce, elderly Scot with no trouble at all. Short and wiry, with a hairnet keeping the corrugated-iron waves of her hair in place and a disapproving glare that would miss nothing remotely unsuitable about an applicant.

She’d be the one to convince.

Emma rested her head back on the faded seat and watched green hills and paddocks and the occasional river drift past. Beautiful country. A long, long way from London and big hospitals and fear of what the new year might bring.

She couldn’t go back.

She had to get this job. It would be a reprieve from the fear. Time out. A family to spend Christmas with even, and wouldn’t that be magic?

A touch to her hair reassured her that the unruly curls were suitably restrained. How good was it that her hair had grown back so enthusiastically after all the chemo? It would have been better to have had the time to buy some new clothes, though. She didn’t have a skirt or dress to her name and, having lost so much weight, she was swimming in her jeans and pullover. Hardly the outfit to make much of an impression with but it was personality that mattered, wasn’t it?

And this Dr McAllister sounded perfectly nice, with his deep voice and broad Scottish accent. A bit brusque maybe. Possibly a little terse after she’d replayed the conversation in her head a few times but he’d definitely sounded keen.

Almost … desperate?

Maybe the children were little monsters that ate nannies for breakfast and the granny would be glaring at her from a corner and constantly criticising her every move. And the doctor would take one look at her and ask what on earth she was thinking—that she could look after his precious children when it was obvious how sick she was herself?

No. Emma slammed a mental door shut on her unfortunately vivid imagination.

Fate was bringing her here. It had been the first advertisement she’d seen and, when she’d rung, the phone had been answered virtually on the first ring. She hadn’t even had to queue for a train ticket. It felt like it was meant to happen.

She needed a bit of faith, that was all. Hardly surprising that that particular mental resource was somewhat depleted at the moment but it felt good to scrape a bit up and hang onto it.

Very good indeed.

It felt remarkably like hope.

The village was every bit as pretty as she had imagined with stone buildings and cobbled streets. Not that Emma had time to admire more than a passing impression because the train had been a bit late and now she had to hurry. That it was much darker for the time of day and probably a lot colder than London didn’t seem to matter when the brightly lit shop windows revealed colourful decorations already in place.

She found herself smiling when she hurried past a pub called simply The Inn, which had sprigs of holly on the door framing a handwritten sign that said, ‘There’s plenty of room.’ Maybe the innkeeper with the sense of humour was one of the group of people under the streetlamps, installing a massive Christmas tree in the village square that needed men with ropes and a lot of shouting in a brogue so thick it sounded like a foreign language.

Her heart sank, however, when she entered the medical centre and the grandmother of her imagination fixed her with a look that could probably strip paint.

‘D’ye have an appointment? The doctor’s no’ got time for extras unless it’s an emergency. Clinic hours are over.’

The bell on the door behind Emma clanged again before the grandmother had finished speaking and her attempt to decipher more than half the words she had just heard was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

‘I’ll take care o’ this, Eileen. We’re expecting Emma.’

Her jaw dropping, Emma turned to face an elegantly dressed and very beautiful older woman, who was smiling warmly. ‘I take it you are Emma?’

‘Um … yes. And you’re …?’

‘Catherine McAllister. Adam’s mother.’ She looked past Emma’s shoulder. ‘Is Adam in, Eileen?’

‘Aye. The wee bairns as well.’ The sniff was disapproving. ‘I’ve told the doctor it’s no’ a good idea, having bairns in there. They’ll break something. Or—’