Page 53 of Break the Ice

‘Well, I have grandchildren. I wanted to make things special,’ he explains. ‘I got this off Amazon.’

‘It looks flammable as fuck.’

‘It’s also itchy. I’ve had to talc for my life,’ he says. ‘But anything for the little ones… we’ve woken up early while your sisters and brother have a lie-in, and we’ve been doing all sorts. I’m in my element. We’ve been baking and I found this app where I could make it look like Santa is in the actual house.’ He reaches for his phone in his pocket and shows me a very badly edited photo of a Shutterstock St Nick in his living room. It’s so bad it’s genius. ‘I take these things very seriously when it comes to the young’uns, Phoebe. Got to spread the magic,’ he says, back on the winking.

Josh has the biggest smile on his face, a look of genuine boyish excitement, and I’m glad he doesn’t find it all ridiculous. ’Tis part of our season, it has hints of madness about it. The way my dad will always play Johnny Mathis on a loop, the way my brother has a tradition of buying me the rudest socks he can find, the way someone (not always me) will look for the biggest carrot/parsnip in the bag and hold it to their crotch, pretending it’s a festive willy.

‘So…’ my dad continues, his head bobbing around as he looks into the back seat, ‘where’s the little pooch?’ On cue, Steve sits up and looks at my dad’s face. ‘How did he survive the journey?’

‘Well, he hates the car. He got loose in a Tesco, ate some sausages and then did a mega dump right next to Stonehenge. But apart from that, he’s a very good boy.’

My dad laughs and heads over to the car door. I’m not sure what I expect Steve to do but he steps over to my dad and smells the suit curiously. That will be the synthetic fibres, Steve. ‘Hello, lad. You OK?’ I see Steve close his eyes as my dad cups his face and, just like that, they are connected for life. ‘Crikey, they’re going to love you, eh?’ Steve puts his paws up on his belly and my dad laughs.

‘Oi, Steve. Calm it down, mate,’ I tell him.

‘Steve?’ Dad says. ‘They called the dog Steve?’

‘It’s a temporary name while he was in our care,’ I explain, not sure whether to tell him that I think I now know all of Stevie Wonder’s back catalogue intimately.

‘My plumber’s called Steve,’ Dad says, looking into the dog’s eyes. ‘Do you like a bacon butty, three sugars in your tea, and have a penchant for overcharging people?’ I think Steve nods, and my dad laughs. ‘So what are we doing with him? Putting a bow around his neck? Hanging him down the chimney?’

‘Do you want me to go for a walk with him? I can keep him hidden until you guys open your gifts?’ Joshua offers.

My dad looks at him, surprised. ‘It’s Christmas Day, matey. I won’t have any guest of mine doing laps of the village in this snow. Dog can have a piddle in the garden and then we’ll stow him in the utility room.’

I can see Joshua trying to work out what a piddle is, and bite my tongue trying not to laugh.

‘I mean, I’m not really a guest,’ Joshua tells him. ‘This is family time and I don’t want to impose. I can just drive straight back.’

‘Bollocks you will,’ I say loudly. He grimaces again. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what bollocks are either.’

‘I know of bollocks but…’ Joshua says.

‘Girl’s right,’ my dad says. ‘You’re staying. We’re adopting you. Bought a turkey as big as the moon, so we need some help with that.’

‘Only if you’re sure…’

He goes over to Joshua and puts his arms around him again, embracing him tightly. ‘I am surer than sure, Joshua. Come in, mi casa is your casa.’

Joshua looks up at the house and smiles broadly, then looks over at me. I shrug my shoulders. I wasn’t sure I was ready to say goodbye to you just yet either. But then the front door opens and I know a gaggle of nieces and nephews in a variety of pyjamas and slippers are about to start running down the pathway to see us. My dad snatches Steve and legs it around to the back of the house to hide him, just in time.

‘AUNTY PHOEBE! MERRY CHRISTMAS!’ It’s like a war cry that I will never tire of hearing – the harmonies of their little voices, excited to see me, all trading in the merriest of greetings, until Freya and Skye see another person on the other side of the car and freeze.

‘JOSHUA!’ Freya shrieks. ‘YOU BROUGHT JOSHUA?’

I look at him, slightly confused, maybe also miffed that they seem to be more excited to see him than me.

‘Hey girls, Merry Christmas!’ he says.

‘You had lasagne at our house! You’re funny!’ Skye says.

‘Funnier than me?’ I ask.

Skye nods, giggling, and it’s like a knife to my beating heart. ‘Elijah, Theo – come here and give me big hugs and tell me I’m funny.’

‘Is he American?’ Elijah, my eight-year-old nephew, asks me.

‘He is.’