The Lost Tide Warriors by Catherine Doyle

Author:Catherine Doyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781408896891
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2019-04-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

THE BURNING BOATS

Fionn raced home only to find a holly wreath hanging on the front door. Inside, the cottage looked like Christmas had staggered in and thrown up everywhere. There was tinsel as far as the eye could see, a bowl of striped candy-canes in the middle of the kitchen table and an un-iced fruit cake cooling on the countertop. A giant statue of Santa Claus stood sentry in the hallway, wearing a scarf of blinking fairy lights. There were four stockings hanging above the fireplace, all of them different lengths and colours. On closer inspection, the last one was just an oversized sports sock.

Fionn stalled in the archway to the kitchen.

He had almost forgotten about Christmas.

How could he have forgotten about Christmas?

It was less than a week away. Back in Dublin, it used to be the highlight of his year, the one time when he could ask for a present and not feel bad about it. The one time when Tara made a special effort not to be extremely terrible. She was in the kitchen now, singing to herself as she placed lopsided gingerbread men on a baking tray.

In the sitting room, Fionn’s grandfather was jamming an evergreen tree into the corner. Fionn’s mother had disappeared somewhere underneath it, her legs poking out as she attempted to screw the bottom of the trunk into a plastic stand.

The tree was swaying back and forth, his grandfather adjusting his stance as his mother’s orders climbed up through the branches. ‘Straighter! No, left! Left. Hold! Hold it there, Malachy! Stop swaying! I can feel you swaying!’

Fionn stood and watched his grandfather holding in his laughter as his mother finally emerged from the boughs of the tree with half of its pine needles in her hair. The two of them twirled the tree around to find the fullest angle, arguing over which side was the best one, and whether it should face the window or the sitting room. Fionn’s mother laughed as she flicked pine needles at his grandfather, who then pretended to shove them in his mouth and chew them up, hmm’ing things like ‘Surprisingly rustic’ and ‘Could do with a dollop of mustard’ while Tara giggled at them from the kitchen.

‘Sweetheart.’ Fionn’s mother’s face split into a grin. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?’

‘Long enough to be skiving off work,’ said his grandfather, unfolding himself like a greeting card. His eyes were stormless and blue. ‘Tara says you went off looking for that shell today. We thought we’d prepare Christmas while you were gone. This place was getting awfully grim, and we thought it might cheer you up.’

Fionn frowned. ‘When I failed to find it, you mean?’

‘Well, there was no harm in having a look,’ said his grandfather cheerfully. He lifted a cardboard box from the floor and plonked it on the couch. Dust spiralled from the surface as he raised the lid to reveal a cavalcade of Christmas lights and sparkly baubles, strips of tinsel and little wooden ornaments thrown haphazardly together.

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