Cover

Dedication

For A, S, D & A

While I was only a short chapter in your stories, you have forever changed mine

1

‘To summarise, Poppy Walton, you can tell Mum that a new sledge will definitely come in handy tomorrow afternoon. Maura Kelly, I’d hold off on booking those ferry tickets home, you’ll be struggling to reach Holyhead by Christmas Eve. And for everyone who’s asked, I’m not a betting woman, but even I’d be tempted to stake my stocking on the snow lasting until Christmas. So, get your shovels ready, allow extra time on the roads and keep an eye out for each other. I’m heading home for the holidays until the twenty-ninth, but you’ll be in Summer Collins’ capable hands until then. This is Bea Armstrong wishing you all a magical, merry Christmas.’

I kept my smile in place for those awkward few seconds until the camera cut, at which point my forehead immediately furrowed at the reminder that I’d be spending Christmas with my family. Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas. I love my family more than life itself. But combine the two together and, well, let’s just say that I’d be packing my migraine medication.

As I approached my desk a few minutes later, the phone began ringing right on cue.

‘Mrs Lewinski,’ Sondra, the receptionist, said in the exact same drone she used every day at six forty-five.

‘Mrs L,’ I chirruped. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Good evening, Bea,’ the reedy voice rasped. ‘A lovely broadcast as always. However, I’m a little concerned about my parsnips…’

Today it was her vegetables, yesterday it was whether she needed to ask the ‘nice young man’ next door to de-ice the garden path. Mrs Lewinski phoned the television studio most days at six forty-five on the dot and asked for her own personal weather report. I was happy to give it to her. Not just because part of my presenting style included answering individual questions from the viewers at the end of each broadcast, or because I knew I might well have been the only person she’d spoken to all day. But also because the weather was quite simply my obsession, and I would willingly talk about it in great detail to anyone who’d listen.

As soon as I’d ended the call, another one came through. Walter Pirbright.

‘You got it wrong again.’

I paused, the phone tucked under my chin so I could pack up my things at the same time. ‘Oh?’ Walter was a local farmer. He contacted me no more than once a month, every time to correct what he considered to be an inaccurate forecast.

‘The snow’ll be here tonight. A couple of hours, I’d say.’