‘I’m so sorry,’ Alison said, reaching out and putting her hand on my shoulder, her bangles jingling.

‘It’s fine, it was a long time ago.’

‘How old were you when they passed?’ Mairi asked in a grave voice.

I swallowed. ‘Fourteen.’

She nodded slightly. ‘Same as me. How did it happen?’

‘Car accident.’

‘Mine was a helicopter accident, just a few miles north of here,’ Mairi said. ‘They were on their way back from a romantic break in Paris.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Father so loved this land, his family’s land. It ran through his veins, the dirt and the grit of it. I never stop thinking how sad it is that he couldn’t take his last breath here, on the land he’d inherited.’ She stood up, walked to me and crouched down in front of the chair as she continued to look into my eyes. She grabbed my hands earnestly and I shrank back, unused to such contact. ‘I know the emptiness. It’s hard. But creating a new family helps.’

Dylan laughed nervously. ‘Jesus, Mum. Leave the poor woman alone.’

‘You can tell when Mum’s been on the mulled wine, she gets sentimental,’ Glenn said.

Mairi paused a moment then smiled, rose and whacked both her sons on the back. ‘Ack, you two.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Time for more food.’

As she left the room, Dylan shuffled up to be close to my chair. ‘I’m sorry about your parents,’ he said softly.

I shrugged and mumbled, ‘Been years.’

‘Still. Must be hard.’

I looked into his eyes and, for a moment, wanted to tell him the truth. But then I sighed. ‘Yes, I guess it is.’

Mairi reappeared with a large terracotta dish with a wooden ladle inside. ‘Some Sowans to get us all warm before we head out,’ she said, placing it on the large wooden coffee table as Rhonda fetched some pretty wooden bowls in the shape of urns.

‘Sowans?’ I asked.

‘It’s a Christmas Eve tradition,’ Dylan explained. ‘We actually call Christmas Eve Sowans Nicht because of this dish.’

‘What is it? Porridge?’ I asked, leaning forward and breathing in the oaty smell.

‘A bit like porridge,’ Mairi said, handing a bowl to me. ‘We make it from soaking oat starch and mixing it with butter, milk and cinnamon … plus a few other McClusky secret ingredients,’ she added with a wink. She handed me a wooden spoon, its handle decorated with the same carvings of holly and ivy.

‘These are beautiful,’ I said, examining the carvings. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Our talented woodworker made them,’ Oscar said, looking at Dylan with pride.

‘Not just a pretty face, eh?’ Dylan said, throwing me a smile.

I smiled back. ‘Clearly not.’