“Oh, we certainly could. We were so worried when we heard your grandmother was being taken to hospital last night, weren’t we, Simon?” Beth’s dad, completely bald now, nodded obediently. “That’s why you’re here?” Josie nodded, getting the distinct impression that this was the reason she and Max had been brought along for gingerbread-making at eleven in the morning. “Well, try not to worry, distraction is the best thing, I’d say. Beth was right to bring you along.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Cope.”
“Oh, come now, Josie, you’re not a child anymore—you go ahead and call me Pippa.” She brought her into a hug, then pulled back, and to Josie’s surprise those sparkling eyes looked a little tearful. “You look so much like your mother, do you know that?” She’d been told that before, of course, mainly by Memo, but it always gave her a little jolt, hearing it. “She used to do all this, you know,” said Pippa as she led them into the kitchen, where there were a few racks of gingerbread men already cooling, the kitchen pleasantly steamy, smelling of cinnamon, ginger, and spices, flour on every surface as far as Josie could tell.
“The gingerbread, you mean?” Josie asked, glancing back at Max to check he was OK. He was already in conversation with Beth’s dad, nodding along to something.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Pippa. “It’s for the Christmas tree, you know—decorations, but we always put them on last minute, because obviously they all get eaten. And for the annual bake sale to raise money for the homeless—you remember that, of course?”
“Right. Yes, I do.” Her grandparents had taken her along as a child, though they’d stopped making her come as a teenager, when she insisted she’d be happier at home reading. They’d brought her something back from it every year though, and Josie felt a slight tightening in her stomach at the thought, at how she’d so adamantly refused to get involved in any of the traditions after her parents had gone. And there was another flash of memory now, one she’d forgotten or buried, of her mum in their orange-tiled kitchen, with trays and trays of gingerbread surrounding her. Her hair tied back in a bun, wearing a red polka-dot apron covered in flour, telling Josie she was only allowed to sneak away the misshapen biscuits to eat. It was nice, she realized, to get that back, to know that she still had those memories tucked away somewhere, just waiting for the right trigger.
A few more helpers arrived over the course of the morning, and together they mixed the batter, rolled it out, cut it into shapes, set the timer, and put the biscuits on racks to cool, like a little, very relaxed, assembly line. She was laughing along as Max got dough stuck all over his hand, as Beth’s dad—Simon—nearly burned his fingers because he wouldn’t listen to Pippa, as Pippa told her stories of people sneaking out at midnight to get the gingerbread off the tree because it was just so damn good. Pippa put Christmas songs on in the background, and though Josie exchanged a grin with Max at that, for once she didn’t hate the sound of the music, rather found herself humming along with the tunes.
At lunchtime, Pippa offered around mulled wine—saying that it being a Monday was canceled out by the fact it was Christmastime—though Josie declined and was given a peppermint tea instead. Max opted for the tea too, potentially just in solidarity. He was sitting down now, having insisted that standing up around all these beautiful women was making him lightheaded, and making them all coo in response.
Pippa seemed to have an endless amount to talk about saved up inside her, but it never seemed forced, rather felt easy, almost soothing to listen to. “A psychological thriller this time,” she was saying now, about Memo’s book club. “It’s very exciting, I’d be surprised if Cecelia doesn’t manage to finish this one at least.” Then, when someone brought up the last badminton game of the year, happening tonight at the local village gym, Pippa piped up with, “Oh yes, Simon will be going to that, won’t you, Simon?” Simon nodded. Josie glanced at Pippa from where she was hovering by the oven, with her oven gloves on, ready and waiting, and Pippa smiled. “Your dad used to go to badminton all the time, you know. Malcolm was always on the winning team, wasn’t he, Simon?” Another nod.
And so, instead of it making her sad and bringing up memories of the crash, instead of being haunted by the thought of her parents’ lives here, Josie felt comforted by it all, being surrounded by people who knew them, who had memories of them, who knew that they’d been real people, just like they knew her grandparents.