The Object of My Affection: My Band Mate's Sister

Christmas Time is Here Again

It was delightful smell that wafted up her nose when she came into the kitchen first after a long day of work that was Brona’s first clue that Christmas time was here again.

Brona placed the flimsy box she was holding onto the rather crowded table with a larger box of groceries and headed over to the small radiator. She tugged of the leather glove on her right hand and placed it up against the radiator. She sighed in relief when she felt the sensation of heat on the back of her hand, turning her knuckles red.

“Mam, I’m home!” Brona shouted as she began to remove her layers, starting with her hat and scarf. “I picked up the cake!”

The uncommon silence in the Harrison home was broken when Brona heard the sound of feet pounding on the stairs. Only a few mere seconds later, Mrs Harrison appeared in her Sunday best with her rollers still wrapped around her blonde locks.

“Is it snowin’?” the words rushed out of her mother’s mouth.

Caught off guard by the quick question, expecting a welcome home instead, Brona found she was unable to answer. Even if she could answer, she doubt her mother would gave her the patience too as she rushed over the window to peer outside, only to be left disappointed.

Mrs Harrison frowned. “Feck it,” she muttered under her breath but her daughter’s keen hearing picked it up.

“Mam,” said Brona, slyly. “Swearin’ isn’t very-“ Mrs Harrison didn’t let her finish as she darted out of the room and into the sitting room. “Mam! Mam!” Brona frowned deeply. “Look at the bloody cake!”

“I’m sure it’s fine, my dear,” she called back as she saw to the banners and flags that were left in a box in the living room.

Brona began to take of the rest of her layers in a sulky matter, muttering about how she had to go to the bakers with a heavy box of groceries, despite it being freezing, instead of coming straight home to spend some time with Matthew, who was upstairs packing.

“Well, I hope it’s the wrong one anyways,” she muttered in conclusion with her rant.

“What’s that, dear?”

Brona smiled innocently. “Oh nothin’, Mam!”

“Brona! Brona! Brona!”

Brona spun round on her heel to see Patrick standing at the opened kitchen door red faced and out of breath. “Is it me you’re lookin’ for?”

Patrick rolled his eyes and held out an envelope with her name printed on the front. “It’s a reply.” When she took it of him, he hunched over and tried to get his breath back. Brona was half afraid he’d collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“It’s ‘bout time, really,” she said, ripping the seal. “It was October and November when we sent these and this is our first reply and it’s the end of December!” As she took the folded letter out of the envelope, she raised a brow at Patrick. “Do you want a hot one or somethin’, Paddy?” He waved at her dismissively. “Hmm, an Irish man rejectin’ whiskey. Well, now I’ve seen everythin’.” His head raised, the expression on his red face suggested he did not receive the joke very well. “I’m jokin’! It’s just a joke.”

Brona unfolded the letter, her eyes briskly skimming through the print. It was from one of the Scottish papers they had sent an application too. It didn’t heightened her hopes or raise her expectations. She really didn’t think a Scottish would take her on.

But she was wrong.

Brona gasped and her gaze rose from the letter. “They offered me the job!”