Lancaster Christmas Market glows against the December cold, fairy lights strung between wooden stalls that smell of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. I edge the car through streets clogged with shoppers bundled in scarves and woolly hats, their breath steaming in the freezing air.
Courtney hums beside me—the alto line from tonight’s performance, something classical I don’t recognise. Her fingers tap the rhythm against her knee, and I catch the familiar tangle of pride and worry that comes with watching your fifteen-year-old prepare to sing solo in front of strangers.
“You’ve got your phone?”
She rolls her eyes without stopping the humming. “Yes, Mum.”
“And your gloves?”
She pulls one blue mitten from her coat pocket and waves it at me like evidence. “See? Not completely hopeless.”
I pull into the drop-off zone beside the market entrance, where the choir coordinator stands with a clipboard tucked under one arm. Mrs Galloway waves us over, her smile bright enough to power the Christmas lights.
Courtney climbs out, cheeks flushed with excitement and nerves. The cold hits us both like a slap, and I get out to hug her even though she pretends to hate the fuss.
“I’ll be home by nine,” she says into my shoulder. “We finish at half eight, then Mrs G needs to do the register.”
“Stick with the group when you’re walking back to the car park. Don’t wander off.”
She pulls away and gives me the tired smile of a teenager who’s heard this twenty times. “I know, Mum. It’s Lancaster, not Gaza.”
I watch her join the line of blue-scarfed singers gathering beneath the bandstand lights. The first little needle of unease touches my ribs as she disappears into the crowd, but I tell myself that’s just what mothers do. We manufacture worry from thin air because the alternative is admitting we can’t actually protect them from everything.
The drive home takes longer than usual. Light flurries of snow catch in the headlights, and the radio hums Christmas classics I barely hear over the heater’s rattle. I force myself not to hover around the market like one of those helicopter parents I used to write sneering pieces about when I was still at the Lancashire Evening Post.
Our semi sits at the end of a terrace that was probably considered modern when it was built in the seventies. I pull up outside and sit for a moment, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The house looks cold and unwelcoming with all the lights off, but that’s probably just the weather.
I force myself inside and switch on the hallway lights. The central heating kicked in an hour ago, but the air still feels sharp enough to make me shiver.
I put the kettle on and walk around the kitchen wiping down surfaces that don’t need cleaning. There’s a work email from the council about a press release for the new recycling initiative—something about bin collection changes that will inevitably cause three weeks of angry phone calls from residents who can’t be bothered to read the leaflet properly.
I type a reply suggesting we add clearer graphics to the information pack, though my attention keeps drifting to the clock above the sink. Seven forty-five. Courtney will be on stage by now, probably fighting the nerves that always make her hands shake before she sings.
I fold a towel that doesn’t need folding and move wet clothes from the washing machine to the tumble dryer, though they could easily wait until tomorrow. My mind keeps returning to the market—the crowds, the way Courtney’s face lit up when she saw her friends, the slight tremor in her voice when she said goodbye.
At eight forty, I text her: “All good?”
The message shows as delivered but stays unread. Probably in her coat pocket on silent, which is exactly what I told her to do so she wouldn’t be distracted during the performance.
I try to watch the news, but the words slide past without sticking. Something about transport strikes and Christmas shopping figures that should matter more than they do. My knee bounces against the sofa arm as I check the time again.
Nine fifteen.
They should have finished by now. The register doesn’t take half an hour, even with Mrs Galloway’s legendary attention to detail.
I pace the length of the living room twice, then check the front window as though Courtney might materialise from the darkness like some Christmas miracle. The street stays empty.
At half past nine, I call her mobile.
It rings twice, then jumps straight to voicemail. Her recorded voice sounds younger than she does in real life, cheerful in that way that makes my stomach knot.
I grab my keys from the side table and head for the door without consciously deciding to move. The cold hits me like a physical blow as I step outside, sharp enough to make my eyes water.
The drive back to the market takes half the time it should. I park badly and walk too fast through crowds that have thinned since earlier. Couples share bags of hot nuts, and teenagers cluster around the mulled wine stall, but there’s no sign of blue scarves or choir coordinators.
The bandstand area is empty except for a stallholder dismantling a row of fairy lights. He’s probably my age, with the efficient movements of someone who does this every year.
“Excuse me.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. “Did you see a choir performing here earlier? Girls in blue scarves?”
He winds cable around his forearm without looking up. “They finished ages ago, love. Hour at least.”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Did you see where they went?”
“Sorry. I was dealing with my own stuff.”
I walk the route Courtney should have taken to meet the other parents at the car park. Check around the bench where the choir usually waits for stragglers. Two teenage girls are packing instruments into cases, but they shake their heads when I describe Courtney.
The market feels suddenly overwhelming—too loud, too bright, too full of people who aren’t my daughter. I swallow back the rising panic and try to think like the journalist I used to be. Facts first. Emotions later.
I call Courtney again. Same abrupt jump to voicemail that makes my hands shake.
I try Steve, though I know he’s working late. His phone rings out without answer, which means he’s either up a ladder in Kendal, or in one of his moods where he can’t be bothered with family obligations.
My breath starts coming too fast as the cold settles into my bones. The rational part of my mind lists possibilities: she’s gone for chips with friends, her phone’s died, she’s lost track of time. Fifteen-year-olds aren’t known for their punctuality.
But the mother part of my mind whispers darker alternatives that I refuse to entertain.
I walk home street by street, scanning alley mouths and doorways for any sign of a blue scarf or familiar silhouette. Check the late-night shops and the bus stops, though Courtney never takes the bus when she can walk.
I reach our front gate with hands that shake too much to fit the key properly. Open the door hoping against hope that she might be inside already, kettle on and homework spread across the kitchen table.
The house is silent.
The hallway stretches ahead, empty and cold.
“Courtney?” I call into the darkness. “Courtney, are you home?”
Nothing answers.
