Authors: Aline Templeton
Patrick
had filled a glass with water and was sipping it doubtfully.
‘
It just seems such a lot to drink, when you’re not thirsty,’ he complained.
‘
You’ll pay for it if you don’t,’ she said crisply. ‘Now, once Ben hangs up his stocking, if you take him up and see him into bed, I’ll get the presents from the cupboard under the stairs.’
‘
Er –’ Patrick said awkwardly. ‘I wonder, isn’t he perhaps getting a bit big for Santa Claus? I’m not sure that other boys his age hang up their stockings. Apparently Mike Cutler stopped years ago.’
If
Suzanne had thought about it, she might have guessed that he had been reluctantly put up to address this subject. But she was finding it hard at the moment to see their relationship in perspective, and she flushed. That little pinprick was so like Patrick. Everything he said seemed designed to deflate her, to make her feel that all her efforts to hold down an important and demanding job without compromising anywhere else, were unappreciated. No, worse than that; they were actively resented, and the only reason she didn’t know was because she was too insensitive and people were too polite to tell her. She knew it was spiteful and untrue, of course, but she had to work hard to keep up her self-respect under attacks like these.
‘
Hayley Cutler,’ she said stiffly, ‘is too lazy and too wrapped up in her own gratification to put herself out for anyone. It’s got a lot more to do with that than whether or not poor little Mike wants a stocking. You’re a long time grown up, and the Christmas traditions are the things you remember all your life – if you’re lucky enough to have them.’
Patrick,
still looking uncomfortable, said, ‘Well, whatever you think.’
He
set down his empty glass on one of the surfaces, beside a big, shallow pottery bowl made by Suzanne in one of her evening classes a few years ago.
Seizing
the chance to change the subject, he said, ‘By the way, what were you burning in this last night?’
She
stared at him. ‘Burning? What are you talking about?’
‘
I emptied some ashes out of that bowl this morning when I came down to let Tigger out. They looked as if you’d been burning one of those endless lists of yours – you know, the timetables for what ought to be done by everyone of your acquaintance every moment of every day.’
She
coloured again. ‘I certainly wasn’t burning any lists,’ she said stiffly. ‘Maybe Ben was playing with matches; you’d better have a word with him.’
But
she didn’t believe him. He had said more than once that people thought she was bossy, and she assumed this was some silly spiteful joke, and as such better ignored.
Perhaps,
if she had accepted what he said, if he had persisted in trying to establish what had happened during the dark and silent hours of the previous night, things might have turned out differently. Perhaps not. Perhaps even then, it was all too late.
Suzanne
heard Ben coming down and went through to the hall. They had always made a ceremony out of this, hanging up the big green felt stocking, so lovingly made for Ben’s first Christmas when he was only six months old, on the special hook by the side of the fireplace, used only for this purpose. It was a magnificent stocking, large enough to hold real treasures, with his name appliquéd at the top, above the stars and the assorted Christmas fauna, all hemmed around with neat red blanket stitch.
Tigger,
who had accompanied him upstairs, came racing down ahead of him; Ben was lagging as he came down the stairs.
Suzanne
smiled at him lovingly.
‘
Come on, darling, you’re exhausted! You come and get your stocking hung up, and I’ll go and get the mince pie and the carrot.’
Ben
stopped, wincing, three steps from the bottom, just above one of the pine and fir-cone bunches.
‘
Oh, for heavens’ sake, Mum!’ he groaned.
Suzanne
stiffened, looking up at him. His glasses glinted in the light, giving him an opaque, impersonal expression. ‘What’s the matter?’
Ben
was a dutiful child, who had become accustomed to shouldering the burden of his mother’s expectations. He had kindly instincts, and he was, if he were honest with himself, a bit scared of what the result of rebellion might be. Only the terror of Mike Cutler’s scorn, if, horror of horrors, he found out about this particular wrinkle, drove him on.
He
came down the last few steps slowly.
‘
Look, Mum –’ He paused, trying to deal with this as tactfully as he knew how. ‘It’s just – it’s a bit yuk, if you know what I mean. I mean, who’s it all for? The stocking, OK, if you like, but I’ve known for years that Dad ate the mince pie and you put the carrot back in the basket. I marked one years ago, and it was there the next morning. So…’
His
explanation trailed away, and just for a moment there was a terrible silence. His stomach lurched in fright, but when Mum spoke again, she sounded brisk as usual, though her voice was a bit funny.
‘
I see. Well, you’re certainly right. If it’s not for you, there’s no point, is there? There’s absolutely no point at all.’
She
flashed a smile at him, and he smiled back warily. ‘Right, off you go to bed. You’re a big boy now – see? No more stockings.’
She
unhooked it as she spoke, and Ben, shocked by the lack of resistance to his argument, opened his mouth to say that he hadn’t meant that, not exactly, then thought the better of it.
She
had her back to him now, adjusting some of the parcels under the tree, and he hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘OK, then. Good-night, Mum.’
His
father came out of the kitchen, holding the dog lead, and Tigger raced off with him for his late-night walk. Ben called good-night to him too, then continued uncertainly on his way upstairs.
He
’d got his own way, hadn’t he? But he hadn’t meant that
this
Christmas – tomorrow morning – he was ready to come downstairs to a fireplace which didn’t have a stocking hanging beside it, full of surprises and little treats. There had always been a stocking there on Christmas morning, and he couldn’t quite believe that there wouldn’t be.
Perhaps
Mum would do it anyway. She must have all the stuff, after all. At the top of the stairs he sneaked a look over the banisters.
She
was standing in the middle of the hall, with two bright red spots on her cheeks and brilliant, glittering eyes. She was making a strange, soft, high-pitched keening sound and she was ripping the stocking apart, right down its blanket-stitched edges. She looked – he shuddered – almost as if she was, well, mad.
He
got into bed, and cried himself to sleep.
She had been sleeping a heavy, dreamless and exhausted sleep, but now she was suddenly and completely awake, as if someone had laid a hand on her shoulder.
She
turned her head instinctively, but she knew that there was no one there.
She
felt strange, somehow, in a way she could not quite define, though she thought, vaguely, that this had happened before. She could sense her eyes becoming glassy, her gaze fixed, and then...She didn’t know what would happen, but she knew that it scared her.
She
could still move. She slid out of bed with infinite caution, then out of her bedroom and down the stairs. About her, the house was hushed, but in her fancy the silence was strained and unnatural, as if a scream were being choked back because of a steely hand about the throat.
Perhaps
if she kept moving...She went into the kitchen, busied herself with the kettle, a mug, a teabag, the teapot. But it needed more and more desperate concentration; her movements were getting slower, slower...
Suddenly,
as if a switch had been thrown, she perked up. Her eyes were bright now, her shoulders straighter, her movements quick and decisive.
Her
lips curved, and she began to giggle.
‘
Clever old Missy!’ she said softly. ‘Clever old Missy!’
She
looked at the mug, and the teapot warming in front of her, and pulled a naughty face.
‘
Tea!’ she said disdainfully. ‘How crummy, how entirely crummy!’
She
liked the sound of that, and declaimed it once or twice, as she opened a kitchen cupboard to take out a bottle of cooking brandy and slosh a large measure into a drinking glass. She sipped at it, smacking her lips and apparently oblivious to the rawness of the spirit.
‘
That’s better. And now –!’
She
went through to the hall, moving cautiously and murmuring ‘Sssh!’ to herself under her breath. There was a long, deep cupboard which ran below the stairs and she bent low to step into it, then crawled her way purposefully to the deepest, furthest corner. Under a pile of dust sheets there was a black plastic bag which she pulled towards her. It was quite heavy, and an awkward shape in such a confined space; she was strong, very strong, but she struggled a little to get it out. She banged it against the door and swore out loud, then froze, listening. But there was no responsive sound; the spell of silence still lay over the place, and she carried her booty into the kitchen.
Before
she opened it, she went to the sink where a pair of rubber gloves were draped to dry, and put them on. She admired her funny pink hands, wiggled the fingers a little bit. Then she went to the table and sat down for a moment to think.
She
had planned to write another letter tonight – another little part of her grand design – but now there was something else that was bothering her.
She
didn’t recall the past very clearly. Memories and times were blurry, somehow, but she remembered feelings. She remembered fear and shame and a plump body and gold glasses that glinted, and someone who seemed somehow to know what you had done in secret. It was confused in her mind, but she was clear about one thing; she must make her keep her distance, scare her off, or disaster for Missy would follow as it had before.
The
typewriter she took from the bag was a battered black Imperial, almost a museum piece. She set it up on the kitchen table, then made another trip to the sitting room to fetch notepaper, envelopes and stamps. Smiling in appreciation of her own cunning, she pulled the sheet from the centre of the pad, chose envelopes from the heart of the packet.
She
tapped with silent concentration, giggling occasionally her soft, high-pitched giggle, then stood up. She was still in her nightgown, with her funny pink hands and bare feet; from the pegs at the back door she took a hooded raincoat, and slipped her feet into a pair of gumboots.
She
took the letters and opened the back door stealthily, just enough to let herself out, then closed it quickly to shut off the light from inside. She stood in the shadows, listening and looking down the deserted street. She had one or two things to do tonight and she slid into the blackness like a fish released into its natural element, darting and flickering in and out of the shadows, herself a deeper darkness made visible, had there been eyes to see.
But
beyond, the calm domestic night-world with its streetlamps and pavements and parked cars was empty, its houses blank in their own innocent darkness, except where a window sparkled with the lights of a Christmas tree.
This
was her playground, the world in which she moved for her mischief, her own special homage to her unholy deities of Misrule. And that mischief was breeding crueller mischief, as she watched from her strange hiding-place the people she knew best become twisted by distress, even fear. She had learned how to exploit vulnerability long ago, and if she had forgotten why she needed to do so, she recognized the deep, evil excitement that was growing now, demanding blacker devilment and wider powers.
So
tonight she had thinking work to do, and she slid back through the shadows like the ripple of a running wave. Seated at the table with more of the rough brandy, she plotted, her eyes bright and blank, as if their intelligence were unconnected to a spirit within. She must practise, experiment; she must be clever and elusive, until with her grand finale she could change her world dramatically and take control. She could feel the need strong within her, consuming her like the healing fire itself – but that was enough. Like other night creatures, she dare not risk even the first whisper of cock-crow.
She
put the typewriter back in its bag. There was a little book covered with blue suede in there too; she stroked it thoughtfully with her pink-gloved hands, but did not open it.
As
she came out of the cupboard, having restored the bag to its original place, she was getting sleepy, and back in the kitchen she hung up the coat, returned the boots and gloves to their proper place. She was tired now, very tired. The bed upstairs was warm and inviting, even if it led her back into the prison from which she could do no more than peer out at the world through the eyes of Dumbo, as she always called her.