Rory has been asked, of course, and Clodagh. I shall wear my new black miniskirt and my black tights and my new white sweater. I would like to fix my hair up into a sort of knot so that my earrings will show.
In midwinter, waking to darkness in this cold and northern country, Elfrida would open her eyes and have no clue as to the time. After a little, she would fumble for her watch and squint at its luminous face, and if it was two in the morning would probably clamber out of bed, wrap herself in her dressing-gown, and stumble off to the bathroom. Sometimes it was 5 a.m. Or eight in the morning, and time to get up, but even then, not a glimmer of light showed in the sky, and all was black as midnight.
This morning, she reached out a hand, and found her watch, and it was half past seven. Beside her, Oscar still slept. She got quietly out of bed, so as not to disturb him, reached for her thick dressing-gown, pushed her feet into slippers, and went to close the window. Outside, she saw, it was snowing again, not heavily, but sleety flakes driven in by a wind from the sea. These swirled and blew around the church and through the black branches of the graveyard trees, the light of the street lamps turning them to gold. The effect was so spectacular that Elfrida knew she had to share it with some other person. Oscar would not appreciate being woken, so she left him, went out of the room, turned on lights, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she boiled a kettle and made two cups of tea. Upstairs again to the sitting-room, where she drew back the curtains and set the two mugs on the table by the window. Then she went on up to the attic to wake Lucy.
She slept, looking innocent as a small child, her hand tucked under the sweet curve of her cheek, her long hair tumbled around her neck. Her bed stood beneath the sloping window set into the roof. The blind was undrawn, the glass blanketed with wet snow. Elfrida switched on the bedside light.
“Lucy.”
She stirred, turned, yawned, opened her eyes.
“Lucy.”
“Umm?”
“You awake?”
“I am now.”
“I want you to get up. I want to show you something. I’ve made a cup of tea for you.”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly a quarter to eight.”
Sleepily, Lucy sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“I thought it was the middle of the night.”
“No. Morning. And so beautiful. Everyone else is still sleeping, but I wanted to show you.”
Lucy, still fuddled with sleep, got out of bed and pulled on her camel-hair dressing-gown.
She said, “It’s cold.”
“It’s the wind. It’s snowing again.”
They went downstairs, through the quiet house. The sitting-room was filled with light from out of doors.
“Look,” said Elfrida and led the way across the room and settled herself on the window-seat.
“It’s so amazing, I had to wake you and show you. I was afraid that the snow would have stopped, and you wouldn’t see it. But it’s just like it was when I woke up.”
Lucy, staring, sat beside her. After a little, she said, “It’s like one of those glass balls I used to have. It was full of water, and it had a little church; and when you shook it, there was a snowstorm.”
“That’s just what I thought. But these flakes are golden because of the lights; like flecks of gold.”
Lucy said, “It’s the sort of thing people draw on Christmas cards, and you think it could never be like that.”
“And the streets so clean! Not a footprint, not a car track. As though there was nobody else in the world except us.” She fell silent, and then thought of something.
“I suppose there’ll be blizzards and drifts on the main roads. I’m glad we don’t have to go anywhere.” Lucy shivered.
“Here, have some hot tea.”
Lucy took her tea and drank gratefully, her thin fingers wrapped around the mug, savouring its warmth. In silence they both stared at the scene beyond the window. Then a single car appeared, circling the church, and heading off in the direction of the main road. It drove cautiously, grinding along in second gear, and left a pair of dark tracks in its wake.
When it was gone, “What time is it in Florida?” Lucy asked.
Elfrida was taken aback. Lucy never talked about Florida; nor about her mother; nor about her mother’s new friend. She said casually, “I don’t know. Five hours ago, I suppose. About three in the morning. Warm and humid, I expect. It’s hard to imagine. I’ve never been to Florida. I’ve never been to America.” She waited for Lucy to enlarge on this, but Lucy said nothing.
“Wouldn’t you like to be there?” Elfrida asked gently.
“Blue skies and palm trees and a swimming pool.”
“No. I should hate it. That’s why I didn’t go.”
“But lovely for your mother. Like a wonderful holiday.”
“I don’t like Randall Fischer much.”
“Why not?”
“He’s sort of smooth. Creepy.”
“He’s probably very nice and totally harmless.”
“Mummy thinks so, anyway.”
“Well. That’s nice for her.”
“I’d rather be here, a thousand times over, than Florida. This is really Christmas, isn’t it? It’s going to be a real one.”
“I hope so, Lucy. I’m not sure. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Oscar.”
Oscar, settled by the fire, looked up from his newspaper.
“My dear.”
“I am about to leave you on your own.”
“Forever?”
“No. For about half an hour. I telephoned Tabitha Kennedy, and I’m going up to the Manse to borrow some extra glasses for our party. She has spare boxes that she keeps for parish dos, and she says we can have them.”
“That’s very kind.”
“I shall have to use the car. I shall drive at five miles an hour and take every precaution.”
“Would you like me to come with you?”
“If you want.”
“I should prefer to stay here, but am ready and willing to be of any service.”
“Perhaps when I get back you could help me unload the boot and bring it all indoors.”
“Of course, give me a shout.” He thought for a moment.
“It’s very quiet. Where is everybody?”
“Sam and Carrie have gone to Buddy. And Lucy’s incarcerated in her attic, tying up her Christmas presents. If you wanted, you could both take Horace for a little walk. It’s stopped snowing.”
Oscar did not look particularly delighted by this suggestion. He simply said, in a non-committal way, “Yes.”
Elfrida smiled, and stooped to kiss him.
“Take care,” she told him, but he had already resumed his reading.
Out of doors, the wind was bitter and the snow treacherous. Elfrida, bundled up in boots and the blanket coat and woollen hat, emerged from the warmth of the house and paused to gaze up at the sky. She saw clouds wheeling in across a fitful sky, and gulls, blown hither and thither in the freezing air. Oscar’s car was covered in snow. Elfrida brushed the fresh fall from the windscreen with her gloved hand, but there was ice beneath it, so she got in, got the engine started, and turned on a bit of heat. Presently the ice trickled away, and she contrived two arcs of clear glass. Cautiously, she set off, chugging along down the street, then turning up the hill that led to the Manse. The gritting lorry had already passed this way, and so, with some relief, she reached her destination without a skid or other mishap.
She parked at the Manse gate, trod up the path of the front garden, knocked the snow from her boots, rang the bell, and then stepped into the porch and opened the inner door.
“Tabitha.”
“I’m here. In the kitchen.”
Elfrida saw that the minister’s house was already decked out for Christmas. A tree (not very large) stood at the foot of the stair, strung with tinsel and stars, and rather worn-looking paper chains had been festooned overhead. Through the open door at the back of the hall, Tabitha Kennedy appeared, bundled up in an apron and with her dark hair gathered back into a ponytail.
“What a day! So lovely to see you. I’ve got coffee perking. Come in quickly and shut the door. You didn’t walk up?”
Elfrida unbuttoned her blanket coat and hung it on the newel-post of the banister.
“No, I was intrepid and brought the car. Had to. I couldn’t begin to carry two crates of glasses home. I’d have slipped on the lane, probably broken my leg, and certainly broken the glasses.” She followed Tabitha back into the kitchen.
“Good smells.”
“I’m baking. Mince pies, sausage rolls, two cakes, and shortbread biscuits. You know, I like to cook, but Christmas is becoming beyond a joke. I’ve been at it all morning, and there’s still stuffing to make and brandy butter. And the. Christmas cake to ice, and a ham to be boiled. The thing is, so many parishioners call round at this time of the year, with cards, or presents for Peter, and they all have to be asked in and watered and fed, if only out of appreciation.”
“I’m sorry. You’re so busy and I’m interrupting.”
Tabitha poured coffee into a mug.
“Not at all, it’s an excuse to sit down for five minutes. Pull out a chair, make yourself comfortable.” She dumped the mug on the table.
“What I’d really like is to be out of doors. We should be walking on the beach, or sledging on the golf course; shedding all responsibilities instead of being slave-driven by the demands of the Festive Season. I’m sure it was never intended to be such labour. Every year I swear I’ll simplify and all I ever do is complicate.”
Seduced by the fragrant smell of coffee, Elfrida did as she was told. The Manse kitchen was very nearly as old-fashioned as the one at the Estate House, but a great deal 1 more cheerful, with Clodagh’s artwork stuck up on the panels of doors, and an old desk piled with papers and family photographs. Clearly, this was Tabitha’s domain, and where the not only cooked and fed her family, but organized her busy life, did her telephoning and wrote letters. Now she poured a mug of coffee for herself and settled down on the other side of the table.
“Tell me all the news. What’s happening with you?”
“Nothing much. I left Oscar reading the paper, and Sam and Carrie have gone off to Buckly to look at the woollen mill.”
“Sam’s the mysterious stranger who walked in out of the snow? He’s still with you?”
“He’s staying over Christmas. The weather’s so awful and he doesn’t seem to have anywhere else to go.”
“Goodness, how sad. Have he and Carrie made friends?”
“They seem to have,” said Elfrida cautiously.
“Rather romantic.”
“Tabitha, he’s married.”
“Then why isn’t he with his wife?”
“She’s in New York.”
“Are they non-speaks?”
“Separated, I think. Don’t know the details.”
“Oh, well,” said Tabitha, sounding philosophical.
“It takes all sorts.”
“It’s so odd to think you haven’t even met him. It feels as though we’ve all been together for months, but really it’s only been a few days. Whatever, you’ll meet both Sam and Carrie tomorrow evening. Drinks at the Estate House, six to eight.”
“I put the boxes out in the hall. Six wineglasses and six tumblers and a couple of jugs. Are you going to need plates?”
“I don’t think so. We’re not actually feeding people. Just little snacky things. Carrie’s doing those.”
“How many guests do you expect?”
“I think we’re about seventeen. You and Peter and Rory and Clodagh…”
“Clodagh probably won’t come. She’s been invited to a supper party and a sleepover with a schoolfriend. Do you mind?”
“Not a bit. Much more fun for her.”
“But Rory will definitely be there. Who else?”
“Jamie Erskine-Earle and his wife.”
“Jamie and Emma? I didn’t know you’d met them.”
“He came to appraise my David Wilkie painting. But it’s a sham and not a David Wilkie at all, so that’s another pipedream down the drain.”
“Were you thinking of selling it?”
“I might have. But not now.”
“Isn’t he a hoot? Jamie, I mean. Looks about fifteen, but not only an expert in his field, but as well, the father of three lusty sons. Have you met Emma?”
“Only spoken to her on the phone when I invited them to come.”
“She’s really nice, and the most down-to-earth, outspoken creature you ever met. She breeds Shetland ponies, works dogs, and oversees everything at Kingsferry. Jamie’s far more interested in chasing up antiques, identifying prick candlesticks, and unearthing forgotten portraits. Emma’s the one who runs the farm and helps with the lambing, and gets the roof mended. Who else have you asked?”
“The bookshop Rutleys.”
“Good.”
“And Dr. Sinclair and his wife.”
“Good again.”
“I don’t know their names.”
“Geordie and Janet.”
“And the Sneads.”
“Mrs. Snead and Arthur?”
“Well, when she knew I was asking a few people in, Mrs. Snead offered to come help, and hand round, and wash glasses. But I couldn’t bear to think of her being incarcerated in the kitchen all the time, so I told her to come and join in and bring Arthur with her. She said Arthur could have a tray and hand round drinks.”
Tabitha drank her coffee. Then she set down her mug, and across the table, her eyes met Elfrida’s. Tabitha said, “How is Oscar?”
“He’s all right. He still likes being quiet. Left alone with his newspaper and his crossword.”
“Peter gave him the spare key to the church organ. Did you know that?”
“No. Oscar never said. He never told me.”
“Peter thought it might help. Oscar’s music. That it would be a sort of therapy.”
“He’s never used it. He’s only been into the church once, and that was with Lucy because she wanted to look around. To my knowledge, he’s never been back.”
“I don’t imagine it would afford him much comfort.” .
“Comfort isn’t what Oscar needs. He just wants to be left alone, to get through the days at his own pace. As for all our house guests, expected and unexpected … I think in a funny way he quite enjoys all the coming and going. He’s very fond of Lucy. But, Tabitha, it still isn’t right. Oscar and I are very close, and yet I know that part of him is still withdrawn, even from me. As though that part of him was still in another place. Another country. Journeying, perhaps. Or in exile. Across a sea. And I can’t be with him, because I haven’t got the right sort of passport.”