There was lots of dark holly but few branches with red berries on, and lots of ivy dripping over the stone walls. Evie was determined to collect a sackful. Mummy laughed when Mrs Snowden said it was ‘trim-up time’ but they had been learning all about Christmas customs when they sat on the rug in the school library corner, and she knew just what branches they should bring into the house and which were unlucky.
Mrs Bannerman said soon it will be the shortest day of the year when the sun hid from the earth and people used to light fires to welcome it back again. Evie knew about mistletoe and rosemary, and how Mary laid her purple cloak on a rosemary bush and stained the leaves for ever.
They were going to do a play about the trees of the forest. Mummy promised her a real one this year, growing in a pot. Evie wanted to choose one with Daddy from the wood but Mummy went red and said he couldn’t come any more because he was in Heaven now.
Mr Grumpy showed them where to walk down steps cut into the rock alongside a stream that led into Bankwell village.
It was dark and slippery in the wood when he waved them off shouting, ‘What goes down must come up!’ which was a silly thing to say. He spent all his time out in the fields, building up the walls, and didn’t smile much. Mummy kept saying he’d lost all his sheep and cattle in the summer and was very sad. They were not allowed to walk across the fields but skirt around the edges, down narrow green paths with high walls.
‘Slow down … Don’t slip!’ yelled Mummy, but Evie darted down the steps searching for her leaves. They wandered down to Bankwell village over the humpy stone bridge. ‘I used to play here when I was your age,’ she smiled, pointing to the stream. ‘It doesn’t look much now but when it rains and swells up it’s so dangerous.’
It was here she glimpsed the white-haired lady in the ragged cloak again, drifting over the field on the other side, and Evie waved her branches in the air to greet her. The lady was staring into the air and when Evie blinked, she vanished, just like before.
There was no point in telling Mummy. No one believed her and now there was nothing to see.
She would put it all in her special drawing book and make up stories about the Lavender Lady and the White Lady in the woods. Sometimes she thought she heard her whispering, ‘Come with me and play,’ or something like that. Grown-ups didn’t believe in fairies, and the strange ladies weren’t ghosts like in
Ghostbusters.
They were nice ladies who popped up just when she’d forgotten about them. She turned to the riverbank, hoping the White Lady would appear again. Perhaps she was trimming up for her own Christmas, and Evie wondered where she lived. Did ghosts like her have proper homes?I stare up with yearning eyes at the craggy path that leads to Wintergill. The child is waving from across the water, but I have no strength to cross the water to reach her. The river has always divided Bankwell from Wintergill as Hepzibah separates me from my child.
It is time for the gathering-in of the green boughs, for the killing of geese and swine for all the yuletide preparations to begin. But why is my heart so burdened by such a once joyous task? I have decked my hall with garlands and wreaths; so many yuletides have come and gone and still she does not return to me. This season rolls again like dusty cartwheels along a well-rutted track, turning, turning over and over the same ground. I will keep my vigil for the twelve days of Christ’s Mass once more, no matter what that silly priest says …
Quiz NightKay was looking forward to the quiz night, ‘The Turkey Special’ at the Spread Eagle. She turned to Evie, who was glued to their laptop screen, unsure if she should be going out. ‘Do you mind if Mrs Snowden sits in with you? I can stay if you like …’
‘Brill!’ she answered. ‘She’ll let me stay up late.’
It had taken some persuading to get Nora Snowden to sit in. For some reason she was reluctant to take responsibility. ‘I’d never forgive myself if anything happened while you were out … It’s a long time since I did that sort of thing … but if you’re sure you can risk it …’
‘I’m only down the hill in Wintergill. She’ll be no trouble and you can phone my mobile …’
Now she was in a flurry of indecision about whether to go or what she should wear. Definitely casual, but Midlands casual seemed country smart, she’d observed. It was only the village pub, not some city tapas bar. It would be smoky and draughty: perhaps her long skirt with a cashmere sweater would do the trick?
She came downstairs with a flourish, and Evie looked up.
‘You’re not going like that!’
Kay trooped upstairs to try on her black leather trousers and mini top. They were too tight and too suggestive and chilly round the middle. Out came the cords and chunky knit. She peered in the mirror, hoping for a miracle, for her hair needed a trim and her tummy was missing the gym. This was a little too casual. After flinging everything on in her wardrobe she settled for a quick shower and blowdry, a three-quarter-sleeved olive-green sweater and her black leather trousers with a long waistcoat to hide her lumpy bits. She piled her hair up and splayed out the ends and lacquered them to cardboard. This was her first night out solo. She was, after all, only a visitor, a tourist, and she could dress up how the hell she liked. She was nervous about leaving Evie, though.
It felt like an honour to be asked to step into the school team as if she belonged. She knew that quiz teams took their game seriously and they’d be out to win. She went downstairs once more, and this time Evie nodded approval.
‘You’ll do,’ said Evie, rushing to answer the doorbell to see what Mrs Snowden had brought. ‘Can we play Scrabble?’ she asked but the baby-sitter smiled.
‘Perhaps later, but I’ve brought you something to knit without needles,’ she replied, producing a bobbin reel with nails in the top and some balls of wool. Kay hadn’t seen corkscrew knitting for years and it took her back to her own Granny Norton. She relaxed, knowing Evie was in safe hands.
‘You know I do recall your gran, Betty Norton. She was always very crafty with her hands … You do know they were once gentry … Bankwell House was theirs. It’s a residential home now, the last bus stop before St Peter’s Gate!’ Mrs Snowden laughed.
‘There was nothing gentrified about my granny’s cottage: outside loo, two up two down. We only visited in the summer but I thought I might do some ancestry research on the Norton family.’
‘Sir Kit Norton fought with the Royalists. The Snowdens were for Cromwell. The History Group did an exhibition on the Civil War a year or two back. The house went to rack and ruin for a while, split up into smaller bits. There’ll be stuff in the library to help you,’ Mrs Snowden offered. ‘But it’s time you were making tracks, young lady.’
‘Wish me luck,’ Kay shouted, banging the door behind her. It was a clear night with a moon rising up across the moors. This time last year they had been packing up the house and settling into Tim’s parents’ house for Christmas and New Year. Life was all mapped, and then suddenly nothing was the same. Now she felt guilty to be driving towards the twinkling fairy lights of the Spread Eagle for an evening among strangers. How could she be enjoying herself when Tim was dead? She drew up the car, ready to turn around, but some stubborn part of herself made her drive on.
The Spread Eagle was an ancient hostelry untouched by brewery design teams. Its low black beams were smoked, not painted, the fire was red with coal heat, not imitation logs; the brassware was gleaming with polish, not dipped to a dull gold. There were photos in frames of ancient darts teams and batsmen: reminders that the pub was still the heart of any decent village. The Christmas decorations glistened worthy of a Chinese New Year party and the crush was noisy, beery and full of the thick flat vowels Kay was beginning to remember.
There was a bigger turnout than usual for the annual quiz; all the competitors determined to win themselves some Christmas goodies. Pat explained that this was not the usual pub quiz rules but a knockout competition with a Christmas theme. She pointed out regular rival teams from other villages, teachers from the public school, the local bank and the Women’s Forum. There was a team from the golf club and the Young Farmers, and the proceeds would go to the Dales Recovery Fund.
Kay bought herself a lime soda, for she still found the local beer so heavy that it sent her to sleep and she needed all her wits about her to compete alongside the likes of Pat Bannerman.
It was at the bar she bumped into Nik Snowden. She hardly recognised him, he looked so smart. Gone were the grubby overalls, wellies and flat cap. In their place was a whiff of expensive aftershave, a tweed jacket and cavalry twills: well-cut and distinguished, the traditional garb of the country landowner. He looked up with surprise at her arrival.
‘Didn’t expect to see you here, Mrs Partridge,’ he smiled.
‘Why not?’ she answered. ‘I’m filling in with the PTA.’
‘The brainbox team, is it? Us Yokels’ll have to be on our mettle then,’ he quipped, turning towards his own team sitting in the opposite corner.
She saw him eyeing her up with care. She was glad she wore her leathers and boots and a good coat of make-up. He was not the only one who paid for dressing.
Evie was having a wonderful time bobbin knitting, lifting the wool over the nails to make snakes of round coils while Mrs Snowden was busy counting stitches and clacking her needles. Evie had never seen anyone knit so fast. In fact, she hadn’t seen anyone knitting before. She thought that jumpers were made by machines, not by old ladies who could talk, knit and watch television all at the same time. Mrs Snowden was making sleeves out of fine navy-blue wool and there was a swirly pattern of cream wool all mixed in.
‘Is that a Christmas present?’ Evie asked, knowing that Santa didn’t come for old people. They had to give each other presents.
‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘It’s for me, if I can find the time to finish it. What do you think?’ She held up the knitting for Evie to inspect.
‘It’s very big,’ said Evie. It looked like a blanket.
‘We’re built big up here,’ Mrs Snowden laughed. ‘How’s your knitting growing?’
Evie showed her the coil of coloured stripes. ‘What do I do with it now?’
‘The possibilities are endless,’ said this new teacher. ‘You can coil it into a mat or a tea cosy or make it into a beret or a scarf for one of your dollies.’
‘I don’t have dollies,’ said Evie. ‘Only Barbies, and they come with their own clothes.’ She pointed to a basketful of tiny outfits.
‘They look like stick insects to me … When I were little we had real dolls and prams to push them in, and we made little houses for them too.’
‘Did Shirley have a doll’s house?’
Mrs Snowden shook her head sadly. ‘It was after the war and there weren’t many toys, but she had a special one for Christmas once.’
‘Can I see it?’ Evie was curious for whenever she asked about her, Mrs Snowden’s voice went all far away and whispery.
‘I don’t rightly know where it is now. It was such a long time ago when the Germans came to stay. We called it the Christmas House after that … Look – you’re dropping stitches. Give it here or it’ll all run!’
Nora could feel her heart missing beats all over the show at the thought of the Christmas House and the memories she was stirring up. How could she explain to this mite what a time that was? Each year as Christmas approached she could feel the memories flooding over her again: those happier far-off days when Shirley was little.
They played cards for a while but Nora couldn’t concentrate and was glad when it was time for ‘the up them stairs game'. She tucked Evie under the duvet with her knitting clutched tightly by her side.
It was strange how as she came down the stairs of the old barn she felt memories closing in on her. How could something that happened so long ago still have power to warm her stubborn heart? It was a time when winters were real corkers and went on for months, when railways ran to schedule and there were two deliveries of post each day in a world where men and women occupied separate worlds, despite two world wars, a time when Wintergill was accessible only down a dirt track. Cart horses were the mainstay of the farm and tractors were newfangled luxuries. Milk was ladled out of the can and the water had to be pumped from the artesian well: a time before television ruled the world. A battery wireless was their only connection to the outside world.
It was a time when a farmer’s wife laid up food as if for a siege just in case winter would squeeze them with an iron fist, and kept a pigeon in her basket when she travelled abroad to send news of her safe arrival. Sometimes she longed for that black-and-white world, when everyone thought they knew right from wrong and you were either Church or Chapel. The war was over and won but the peace was drab and rationed, everything was worn out and hard to replace. Farm labour was scarce, men were still being demobbed and the only glamour came from the film shows in the local picture house.
How innocent we were, she mused, as she stoked the fire, content with homespun delights, nights around a piano, dances in the village halls. What would the child upstairs make of that old-fashioned world?
Nora caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror with a sigh. It was a weathered, Dales-bred face with pink veins streaked across her cheeks: a faded careworn face that once was flushed with lust for life. How did I get to be this old? she sighed.
You were not always so staid and homely, Lenora Snowden, trussed up in your corsets and thermals. There was a time when passion brought colour to your cheeks when the Christmas House was brought to Wintergill. Love came rushing in like a whirlwind swirling you up in its grasp. Only the Christmas House knows your secret, and wooden walls can’t tell tales.
She smiled, dreaming about those never-forgotten days when she was young and firm in face and body, when she could run upstairs two at a time and think nothing of it. Those were the days, her heart fluttered.
If only I’d known just what a price I must pay for such goings-on …
Nik left the Spread Eagle to its Christmas quiz. He was in no mood to join in his team. He always found his birthday depressing, just a card from his mother and bottle of single malt. Who wanted reminding they were in their fourth decade and creeping towards a half-century?
His team was no match for Pat Bannerman’s table, with their quick-as-a-flash answers. The quiz was up to the usual standard but he could not concentrate since that session with his financial advisor in the morning. He wanted a clear head to think through the projected figures.
What did he care what Swedish saint was celebrated on 13 December? How did he know which was the busiest airport in Germany?
He was in no mood to get stuck in answering these questions when Jim’s face kept staring over the bar at him. Jim was a great one for a quiz night, and without his friend Nik’s beer felt flat. The Yokels were struggling and Nik couldn’t be bothered to join in now.
‘It feels like doing A levels and pulling a tooth all in one go,’ he muttered to the barman as he sipped the dregs of his glass. ‘Let the brain boxes get on with it.’
‘And you can’t phone a friend or ask the audience, either,’ the barman quipped, referring to the popular quiz show on TV. ‘Not like you to leave us sober,’ seeing Nik rise and make for the door.
Nik waved his hand, listening to the other questions as he walked out of the door.
‘Spell Wenceslas of Czechoslovakia.’ ‘Who wrote the poem …?’ ‘Name three ingredients in Stollen.’
The windscreen was crusted over with frost and the sky was clear. He felt like Billy No-Mates, envious that the Partridge woman was obviously enjoying herself with her new cronies.
Not a bad looker, he had to admit, with quite a figure on her. She seemed a one-woman answering machine when she got going. It was not as if he was a total ignoramus. He was always good on musical questions. The composer of ‘Silent Night’ and ‘The Ceremony of Carols’ was no problem, or the lyrics of the
Messiah.
A Sunday school education came in useful when it came to the Bible questions but all that twaddle about the names of the reindeer on Santa’s sleigh … He was in no mood for showing his ignorance before a bunch of schoolteachers.It was just a village pub quiz, not an aptitude test for Mensa membership. Nik felt the chill in the air. What a sad tosser you are, he snapped at himself, fumbling for his key.
The sooner this Christmas was over the better. Then he could look forward to restocking the farm, reshaping his business, rethinking his position.
The road was well gritted as he cornered the bends up to Wintergill. He knew each bend personally, where the walls curved and bulged. He zigzagged his way home, the radio blaring to drown out his bad mood and he banged his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. Then out of nowhere he saw the misty figure of a woman standing in the middle of the road, an old bag lady, by the look of it, and he stood no chance of avoiding her. Screeching to a halt, slithering on the bend, skidding into the stone wall, he ground to a halt. Then there was nothing but night mist swirling round the pickup.
He was stunned for a second, winded with panic as the truck lurched and crumpled under the impact. His heart was racing at the enormity of what he had done. A wave of nausea flooded over him and yet he knew he was stone-cold sober. Two pints, that was all, not his usual four. And he’d had a pie-and-peas supper.
His first instinct was to leg it over the field as far as possible from the scene of his crime like a delinquent, to hide from the consequences of his careless driving. If only he’d been going slower. There was an old biddy crushed under his wheels and he was over the limit. His future loomed up before him, banned from driving. How the hell could he survive without transport? Was there no end to this horrible year?