This was always a wintertime house as we are winter’s children, she smiled, sniffing the smell of logs burning in the grate like the old yule logs of old, which were dragged into the hearth to burn through the festive season. The shabbiness of years was disguised by swags of greenery and candlelight, but its rooms were like good bones in a face, a fine structure stands up well with the years. She would miss its face but not its draughts. So many memories within these walls to cherish, and she hoped this would be one of them.
She hoped old Jacob Snowden, that great Christmas lover, famed for his carolling and parties, could see their efforts. Sometimes she wondered just what his poor wife, Agnes, had made of the fuss. She would have to organise her servants and see that all the festivities happened.
It was women who made Christmas for their families, as they were doing now: shopping, cleaning, baking, decorating, preparing beds for guests. All over the country they would be scurrying around, trying to make their homes sparkle and welcoming fractious children and aged parents, trying to make sure everyone had a good time even if they themselves didn’t, pinning the smiles on their faces that must last until the last guest had gone home.
By Christmas Eve afternoon all the little towns of England would be empty; only the noise in the pubs broke the quiet and people returned to their own hearths and began the ceremonies. On this night she thought of all the homeless, packed into refuge shelters, and the widows who wept into their lonely sherry, remembering happier days. She was glad they were opening up this big farmhouse for others to enjoy.
Wintergill must have been a rare sight in the olden days when no expense was spared and help was plentiful. Jacob was a bit of a showman. She had heard about his party tricks and conjuring shows. No doubt Agnes would be steaming over a plum pudding, cursing the season yet trying to look gracious at the same time.
Soon it would be time for carols on the radio and she wanted to be there by the warm range, sitting at the old table, not scuttling away in the old butler’s pantry in tears when those majestic voices echoed down King’s College Chapel. She wanted to share with Kay what the ceremony meant to her, pass on the magic, but first she must prevent the tree from being smothered under the weight of Evie’s enthusiasm. Restraint was always the better part of good taste, but try telling an eight-year-old that less was more?
Evie was holding out the wooden star that Klaus had made for Shirley on that second German Christmas when he was working for them.
‘Each of our decorations can tell its own story and this is a very special story,’ she said. ‘Did I tell you about our German Christmas visitors?’
Evie shook her head. Out it all came about the war again and their prisoners. She said nothing about Klaus, of course. Evie was far too young to understand and Klaus was not for sharing with anyone. He lived in the Christmas House in her heart.
Nik stood in the doorway holding his spade. ‘Before it gets dark, there’s a little job we must do, Evie. I wonder if you’d like to help me, but put your thick anorak on first.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, puzzled. He’d already found them a beautiful tree and it was late for gardening. Mum fussed over her, making her wear a hat and gloves ‘just in case’2 They all went out in the garden with a torch to a spot under a bush where there was a big hole in the ground.
Mummy put her arm round her. ‘You know Muffin didn’t wake up from his sleep so we have to bury him now. He died, Evie. He was a very brave dog but he was old and tired.’
‘Is that him?’ she said, trying to swallow back her tears, seeing the shape hidden in the sack. ‘Why are you putting him in the ground?’ She turned to Nik.
‘Because that’s what we do,’ he replied. ‘Then we can plant bulbs over him.’
‘But he won’t like it!’
‘He doesn’t breathe any more and can’t feel anything now. Muffin isn’t there any more; that’s what dying means. This is just a shell that’s left. His spirit is free but every time you think about him, he still lives on,’ Mummy said.
‘Just like my daddy?’ She was holding Mummy’s hand very tightly.
‘Yes, he lies in a church garden where Granny takes flowers, and tonight is a special night when we remember him too.’ No one spoke as they laid Muff in the ground and Nik covered him over with soil.
‘Would you like to put some stones around him in a pattern?’
Evie nodded and looked up. ‘Can I have another dog like
Muffin?’
‘We’ll see,’ Mummy smiled. ‘But not yet. When someone dies you need time to let them go and get used to being without them before you …’ Evie wasn’t listening, she was racing up to the door. It was Christmas Eve and Santa was coming soon.
Kay was sitting in the back pew of St Oswald’s as the congregation shuffled in through the porch, watching families with groups of friends and relatives, muffled in pashmina shawls and chenille scarves against the biting wind outside. Why she had decided to come to the Midnight Mass was a mystery; a sudden impulse after listening to snatches of
Carols from King’s?She wanted to be alone and yet partake in something traditional. She wanted to say thank you for Evie’s rescue, to all the villagers who had kindly sent gifts and greetings after the fire and the search. She wanted to pretend she belonged somewhere, at least for this night.
The ham had been delicious and they sat down formally with napkins and crystal glasses. Evie had been well behaved, watching the clock for when it was time for bed and setting up her stocking by the hearth. In the candlelight Kay could well believe there was real magic at work. How different this was from last year’s terrible trauma, and for a moment she felt guilty to be enjoying herself, but she was sure Tim wouldn’t mind as long as they were safe.
Now she was sitting in a darkened church in candlelight, watching the ceremonies with a thankful heart. Kay wished she could be a true believer but she was only here to sing and pray what rang true in her heart. There was an interesting mix of worshippers, she observed: village locals she now recognised from the Christingle service, visitors swathed in Georgina von Etzdorf scarves, camel coats and southern accents, sophisticated young women with perfect hair and make-up – all of them from some big house party, no doubt.
There were others in anoraks and woolly hats and a couple of teenagers who were a little worse for drink, making their responses too late and too loud for the normal C of E custom. There were widows and a few of the school mums with their parents, local farmers and the publican’s wife taking time out from the affray.
Kay felt she was joining with thousands of worshippers all over the country starting their Christmases off in traditional fashion. This felt real and natural, and she was glad to be present, if under false pretences, for she would not take the sacraments.
A country Christmas was everyone’s fantasy, and she was here enjoying it now. Christmas was about giving to others and sharing, and it was Kay’s wish that Evie should learn about the real spirit of Christmas, not just accumulate loads of expensive plastic or spend her time glued to the box watching canned entertainment.
She had wanted them both to know the magic of frost-frozen mittens, wind on their cheeks and snow in winter but they had experienced only danger. But there was a forgiveness in her heart too.
What do I really want for me? Kay asked herself. I want to be surprised, to see the world through the eyes of a child again and not through those of this sad, suspicious, wounded adult I have become. I want to grow a Christmas heart, a heart full of mischief and wonder, open to possibilities, open to the magic of music and symbols and prayer: a heart bursting with air, a bubble-gum heart, pink, blown up like a balloon, a football, a pig’s bladder. I want to lose myself in Christmas, stomp my wellies in puddles of fun and laughter, stride over the snow and skate down the slides, sing carols and blow away all the misery of this past year. I would love to hear angels sing and see candles glow in the dark, to belong somewhere rooted into the landscape as so many of these people are tonight. I envy them.
There’s a loneliness at the heart of my life now that even Evie, cherished as she is, will never satisfy, nor should she have to. I don’t want to always be alone for Christmas. I loved Tim but we never made much of the season. He was always too busy to take time for celebration. ‘It can wait,’ he said, ‘but my career can’t.’ Now it’s too late. You’re a long time dead …
I want to make my own celebrations, she decided, to build up my traditions, and I want a man for Christmas one day, someone decent and honest, hardworking and kind, who’ll share my vision. I want four legs in a bed, kisses drunken with desire. I want the touch of a hand on my thigh and the warmth of someone’s breathing to wake me up. I want to feel that I matter to someone other than my child. Is this too much to ask? Is this greedy? she prayed, flushed with the heat of her yearnings.
Should I be thinking all this? she sighed. Where else but in a church could she confess her heart’s desires? Everybody needed some meaning in life, some purpose to make it worth living.
Love was a deep reservoir, unfathomable, an inexhaustible supply at the heart of the universe. She had the right to tap into its source and sing with the rest of the congregation. The coming of light in a dark world was at the heart of Christmas too.
Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine,
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.She felt such calm, peace and reassurance singing that carol. There must be a way forward if love was at the heart of her motives. She thought of the dreams that had brought her to Wintergill all those weeks ago.
The flavours of Christmas were full of spice and love and memory. And if you believed in love and light at the heart of the universe, then, she mused, she had a place somewhere – but where? When Christmas was over, what would happen?
Nik sat in the Spread Eagle amid the noisy boisterous antics of the young drinkers: long-haired girls in micro skirts and mini tops scarce covering their lardy white bodies, plastered in make-up, high as kites on booze and goodness knows what else. He had brought Kay down for the service and he was getting his own spiritual nourishment at the bar. He had earned every free pint, fêted as a hero, thumped on the back, made a fuss of by the barmaids, but somehow it wasn’t as good as he expected. If truth were told his heart wasn’t in it tonight.
He’d had such a good meal, watched a bit of television. Tomorrow would take care of itself. He was restless inside, churning over his decision to stay put and restock in the light of all good sense.
‘You must be cracked in thy ‘ead!’ said one retired farmer. ‘Get yerself a nice bungalow and spend yer brass, not flush it away down the beck!’
That was fine for Mother but not for him. He was still young and fit enough to make a go of it. He wanted to see what was on offer. He wanted to stay on at Wintergill, but rebuilding the holiday barn would have to take a back seat for a while.
He looked around at all the young students back for the holidays. None of them would ever return to Wintergill. The farmers’ sons might marry out of the dale, the old codgers fall off the bar stools. Where would he be in twenty years’ time? Not sitting here, he hoped, with his pension and his bungalow, a lonely old geezer playing dominoes and making his pint last the night. There’s got to be more to life than this.
You have to take a risk, he thought, change with the times. Go with the flow. It was times like this that he missed Jim’s company. It was not much fun on your own. He needed someone to share his life and his vision.
Kay’s Kishmish4 oz each of dried figs, prunes, currants, apricots, dried apples and sultanas
Soak overnight in 1½ pints of water.
Drain and use water and a tablespoon of dark sugar, a thick twist of lemon peel, a few cloves and a dessertspoon each of allspice and nutmeg.
Bring to the boil and simmer for 10 mins.
Add the soaked fruit and simmer slowly for an hour until fruit is soft.
Serve warm or chilled with cream, crème fraiche or yoghurt.
‘He’s been! He’s been!’ yelled Evie at full blast from the bottom of the stairs, dragging her stocking up the stairs to show everybody. It was seven o’clock on Christmas morning. Kay turned over, desperate for another few minutes after her late night, but Evie jumped on the bed, tearing open the parcels in her stocking.
‘Don’t wake up the rest of the household,’ Kay whispered, peering into the stocking herself as if she didn’t know what was in every little package. Stockings should be fun, full of surprises, silly joke books and whoopee cushions, power crystal bracelets and transfers to stick on your arm, a stocking needed pencils and sharpeners shaped like the pop stars, face paints and colouring books, chocolate coins and tangerines, pretty hair clips and comics, a bumper pack of sweets, a
Blue Peter
annual and things that glowed in the dark, fake spiders and swap cards, a dancing puppet or a mobile, and tin whistles to drive everyone crazy on Christmas morning.At the bottom was a sugar mouse with a string tale; all very predictable but magic for a young child to play with on the bed. At the top was a storybook: Alison Uttley’s
Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas,
which Kay had always loved herself as a child. They snuggled up together to read it out aloud.Evie brought out her own wrapped present. ‘It’s something I know you wanted for ages. I hid it safely and it didn’t get burned in the fire,’ she said proudly. ‘Go on, open it!’
Evie was breathing down Kay’s neck with excitement and she had to pretend her biggest surprise. The journal was carefully wrapped in fancy hand-made paper.
‘We made the paper at school and I saved mine,’ Evie said with pride. ‘It’s for you to remember the winter house so we won’t forget our holiday.’ Evie pointed to the writing and detailed small drawings. ‘You know when we went to the Brontë house, I saw all their tiny writing and thought I could do it too. It’ll take you ages to read it going round and round in a spiral. I put as much down as I could, and there’s some stories too.’
‘How lovely, just what I wanted,’ Kay beamed. ‘I thought you’d given up on that idea long ago and all this time you’ve been recording our visit.’ There was so much detail, so painstakingly executed. It must have taken Evie hours of work.
‘Look, here’s the fire and there’s Mr Grumpy with his ladder, and there’s the White Lady waving at us over there,’ she gabbled all in one breath. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I think it’s brilliant, and I’m so proud of you for sticking at it,’ Kay replied. How could she tell the child that it had probably saved her life? In showing the hidden diary to Nik she had prompted his unexpected response and set them off on that strange quad bike ride into the hills.
‘I didn’t want to do it at first but I like writing the stories,’ Evie added. ‘I can’t smell the Lavender Lady any more. I’ve looked for her on the stairs but she must be busy with her own Christmas.’
‘That’s right, and we must get up and get our own Christmas surprise ready for breakfast.’
She had insisted that the two of them do something for the feast. If this was a Jacob’s join, then they must offer something too. Her mother had often told her of the wonderful feasts that a village could create when every household provided a dish or two. Now it was time to start the day with her part of the Jacob’s join Christmas.
This breakfast feast was planned down to the last slice of Galia melon and Bucks Fizz. She had shopped frantically in Skipton while Evie was asleep in hospital. It had given her something to do.
Wintergill would never have seen such a festive breakfast before. It was more of a brunch than a breakfast, which should last them until their evening dinner in the hall. There were slices of melon and mango arranged around prosciutto, Parma ham slices, a grapefruit salad and a kishmish of prunes and figs and dried fruit in a compote with creamy yoghurt, a cheese board of continental cheeses, grapes and passion fruit, lychees and strawberries. It was decadent but fresh to the palate on a day notorious for unloosing zips and belts. She bought muffins and croissants and flat oatcakes, a local speciality, to be warmed with butter and home-made jam and honey. There would be a pot of the finest Arabica coffee she could find, and guava juice.
It was going to be a serve yourself, come again breakfast, and she hoped the Snowdens would not miss the traditional bacon and eggs.
Evie kept hovering over the large parcel under the tree. ‘Can I open this one before we go for our walk?’ she pleaded, fingering it carefully.
‘Go on then, just one more.’ Kay hoped she would not be disappointed with the substitute paint box. She watched Evie tearing into the paper, pulling out the box. ‘Wow! Brill! I can paint the tree. Can I open another from Santa? This one’s not from Santa, it’s from Mr Snowden.’
‘No, you must wait until he’s there to see it,’ she ordered. ‘We’ve got the table to set first and then we’ll go out for a walk.’ She did not know what the ritual of present opening was in this family.
Leaving all the breakfast laid out in the kitchen, and putting on anoraks and boots, they made for the open fields. Rising on the morning air, they could hear the church bells ringing down in the village. There was no time to walk down to join the villagers who had braved the cold to sing carols around the village in some age-old custom. It would have been good to take Evie down for the singing but the breakfast had taken up the time somehow.
‘I like it here. Do you think Daddy would like it here too? Can we stay and then I can take flowers to Muff?’ She skipped on and then stopped. ‘It’s easy to fall asleep in the snow, isn’t it?’
‘These hills are dangerous and you must never ever go out alone without telling me again. I’m sure Daddy would have loved to have a holiday here, but not to stay. It would be too far from his work, but you know now Daddy can’t come,’ she said, hoping Evie was coming to terms with his death at last.
‘I know, he didn’t bring the tree so Mr Snowden did it for him. He’s my friend now but he’s not my daddy, is he?’
‘No one will ever be your special daddy, love. He worked so hard. He made it possible for us to come here and rest.’ Kay found herself gulping the words, hoping they were the right ones. ‘But it’s not been very restful, has it?’
‘Santa found us. He must be magic to know everyone’s address in the world. He can go anywhere,’ said Evie, trying to skip with her new skipping rope.
‘Well, you can’t … so no more wandering off without telling me, ever again,’ Kay insisted. If only she could have the resilience of her child. If only life were that simple. The thought of packing up and leaving these hills was unsettling. She kept shoving it to the back of her mind. How could they stay on? What would she do?
Looking out onto the grey-green hills and the patchwork of stonewalls running in all directions, she felt an aching to make her own mark, build something for herself, but her skills were limited for permanent country living.
The sap was rising, her energy was flooding back somehow, but all she had to offer were town skills: accountancy, computing, marketing.
Tim had cushioned them from reality by his generosity. She had lived a pampered suburban life until his death, and now she felt useless. Yet a voice in her head was nagging her.
‘You’re not useless,’ it whispered seductively. ‘You can learn, you can do anything if you put your mind to it. It’s not too late to retrain, to grasp the nettle and go for what you want in life. Think big, keep it simple and do it for yourself.’
This was not what she wanted to hear on this fine Christmas morning, but her mind became alive with possibilities none the less. ‘Come on, young lady,’ she shouted to Evie as they turned for home.
Together they took Mrs Snowden her breakfast and presents on a tray as a special treat, and Mrs Nora said she had never had such a posh breakfast in all her life. She gave Kay a pair of hand-knitted fingerless gloves and a book. There was also a hand-knitted replica doll in Stuart costume, which looked suspiciously like Evie’s mysterious Lavender Lady.
‘I thought you’d like this as a memento of our resident ghost. I’ve never met her but I know she’s supposed to be here,’ said Nora, winking at her. ‘I like to think there’s still someone watching over us here.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Kay found herself replying. She had heard enough about ghostly spectres to last a lifetime.
‘Thank you for this book of walks,’ she changed the subject. ‘I’ve heard of Mr Wainwright but never seen his maps and drawings before. I hope you haven’t read my gift. Nik said you enjoyed a good read.’
‘You shouldn’t have given me anything. This breakfast is fit for the Queen. It’ll set me up for the day.’ The old lady was looking around the room with a smile. ‘This has turned out a topsy-turvy Christmas and no mistake. Just like the old days. I’m so glad you’re staying on. I never did thank you for all you did when I was ill. There needs to be young legs around the place now.’ Nora Snowden shook her head with a smile. ‘I’m too old for bothering with a big house but we’ve all made it shine. It’s had its own Jacob’s join polish and makeover too. I’ve had my day here. Soon it’ll be someone else’s nightmare to upkeep, I hope, if things go on as they are.’ She sighed back into her pillow.
‘Are you really going to sell Wintergill?’ Kay whispered. ‘I thought Nik said–’ She stopped, thinking she had better not say anything more.
‘Never mind what Nik says. His head is full of romantic nonsense about keeping it on for the next generation. What generation?’ Nora chuckled. ‘Unless he’s got some bairn stashed away that I don’t know about. It’ll have to go. We can’t keep putting off the day.’
‘Oh, such a pity,’ Kay replied, sad that this might be the Snowdens’ last Christmas here. ‘It’s such a characterful old house … Is there anything else for me to do?’ she offered.
Mrs Snowden was struggling to her feet. ‘You two, get along and enjoy yourselves. I shall crack on at my own pace. Wintergill is going to have a grand blowout tonight.’ She looked around her room, smiling. ‘What time shall we eat? After the Queen, by candlelight, I was thinking.’
‘Wonderful,’ Kay replied, knowing she would miss this place. She could get used to living here but she’d want to do something with the paintwork and the curtains, and that patch of damp.
‘You will come back and see me in my new place?’ Nora winked, her sharp grey-blue eyes sparking like flints.
‘Nik will be glad to see the back of us both,’ Kay said, thinking out loud, but Nora sprang to his defence for once.
‘Don’t you believe all that bluff and gruff. A mother knows, and he’s taken to you both. He’s even let me back in his kitchen,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘And you’d better watch yourself under the mistletoe tonight!’ There was a chuckle of mischief in the air.
Fortunately there is no mistletoe in the house, Kay thought, but Nora laboured her point. ‘They say Christmas sparks many a fire …’
‘Please don’t … I would hate to spoil the Jacob’s join.’ Kay felt herself blushing at the thought of being observed, and Nora was giving her another long hard look.
‘Only teasing … don’t look so serious. It’s Christmas and strange things can happen, believe me, I know.’
Evie kept looking through the windows to see if it was snowing, but there was not one feathery flake to be seen. Her mouth was covered in chocolate and she felt sick so she flicked through all her new books and watched cartoons on the television until it was time to dress up the Christmas table with crackers and paper napkins. Mrs Nora brought out bottles of wine and a big trifle in a glass bowl with hundreds and thousands on the top. They gathered together, all dressed up, to open the presents under the tree. There were so many gifts from people she didn’t even know: a set of wind chimes made from bamboo to hang in the breeze, a jigsaw and Fuzzy Felt. So many thank you letters to write tomorrow. Mummy always insisted they were written straightaway.
There were smelly bottles for Mummy and Mrs Nora, and a lovely statue of Muffin from Mr Snowden. Evie didn’t understand why grown-ups got all excited about tiny bottles of oil to put in their bath – she liked masses of bubbles-but the best present came last from Mr Snowden.
‘Mummy! Look, a real sledge … Thank you, it’s brill. A red sledge with handles and reins. Is it snowing yet?’ She raced out of the front door to examine the sky but it was grey and dark.
‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Mr Snowden, who looked cool in his sweater and cords. ‘If they’re plucking geese in Scotland, the feathers will soon fall our way.’ She didn’t understand his words but she smiled and pretended to slide the sledge over the lawn.
‘Do you like Mummy’s book? I made it,’ she said, shoving it under his nose, and he peered at it with interest.
‘Is that the Lavender Lady sitting in the wooden chair with a baby all wrapped up in a towel?’ he asked. ‘She used to sit by my bed when I was little too.’
At last someone believed her. She looked up to his face with fresh eyes. He did have a creased smile and a crinkled face, but if he had seen the Lavender Lady he must be OK.
‘I thought you were afraid of the dark?’ Mummy, wearing some new velvet jeans and a glittery sweater, looked down at her.
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me but Mr Snowden does … I’ve seen her loads of times when Mummy is asleep in the next bed.’ She pointed at her drawings. ‘Look there, in the picture, see … She keeps all the bad men away.’
Mrs Nora smiled. ‘So how does she speak to you?’
‘I don’t know … I just know. She tells me stories sometimes about the olden days.’ She was glad that someone was interested but she was puzzled by all these questions.