The Christmas Invitation

by Trisha Ashley

  The things we do for love.

  ‘So you really must come back for the Solstice ceremony on the twenty-first, even if you can’t stay for the Yule Feast,’ River was still urging, in his gentle, cultured and fluting voice, which went so well with his appearance: think of a small, slender, elfin Gandalf, silvery of beard and ponytail, bright eyes the pale azure of a summer sky. ‘I can come back and fetch you.’

  I was touched because it was a long drive, especially in that vehicle, and he was no longer young … though exactly how old I had no idea. He’d always seemed much the same to me: ageless and possibly immortal.

  ‘I’ll try,’ I promised. ‘And if I do, I’ll be able to drive myself by then. I feel so much better.’

  ‘Good, though Maj thought you really needed a few more days of nourishing home cooking. You’re still too thin.’

  It was true that my normally curvy figure was now fashionably skinny, but there was a limit to how much weight you could regain in one month, even on a hearty vegetarian diet, with liberal amounts of goat’s milk cheese, yoghurt and extremely free-range eggs – when the very free-range hens obliged.

  ‘There’ll be visitors to the yurt camp too, because Posy and Simon are running a drumming and meditation retreat,’ he said.

  Well, that sounded irresistible, though the drumming would be just a faint rhythm on the breeze from the farmhouse.

  He turned his head slightly and gave me his charming pixie smile, full of affection. ‘We’re your family and the Farm is your home: you’ll always have a place there, and in our hearts.’

  He was given to these slightly embarrassing expressions of affection but, none the less, I was touched and tears pricked the backs of my eyes. The aftermath of the illness was to make me more emotional and, in my darker moments, remember what I had lost and what might have been.

  Still, if I could have chosen to have any grandfather in the world, I’d have picked River.

  But luckily, I didn’t have to, because he had chosen me.

  2

  The Vital Spark

  River magically found a parking spot right outside my flat, something he often did … in the same way he frequently discovered the right change for a parking meter lying at his feet.

  The basement flat felt dark, cold and empty when we arrived, though I knew Fliss had left the heating on low and popped in from time to time to make sure everything was OK. But the boiler was ancient and the pilot light often steered itself into extinction.

  I switched on the electric fire while River vanished into the tiny galley kitchen, carrying Maj’s parting gift: a basket of home-baked goodies.

  Just as the long-unused bars of the electric fire began to glow dully and give off a smell of hot dust, the pipes emitted a sudden bronchial rattle and River came back into the room wearing the pleased expression of someone who had carried out an esoteric and difficult rite.

  ‘I offered up the vital spark and it was accepted,’ he announced. ‘Our ancestors would call that magic.’

  He should have looked slightly ridiculous, with his long silver hair tied back in a ponytail, the plaited beard and the black tunic, which had a hem embroidered with silver symbols, probably runes. He wore it over loose black cord trousers, tucked into baggy piratical boots, but somehow he got away with his style.

  ‘Great,’ I said, wishing that the vital spark of my life – painting – could also be rekindled so easily. At the moment it all felt a bit damply ashy and there was no sign of a phoenix, rising or otherwise. ‘I’ll make us a hot drink and then let’s blow the budget and order a takeaway.’

  After a month of having herbal brews pressed on me and eating meals that, however well prepared, often featured grated raw vegetables, nut roast and lentil loaf, I desperately wanted gallons of coffee and craved a Singapore-style fried rice with shrimp.

  River always went for the Monk’s Delight vegetarian option, then stole some of my shrimp. We were alike in that although lifelong abstainers from meat and poultry, we were not averse to the occasional bit of fish or seafood when away from the Farm.

  ‘Good idea,’ he agreed, and then added, ‘There’s a light twinkling on your phone. Perhaps there are messages with news of new portrait commissions?’

  I glanced across at where the cradle of my cordless phone was indeed blinking a red eye. ‘I hope so. A commission for the New Year would be good. In January,’ I clarified, for in River’s mind the New Year began the day after the Winter Solstice on 21 December. Sometimes I felt I was living with my feet in two entirely different worlds.

  I suspected that at least half the phone messages would be from my ex-boyfriend, Rollo, deeply aggrieved by my lack of response to his latest catalogue of slights, affronts and occasional successes. He would have forgotten I’d had pneumonia about ten minutes after I’d told him, since over the six years since I’d ended our relationship he’d slowly become so self-obsessed I confidently expected him to implode one day with a loud pop.

  ‘I’ll go through all the messages in a bit and find out, but I’ll need to increase my prices for any future commissions if I want to keep this flat on without Fliss, and even then, it would be a struggle.’

  ‘You should move out of London now,’ River suggested, contemplating the air around my head with his clear blue eyes, as if evaluating something only he could see. ‘It’s not good for your aura to be here.’

  ‘I’m about as far out as I can get without actually leaving central London; I’m clinging to the edge of Greenwich by the skin of my teeth,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s handy, especially having the little lean-to at the back as my studio. But then, I do seem to be increasingly travelling to my sitters’ homes, so I suppose there’s no real reason for me to stay here any more.’

  Without Fliss, it wouldn’t be the same anyway, for we’d been the last singletons in our circle of friends. It had been a bit of a shock when she had suddenly fallen in love and married in haste … though she definitely wouldn’t repent at leisure, because Calum was such a nice man that he almost deserved her.

  The tiny sitting room was already warming up and I removed my coat and went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on and fetch the takeaway menu. River would want to consider all the options before plumping for the dish he always had. It was a ritual. He liked rituals.

  While I was spooning coffee into the cafetiere I could hear voices from the sitting room and assumed he’d turned the TV on, another novelty, since they didn’t have one at the Farm (though they did have a laptop in the craft centre office now, and I suspected both he and Oshan occasionally watched programmes and films on that). But then, to my surprise, River called, in his beautifully posh voice, ‘Meg, there’s a visitor for you!’

  I couldn’t think who would be visiting me at this hour on a Sunday evening, other than the landlord, who seemed to operate only within vampire hours, but it wasn’t him. The room seemed to be filled by a large, elderly lady who was wearing a voluminous heather-purple tweed cape. She had a mop of iron-grey curls streaked with silver, a bold Roman nose and dark, deeply intelligent eyes that appeared to sum me up at a glance: tall, too thin, pale as a wraith – in fact, colourless except for my hair, which one of the commune had rendered a verdant and interesting shade of deep green, using a natural vegetable dye. River had said I looked like a water sprite, but Maj had thought pink would have given my pale skin more of a rosy glow and, in retrospect, I thought she was probably right.

  My visitor smiled, revealing a lot of strong teeth, and announced, like a particularly pessimistic oracle, ‘Maim-doom!’

  The folds of the tweed cape billowed as she extricated a square, slightly gnarled hand adorned by a huge and ancient-looking carved carnelian seal ring and shook mine vigorously.

  ‘You must be Meg Harkness.’

  Something about that deep, upper-class and resonant voice, together with the smile, struck me as familiar … and then it clicked.

  ‘You’re Professor Clara Mayhem Doome!’ I exclaimed. ‘I wat
ched that TV series you did, Writings in the Sand.’

  ‘We pronounce our name Maim-Doom, and that programme title was ridiculous! They would call it that, even though the subject matter was the clay tablets we found in the sand.’

  River had been looking on with interest. ‘Ah, the famous epigrapher,’ he said delightedly. ‘I have your book of essays, The Pre-Dawn of Written History.’

  He never ceased to amaze me. Put him in a room with an expert in any field, no matter how obscure, and he’d always have something to say.

  ‘Oh?’ My visitor raised her dark, straight eyebrows. ‘You need the new, revised edition, because I’ve had to change course regarding one or two matters, after recently piecing together several fragments of an Assyrian clay tablet. You’d be surprised at the reluctance of museums and collectors to loan me their exhibits, even if I promise to work on them at the British Museum. But my days of constantly jetting round the globe are long gone and one can only do so much via computer graphics.’

  ‘How fascinating! I must get the revised book,’ said River.

  ‘I wish you would buy it and then maybe my royalties would go into two figures!’ She gave a deep chuckle.

  I was fairly sure she hadn’t paid this visit to discuss ancient inscriptions with River, happy though he would be to oblige. I could only think of one other reason …

  ‘Do sit down,’ I suggested, ‘and tell us why you’re here.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this,’ she said, sinking into the unexpectedly smothering embrace of the sagging velvet sofa and then fighting her way upright into a sitting position. ‘I got your email address and phone number from the Royal Society of Portrait Painters some time ago, but had no reply to my enquiries. The Royal Society just said you’d get into contact with me in due course and then babbled on about standard contracts and all that guff. So, being in London, I thought I might as well drop by and see if you were here. Obviously, it’s about a portrait commission. Pookie Longridge gave me your address.’

  ‘Would that be … Professor Priscilla Longridge?’ I ventured.

  ‘That’s her.’ She nodded and her springy dark grey and silver curls bounced vigorously, as did her earrings, which were in the form of tiny, brightly painted wooden parakeets in gilded cages. They swung mesmerizingly on their minute perches and I found it hard to drag my eyes away.

  ‘I knew when I saw her portrait – lizard personified, my dear! – that you were the artist for me.’

  ‘But I got the feeling that she didn’t like her portrait,’ I confessed, surprised.

  ‘Of course she didn’t, because it was a speaking likeness. You missed out only the forked tongue,’ she said. ‘But of course, it’s such a brilliant portrait that everyone raves about it, so she can’t say so! And it’s the kind of portrait I want – a speaking likeness, warts and all.’

  ‘I know a good charm for warts,’ River offered.

  ‘I haven’t actually got any – I was speaking figuratively – though thank you for the offer,’ Clara told him. ‘Anyway, Meg – I hope I may call you Meg, since we’re about to spend quite a lot of time in each other’s company – here I am. In fact, I’ve popped round twice in the last week and found the place shuttered up, so my visit tonight was the final throw of the dice, because I’m going home tomorrow. Luck usually favours me, though,’ she added complacently, ‘and I thought if you had returned from whatever commission you were undertaking and were now free, I could quite easily take you back with me.’

  She made this astounding proposition as if she was offering me a high treat and expected me instantly to fall in with her plans. Her personality was quite forceful, so I suspected most people probably did.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ve been away from home for the last two months and I got back less than an hour ago. I didn’t answer your messages or emails because I left my iPad and phone here. They’ll be as dead as a dodo by now.’

  ‘A novel disinterest in modern communication technology from someone of your age,’ she commented, then changed tack. ‘You don’t look a bit like your photograph on the Society’s website. For a start, your hair was dark brown, except for a white fringe, like a frothy cappuccino. And your face is thinner … though you do look faintly familiar. We haven’t met before, have we?’

  ‘No, I’m certain we haven’t. And I like to ring the changes with my hair colour,’ I told her, then summoned a professional smile. ‘I really am Meg Harkness, though! I’ve just recovered from pneumonia. After I got out of hospital River here took me home to convalesce.’

  ‘River?’ she queried, looking at him. ‘Any particular waterway?’

  He bestowed on her one of his more enigmatic smiles. ‘No, just River,’ he said, then told her he’d read another of her books, one about early Orkney runic stone markings, and there was a point he’d like to discuss with her …

  ‘Not now, River,’ I said hastily, but her eye had been caught by the runes printed in silver round the hem of his tunic.

  ‘Turn around,’ she ordered, and he obligingly twirled.

  ‘Do you know what that says?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes: do you?’ he replied tranquilly.

  ‘Hmmph!’ she grunted. ‘So, I suppose you must be Meg’s grandfather? You’re not a bit alike.’

  This was true, since I was several inches taller, for a start. Nor did I have his elegantly patrician features or sky-blue eyes.

  ‘I’m Meg’s grandfather in spirit and in loving regard,’ River explained. ‘There is no blood tie, but the commune is her family and my son, Oshan, is as her brother.’

  That sounded a bit odd, but before she could demand any explanation, I broke in quickly, ‘Anyway, I’ve been convalescing and although I mean to start taking commissions in the New Year, I have a few loose ends to tie up first.’

  ‘In a way, then, the pneumonia was a stroke of luck for me, because it means you’re not engaged on any other portraits at the moment,’ Clara said, single-mindedly cutting to the chase. ‘You’re free to take my commission right away!’

  ‘No, I—’ I began to protest, but she carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘You’ll find the moorland air up there very bracing, you know. It’ll do you a power of good. Rest and good food, fresh air … for, after all, one can’t paint all day, I suppose.’

  ‘Up where?’ I asked, without in the least meaning to.

  ‘Our house is in a small hamlet high on the Lancashire moors – big, roomy, warm, very comfortable,’ she said, tempting me with its attractions. ‘Even a studio, as one of the Gillyflowers fancied himself as an artist.’

  ‘Gillyflowers … ?’

  I felt myself struggling like a fly trapped in amber now. It had been a long day and I was starting to wonder if I’d fallen asleep and would wake up shortly in the jolting old Land Rover, the itchy rug tucked around me.

  ‘It would take too long to explain now. You’ll see for yourself.’ Clara beamed at me, as one who has sorted everything out to her satisfaction.

  River came to my rescue. ‘Meg’s had a month of rest, fresh air and good food at the Farm. She’s only just got back.’

  ‘That’s all to the good, then, because she needn’t repack,’ Clara said. Nothing seemed to deflect her: she was a human juggernaut. She turned her attention back to me.

  ‘I expect you’ll want to get your painting gear together tonight, though. I’ll pick you up in the morning. I have a hired car and driver, with plenty of room for everything.’

  I stared blankly at her. ‘But it’s absolutely impossible that I should go to Lancashire with you tomorrow! I mean, I’m happy to discuss a commission with you and pencil it in for the New Year, but—’

  She still wasn’t listening. ‘I want you to paint my portrait and my husband, Henry’s, too, as a joint Christmas present to ourselves … and possibly posterity.’

  She smiled happily and very engagingly. ‘It will be such fun. I can’
t imagine why I’ve never thought of it before!’

  3

  Doomed

  Apparently feeling that she’d sorted matters out to her own satisfaction, Clara levered herself out of the sofa’s clutches and shook out her cape.

  ‘That’s that, then, and you can stay with us as long as you need to, Meg. I suppose it depends how quickly you work.’

  ‘Actually, very quickly, once I’ve made the preliminary sketches: often only one or two sittings for the face. Then I use photographs on my iPad to put the finishing touches to portraits in my studio,’ I replied automatically, while gathering my resources to persuade her that what she was asking me was quite impossible right now. ‘But at the moment I can’t—’

  ‘I’m sure you’d much prefer to work entirely from life and since there’s a studio at the Red House, there’s no reason why not.’

  I remembered earlier wishing the vital spark to paint would return and I reflected you should always be careful what you wish for, because now, despite my resistance, I’d begun to really want to paint Clara. Also, I’d realized that Henry Doome was the famous but reclusive poet, who, judging from his photographs, would also make an arresting subject … only not right now, when I’d just got home and was at such a low ebb.

  I summoned up the dregs of my willpower and said resolutely, ‘Professor Mayhem Doome, I’d be delighted to accept the commission and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement for early next year, but you must see that it’s quite impossible before that.’

  She gazed at me in surprise. ‘I fail to see any difficulties. In fact, everything seems to have fallen into place most serendipitously.’

  ‘Not really, because it’s less than three weeks before Meg comes home again for the Winter Solstice ceremony and the Yule feasting. She’s only here now because she had a lot of business to sort out,’ River said. ‘Nor should she be travelling up and down the country in the middle of winter so soon after her illness,’ he added, entirely discounting the endurance test I’d already been subjected to in the old Land Rover.