Aunt Dimity's Christmas

by Nancy Atherton

  He wasn’t an old man. I could see that now. His skin was weathered but taut, his chin firm, and the long lashes casting half-moon shadows on his windburned cheeks were as dark as my own. I took one step, then another, until I stood beside his bed, looking down on a face I’d seen, but hadn’t seen. His wide-set eyes and curving lips might have been carved by Michelangelo.

  The long, dark lashes fluttered, the eyelids slowly opened, and the cubicle seemed to vanish as I fell into the depths of his violet eyes. In them I glimpsed a soul wiser, braver, and kinder by far than my own, a soul scarred but undaunted by suffering. He gazed at me so trustingly that for a moment I believed I’d come there not merely to observe, but to save him. I stood spellbound, unaware of my surroundings, until he blinked once, twice, smiled as sweetly as a child, and closed his eyes.

  Suddenly, Nurse Willoughby was at my side, pointing to her watch. I turned, as if awakened from a dream, and caught sight of a man staring through the cubicle’s glass wall. He was tall and well built—in his fifties, I guessed—and dressed all in black: black turtleneck, black jeans, and a black-leather bomber jacket. His fringe of graying hair thinned to peach fuzz on the top of his head and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee. His long, pouchy face and sad brown eyes reminded me strongly of a placid basset hound.

  Nurse Willoughby touched my arm and we left the cubicle, the young nurse looking back a dozen times, as if to fix the tramp’s features in her memory. I needed no backward glance. The tramp’s face was as clear in my mind as Bill’s.

  “He opened his eyes,” I said, as I stripped off the protective clothing.

  “Highly unlikely,” Nurse Willoughby informed me.

  “He opened his eyes and he smiled,” I insisted.

  “An involuntary reflex, perhaps,” she allowed.

  “I know what I saw,” I stated firmly.

  “And I know what the instruments tell me,” she replied, with equal firmness. “You want him to be well, Ms. Shepherd. We all do. But wanting something doesn’t make it so. Our patient is deeply unconscious. He couldn’t possibly respond to your presence or communicate with you in any way.” She patted my arm. “It was probably a trick of the light.”

  She was trying to be kind, but I felt the same frustration I’d felt when well-meaning people told me that my babies’ smiles had more to do with gas than with glee. I was about to argue the point further when the man in the black leather jacket approached me.

  “Lori Shepherd?” he inquired.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Dr. Pritchard told me you’d be along,” the man said. “I’m Julian Bright.” He put out his hand. “Would you care to come to Cambridgeshire with me?”

  The request was so preposterous that I didn’t know whether to laugh or call for help. “Thank you, Mr. Bright, but I don’t usually accept invitations from complete strangers.”

  “Please, call me Julian,” he said, with a reassuring smile. “And believe me when I tell you that my intentions are honorable. I don’t intend to make a pass at you—or any other woman, for that matter.”

  I took in the goatee and the black leather jacket and felt myself blush. “Oh,” I said carefully. “I didn’t realize.” I motioned toward the cubicle, wondering how best to phrase my next question. “Are you … involved with the man in there?”

  The reassuring smile became a broad grin. “I’m not a homosexual, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m a priest. A Roman Catholic priest. And I am deeply involved with the man in there. I owe him my life.”

  Nurse Willoughby put her head between us. “I’m sorry, Julian, but you’ll have to take your conversation elsewhere.” She handed over my coat and shoulder bag. “You know what Matron will say if she finds you blocking the passageway again.”

  “One moment, please, Nurse Willoughby,” said Julian. “I’m in need of a character reference. Would you be so kind as to inform Ms. Shepherd that I’m an honorable gentleman who means her no harm?”

  “I’d be happy to.” The red-haired nurse tilted her head toward me and said, in a confidential murmur, “He’s mad as a March hare.”

  “That’s not exactly—” Julian began, but Nurse Willoughby cut him off.

  “He gave up a posh parish to run a doss-house,” she told me. “Makes the rounds here every morning, looking for his lost sheep. Matron says he was in line to become bishop, but he threw it all away for a lot of old soaks.”

  “Pure self-interest,” Julian said quickly. “I fully expect to find a a masquerading millionaire among Saint Benedict’s drug addicts and drunks.”

  Nurse Willoughby laughed. “When you do, give him my name, will you? I could do with a few extra bob.” She waggled her fingers at us. “Now run along before Matron throws a fit.”

  “If anyone wants us, we’ll be in the cafeteria,” said Julian, and before I could object, he took me by the elbow and steered me down the hospital corridor. “Dr. Pritchard told me that you called out the RAF rescue squad for Smitty. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. A lot of people would’ve looked the other way.”

  “It wasn’t really my idea,” I confessed, embarrassed by the undeserved praise.

  “But you’re here now,” Julian pointed out. “Not every woman would take time out of her busy holiday schedule to visit a man like Smitty.”

  I shrugged weakly. “That wasn’t my idea, either.”

  “But you’re glad you spent time with him,” Julian ventured. “I can see it in your face.”

  Startled, I lifted a hand to my cheek. Did I look as starstruck as the knot of nurses I’d seen clustered around the tramp’s cubicle? “Is his name really Smitty or is it just a nickname?”

  “It’s what we call him at Saint Benedict’s,” Julian replied.

  We entered a brightly lit, cheerfully painted cafeteria that seemed to cater to patients, staff, and visitors alike. Almost everyone in the room called a greeting to Julian as he escorted me to a corner table.

  “Cup of tea?” he asked.

  “Yes, please.” I folded my coat over the chair next to mine and rested my arms on the table, feeling as though I’d been washed ashore by a minor tidal wave. Julian Bright might look like a placid basset hound, but he had the energy of a fox terrier. He paused at a dozen tables on his way to the tea urn, fielding questions, tossing off quips, and at one point kneeling on the floor to speak quietly with a young girl in a wheelchair. I needed no further proof that he was indeed the honorable gentleman he claimed to be.

  As I waited for my tea, a flock of questions flitted through my mind. How well did Julian know Smitty? Had the tramp really saved his life? Above all, why would a Catholic priest invite me to go with him to Cambridgeshire?

  Julian returned with three cups of tea on a blue plastic tray. He placed two of the cups in front of me, set aside the third for himself, hung his black leather jacket on the back of his chair, and sat opposite me.

  I pointed to the pair of teacups. “Why two?”

  “To help you recover from the shock of meeting me.” He added milk to his tea and stirred. “I’m afraid I got rather ahead of myself back there. It’s just that it’s my night to supervise dinner at Saint Benedict’s, which means that I have to leave for Cambridgeshire in less than an hour. I’d very much like you to come with me.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “To help Smitty find the specialized care he’ll need once he leaves here.” Julian laid his spoon aside. “Unless you’re willing to take him in.”

  “Er, I, uh …” I sipped my tea and fumbled for an answer. “I hadn’t planned on it.”

  “I can’t do it, either,” said Julian. “Saint Benedict’s is no place for a man with his sort of illness.”

  “What is Saint Benedict’s?” I asked.

  “A hostel for transient men—a homeless shelter, if you will,” Julian replied. “It’s tucked in among the council estates in East Oxford. I don’t expect you get there much.”

  “And you work there?” I said.

  “
I run the place,” said Julian.

  I leaned forward. “Don’t you feed the men who come to you?”

  “Of course we do,” Julian said.

  “Then why is Smitty half-dead from starvation?” I demanded. Several heads turned in my direction, and I lowered my voice to an outraged murmur. “Did you see him? He’s like a scarecrow, hardly a scrap of flesh on him.”

  Julian lowered his eyes for a moment, then regarded me steadily. “We provide food for the men,” he said, “but we can’t force them to eat it. Smitty had every opportunity to avail himself of simple, nourishing meals while he was at Saint Benedict’s, but he apparently chose instead to starve himself.” He bowed his head. “I’m ashamed to say that I was unaware of his condition until Dr. Pritchard told me of it this morning.”

  I sat back, disarmed by the priest’s confession. I recalled the layers of ragged clothing and the oversized greatcoat Smitty had worn, and realized that Julian would have needed X-ray vision to see the gaunt form beneath the baggy costume. I hadn’t realized Smitty’s frailty until I’d helped Bill carry him into the cottage.

  “I’m sorry,” I said stiffly. “I spoke without thinking, as usual. It’s just, seeing Smitty like that … his hands …”

  “Frostbite,” said Julian. “The good news is that they probably won’t have to be amputated.”

  I groaned softly and pushed my second cup of tea to one side.

  “And please,” Julian continued, “don’t apologize for caring about someone as vulnerable as Smitty. As you so rightly point out, he’s terribly ill. I believe there may be some form of dementia involved.”

  “You think he’s crazy?” I said, vaguely offended by the notion.

  “I suspect so, but I can’t be completely certain. That’s why I’m going to Cambridgeshire. One of the men at Saint Benedict’s told me that Smitty lived there before coming to Oxford. He worked at a place called Blackthorne Farm for over a year. The farm’s owned by a widow named Anne Preston. She must have gotten to know Smitty fairly well while he worked for her.”

  “And if Anne Preston thinks he’s crazy, it’ll be two against one,” I said sourly.

  “I’m not inventing Smitty’s symptoms, Ms. Shepherd,” said Julian. “He elected to starve himself, and … Here, have a look at this.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a water-stained suede pouch.

  “What is it?” I said, eyeing the pouch curiously.

  “Nurse Willoughby found it in Smitty’s coat pocket,” said Julian. “She didn’t want it to disappear into an orderly’s pocket, so she gave it to me for safekeeping. Nurse Willoughby thought the contents might be valuable.”

  “Are they?” I asked.

  “I’ll leave it to you to judge.” Julian teased open the pouch’s drawstring and turned it upside down over the table, releasing a colorful cascade of military decorations—ribbons, medals, bars, and a slender golden eagle with widespread wings.

  My pulse quickened at the sight of the golden eagle. Aunt Dimity had been engaged to a fighter pilot who’d been killed in the Battle of Britain. Perhaps the medals belonged to someone Dimity had known during the war. Smitty might have come to the cottage on behalf of an aging airman.

  “A DSO,” said Julian, separating one medal from the pile. “The Distinguished Service Order, given to commissioned officers of the navy, army, and air force for special distinction in action. The bar means that the airman won the medal twice over.”

  My ears pricked up. “How do you know it was given to an airman?”

  Instead of answering me directly, Julian proceeded to identify two other medals. “The Distinguished Flying Cross, awarded for gallantry when flying in an engagement against an enemy. The Air Force Cross, given for acts of courage when flying in any context other than combat.”

  I lifted the golden eagle from the table. “And this?”

  “The Pathfinder badge,” Julian replied. “Pathfinders were the crème de la crème, members of an elite corps culled from the best bomber crews in the Royal Air Force.”

  “Bombers,” I echoed thoughtfully, placing the golden eagle on the table. Dimity had never said a word to me about bomber crews, but she’d known so many people during the war that anything was possible.

  Julian plucked at his goatee worriedly as he stared down at the medals. “Smitty left all of his possessions at Saint Benedict’s—except for the items you see before you. Would a sane man undertake such a difficult journey with nothing in his pockets but a pouchful of old military decorations?”

  I answered his question with a question. “Did Smitty ever mention a woman named Dimity Westwood?”

  “The philanthropist?” Julian shook his head. “He said nothing to me about her. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I said, restraining the urge to add more or less. “I know a lot about her, though. She used to live in my cottage.”

  “So Smitty collapsed at Dimity Westwood’s cottage.” Julian shrugged. “Could be pure coincidence.”

  “Dimity was engaged to a fighter pilot during the war,” I informed him. “She got to know a lot of airmen. Smitty might have been bringing the medals to her—not knowing she was dead—on behalf of someone she knew back then.”

  “But who?” said Julian. “And why the urgency?”

  I looked down at the table. “I don’t know.”

  “Nor do I.” Julian paused. “But Anne Preston might.” He held out his hand imploringly. “Please, Ms. Shepherd, come with me. It’ll take us two hours to get to Blackthorne Farm and two hours to return. You’ll be home in plenty of time for your evening meal.”

  “Why do you need me?” I asked, puzzled by his persistence.

  “Because you care about Smitty,” said Julian. “Because Anne Preston may say things to you that she wouldn’t feel comfortable saying to me.” He hesitated, then plunged on. “And because I’m a Roman Catholic priest. We aren’t always welcomed with open arms in this country.”

  “But—” I started to say “you don’t even look like a priest,” realized how foolish it would sound, and changed it to “I’ve got two children waiting for me at home.”

  The priest cocked his head to one side. “On their own, are they?”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, smiling. “My father-in-law’s taking care of them.”

  “And he’ll fall to pieces if you arrive home a few hours later than expected?” Julian prodded.

  “No,” I said, “but—”

  “Please.” Julian reached across the table and clasped my hands in his. “We’ll be back in Oxford by four o’clock, at the latest. You may have two children at home, but I have a hundred and fifty men to feed.”

  I could feel myself weakening. Dimity had ordered me to find Smitty’s family or friends, but her orders meant less to me at that moment than the look of trust I’d seen in those violet eyes. I felt I had to do something to confirm Smitty’s faith in me. Perhaps, I thought, I should go along to Blackthorne Farm, to keep this priest from railroading a defenseless man into an asylum.

  I looked down at Julian’s hands and noted, with a faint sense of disquiet, that they were nearly as beautiful as Smitty’s. I gently pulled away from him and began gathering up the medals. “Have you tried telephoning Blackthorne Farm?”

  “Yes,” said Julian, “but the lines are down because of the storm.”

  I gave an exasperated snort. “If the lines are down, the roads are probably impassable. I drive a Mini, Julian. It doesn’t do snowdrifts. How are we going to get through?”

  “Have faith, my child.” Triumph gleamed in Julian’s brown eyes as he tucked the suede pouch into his pocket. “Saint Christopher will provide.”

  Julian Bright’s khaki-colored Land Rover looked as though it belonged in intensive care, alongside Smitty. Julian claimed that the vehicle’s multiple contusions proved its worth, but I was better reassured by a brand-new set of snow tires and a well-oiled winch mounted on the front bumper.

  Julian patted the dashbo
ard proudly as he pulled away from the parking garage. “Got him in Mombasa.”

  “Not much snow in Mombasa,” I observed. “And aren’t vehicles generally referred to as ‘she’?”

  “Not when they’re christened Saint Christopher.” Julian flipped a lever on the dashboard and a blast of heat erupted from the vents.

  “At least we won’t freeze to death when we’re stranded in a snowbank,” I commented.

  Julian rolled his eyes heavenward. “O ye of little faith.”

  I pulled my cellular phone from my coat pocket and telephoned Willis, Sr. He was, as I’d expected, unfazed by the change of plans. He passed along the news that Bill had arrived safely in Boston, and by the time we finished our conversation, I was fairly certain that my father-in-law was pleased as Punch to have Bill and me out from underfoot and his grandsons all to himself.

  The sun was shining brightly, but a brisk wind buffeted the Land Rover as we escaped the clinging tentacles of Oxford. Blackthorne Farm lay somewhere in the vicinity of a village called Great Gransden, about twenty miles west of Cambridge. There was no direct route—there seldom was, in England—but Julian had worked out a series of jigs and jogs that were likely to get us there in two hours, barring the odd snowdrift.

  A dazzling white counterpane of snow blanketed the land in all directions, but—luckily for us—an army of snowplows had been at work and the main roads were clear. I donned my sunglasses and sat with Julian’s well-thumbed road atlas open in my lap, waiting for him to ask for directions.

  “What were you doing in Mombasa?” I asked.

  “I thought I wanted to be a missionary,” Julian replied, “but the water changed my mind. There comes a time when dysentery ceases to amuse.”

  I smiled. There was no denying that Julian was good company.

  “Come now,” he went on, a teasing note in his voice, “aren’t you going to ask why I became a priest? It’s usually the first thing people want to know.”