by Mal Peet
“Happy Christmas, my friend,” Tamar said. “What do you think of all this?” He gestured at the table, the tree. “Good, isn’t it? Did Marijke tell you we’re having chicken? And English pudding? My God, we’re going to eat like kings! And why not? I think we deserve it, don’t you?”
His presence had tilted the delicate nervous balance in the room. The quiet intimacy of a few moments earlier had been jolted into this hearty maleness. Dart had trouble adjusting.
“Yes,” he said. “I was just saying to Marijke. It’s fantastic in here. How is Oma?”
“What? Oh, well, she’s miserable, of course. There was a child —”
“Yes,” Dart said. “Marijke told me.”
“Did she? Right. Well, Oma’s very upset, naturally. And the journey back was hard on her. She’s got a bit of a cold, but you know Oma — tough as old boots.”
Dart glanced at Marijke. It seemed to him that Tamar was being grossly offhand, but Marijke was taking it well, smiling bravely. She brought two cups of coffee to the table.
“I’ll go up to her,” she said. “The food is almost ready.”
Dart watched her leave the room. The way her body, her legs, moved inside the green dress. He sipped his coffee, and when he raised his eyes, Tamar was looking at him thoughtfully.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Dart said.
Tamar nodded, still watching Dart’s face. “That was a hell of a thing, the other night. To tell you the truth, drops scare me shitless. Especially big ones like that, when there are lots of people involved. You know what I mean? Someone talks, says something in the wrong place, and you end up getting shot to pieces in a damn field in the middle of nowhere. You did very well.”
“Thank you.”
“Did you get everything you needed?”
Dart sipped, looking into his cup. “Yes.”
Tamar nodded again, slowly, then smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I feel so good tonight,” he said. “Know why?”
Dart didn’t. He waited.
“It’s because all this is so . . . normal. Do you understand what I mean? Here, this kitchen, the food, the tree — it’s like life used to be, before. And I didn’t think, couldn’t have imagined . . . You know when we jumped out of that bloody plane? It never crossed my mind that three months later you and I would be celebrating Christmas like this. Yet here we are, doing what normal people used to do in normal times. I went up to the heath and cut that tree down, and Marijke decorated it, and I thought what a mad thing we were doing while people all over the country are starving and dying. We should feel guilty, I suppose. But tonight, right now, I don’t.”
He reached across the table and seized Dart’s wrists, startling him. “We must have a good time tonight, my friend. Because this is the most subversive thing we could be doing. This”— and here he gestured at the room again —“this is the continuation of war by other means. Joy is the true enemy of fascism. So we shall be joyous.”
He has been drinking, Dart thought.
As if he had read Dart’s mind, Tamar jumped up and went to the dresser. He returned with two of Oma’s china tumblers and Ruud van der Spil’s cognac. Dart noticed that the level in the bottle had fallen significantly.
“Here,” Tamar said, pouring large shots. “Have some of this. You still look a bit like a ghost. Cheers.”
Dart drank; the liquor left a hot track through the middle of his body that felt good.
“Something else too,” Tamar said, reaching into a trouser pocket. “Look at this. A Christmas present from Nicholson, I think.”
It was a large buff office envelope, folded in half. The letter N was pencilled in one corner. It contained a wad of crossword puzzles clipped from newspapers.
“Thirty!” Tamar said. “Mostly from The Times, at a glance.” He grinned happily. “Warmth, good food, something to drink, and a crossword to do after dinner. We are having a little interlude in heaven, my friend.”
The door opened then, and Marijke and her grandmother came in. Dart stood and stooped to be kissed. The old woman was wearing a red shawl over her usual black, but this festive garment could not disguise the fact that she was frailer than before. Dart thought she had aged a good deal since he last saw her. There was a slight yellowness to the whites of her eyes and a ragged edge to her breathing; the climb down the stairs had been hard work for her. She refused to sit in the armchair and took a seat at the table.
Tamar and Marijke busied themselves at the stove, leaving Dart to deal with Oma. She gazed absently at him for several moments, then began one of her mimes. Without Marijke to translate, Dart felt at a loss. He smiled and nodded.
“Yes, Oma,” he guessed, “it is very cold. Bad weather for walking, yes. The room is beautiful, though. The food smells good. Yes, I’m very hungry.”
The chicken stew contained chunks of carrot and potato, and translucent segments of onion; the meat was slightly fibrous but good. They sucked it from the bones and wiped their plates clean with bread that Marijke had made with the British flour. Oma sat back and sighed with pleasure, or perhaps exhaustion, when she had eaten half of what was on her plate.
After a silent and contented interval, Tamar lifted the Christmas pudding from the pan. He made a comedy of unwrapping it from the hot cloth, dancing about and blowing on his fingertips. He finally got it onto a warm plate and brought it to the table; it was dark chocolatey brown and glistened stickily. Oma and Marijke peered at it with deep suspicion.
Marijke said, “If it’s disgusting, we can have baked apples instead.”
“Of course it won’t be disgusting,” Tamar said. “It’ll be delicious. It was probably made from the finest ingredients by the head chef of the Ritz Hotel in London, exclusively for the SOE. Do you think the RAF would send one of their planes through hellfire to deliver a nasty pudding? Now then, pass me the cognac.”
Tamar filled a serving spoon and heated it in the flame of a candle. “Ruud van der Spil would probably shoot me dead if he saw me doing this with his precious booze. Here we go.”
A lick of flame ran over the surface of the liquid. Tamar emptied the spoon onto the hot pudding and, for just a few seconds, it wore a transparent cloak of flickering blue fire. Marijke laughed and applauded. Oma, alarmed and wide-eyed, put her hands to her chest as if she had witnessed one of the devil’s prettier tricks.
Tamar served thick wedges of the pudding into gold-edged bowls. He stared at Marijke, smiling, waiting for her to try it first. She made a comical face, then, like someone doing something brave and possibly suicidal, slid a spoonful into her mouth. The others watched and waited. Dart, tense and enraptured, saw the tip of her tongue lick traces of taste from her lips. Her eyes closed and her mouth moved thoughtfully. Then she swallowed and carefully put the spoon down.
“Well,” Tamar said, “what do you think?”
Marijke waggled her hand beside her face like someone who had been told an outrageous piece of gossip. “It is a scandal,” she said, very seriously, “to have so many things in one pudding.” Then she smiled delightedly. “It is incredible. Have some; have some!”
They ate, making little groans of pleasure.
“Raisins,” Tamar said. “And almonds, are they?” He lifted a plump little chunk of something red from his dish. “What is this, Marijke?”
“Some sort of preserved cherry, I think. I can taste things I thought I’d never taste again.”
“Nutmeg,” Dart said. “Mmm . . . figs too. Amazing. Where did they get all this stuff? I never saw any of it in England.”
“It would be wonderful with cream,” Marijke sighed. “Can you imagine?”
Oma, chewing busily, waved her hand in a dismissive gesture: what they had in their dishes was sinful enough without cream.
Dart made a startled sound and the others looked at him. Frowning, he took something small and flat from his mouth.
“What have you got there, Ernst?”
Dart held the object ne
arer the candle. “It’s a coin. British, but I’ve never seen one like it before.” He peered at it. “It’s old. The date is eighteen something.”
“Ah, I know what this is. You’re lucky tonight, my friend.”
“Damn right. I could have choked on it.”
Tamar laughed. “True. This is one of those crazy English customs. They put a little silver coin in the Christmas pudding, and the person who finds it gets to make a wish. Guaranteed to come true. Never fails.”
“What a nice idea,” Marijke said. “So go on, Ernst. What are you going to wish for?”
Tamar laid a hand on her wrist. “No, no. Ernst mustn’t tell us. It has to be a secret wish, or it won’t work.”
They all watched Dart, smiling and expectant. He tried very hard not to look at Marijke, but he could not help himself. “I don’t know what to wish for,” he confessed.
Marijke tipped her head slightly, and in that moment Dart lost focus on everything except her face.
“Of course you do,” she said. “I know what I’d wish for. I bet you’d wish for the same thing.”
Her dark gaze was fixed on him, and there was no mistaking the message it contained. He had no name for the emotion that swept through him. He closed his eyes and held them tight shut until he had some control over it.
When he opened them, Tamar was grinning at him. “That was obviously a very serious wish. I hope with all my heart it comes true. Now, more, anyone?”
Julia Maartens went to bed not long after the meal was over. The effort of eating had tired her, and then she had a spasm of coughing that left her looking feverish. Marijke filled two stone hot-water bottles to warm the old lady’s bed; then, after a slow ritual of good nights, took her upstairs.
When the two men were alone, Tamar brought the oil lamp to the table. “Crossword?”
“Yes, why not?”
Tamar shuffled through the wad of crosswords, choosing one he liked the look of — using a selection process Dart did not understand — and found a pencil. Then he lifted the cognac bottle and looked at Dart enquiringly.
“No,” Dart said. “I need to keep a clear head.”
“Shit. I’d forgotten. You’re on station tonight, aren’t you? What time?”
“Twenty-two forty-five until midnight. Not long.”
Tamar poured himself a small drink. “Okay. But the damn British. Don’t they know it’s Christmas?”
“Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Dart said, and they laughed; in England the phrase had been the everyday excuse for all sorts of lousy behaviour.
When Marijke came back down, the two men were hunched over the crossword, their heads close together. She felt excluded; they didn’t look up even when she reached for the bottle and poured herself a drink. So she came round behind them and put an arm over each man’s shoulder. She leaned down to them. Dart felt her hair brush his temple, breathed her perfume again.
“So,” she said, “tell me how this works.”
Tamar began to explain what an anagram was. Dart turned his head slightly so that he could see Marijke’s hand. Her forefinger was just a few millimetres from the bare skin of his neck. Slowly, holding his breath, he raised his own fingers towards hers.
“Stop,” she said. “How can I understand this? Not only is it mad; it is in English.” She lifted her hands to the tops of their heads and ruffled their hair. “Come on, talk to me. Make me laugh.”
Tamar sighed theatrically. “The same old story. Men engage in a peaceful, intellectual pastime, and along comes a beautiful woman and spoils everything.” He pushed the crossword away and tossed the pencil down. “Go on then, Dr. Lubbers — make Marijke laugh. You’re the one with all the stories. Nothing interesting ever happens to me.”
“That’s right, Ernst,” Marijke said. “You’ve said nothing tonight about Albert or Agatha. You must have news. How are Pieter and Bibi?”
Dart slapped his forehead. “Ach! I completely forgot. I have something to show you. It’s in my bag.”
He went out into the hall, and when he came back, Tamar was pouring Marijke another drink.
Dart put the medical bag down on the table and opened it. “Pieter and Bibi gave me a late Sinterklaas present,” he said.
It was a narrow box of grey cardboard with the words THE MARIONETTE HOUSE printed on the lid in green italic writing. Dart lifted the lid and took out a puppet. He held it above the table, suspended on its twisted strings from a wooden cross. The strings unwound and the figure spun in a slow blur.
Tamar said, “Hey, it’s you!”
It was Dart, unmistakably. The narrow head had carved waves of hair painted black; the body wore a tweed coat with a red cross armband on one sleeve; one mitten-shaped hand was attached to a bag painted leather brown. The legs sagged inwards at the knees when the feet came to rest on the surface of the table.
Marijke’s face lit up. “Oh, Ernst, what a beautiful thing! Fancy having a puppet of yourself. Aren’t you flattered?” She flopped down on the chair at the head of the table and held her hands out imploringly towards the marionette. “Come on, make him walk to me.”
Dart tried, but the skill of it was beyond him. The puppet moved towards her slumped and spastic, its feet dragging. He lifted it and tried again, but the hinged arms flailed and twitched and the feet clacked against the smeared pudding bowls.
Tamar, laughing, stood up. “Let me try.”
He held the crosspiece and adjusted the position of his fingers, then moved his hand slowly up the table. The Dart puppet advanced towards Marijke in a jerky dance. She muffled her laughter with her hands and drew back as if something both thrilling and menacing were approaching her.
Tamar twisted his mouth to one side and imitated a poor ventriloquist. “I am a doctor. I am told there is a woman here who needs my attention.”
Then in a quick movement he lifted the puppet towards Marijke’s face. She caught it in her fingers and looked delightedly into its face. “Ah, Doctor, at last! Come upstairs!”
Then her laughter bubbled over, and she leaned forward. The Dart puppet collapsed onto the table. After a second or two, Dart joined in the laughter.
“Let me have a go,” Marijke said, getting to her feet.
Tamar put the marionette’s crosspiece in her fingers and she experimented with the strings, concentrating hard, trying not to giggle, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. She rocked her hand, and the Dart puppet performed a slow arthritic jig while its head swivelled loosely from side to side.
“Very good!” Dart said. “Well done.”
“Now,” Marijke said, “I’m going to see if I can make him do a little bow.”
She tipped her hand forward slightly and parted two of the strings with her fingers. The puppet folded in the middle and raised its arms.
Tamar and Dart applauded. Marijke made a little curtsy, then lowered the puppet onto the table. It slumped in a sitting position, its legs splayed.
“I think he’s a very sweet little gentleman,” Marijke declared. “Don’t you, Ernst? Do you think Pieter would make one of me? We could make them dance together.”
“I’m sure he would. I’ll ask him.”
Tamar reached for the bottle but paused and turned his wrist to look at his watch.
Dart remembered. “Damn. What time is it?”
“Ten twenty.”
Dart sighed heavily. “Right. I’d better think about getting organized.”
Marijke pulled a long face in sympathy. “I don’t think it’s fair. It’s Christmas.”
Tamar said, “I daresay that in London there’s some poor bloody signaller looking up our call sign and thinking exactly the same thing.”
Marijke stood up. “Let me make you some coffee to take with you. It won’t take a minute.”
Dart put on his coat and wrapped the scarf around his throat. Marijke gave him coffee in a jug and kissed him.
Then Tamar said, “I’ll wait up for you. We ought to have a last drink.”
“Good,” he said. “I’ll see you later, then.”
When he stepped outside, it was as if he had been plunged into a well of ink. He could see nothing at all. The coldness shocked him sober. He inhaled sobs of air that were like pebbles in his chest. Eventually he moved cautiously into the dark, feeling the ribs and knuckles of the ground through the soles of his shoes, hearing ice crack in diminishing ripples of sound. He hit the wall of the barn before he knew he’d reached it. Inside, he found the lamp hanging on its nail and after a good deal of fumbling managed to get it lit. He carried the pool of yellow light up the stairs.
The fast bleeps of Morse came through the fizz of his headphones at exactly twenty-two forty-five.
He blinked in surprise when his hand wrote the signal ends code after just seven minutes. He waited, listening to white noise for several seconds in case there had been a mistake, then acknowledged and closed down. His vaporized breath drifted towards the lamp and disappeared. He spread the silk code sheet on the table and deciphered just the last two lines of London’s message: HAPPY XMAS AND A VICTORIOUS NEW YEAR STOP NOW PISS OFF SOMEWHERE WARM SIGNAL ENDS.
Smiling, Dart disconnected the transceiver and stashed it and the battery away in the thatch behind the crippled chest of drawers. He felt a sort of giddiness, knowing that he’d be with her again so soon.
Outside the barn he stood immobile for some time, forcing himself to endure the cold and his impatience, while his sight readapted to the darkness. On other nights, he had emerged from the barn and heard the distant drone of aircraft and the continuous muffled thud of faraway explosions. Tonight the silence was absolute. He looked up. Through a sudden breach in the clouds he saw a sliver of clear sky brightly crowded with stars. Even though he was in no way superstitious, he allowed himself to see it as a portent, a sign that wishes would be granted. He closed his eyes and shuddered, perhaps because of the cold or perhaps in response to the strong thrill of anticipation that ran through him.
