“There you are!” screamed Lucy.
They heard the front door creaking open. Joe made a mental note to oil it—he liked noting things about the house that needed doing, little acts of love for Winterfold that made it run smoothly as a home, this place he’d ended up in.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and see what’s up.”
Jemma was backing out of the drive into the darkness of the lane, as Lucy’s battered old Polo zoomed down and stopped in front of the house. Orlando leaped out of it.
“Why’s he driving your car?” Martha said.
“He’s on the insurance. We had to drive to Scotland last month to look at a castle and—oh, it’s a long story. Where have you been?” she said to Orlando. “There was a fire, and the food’s ruined, and—oh, where have you been?” she repeated, only in a completely different tone.
Orlando was pulling bags of Sainsbury’s food out of the boot of the car. As he deposited them by the front door, he said, “I’ve lived in a farmhouse most of my life, and the power always went out at some point or another. My mother always used to buy in loads of food you could cook over a fire outside, just in case. She was a wise woman, my mother.”
“Orlando,” said Martha, looking at him with approval, “you are a wonderful man.”
“Plus you had no provisions, none at all. And I didn’t know what to do to be useful. I was just standing around while you all . . . um, you know . . . chopped and told each other what to do. I felt very awkward. Um . . . well, anyway. So I thought I’d just go for a bit of a spin and lay in some supplies, just in case, and if it was no good then I’d take them back to London the day after tomorrow—”
“Thin-crust pizza!” shouted Luke, as he and Jamie rifled through the bags. “Mince pies with marzipan! I love marzipan! It’s the best! You bought Christmas crackers!”
“We’ve got crackers,” said Lucy, gazing at him in open adoration. “The house is still standing, Orlando. You didn’t need to get crackers.”
“I just thought I’d buy up what they had. And if no one needed it, I’d quietly chuck it or give it away.” He shrugged. “So . . .”
Joe walked up to him and gave him a hug. “I love you, Orlando, you amazing man,” he said in his warm voice. “I bloody love you.”
“I know what we can do,” said Martha suddenly. “Of course!”
Two hours later, they stood around a pit in the garden, hastily dug out by Joe and Jim. The embers, white as though covered with frost, glowed in the silent night and red-gold sparks spat lazily up into the sky.
They were all around it: Martha, Joe and Cat, Luke and Jamie, Lucy, Orlando, Florence and Jim, wrapped up as warmly as could be, backs freezing in the night chill and fronts burning from the heat of the fire. The grown-ups clutched hot buttered rum and sloe gin; the wine had been mulled using the fireplace hanger on the great inglenook fireplace inside and hung on a hook next to the fire pit, keeping warm.
“Pizza number one going on,” said Joe solemnly, and he slid the pizza onto the pizza stone he’d borrowed from the pub and placed gently by its handles over the fire.
Jamie and Luke squeaked with excitement: this was honestly the best Christmas ever, as far as they were concerned.
“Should take about eight minutes or so. You don’t all have to wait here.”
“I like it,” said Lucy dreamily, one hand firmly clasped in Orlando’s. “It’s beautiful out here. So quiet. Look at the stars—what a clear night.”
“We might see Santa,” said Luke urgently. “We might see him!”
“I think you’ll be in bed,” said Cat, looking back at the house, almost entirely dark except for the solar fairy lights around the Christmas tree, normally used only for the annual summer party, which had been dug out of summer storage along with the hurricane lanterns and actual lanterns that were hung in various rooms, casting a faint, golden glow. “The electrician says he’ll be here first thing on Boxing Day morning. That means no cooked food, no showers, and no heating. So we have to wrap up warm and keep the fires lit all the time—and be careful around them, you understand, boys?”
They nodded, amazed at this topsy-turvy world they were living in. “What about TV?” asked Luke.
“No TV, I’m sorry.”
“The iPad?”
“It’s almost out of juice, you terrible child,” said Cat. She turned to Martha, who was staring into the fire. “It’ll be okay, won’t it?”
“It’ll be wonderful,” said Martha. She cleared her throat. “I want to say a few words, if that’s okay.”
There was a nervous murmur of assent. She looked around them all, their faces lit golden and white in the flames. Her family, in a circle, this hotchpotch of people, so very dear to her, all of them.
“I want to raise a glass to all of you, and say how wonderful it is to have you all here. And I want to toast Joe, who I know would have made the most beautiful Christmas lunch ever, and who is a kind, lovely, truly forbearing man to put up with me, constantly telling him what to do.”
Joe looked mortified. “Martha—no, it’s not like that at all, honest.”
“Shh. It’s my time to speak. I want to thank my lovely Cat, for spreading calm and good cheer, and a special thank-you to my daughter Florence, for spraying every single piece of food that might have been salvageable with pressurized foam. I want to thank Jim for digging the pit, and Jamie and Luke for being our light. I want to thank Lucy for bringing this amazing man into our lives, and mostly, I want to thank Orlando, the savior of Christmas. To Orlando—! I don’t know your surname,” she added apologetically.
“It’s Bearfleet,” said Orlando.
“Orlando Bearfleet?” said Martha carefully. “Goodness, you poor thing! Maybe you should change your name when you get married.”
“Gran!” hissed Lucy, as Cat cracked up.
“Orlando!” said Martha, raising her glass to him, as the fire crackled beneath them.
Orlando stared at his feet and mumbled something about how grateful he was. Lucy kissed his shoulder, blushing furiously, and they all drank deeply and looked at each other around the fire.
And then Martha said, “I only wanted to add one more thing. David and I were married sixty years ago today. Christmas Eve, nineteen fifty-four.”
“No, Ma,” said Florence. “I had no idea. Oh goodness, why didn’t I know?”
“Oh, Gran. Really?” said Cat. “Is that why . . . ?”
“We didn’t really celebrate it, what with it being Christmas Eve, and all these other things to do.” Martha nodded. “I’ve been dreading today, you see. You made everything all right. Christmas is almost here, and the vicar was right. It isn’t a time for those who have everything. It’s best when you remember you don’t need anything, except the people you love.” She cleared her throat, suddenly froggy.
In the lane below came the sound of something moving toward them. Faint, distant voices, the crunch of boots.
“We don’t need anything much, if we’ve got a stone to cook pizzas on and drinks in our hands and each other, do we? What is it they say? ‘Let your boat of life be light.’ ”
The carol singers from the church choir were getting louder, and as the group by the fire pit turned they watched the figures stride into the drive and look around at the darkened house in confusion.
“We’re here,” called Martha, and she strode across the frosted lawn toward them. “Come and join us. Come!”
As she came closer, she held out her hand. Kathy was at the front of the group, and she smiled at Martha, clutching her fingers. The choir carried on singing, and Martha led them down to the fire, to the warmth of the others, the group in a circle.
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold:
> “Peace on the earth, goodwill to men,
From heav’n’s all-gracious King!”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
They stayed there for four carols—more than any other house they’d visited—and by the end perhaps more mulled wine than is advisable had been drunk. But that was the thing about Winterfold, they all said as they skidded back down the lane to the village. The Winters had always known how to throw a party.
Epilogue
December 1954
Clerkenwell, London
She stood outside on the steps of the church, stamping her feet and pulling at the thick winter coat she’d won at the bunfight of the jumble sale the previous week. Martha looked anxiously up at the church clock yet again.
He was never late. She was late, all the time, always the one who stood him up, who said she wasn’t interested, who made out she had friends and interests far beyond him. Why was he late?
As Martha rubbed her red-raw knuckles together and blew out her breath in icy particles, the vicar appeared behind her, resplendent in cassock and surplice, with a purple silken vestment over the top. He looked terrifyingly grand, like something out of a painting.
As he peered at her in the encroaching gloom, she said hurriedly, “Father Michael, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“I don’t doubt that you’re sure of that, dear girl. I doubt whether he’s coming, you see.” The vicar looked down the steps of St. James’s toward Clerkenwell Green. The Crown pub was busy tonight; workers were drinking their Christmas wages already, some let off early for Christmas Eve.
“He is coming,” said Martha, resisting the urge to stamp her foot again. She was certain of him, had been since she’d first met him, always had been.
Only yesterday, they’d rowed. She’d said she was too young to marry him, and she was having second thoughts. She wanted her career: she’d been asked to provide some drawings for an exhibition in Covent Garden. A photographer from the Picture Post had taken a photo of young Martha Persson, with her serious bob and her frown, sketching a portrait of Charles II in the National Gallery. The caption was: “Young Artist Making Her Mark on Art World.” Martha’s ability to imitate, to capture feeling and sentiment and not simply copy, was unusual. She had become used to thinking of herself now as someone who was good at something—not just another kid, a mouth to feed, a bum to kick, as she had been in Bermondsey.
And if she married David, what would happen? Would she be churning out children like her mum, putting up with his moods, his drinking, his fists?
She laughed at her fears sometimes: David was gentle, kind, extraordinarily sweet. He would never hurt her. They wanted to build—together—a home, a life, a family.
Oh, why did I tell him no? What if he believes me? The row of the previous day, when she’d threatened to call the whole thing off, seemed to have scarred her conscious thinking: it was all she could see now, her selfishness and stupidity. And they had Christmas all planned, in the tiny one-room flat just round the corner. He’d rented it for six months in an old Clerkenwell town house, up the road from where Oliver Twist and the Artful Dodger had run amok.
Martha peered into the crowds thronging the warm, jolly-looking pub. She felt lonelier than ever—what if she’d let him get away? What would she do? Someone was singing, down the road. She listened: David loved to sing.
All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth!
This time Martha did stamp her feet, as the vicar put a consoling arm around her shoulders.
“Look, dear. Perhaps we’d better call it a night. The choir has to rehearse for midnight Mass. We need to start. We’ve read the banns, dearie. You could always come back—”
Then, a little miracle.
“I’m here!” came a clear, loud voice, thrumming with excitement. And he was there, racing up the lane, carrying something that shook in his hand. “I’m here, Martha! Did you think I wasn’t coming?”
“Yes,” she said, running down the steps to meet him at the bottom, kissing his dear, stupid face. “Yes, I did. Oh, David, you’ve no idea how sorry I am, how silly I’ve—”
“Darling girl! It doesn’t matter.” David disentangled her frantic hands from his grasp and she saw he was holding a bunch of white flowers that smelled delicious, of perfume and musky earth. “I had to sell a painting, and the chap at the gallery was a bleeding idiot about it. Tight as anything.” He caught himself, nodding up at the vicar. “Forgive me, sir.”
Father Michael, much mollified, smiled down at him. “Already forgotten, David dear.”
“I sold it, anyway! Got three guineas for it.” He smiled at Martha, his face flushed, hair standing on end.
“David! Three guineas!”
“Yes, I did. Fella said he’d like to use me for some drawings for theater reviews. Said he might know a chap on a newspaper.”
“Oh, David! That’s wonderful!”
He pressed the flowers into her hands. “I had to bring you something. These were awfully expensive, but they’re worth it. Flower chap at Covent Garden said they’d come in from Holland, can you believe it? They’re early snowdrops.” He kissed her.
“Snowdrops.” She hugged him again, showering his dear face with kisses, and sniffed the flowers, drinking in their delicious scent.
It had started to snow, tiny flakes almost like spots of wet paper, not proper snow, but as they looked up at the church spire in the swirling white it seemed solemn, quite right, and they joined hands and went into the church together, following the vicar.
It would snow all night, and when they woke up the following day it would be silent outside, a world newly carpeted, a fresh beginning on Christmas Day.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Harriet Evans is the internationally bestselling author of Going Home, A Hopeless Romantic, The Love of Her Life, I Remember You, Love Always, Happily Ever After, Rules for Dating a Romantic Hero, Not Without You, and A Place for Us, all available from Gallery Books. She lives in London. She’d love to hear from you: visit her at www.harriet-evans.com.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-5011-3945-1
A Winterfold Christmas Page 6
