Christmas Days: 12 Stories and 12 Feasts for 12 Days

by Jeanette Winterson

  I find that champagne and pickled cucumber is an excellent combination. Ruth, though, never thought much of the Wolseley cucumber.

  ‘Mine’s much better, you know . . . ’

  And it was.

  Ruth owned a set of ancient pickling jars with rubber seals and screw-top lids. When filled to the brim these were left to sit in the back of the larder like a question no one can answer yet.

  Opening the jar was a moment of anticipation and anxiety. Fermentation is fraught. You might make something exquisite – or something that stinks.

  It never went wrong – but until you open the jar you really don’t know.

  The colour of pickled red cabbage is exquisite, and the perfect red for a Christmas feast. Ruth served hers in a pale green bowl. The sharpness of the taste is a great counterpoint to the richness of Christmas dinner.

  Apart from the vegetables, all I had to do was bring the wine. Ruth’s wine knowledge was zero and left to herself a drink would be a supermarket bottle of wine-lake Chardonnay. But she loved champagne, so that’s what I brought her. Veuve Clicquot.

  After our meal it was TV time. Ruth was in charge of what we watched, but it had to be something scheduled in real time – no DVDs, no catch-up TV.

  Ruth put her feet up on the sofa with her beloved cat, Archie. I’d lie on the other sofa, and we’d complain about the telly. It was important to be able to complain about the telly.

  About ten o’clock, Ruth would zap the zapper and say, ‘I can’t stand any more of this rubbish, can you.’ (It was not a question.) Then she followed it with a second non-question: ‘Shall we have the Christmas pudding.’

  The pudding – always made by a friend of hers in the House of Lords – was the size of a cannon ball and just as heavy. It was a lethal weapon disguised as dessert. Ruth let it boil for hours wrapped in a rag in a double pan – the old-fashioned way. As her kitchen ventilation wasn’t that great, we spent the later part of the evening in a Hitchcock steam that smelled of washing. Even the cat coughed.

  When the pudding was thought to be ready – and Ruth, the most precise of persons, never used a timer – she set about making ­custard. While this was happening she’d sing a bit – usually Country and Western, or sometimes Handel; she was a big Handel fan. Sometimes it was ‘Jolene’ medley’d with hits from the Messiah.

  The custard was proper home-made with milk and eggs. The ­effort had to be encouraged by opening a further bottle of champagne – but only a half.

  Then the pudding was tipped onto its dish, covered in brandy by me, and set alight by Ruth. Ruth always said she was too full to eat any, and then munched her way through exactly one half.

  The next day she’d send me home with the rest of the jar of red cabbage.

  The last Christmas I spent with her was 2014. Ruth Rendell had a stroke on January 7th 2015 and never recovered.

  I miss our Christmases together. And the red cabbage.

  Here’s her recipe.

  YOU NEED

  Organic red cabbage – not too old or tough. Use a big one or two small ones.

  Pickling vinegar. More on this below.

  100 g sugar. Not all recipes use sugar but Ruth’s does.

  150 g good-quality coarse sea salt. The salt depends on how much cabbage you are making. The point of the salt is to draw the water from the cabbage leaves.

  About the pickling vinegar: you can buy this from the shops but Ruth made her own and kept some to hand in the cupboard in case she ­wanted to make a Cheat’s Red Cabbage (instant pickled effect). The pickling vinegar lasts ages if you keep it in a good airtight bottle and decant it into smaller bottles as the volume goes down. Here’s how you make it:

  Put 2 pints (just over a litre) of malt vinegar in a big pan along with 6 fresh bay leaves, a couple of teaspoons of peppercorns, some caraway or coriander seeds if you have them, mustard seeds as well, or instead (I said this was a personal recipe!), a few cloves. Whatever. For Ruth it really was a whatever, because she knew what would work.

  Bring to the boil. Let it cool down somewhere that won’t stink out the place with vinegar. I cover mine and put it outside overnight.

  Leave all your spices in the vinegar mixture until the next day then sieve the vinegar clear. Some people start the process by putting all the spice-junk in a spice bag and throw the bag away afterwards but Ruth thought that was a faff. ‘What’s wrong with a sieve.’ (Another not-a-question.)

  METHOD

  Get rid of any old outer leaves. You are eating this stuff later.

  Fine-chop the red cabbage into forkful-sized shreds. Put these into a big bowl and work the salt through the cabbage. Cover and keep in the fridge overnight.

  The next day bring your pickling vinegar to the boil again, let it cool off and add the sugar, stirring well. If you put in the sugar when the mixture is too hot you will get a kind of vinegar syrup like something from a disastrous chemistry lesson. Not good.

  Rinse the salt off your cabbage and dry it well.

  Line up your airtight jars, which have been sterilised, if used previously, and which are perfectly dry and clean. We all have to die but not of cabbage poisoning.

  Fill each jar a third full of your pickling liquid, then pack the jars tight with cabbage. And I mean TIGHT! Then fill the jars to the very brim with the pickling vinegar. No air pockets!

  Seal the jars, wipe any spills and store your pristine pickled cabbage in a dark, brooding place till needed.

  The problem with the recipe is that Ruth was a virtuoso pickler, so if she wanted to add some red wine to her pickling mixture, or use cider vinegar, she did that. Similarly, she sometimes chopped some windfall apples in with the red cabbage. Or a little bit of onion. (I know, I KNOW.)

  She just couldn’t get it wrong. Unlike me.

  Remember old Sam Beckett? ‘Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.’

  Happy Christmas, Ruth.

  DARK CHRISTMAS

  e had borrowed the house from a friend none of us seemed to know.

  Highfallen House stood on an eminence overlooking the sea. It was a square Victorian gentleman’s residence. The large bay windows looked down through the pines towards the shore. Six stone steps led the visitor up to the double front door, where a Gothic bell-pull released a loud, mournful clang deep into the distances of the house.

  Laurel lined the drive. The stable block was disused. The walled garden had been locked up in 1914 when the gardeners went to war. Only one had returned. I had been warned that the high brick wall enclosing the garden was unsafe. As I passed it slowly in the car I saw a faded notice falling off the paint-peeled door: DO NOT ENTER.

  I was the first to arrive. My friends were following by train and I was to collect them the next day and then we would settle down to Christmas.

  I had driven from Bristol and I was tired. There was a Christmas tree roped on the top of my 4x4 and a trunk-load of provisions. We were not near any town. But the housekeeper had left stacked wood to build a fire and I had brought a shepherd’s pie and a bottle of Rioja for my first night.

  The kitchen was cheerful enough once I had got the fire going and the radio playing while I unpacked our festive supplies. I checked my phone – no signal. Still, I knew the time of the train tomorrow and it was a relief to feel that the world had gone away. I put my food in the oven to heat up, poured a glass of wine and went upstairs to find myself a bedroom.

  The first landing had three bedrooms leading off it. Each had a moth-eaten rug, a metal bedstead and a mahogany chest of drawers. At the far end of the landing was a second set of stairs up to the attic floor.

  I am not romantic about maids’ rooms or nurseries but there was something about that second set of stairs that made me hesitate. The landing was bright in the sudden way of late sun on a winter’s afternoon. Yet the light ended abruptly at the foot of the stairs as though
it couldn’t go any further. I didn’t want to be near that set of stairs so I chose the room at the front of the house.

  As I went back downstairs to bring up my bag the house bell started to ring, its jerky, metallic hammers sounding somewhere in the guts of the house. I was surprised but not alarmed. I expected the housekeeper. I opened the front door. There was no one there. I went down the steps and looked round. I admit I was frightened. The night was clear and soundless. There was no car in the distance. No footsteps walking away. Determined to conquer my fear, I walked up and down outside for a few minutes. Then, turning back to the house, I saw it: the bell wire ran along the side of the house under a sheltering gutter. Perhaps thirty or forty bats were dangling upside down on the vibrating wire. The same number swooped and swerved in a dark mass. Obviously their movement on the wire had set off the bell. I like bats. Clever bats. Good. Now supper.

  I ate. I drank. I wondered why love is so hard and life is so short. I went to bed. The room was warmer now and I was ready to sleep. The sound of the sea ebbed into the flow of my dreams.

  I woke from a dead sleep in dead darkness to hear . . . what? What can I hear? It sounded like a ball bearing or a marble rolling on the bare floor above my head. It rolled hard on hard then hit the wall. Then it rolled again in the other direction. This might not have mattered except that the other direction was uphill. Things can come loose and roll downwards but they cannot come loose and roll upwards. Unless someone . . .

  That thought was so unwelcome that I dismissed it along with the law of gravity. Whatever was rolling over my head must be a natural dislodging. The house was draughty and unused. The attics were under the eaves where any kind of weather might get in. Weather or an animal. Remember the bats. I pulled the covers up to my eyebrows and pretended not to listen.

  There it was again: hard on hard on hit on pause on roll.

  I waited for sleep, waiting for daylight.

  We are lucky, even the worst of us, because daylight comes.

  It was a brooding day, that 21st of December. The shortest day of the year. Coffee, coat on, car keys. Shouldn’t I just check the attic?

  The second set of stairs was narrow – a servant’s staircase. It led to a lath and plaster corridor barely shoulder-width. I started coughing. Breathing was difficult. Damp had dropped the plaster in thick, crumbling heaps on the floorboards. As below, there were three doors. Two were closed. The door to the room above my room was ajar. I made myself go forward.

  The room was under the eaves, as I had guessed. The floor was rough. There was no bed, only a washstand and a clothes rail.

  What surprised me was the Nativity scene in the corner.

  Standing about two feet tall, it was more like a doll’s house than a Christmas decoration. Inside the open-fronted stable stood the animals, the shepherds, the crib, Joseph. Above the roof, on a bit of wire, was a battered star.

  It was old, handmade in a workmanlike but not craftsmanlike sort of way, the painted wood now rubbed and faded like pigments of time.

  I thought I would carry it downstairs and put it by our Christmas tree. It must have been made for the children when there were children here. I stuffed my pockets with the figures and animals and left quickly, leaving the door open. I had to set off for the station. Stephen and Susie could help me with the rest later.

  As soon as I was out of the house my lungs felt clear again. It must be the plaster dust.

  The drive to the station was along the coast road. Lonely and unyielding, the road turned in a series of blind bends and tight corners. I met no one and I saw no one. Gulls circled over the sea.

  The station itself was a simple shelter on a long single track. There were no information boards. I checked my phone. No signal.

  At last the train appeared distantly down the track. I was excited. Memories of visiting my father as a child when he was stationed at his RAF base give me a rush of pleasure whenever I travel by train or come to meet one.

  The train slowed and halted. The guard stood down for a moment. I watched the doors – it wasn’t a big train, this branch-line train – but none of the doors opened. I waved at the guard, who came over.

  ‘I am meeting my friends.’

  He shook his head. ‘Train’s empty. Next stop is the end of the line.’

  I was confused. Had they got off at the earlier stop? I described them. The guard shook his head again. ‘I notice strangers. They would have boarded at Carlisle, asked me where to get off – always do.’

  ‘Is there another train before tomorrow?’

  ‘One a day and that’s your lot and more than anybody needs in a place like this. Where are you staying?’

  ‘Highfallen House. Do you know it?’

  ‘Oh, aye. We all know it.’ He looked as if he was about to say something else. Instead he blew his whistle. The empty train pulled away, leaving me staring down the long track, watching the red light like a warning.

  I needed to get a signal on my phone.

  I drove on past the station, following the steep hill, hoping some height would connect me to the rest of the world. At the top of the hill I stopped the car and got out, pulling up the collar of my coat. The first snow hit my face with insect insistence. Sharp and spiteful like little bites.

  I looked out across the whitening bay. That must be Highfallen House. But what’s that? Two figures walking on the beach. Is it ­Stephen and Susie? Had they driven here after all? Then, as I strained my eyes against the deceit of distance, I realised that the second figure was much smaller than the first. They were walking purposefully towards the house.

  When I arrived back it was nearly dark.

  I put on the lights, blew the fire into a blaze. There was no sign of the mysterious couple I had seen from the hill. Perhaps it had been the housekeeper and her daughter come to make sure that everything was all right. I had a telephone number for Mrs Wormwood but without a signal I could not call her.

  The snow was thickening in windy swirls. Relax. Have a whisky.

  I leaned on the warm kitchen range with my whisky in my hand. The wooden figures I had brought down from the attic were lying on the kitchen table. I should go up and get the stable.

  I don’t want to.

  I bounded up the first set of stairs, using energy to force out unease. At my bedroom I put on the light. That felt better. The second set of stairs stood in shadow at the end of the long landing. I felt that constriction in my lungs again. Why am I holding on to the handrail like an old man?

  I could see that the only light to the attic was at the top of the stairs. I found the round brown Bakelite switch. I flicked down the nipple. A single bulb lit up reluctantly. The room was straight ahead. The door was closed. Hadn’t I left it open?

  I turned the handle and stood in the doorway, the room dimly lit by the light from the stairs. Washstand. Nativity. Clothes rail. On the clothes rail was a child’s dress. I hadn’t noticed that before. I suppose I had been in a hurry. Pushing aside my misgivings, I went in purposefully and bent down to pick up the wooden Nativity. It was heavy and I had just got it secure in my arms when the light on the landing went out.

  ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

  There’s someone breathing like they can barely breathe. Not faint. Struggling for breath. I mustn’t turn round because whoever or whatever it is is behind me.

  I stood still for a minute, steadying my nerve. Then I shuffled forward towards the edge of light coming up from downstairs. At the doorway I heard a step behind me, lost my balance and put out a hand to steady myself. My hand gripped something wet. The clothes rail. It must be the dress.

  My heart was over-beating. Don’t panic. Bakelite. Bad wiring. Strange house. Darkness. Aloneness.

  But you’re not alone, are you?

  Back in the kitchen with whisky, Radio 4 and pasta boiling, I examined the dress. It was for a small c
hild and it was hand-knitted. The wool was smelly and sopping. I washed it out and left it hanging over the sink to drip. I guessed there must be a hole in the roof and the dress had been soaking up the rain for a long time.

  I ate my supper, tried to read, told myself it had been nothing, nothing at all. It was only 8pm. I didn’t want to go to bed, though the snow outside was like a quilt.

  I decided to arrange the Nativity. Donkey, sheep, camels, wise men, shepherds, star, Joseph. The crib was there, but it was empty. There was no Christ Child. And there was no Mary. Had I dropped them in the dark room? I hadn’t heard anything fall and these wooden figures were six inches tall.

  Joseph was wearing a woollen tunic but his wooden legs had painted puttees. I pulled off the tunic. Underneath, wooden Joseph wore a painted uniform. First World War.

  When I turned him round I saw there was a gash in his back like a stab wound.

  My phone beeped.

  I dropped Joseph, grabbed the phone. It was a text message from Susie: ‘TRYING 2 CALL U. LEAVE 2MORO.’

  I pressed CALL. Nothing. I tried to send a text. Nothing. But what did it matter? Suddenly I felt relief and calm. They had been delayed, that was all. Tomorrow they would be here.

  I sat down again with the Nativity. Perhaps the missing figures were inside. I put in my hand. My fingers closed round a metal object. It was a small iron key with a hoop top. Maybe it was the key to the attic door.

  Outside, snow had fallen, snow on snow. The sky had cleared. The moon sped above the sea.

  I had gone to bed and I was deep asleep when I heard it clearly. Above me. Footsteps. Pacing. Down the room. Hesitate. Turn. Return.

  I lay in bed, eyes staring blindly at the blind ceiling. Why do we open our eyes when we can’t see anything? And what was there to see? I don’t believe in ghosts.

  I wanted to put on the light but what if the light didn’t come on? Why would it be worse to be in darkness I had not chosen than darkness I was choosing? But it would be worse. I sat up in bed and pulled back the curtain a little. The moon had been so bright tonight, surely there would be light?