The Christmas Angel

by Marcia Willett

  Kitty stands at the sitting-room window watching Rupert getting into the Volvo. It is a dull, drizzling day and the trees look weighty with the burden of their leaves. As she waits while he puts his bag in the car she is prey as usual to a whole muddle of emotions: sad that he’s going, yet certain that she mustn’t allow herself to be coerced. Rupert slams the tailgate and opens the driver’s door. He glances up and raises his hand in a last farewell. The car disappears and Kitty moves back into the room, arms crossed, trying to will away her feelings of anxiety and guilt. For the first time in their married lives, a real battle is joined and she knows that she must continue to fight her corner.

  She stares up at the large, gilt-framed oil painting that hangs above the fireplace: an atmospheric seascape full of drama, and evoking memories of her gypsy life with Rupert. A bank of thrift on a stony headland bows before the wind that carries the sea birds on its thermals and whips up long curling breakers to crash upon the sandy shore. Just for a moment she can hear their cries above the restless sighing of the sea and her heart contracts with pain, as if she’s lost something precious, and then her mobile rings and she runs to answer it, longing for it to be Rupert, knowing it isn’t.

  ‘Kitty.’ Sally’s voice. ‘I expect Rupert’s just gone and I wondered if you were feeling a bit miz and if you’d like me to pop in. I’m just down in Whiteladies Road.’

  ‘Oh, Sal, I’d love it.’ Kitty seizes on this distraction with relief. ‘Honestly, it’s so weird. Rupert was really sweet this weekend, and now I feel guilty. It sounds crazy but it’s almost easier when we argue about it all. No,’ she pushes her free hand through her hair, ‘no, I don’t mean that. Oh hell …’

  ‘Hang on. I’ll be with you soon.’

  Kitty hurries about, tidying, checking on Mummy, who is dozing in her chair in the little sitting-room, making coffee.

  ‘It’s a waiting game.’ When Sally arrives she is firm. ‘You simply can’t give in and go back to living like a gypsy. He’s got to compromise a bit. He doesn’t have to do it all himself, does he? He could still keep his hand in a bit and spend much more time with you here.’

  ‘I don’t think he likes the flat much. I think Rupert still feels like a guest, especially with Mummy in the state she is now. It’s OK for a weekend but it’s not really home.’

  ‘But that’s the whole point, lovey, isn’t it? You and Rupert never had a home.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Kitty heaves an irritated sigh. ‘It could be such fun to think that at some future point we could relax and enjoy ourselves but I just wonder if he’ll ever be happy doing that.’

  ‘At least he could give it a try,’ her friend cries. ‘You were prepared to fall in with his way of life, to follow him around and never have a settled place of your own. Well, now it’s his turn to give you a chance, for a change. At least he could try it out before he denounces it.’

  Kitty is silent: she feels slightly uneasy when Sally is so forceful. Sometimes she wishes that she hadn’t been so open about the ongoing problem between her and Rupert. Sally has never quite believed that her dear old friend could have been quite as happy as she’s always claimed in such uncertain and peripatetic circumstances. It is as if, now, those fears have been justified and Sally cannot quite hide her glee.

  ‘He’s got to finish the cottage,’ Kitty says at last. ‘He’s talking about buying another one …’

  ‘What? Not in Cornwall, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, well, not necessarily.’ Kitty stares down at her coffee. ‘He needs to be doing something, that’s the point. I thought maybe a property here in Bristol, but he was a bit wary about it.’

  ‘Why?’ Sally pounces at once. ‘Why wary?’

  Kitty shrugs. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Look, lovey.’ Sally’s voice takes on its silky note: the old school chum caring about her best friend. ‘There isn’t anything going on down there, is there?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know. Another woman. We all know that Rupert is an absolute pushover for a bit of flattery. He loves women, doesn’t he? Plays up to them, flirts. Well, that’s nothing new and we all know that he wouldn’t actually do anything, but Bill was only saying last night that he was surprised that Rupert doesn’t get back a bit more. We’ve hardly seen him in the last few months.’

  ‘It’s always a busy time just at the end of getting a place together,’ says Kitty. She can hear the defensiveness in her voice and her stomach churns at the mere thought of what Sally is suggesting. Her mind quickly ranges back over the weekend: Rupert was on top form and ready to fall in with anything she suggested. He was sweet with Mummy, really patient, and made no attempt to discuss the future. Kitty mentioned her idea of doing up a house as a student let but he simply said, ‘Let’s leave it a bit and see what happens.’ She thought he meant with Mummy but now she isn’t so sure.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she says. ‘I’d know at once if Rupert was being unfaithful to me.’

  She sees Sally raise her eyebrows and would like to smack her. She feels slightly sick and suddenly frightened but she won’t admit it to her dearest, oldest friend.

  ‘Want some more coffee?’ she asks brightly.

  Rupert drives westward. No hold-ups today: no delays. It’s still raining a dank, mizzling rain. He too is thinking about the weekend, confident that it’s the right decision to step back and let things develop naturally now: no more persuading and cajoling and arguing, just allowing himself to go with the flow. He is pleased that he managed to maintain a cheerful attitude – and Kitty responded to it with relief, and everyone had a good time instead of engaging in the bitter little arguments and sniping that have been the hallmark of the last few months.

  As he drives past Exeter and turns onto the A30 he feels almost elated. Even the dismal sight of Dartmoor shrouded in cloud, or the overgrown faded hedgerows where the leaves are already beginning to turn, hasn’t the power to depress him. Maybe, he tells himself, he should be more anxious but, just for now, he simply can’t imagine his two worlds colliding: Kitty in Bristol and Dossie in Cornwall. He can simply coast for a while, finish off the cottage, and give Kitty a little longer to get this easy life in Bristol out of her system. After all, she’s already grown tired of it once.

  He can remember when he met her in that very first cottage he converted and the instant buzz that passed between them. She was bored with her predictable life, with her wealthy parents in their big house in Clifton; with their photographs in Country Life and the regular round of social and charity events. She was bored too with her work as a PA at the university and, when he showed her the future they might have together, she simply took wing. Soon, he has no doubt, she’ll be as bored again with city life as she was back then.

  Perhaps he ought to be feeling a bit guilty about Dossie but – he shakes his head – Dossie has her own agendas: she’s thinking of resurrecting her parents’ bed and breakfast business and it’s clear that she’s very excited about it. He’s encouraging her, of course. It sounds a very good plan and he’s glad to think that her life is taking a slightly different direction; more new challenges and less dashing around in that little Golf. Funny that she and Kitty have identical cars; even the same dark blue.

  It’s good, talking things through with Dossie, taking time off with her, making love occasionally. She’s such fun – and she has so many people to love and cherish; she isn’t lonely or needy … Rupert frowns a little: he’s glad though that he’s decided not to buy the cottage near St Endellion. Perhaps some kind of self-protective instinct warned him that it might be just a little too close to The Court for comfort – and, anyway, the owner is still holding out on him. It isn’t a problem. He still has his own cottage to finish and there’s always plenty of work to be done on his existing properties through the winter months. At the same time the familiar creative urge is stirring. He needs new projects, new challenges.

  He decides, as he passes over the River Tamar into Cornwall,
that he won’t text Dossie just yet. He told her that he was going down to check over his properties on the south coast so he’ll have to watch what he says; let a few days elapse, perhaps. He hates lying – of course he does – but just sometimes it’s necessary to stretch a point or two to cover his tracks. At the same time he longs to see her. Odd how Dossie has captivated him …

  When he arrives at the cottage he feels the same sense of relief and release he experiences each time he comes back from Bristol. He gets out of the car, stretches and looks around contentedly. A bedraggled pheasant pecks disconsolately beneath the seed feeders on the little lawn, the stream brims at its banks and the valley is full of the sound of rushing water. Rupert takes a happy breath. He’ll light the wood-burner; give the cottage a real warm through. Then he’ll wander up to the pub for lunch.

  Ever since lunch Dossie has been on edge; wandering around aimlessly, continually checking her mobile, preoccupied. Mo watches her thoughtfully, wishing she could ask Dossie outright about the new man in her life. It is perfectly clear that there is someone who is making Dossie exalted or anxious or distracted. Yet still Dossie makes no move to talk about him or introduce him. It’s been several months now since she began to behave differently, and the big fear for Mo and Pa is that the man is married.

  ‘Dossie wouldn’t do that,’ Pa said uncertainly, whilst John the Baptist sat beside him, head on knee, exuding comfort.

  ‘I’m not accusing her of being a home-breaker,’ Mo said irritably. ‘It might simply be that the man is just coming out of the relationship and there are complications.’

  ‘What kind of complications d’you mean?’ he asked, puzzled, and she felt even more irritable and said, ‘For goodness’ sake use your imagination.’

  Mo fetches the secateurs and potters out into the garden. At least, during the weekend, they all had another conversation about restoring The Court to its old status, and Dossie agreed to give it a go. Pa was exultant.

  ‘In which case,’ he said privately, while Dossie was out, ‘I’ve made up my mind, Mo, and I hope you’ll agree with me. I’m going to gift the house to Dossie outright. If she’s prepared to start bed and breakfast again then I’m going to make sure she’s secure here.’

  Her heart jumped and banged with anxiety. ‘What about Adam?’ she asked fearfully. ‘What will he say?’

  ‘Shan’t tell him,’ Pa answered. ‘No. Wait.’ He held up his hand in magisterial mood. ‘Look, Mo, this sounds a bit heavy but I can’t help that. This house has belonged in my family for generations. My father left it to me and I’m leaving it to Dossie. That’s it. End of story. And I’m doing it now in the hope that I shall live another seven years so she’ll be free of death duties and before we go back into business. It needs to be gifted to her before we take in any revenue and I shall go and see Glyn about it first thing Monday morning.’

  She was speechless with shock.

  ‘Adam doesn’t need to know,’ he said. ‘Come to that, nor does Dossie. Luckily old Glyn is her lawyer too, so that makes it nice and simple. Nice surprise when Glyn reads the will. Obviously it’ll mean Dossie could throw us out if she wanted to, but no need to be anxious about that …’

  Mo shrugged away his remark; she had no fear of Dossie throwing her out of her home – only of Adam’s anger.

  ‘But what shall we say to him?’ she said. ‘He’s our son.’

  ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ Pa answered. ‘This is not something we can discuss with him in any sensible way, and if Dossie wants to live here and make her living out of this house then I’m going to back her. You never know, Jakey might take it on when the time comes. He loves it here. Adam has never given a single, solitary damn about The Court or about us either, if it comes to that. Oh, I know, I know. He’s our son and we love him but I feel strongly about this, Mo, and it’s not a subject for negotiation.’

  And this morning he went dashing off to Truro, leaving her to watch Dossie working herself up into some kind of state, and still wondering how on earth they could keep this from her or from Adam.

  John the Baptist appears beside her, pushing his head against her thigh, and she strokes him gratefully, glad of his company.

  ‘What shall we do, Jonno, old fellow?’ she murmurs. ‘Whatever shall we do if Adam finds out?’

  But he can give no answer to her questions; he can only give the comfort of his presence.

  Clem straightens up and stretches his aching back, looking back along the hedge-line to see how much he has accomplished. The grass is still wet after days of rain but it’s looking tidier now. He lays the strimmer on the grass and picks up the rake. There is a glimmer of blue in the dappled shadows of the buddleias and Sister Nichola comes slowly forward, leaning heavily on her stick. She is wearing her working habit and two hats: a wide-brimmed straw and a cotton sunhat perched on top of it. Clem glances instinctively around for Sister Ruth, who is usually never far away, but today Sister Nichola is alone. She stands watching him, smiling almost shyly, and he smiles back at her.

  ‘Hello, Sister,’ he says. ‘It’s good to see the sun for a change, isn’t it?’

  She nods, rather unsteadily, and takes a firmer grasp on her stick. Clem puts down the rake and goes to her and guides her to a nearby bench. She accompanies him quite willingly, peering up at him from beneath the brim of the ancient straw hat, and sits down beside him. There is a little silence; very peaceful, not in the least awkward. Butterflies float and flit over the dark purple spikes of the buddleias, and a squirrel runs across the grass and flees swiftly up a tree. Clem looks down at her, eyebrows raised, wondering if she’s seen it.

  She nods, as if in answer to his unspoken question. ‘Tree rat,’ she says clearly.

  Clem almost jumps with surprise; then he laughs. ‘They do a great deal of damage,’ he agrees. He smiles to himself, at his assumption that she’d see the squirrel as a fluffy Nutkin kind of creature. He feels an odd affinity with her and they continue to sit in an amicable silence; she leans heavily against his arm.

  ‘So why do you wear two hats?’ he asks, wondering if she might have begun to doze and whether he should escort her back to the house.

  ‘One has a hole in it,’ she answers.

  ‘Ah.’ He nods.

  She looks sideways at him, a searching look that slightly embarrasses him, and then she reaches out and takes his hand in her own. She turns his hand and studies it whilst he sits quite still, waiting.

  ‘Do you forgive me?’ she asks, very low. ‘Do you? I couldn’t help it, could I?’

  Her hand tightens on his, and he presses it in return, though he is suddenly anxious.

  ‘Of course I do,’ he hastens to reassure her, looking into her brimming eyes. ‘Come, Sister. Let’s go and ask Janna to make us some coffee, shall we?’

  He stands, bending over her, trying to help her up; and she stares up at him, her eyes still full of tears, trying to obey him and get to her feet.

  ‘There you are!’

  The cry startles both of them, and they turn together. Sister Ruth comes at a run across the grass; her expression is a mix of relief and irritation.

  ‘I couldn’t think where you’d got to,’ she says to Sister Nichola, nodding to Clem. ‘We were picking beans for lunch,’ she explains, ‘and suddenly she’d gone.’

  She is still breathing hard and Clem senses her very real anxiety. ‘We’ve been sitting in the sun,’ he says, smiling at Sister Nichola – who now looks vague but calm – hoping that she’s recovered from whatever had upset her. ‘All is well.’

  Sister Ruth takes the older woman’s arm. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s go back. You’ve had your little adventure.’ She glances again at Clem, giving him a brief, tight-lipped smile and a nod, and they walk away over the grass together.

  Clem gives a little shrug and turns back to his strimming and raking. He wonders what has upset Sister Nichola and for what she might need forgiveness – and from whom.

  * * *

  Dos
sie drives Jakey back to Chi-Meur in the early evening. There is purple loosestrife growing in the long faded grasses beneath the thorn hedges, and some melilot, but it is clear that summer is nearly over. The stubble glimmers beyond the ragged hedgerows, bleached and pale, and a flight of house martins swoop and turn above the fields.

  ‘I’m five now, Dossie,’ Jakey says suddenly.

  ‘So you are,’ she agrees. ‘You’re a big boy now.’

  ‘How old is Stripey Bunny?’ he asks.

  ‘Well.’ She hesitates, wondering how old Jakey would want him to be. ‘Is he five, too?’

  ‘No, of course he isn’t,’ Jakey cries derisively. ‘He can’t walk yet.’

  Dossie makes a face to herself. ‘Fine. OK. So how old d’you think, then?’

  ‘He’s nearly two,’ Jakey answers.

  They drive in silence for a while; passing through Crugmeer and out towards the coast, beneath a wide empty infinity of sky that indicates the proximity of the sea. That sky and the sudden gleam of water on the horizon always raises Dossie’s spirits; she glances in her mirror. Jakey has put his thumb in his mouth and is staring out of the car window.

  How lucky we all are, Dossie thinks, that he is such a good child; that he fits in so well and is so adaptable. Gran’mère and Gran’père have visited from France, spending a week with them all and they’ve had such fun.

  She wonders how they will manage once Chi-Meur has become a retreat house; whether it will make a great deal of difference. Jakey will continue to spend most of his holidays with her and with Pa and Mo and, in between, he will grow used to the changes.

  ‘It won’t be very different,’ Clem said. ‘Some retreat houses are run by young couples with families and the guests enjoy having children around. Of course, there will be certain rules but Jakey’s already used to that. We shall stay in the Lodge so we’ve got the garden for him to run around in and, between us all, we shall make certain that he’s looked after. I shall start training this autumn but I shall do most of the course work at home, though I shall have to go away for a few weekends. Father Pascal will still be the chaplain here until after I’ve been ordained, and we’re hoping that I can do my curacy here in the parish but I shall be heavily involved with it all, of course.’