I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Tom Becker

  3 December

  It was Friday morning: Mart had a dentist’s appointment, so Holly sat on her own as the school bus rattled through the countryside. Trees looked like skeletal hands through the frosted windows. Breath blossomed into white clouds. Holly shivered and bunched her hands in her jumper. Behind her, the Marshall twins were bickering about who would get what for Christmas, while Fran and Kayleigh giggled and whispered. No one sat near Holly.

  Right from the start, she had struggled to fit in. Two weeks after returning to the village, Holly had received an anonymous invitation through her letterbox, ordering her to wait beneath the elm tree on the green at sunset. The flowery message hinted at some kind of initiation rite, giving Holly a vision of circles of cross-legged girls, needle-pricked thumbs and solemn vows of friendship. Wrinkling her nose, she had tossed the invitation in the bin. Months later, she had learned that Fran and Kayleigh had waited an hour on the green before giving up. It had been Mart who told her, of course. By that point he was only person left in the village who wanted to be her friend.

  Holly might have been born in the village, but having moved away when she was four, she would always be an outsider. Narrow lanes bred narrow minds, her mum used to tell her. Holly guessed that was why they had gone to London in the first place. But then her mum had died in a road accident, vanishing in a fog of exhaust fumes and traffic horns. Winter had once promised presents beneath the Christmas tree, and the possibility of snow. Now it brought only an icy reminder of what Holly had lost.

  Nobody said anything to Holly about her mum, or about their time in London. Nobody seemed to say anything round here, but it didn’t stop everybody knowing everybody else’s business. It was as if the villagers had some ancient and arcane way of passing on secrets without words – smoke signals rising up from the chimneys, or coded arrangements of twigs in the woods.

  At the back of the bus, Fran and Kayleigh burst out laughing: nasty laughter, like a sour chime of bells. The window gave Holly an icy kiss as she rested her head against the glass and closed her eyes.

  4 December

  “Go on,” said Mart. “I dare you.”

  Holly gave him a withering look. “You dare me? You’re such a child, Mart.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re scared.”

  “Am not.”

  “Am, too.”

  They were standing at the gates of a rundown house on the edge of the village. It was fashioned from red bricks and boarded-up windows, chimneys poking up from either side of the black-tiled roof. A wooden fence laced with barbed wire marked off the scrubby garden out front. It was known as the Piper house, even though no one called Piper had lived there for years. Then again, neither had anyone else.

  Mart adjusted his glasses as he stared up the path. He was two years younger than Holly, but his serious, deliberate manner made him seem almost middle-aged at times. Even his name sounded old.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Holly said firmly. “You die, and that’s the end of it.”

  “Rob Youds said his brothers came down here from the farm one night and saw her in the window,” Mart countered, blinking owlishly.

  “Rob Youds is an idiot. And so are his brothers.”

  “Prove it. Go take a look around.”

  Holly checked the lane was empty and pushed open the gate. It gave way with a rusty squeak. The path seemed to lengthen as she walked it, the shadows deepening. Holly had planned on ringing the bell, but when she reached the front door she decided against it, gripped by the sudden fear that someone might actually answer. Instead she went around the side of the house and found a window where the board had come away. Cupping her hands against the glass, Holly made out a bare room with a wooden floor and a mirror above a large marble fireplace. Years of rumour and neglect had given the atmosphere a sullen edge.

  Holly looked back towards the front of the house and saw Mart fidgeting anxiously at the gate. A gust of cold air blew her fringe in her eyes. She brushed it aside.

  Something moved inside the Piper house, a black blur flitting across the hearth. Startled, Holly peered back through the window. It had happened so quickly that she was already doubting if she had seen anything at all, or whether it had been a trick of the light. Now, as she examined the room more closely, Holly saw that the walls were covered in marks – deep, spiteful scratches covering their length and breadth. It looked as though a wild animal had been trapped inside.

  Holly backed away from the window and walked along the path as slowly as she dared, relieved when she felt the shadow of the Piper house release her, and the sunshine on her neck once more.

  “What’s up?” Mart said eagerly, when she reached the gate. “You saw something, didn’t you?”

  “It was nothing,” she replied.

  “I don’t believe you. You saw Gwen, I know it.”

  “Shut up, Mart,” said Holly.

  5 December

  After Sunday lunch, Holly and Gran washed up the dishes together. As she dried the cutlery, Holly gazed absentmindedly out of the window across the fields that ran behind their house beneath a vast, grey sky.

  “I heard you and Martin were playing outside the Piper house yesterday,” Gran said.

  Holly rolled her eyes. “We weren’t playing, Gran. We were just … there.”

  “Call it what you like,” Gran said, handing her a wet plate, “but I call it trespassing, and so do the police.”

  “Trespassing? All I did was look through a window!”

  “You stay away from that place.” Gran’s voice was sharp. “I won’t tell you again.”

  She plunged a roasting dish into the water, inadvertently splashing Holly. In the year they had lived together, this was as close as they had come to fighting. One of them would always back away before they fell out properly, retreating upstairs or into the next room. Arguments were cliff faces: both of them were fearful of what would happen if they fell off.

  Holly looked back to the window. “You think it might snow this year?”

  “I hope not,” Gran said briskly. “Hard enough getting around as it is.”

  Something in her tone told Holly that the conversation was over, and they washed up the rest of the dishes in silence.

  6 December

  That evening after school, the villagers filed through the darkness towards the church. Inside, the nave had been lit with candles, creating a cavernous hall of shifting shadows. Gran bustled along the busy pews, nodding to everyone she passed. When they finally reached their seats, Holly slumped down and folded her arms.

  “I hope you’re not going to sulk through the entire service, young lady,” Gran said disapprovingly. “You can spare one evening a year for the sake of your grandmother.”

  “But does it really have to be this evening?” Holly groaned.

  “It’s the Advent service! It’s tradition.”

  “So?”

  It felt to Holly as though the village existed on some long-forgotten calendar, observing mysterious rites and celebrations from ancient times. Only that August, she had had to watch as Fran was crowned the Rose Princess and paraded through the village, glowing with triumph, on a chair carried by Billy Youds the farmer and his sons.

  “Traditions are important,” Gran said firmly. “They’re like roots, stretching down deep into the soil. They keep us moored and nourished and safe.”

  “Safe?” Holly frowned. “Safe from what?”

  A murmur spread through the nave, greeting the vicar as he stepped up to the lectern. He began the service by announcing that this year all the children of the village would receive the special gift of a Christingle. Holly had no intention of taking any gifts, special or not, but a sharp elbow from Gran jolted her from her seat. She sloped down the central aisle after the others: Fran first, naturally, followed by Kayleigh and the Marshall twins, a couple of the Youds family, and then Mart. The congregation’s gaze felt like hot breath on Holly’s neck, and in her haste to return to her p
ew she almost snatched the Christingle from the vicar’s hand.

  It wasn’t until she was safely in her seat that she realized there had been a mistake of some kind. Her Christingle was an orange wrapped in a red ribbon – but instead of cocktail sticks with candied fruits, the fruit’s skin had been pierced with five fish hooks.

  “Eew!” said Holly, examining the sharp tips. “Is this a joke?”

  “Hush now!” Gran told her. “Don’t be so ungrateful.”

  Holly glanced over to where Mart was sitting with his parents – he held up his Christingle, which looked identical to hers, and shrugged. Gran pursed her lips. The last thing Holly wanted was another argument, so she waited until they had returned home and Gran had gone up to bed before sneaking outside and putting the Christingle in the bin by the back door.

  7 December

  “OK, you win,” Holly said finally. “Tell me about Gwen Piper.”

  She lay stretched out on Mart’s bed, ignoring the unopened schoolbooks around her and gazing up at the model planets that hung like baubles from the ceiling. Mart sat at his desk, scribbling notes from a textbook. He paused, pushing his glasses up his nose.

  “Not much to say,” he said. “Years ago she went to the pond on Christmas Day and never came back.”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugged. “People get a bit funny when her name comes up. Like it’s bad luck or something. Did your mum ever talk about her?”

  Holly shook her head. “Why?”

  “I think they might have been the same age. Maybe she knew her.”

  “Mum never really talked about this place much. A bit about Gran, and Granddad when he was alive. But no one else.” She rolled over and propped herself up on her elbow. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said. “You blabbed about the Piper house. That’s how Gran found out.”

  Mart looked sheepish. “I didn’t know she would find out. But you saw Gwen Piper, Hol. It’s pretty big news.”

  “I told you I didn’t know what I saw,” Holly said stubbornly. “It was barely even a shadow. It could have been anything.”

  “So why are you asking questions about her?”

  “Because I know Gran won’t say anything, and you’re the only other person in the stupid village who talks to me.”

  They both fell quiet.

  “At church I heard Dr Marshall tell my dad he was going to take the twins away for Christmas,” Mart said eventually.

  Holly lay back on the bed. “So? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  “It was the way he said it, I guess. Not like he wanted to go on holiday.” Mart glanced over at the Christingle resting on top of his chest of drawers. “Like he wanted to get out of here.”

  8 December

  Clouds gathered above the village, grey and swollen like bruises. The air turned bitter. In the lanes, people glanced up to the skies as they hurried home.

  9 December

  The snow fell overnight in a thick, silent avalanche. Sparkling white crusts formed on the hedgerows. The local pond iced over into a perfect mirror. Up in the rafters of Gran’s cottage, the heater in Holly’s attic room wheezed helplessly in the face of the cold. Even with thick socks on and the bedcovers tucked up over her head, Holly couldn’t get warm. Finally she forced herself to get up and scurry over to the wardrobe, where she knew there was an extra blanket. Her clothes hung neatly on the hangers, arranged with a grandmother’s care. Holly pushed aside the chequered curtain of school blouses, and froze.

  The Christingle was hanging from the clothes rail by its red ribbon, the sharp fish hooks gleaming in the darkness. Gran must have found it in the bin and brought it up here. Muttering to herself, Holly went to untie the ribbon, but her fingers paused around the knot. Traditions are like roots, Gran had told her, back at church. They keep us moored and nourished and safe.

  Holly grabbed the extra blanket and shut the wardrobe door, leaving the Christingle where it was.

  10 December

  The next morning Holly woke to find she had slept through her alarm. She stumbled downstairs, struggling into her school jumper, her hair still damp from the shower. Gran was sitting silently at the kitchen table, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. The snow had painted the window a pure white rectangle.

  “I know, I know, I’m late!” Holly groaned. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “There’s no school today,” Gran told her quietly. “They didn’t get the gritter out in time. The village is snowed in.”

  Her shoulders sagging with relief, Holly stopped wrestling with her jumper and sat down at the table. A plate of buttered toast was going cold in front of Gran, but she seemed to have forgotten it was there.

  “Everything all right, Gran?” Holly asked.

  “I’m fine, dear,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “Just tired, that’s all.”

  Holly reached over and took a slice of toast. “You get up too early.”

  “You’re young, dear. Sleep comes easily to you.”

  “Hey, I get stressed, too, you know!” Holly said. “I’m not a baby.”

  “You think you’ve got troubles,” Gran murmured, cupping her wrinkled hands around her mug. “Wait until you get to my age.”

  11 December

  Saturday. Holly’s boots bit into the snow as she walked through the village, the winter air feasting on the tips of her nose and ears. At the green she heard laughter, and spotted Fran and Kayleigh walking towards the frozen pond. Their arms were interlinked, ice skates slung over their shoulders. Holly went in the opposite direction, up the hill towards the church, where Mart was waiting for her.

  “I got your message,” she said. “What’s the big emergency?”

  He turned without a word, leading her through the gate into a silent, snowy graveyard. Bare, low-hanging branches pointed accusingly at Holly as she passed. Mart carefully followed a solitary trail of his own footprints to the railings at the edge of the graveyard, where a pair of headstones were planted side by side in the ground beneath a silver birch. The first belonged to Gwen Piper; the second had been recently brushed clear of snow, revealing a name and two dates. Holly crouched down beside the headstone and examined the etched lettering.

  “Evan Piper?” she said. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s what I was wondering,” Mart replied. “Gwen’s dad, maybe?”

  Judging by the date of Evan Piper’s birth, he was certainly old enough to be a father. When Holly checked the date of his death, she looked back to Gwen’s headstone, frowning.

  “That’s weird,” she said. “Evan died a year after Gwen, on the same day: December 25.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Mart muttered ghoulishly.

  A rook cawed loudly nearby, startling them both. Looking up into the tree, Holly noticed something hanging from the branches. A wreath was suspended from a length of twine high above the graves: a circle of holly leaves with blood-red berries, blackened twigs poking out of it in the shape of a star.

  “What’s that doing up there?” breathed Mart.

  “How should I know?” Holly retorted irritably. “I didn’t put it there.”

  “Well, someone did.”

  They stood and watched as the wreath turned in the wind, a slow circle of tightening twine.

  12 December

  While Gran was at church, Holly dug out a box of old Christmas decorations from the cupboard, balancing precariously on an armchair to hang tinsel and paper chains around the walls. She even found a tatty plastic Christmas tree, which she placed proudly in the centre of the table. By the time she had finished, it was almost midday. Gran came back soon after, muttering to herself as she stamped the snow from her boots on the kitchen mat.

  “Ta da!” Holly said, throwing out her arms.

  Gran looked around the room.

  “Well, what do you think?” Holly said.

  “It’s fine, dear. But you needn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “We didn’t do anything to celebrate
last Christmas,” Holly said. “I thought this year we could do with cheering up.”

  Gran toyed with the star on top of the plastic tree. “You’re a good girl,” she said finally, smiling. “It looks lovely. Now let’s put the kettle on, I could murder a cuppa.”

  13 December

  The lanes were still clogged with snow, so school was closed again. That evening Gran went to bed early, leaving Holly curled up in an armchair reading. She woke up to find the book resting half-open in her lap. The fire had gone out and the room had melted into darkness. Rubbing her eyes wearily, Holly closed her book and threw her blanket to one side.

  As she stood up, she realized what had woken her: a loud scratching sound coming from the brickwork above the hearth. Holly wondered whether it was another bird. Over the summer, a young starling had fallen down the chimney and become trapped, and it had taken hours to get the distressed creature free. Holly went over to the fireplace and leaned over the ashen hearth, turning on the light on her mobile. The chimney was a black chute, acrid with soot. Arching her neck, Holly held up her phone and peered into the flue.

  “Hey, Mr Birdie,” she called out. “Where are you?”

  A pair of narrow eyes stared back at her.

  Holly screamed. Her phone fell from her hand. She bent down and snatched it out of the hearth, brushing ash from the screen and shining it back into the chimney.

  “Holly?”

  She whirled round to see Gran in her slippers and dressing gown, framed by the light in the doorway. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “I – I fell asleep,” Holly stammered. “There was a noise in the chimney, and when I looked up there, I thought I saw something.”

  “What nonsense!” Gran scolded. “You were still dreaming, no doubt. Come away from there and go upstairs, it’s past your bedtime.”