12 Days of Christmas: A Christmas Collection

by Laura Greenwood

  The woman, apparently considering some striped ribbon tied into an elaborate bow, moved her head in something approaching a nod.

  ‘Did it mean anything to you? The reference to milkmaids for example, did it bring something to mind?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Her voice was very soft.

  The man took out a watch and turned to compare it with a clock hanging from the shop front. He muttered, ‘are you sure? Have you asked your sister?’

  ‘My sister won’t know anything. She’s out in the sticks being bucolic,’ said the young woman, a little more loudly.

  ‘Does she know anything about milking?’

  The woman snorted, ‘No. She’s a teacher. Or at least, that’s what she was doing when I left. I presume she still does. We haven’t spoken in five years.’ She dropped her voice, ‘the only thing about milkmaids I can think of, is that the city dairies are disappearing, now that fresh milk can come in by steamway from the countryside. No bad thing, I’d say. Cows in cellars, fed on brewery by-products. Milk full of soot souring as fast as it’s sold.’ She brushed a smut from her cloak and winced as it smeared. ‘But that’s a lot of people out of work.’

  ‘And bands of disgruntled, unemployed dairymaids are threatening the monarchy?’ the man’s voice sneered.

  ‘Only a fool underestimates the hungry and the discarded, Mr Beringer.’ The young woman started to move further along the window.

  ‘They’re only women!’ snapped the man. A passer-by jumped and turned. Mr Beringer tipped his hat and smiled, keeping his face in shadow. The passer-by moved on.

  ‘There’s always work for unemployed women in a city,’ said the man, ‘provided they are pragmatic. Or, as you remember, if someone offers them an alternative to pragmatism. But I don’t think this has anything to do with women. Or at least, not underlings. I think the words on that document have a double meaning and I need you to find out what.’

  The tall companion could be seen through the glass making her purchase at the counter. She would soon come out of the shop.

  ‘Perhaps you’re asking the wrong agent,’ said the woman.

  ‘No. The original was on a fragment, written in an ancient tongue. Only a few people know that language and you are one of them. So is your sister. On the off-chance they are relevant, I want you to attract some redundant dairy workers to your employment bureau and gain their confidence. I am afraid you need to breach your own community…’

  ‘I have no connection to what you perceive to be my community, Mr Beringer. In any event, the dragon people community does not really exist. People have assimilated. I cannot always tell what ancestry someone might have.’

  ‘I need this information, Miss Drethic. I expect a report within a month. When the monarchy is at risk, so is the whole country. Even you must not wish there to be anarchy.’

  ‘What do you mean, “even you”? I am loyal to the Queen. That’s why I undertake this kind of work.’

  ‘One can never be too sure of dragon people, Miss Drethic.’

  ‘I am not a dragon person.’

  ‘Your mother was.’

  ‘I mean, I am just a person. She was just a person. Our ancestors are irrelevant.’

  ‘Perhaps. But the bitterness of defeat trails down through the generations. And don’t forget that I found you when you had been dismissed from your role as governess, caught between going home with your tail between your legs or being pragmatic enough to take up the usual sort of employment for girls lost in the city. You are lucky to be working for me and through me, for the greater good of the country. You could show me more courtesy and perhaps… gratitude.’

  There was a movement in the air and a sudden heat. A long narrow blister appeared on the man’s face and then faded to a dull reddened line before disappearing altogether.

  Miss Drethic maintained her stare into the window and the man fell silent. Around them, the city roared and clattered. The boy on the corner continued to shout. A horse, pausing in traffic, dropped steaming manure. The man sighed. He turned to look at Miss Drethic properly, glancing at her left shoulder and rubbing his cheek.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said, ‘I should not have said such a thing. Particularly to you. I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me Dora … Miss Drethic … one day, I hope we might … however,’ he recovered himself, ‘I am deeply concerned about the country. Since the Queen’s retreat from public life, the threat of instability has become very real. Deciphering the note will make all the difference. You know that ancient language. My scholars have done their best but its meaning remains unclear.’

  ‘Perhaps you should give me the original, the language is…’

  ‘Dead. And it is a fragment, nothing more.’

  With a tinkle, the shop door opened and the tall companion emerged, a small parcel in her gloved hand. The man raised his hat and stepped away.

  ‘Good day, Mr Beringer.’

  ‘Good day,Miss Torlin, Miss Drethic.’ He strode away.

  The women turned to walk in the opposite direction.

  ‘What language?’ said Miss Torlin.

  ‘Ours,’ said Miss Drethic.

  ‘But he said it was dead. It’s not dead, Dora.’

  ‘If I tell him that, he’ll be even more convinced he can’t trust us. But I don’t understand how an ancient fragment is a modern threat. It simply said “…bride and her eight milk maids will command the warriors…”’

  ‘A prophecy?’

  ‘Does he strike you as someone who believes in prophecies?’

  ‘It seems unlikely.’

  ‘It sounds like a riddle to me,’ said Miss Torlin. ‘Perhaps we should go home and ask in the mountains.’

  ‘No! And besides, you just want to look for the sky-riders again. They’re gone, Evelira. They’re gone. They killed the sky-riders six years ago. Don’t you remember? You were riding one of them when it was shot down. You nearly died. No. I’m never going back. It’s nothing to do with the dragon people. Nothing whatsoever.’

  2

  Midwinter Journey

  The steamway train carrying Menilly pulled in to the station around eight p.m. It was midwinter, and even without the fog, it would have been pitch dark.

  The other passengers clambered out. The man who had started the journey next to Menilly, complained to the others about the cramped conditions of the last four hours. He had begun so very close to her, his leg pressed against hers with an insistence which nauseated her. But within minutes of his gloved hand sneaking onto her thigh, his pipe had fallen, showering ash into his lap. It had seemed to be hotter than he’d expected it to be. After that, he had moved as far as it was feasible to move without sitting on the lap of the young man next to him. The others had muttered, particularly the young man, who had changed places to sit beside Menilly but had kept his hands to himself.

  Now, no-one offered to help Menilly down out of the carriage and she stumbled on the last step, holding her skirt with one hand and her portmanteau with the other.

  Handing her used ticket to the official at the barrier, she stepped from the glowing safety of the station into the street. There was no moon and if the sky had been visible, Menilly would have seen that clouds cloaked the stars much as she was cloaked, the shawl pulled up over her hair and obscuring the whole of her dress. With one hand, she pulled it round across the lower part of her face and breathed through it. Better lungs full of dust and her own scent than the gluey fog swirling like soup. Street lamps braced in ranks against the gloom, their diffused glow like yellow ink blots, feeble but somehow valiant. Menilly wished she felt more comfort from them.

  The young man who had kept his hands to himself came to stand next to her and peered into the fog for a cab.

  ‘Do you need a lift, miss? Although I’m not sure I’d feel safe sharing. What did you do to that bloke sitting next to you?’

  ‘Nothing. It was what he was trying to do to me that caused his problems.’

  The man grunted.

  ‘Th
ey shouldn’t have let you come all alone to the city,’ he said.

  ‘There is no “they”.’ Menilly put her chin up. She hoped that being bundled up meant he couldn’t see her trembling.

  ‘Don’t like to leave you here. You’re just a lass really and I reckon there’s only so much you can do to protect yourself, a little slip like you. One nasty b…, I mean scoundrel on a train is one thing, but this place is crawling with people who make nasty … scoundrels seem like gnats.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m fine,’ said Menilly.

  ‘Have you got somewhere to go?’

  ‘Yes. I just have to find it.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t try it in this weather. My name’s Stinson. Here’s my card. Let me see if there’s a room at the inn for you.’

  ‘No, really, it’s not far, I know that much.’

  A scream pierced the night and made them jump.

  ‘Gawd,’ said Mr Stinson, ‘I wish they wouldn’t do that. I suppose that means the shale dragons are hungry.’

  Menilly swallowed.

  ‘Is that you whimpering?’

  ‘No. I mean yes,’ said Menilly, ‘it’s cruel. The steamway’s cruel.’

  ‘Ah. You’re from the mountains, one of the dragon people. That explains the hot ash.’ He chuckled, ‘but it doesn’t pay to be sentimental. And it wasn’t you whimpering either,’ He sighed and after a moment of apparent trepidation, patted her on the shoulder, ‘you got a lot to learn, lass and this is the first lesson. In a city, everyone is a servant. Everyone. Even the Queen has to serve her people and follow rules. That’s why everything’s on edge since she went into mourning and disappeared from public view. She wants to pack it in? No chance. She wants to stay safe in some castle out in the sticks away from the riots and whatnot? No chance. She’s got to show she’s not scared and that the city needn’t be scared. And then the merchants have to abide by regulations and the servants have to clean the privies and the laundresses have to scrub out the blood and dirt and sick and fog and the paupers have to beg and the dairy maids have to move with the times and the shale dragons, well the shale dragons have to make modern life work, including the steamway. If they’d stayed in the mountains, maybe they’d have got away with it, but no - they had to come down to the plains. And your people came with them. And now, if we want progress, the shale dragons have to do real work, and your people don’t like it. No-one minded so much when they were just living in cellars burning up waste to warm houses a little bit. What’s so different about the steamway?’

  ‘Cooping them up in the engine like that with no room to move. Would you like it?

  ‘You’re asking the wrong man, lass. Before I moved up in the world a tiny bit, I was a coach driver. Hours on that hard seat in all weathers while the horses broke wind in my face and spattered me in mud. I think I might swap that for being stuffed into an engine giving off heat. People say the shaleys enjoy it. They breed fast enough, just get noisy at the end of a shift. You’ll have to ask one. You can do that, can’t you?’

  Menilly readjusted her shawl and hefted the portmanteau. There was nothing else to be said.

  ‘Thank you for …’ she said, ‘I hope…’

  She wasn’t sure what she hoped. Two days ago, she had left a snow-laden village in the foothills of the mountain, its river frozen. She had left with the evening mail, heading for the town where the outer reach of the steamway terminated. The roads, under fresh snow, between high drifts, were slow and freezing. She had missed the last train and stayed overnight in the inn, paying over the odds for a room on her own, hearing the handle rattle behind the dresser she’d pulled across the door. And then there had been a day of travel by steamway. Now she was here.

  Mr Stinson walked a few steps away to see if he could find a cab and taking her bearings as well as she could, Menilly started to head away from the station. Some of the fog seemed to change shape, forming itself into moving things denser and darker.

  After a few yards, a woman appeared beside her. She was accompanied by two men, their faces muffled against the fog. The woman seemed old and, inasmuch as it was possible to tell in the gloom, kindly.

  ‘You looking for work, lovey?’ said the woman, ‘fresh up from the country?’ she pinched Menilly’s cheek, ‘very fresh. You don’t want to be wandering about in the dark like this, come alonger me and I’ll put you up. Reckon I’d have work for a lovely young girl like you. Safe work, warm, inside. Plenty of food. Always a bed.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Menilly and increased her pace.

  ‘Aw don’t be like that ducks,’ said the woman, following. The men drew up so close on either side that Menilly had to pull her portmanteau to her front. One of the men put his hand on her shoulder. Then shrieked, shaking it.

  ‘Something bit me!’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ said the old woman, ‘there’s nothing of her.’

  ‘It wasn’t her what bit me, something else did. Cor, it’s burning, look!’ He held his hand out but the old woman ignored him. Menilly walked faster. She could hear the man mumbling, the other one had reached for her elbow and the old woman’s voice continued, ‘come alonger me ducky. Nice warm, clean beds. You’ll be safe alonger me. Nice girl like you.’

  The second man let out a hiss, or something did. They passed under a street lamp which flared.

  ‘What the…I’m on fire!’ A flame flickered on his hat and he stopped to throw it to the ground to stamp on it.

  Menilly kept walking. Hooves clattered towards her and a cab stopped just ahead. Mr Stinson jumped out and pulled her inside. The cabby cracked his whip and the trio, muttering, melted back into the fog.

  ‘Here, what were you doing, walking off on your own?’ Mr Stinson said, ‘I told you there were worse things than a dirty old man in the carriage. Right, I’m not leaving you again till I know you’re safe. Where you off to? Is it far?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Menilly, ‘it’s an employment bureau for young women. Number 23 Eight Sisters Avenue.’

  ‘I know it,’ said the cabby.

  ‘It’s a bit late in the evening to be job-hunting,’ said Mr Stinson, ‘surely it’ll be shut.’

  ‘I’m not looking for work,’ said Menilly, ‘I’m looking for my sister.’

  3

  Reunion

  The door had been opened by a young girl, who peeked round the edge, squinting into the fog. She frowned, surprised.

  ‘I’m Miss Drethic’s sister,’ said Menilly, ‘I look just like her. I know it’s a bit startling. Is she in?’

  ‘She’s in her bedroom Miss. Come along in, you must be half froze out there.’

  Menilly turned to wave at Mr Stinson, the cab just visible in the swirling yellow. Stepping over the threshold, listening to the slow clop of the horse bearing him away, she tucked Mr Stinson’s business card into her purse and put her portmanteau on the floor.

  ‘Here Miss, let me take your cloak, you’re fair soaking.’

  ‘Thank you.’ said Menilly. ‘Have you been working for my sister long?’

  ‘Not really, Miss,’ said the girl, ‘I used to work in a dairy but it’s gone out of business. Miss Drethic offered to find us new jobs. Three of us signed up but the other five are still campaigning against the authorities what put us outta business. I dunno. Seems like a lost cause to me. Seems people seem to want fresh milk brung up from the country on the steamway instead of milk from cellars in town. Beats me. But then I don’t like it either way. Turns my stomach, only sometimes it was all we had.’

  ‘Are you happy here?’

  ‘Yes Miss. Miss Drethic’s very kind and I gets to see the other girls regular. Miss Drethic’s training me up to be a “General Assistant”. I’m not sure I’ll be very good at it, though. She showed me some riddle but I dunno what it said cos what with needing to work and that, I never learnt to read. Miss Torlin’s teaching me now. It’s hard work, reading. I miss the cows. They was more straightforward than people and didn’t make my brain hurt.
’

  ‘Don’t worry, as life goes on, you’ll probably meet plenty of the human sort of cow. What’s your name? ’

  ‘I’m Sally, Miss.’

  ‘Tell me where my sister is, Sally,’ said Menilly, ‘I can make my own way. Upstairs, front room? That was the one she had at home.’

  ‘No Miss, that one’s Miss Torlin’s and I’ve got the back room. Miss Drethics’s in the attic. The maid’s bedroom. She wouldn’t hear of me having it. “Too dark and poky” she said, “and you deserve a nice room because you do most of the housework and cooking.” But I wouldn’t have minded. Not really. There’s two proper beds in that attic room. Bettern sleeping in a cellar with a cow. Which is what I was used to. I can make the other bed up for you, if Miss Drethic moves all her books and whatnot first. I think she likes the view from the roof. On a good day, you can look west and imagine the mountains. You can’t see them, but you can pretend.’

  Menilly raised her eyebrows but said nothing more, picking up her portmanteau and looking up the stairs. She took a deep breath and started to ascend.

  At the top of the house, she found the attic room and stepped quietly inside. Despite the weather, she could make out the form of a woman sitting outside on the roof-tiles within the sooty parapet which obscured the apex of the house in an effort to make it look more elegant.

  Menilly walked across the floor and stepped out of the window. Below them, the city spread, its chimneys like islands in a sea of smog or mountain tops above soiled mist. Dots of a brighter yellow traced safer streets. A few chimneys still breathed smoke, but most were slumbering. Above, perhaps, were stars.

  ‘Hello Dorissa.’

  Her sister jumped and turned. Her mouth opened, then shut. She said, ‘Why are you here and when are you going back?’

  ‘Dorissa, listen…’

  A piece of broken tile dislodged itself next to Menilly and she tutted, ‘oh, Whisper, behave. Make yourself visible if you want, there’s no-one but the four of us here.’