by Nicola Upson
‘Of course, Miss.’
‘Good. Now tell Mrs White that I need her menus for the whole weekend by midday. That will be all.’
The dismissal was uncharacteristically brusque, and she regretted it before the housekeeper was halfway across the room. ‘Oh, Mrs Pendean,’ she added, calling her back. ‘I noticed when I was in church on Sunday that one of the figures in the nativity is damaged. Will you take it down to Mrs Soper and ask her to make sure it’s mended by Christmas Eve? The church always looks spectacular at this time of year, thanks to you, and our guests will love it. It’s what Christmas is about, after all.’
The housekeeper nodded, but the praise for the church – always her pride and joy – wasn’t met with the usual warm response, and Hilaria realised how much Nora Pendean must be missing her daughter, especially at Christmas. ‘How is Jenna?’ she asked, more gently this time. ‘I can’t believe she’s been gone from us for nearly a year.’
‘She’s all right, thank you, Miss,’ Nora said. ‘At least I suppose she must be. We’re only allowed one letter a month, and lately we haven’t always had that.’
‘She must be getting ready to take her final vows.’
‘That’s right. In February.’
‘She’s a credit to the island, Mrs Pendean, and to you and your husband. You must both be very proud of her.’
For the briefest of moments the housekeeper forgot herself, and the expression on her face hovered somewhere between scorn and resentment. There was something else there, too, something like pity, and Hilaria felt the accusation as surely as if the words had been spoken aloud: that she would never know the power of a mother’s love for her child, nor its grief. She said nothing more, and it was left to Mrs Pendean to restore the natural order between them. ‘I’d best get on, if there’s nothing else?’
She left the room, and Hilaria went back to the window, unsettled by their brief conversation. It was high tide and the waves were crashing against the rocks below, hitting the foundations of the castle with the hollow sound that she had always found strangely comforting; there was something reassuring, something safe, about the hours when the sea covered the causeway and the island was less accessible – like being at sea without the danger – but today it only stirred up the doubts she was beginning to have about her plans, and she found herself craving the familiar. Christmas was the time to hold tight to everything you loved, not to bring in strangers. She began to wish heartily that she hadn’t allowed her good intentions to get the better of her, but it was far too late to change her mind now. They would just have to make the best of it.
3
Nora Pendean crossed the south terrace to the tiny medieval church that sat at the highest point of the island, the spiritual heart around which the rest of the castle was built. The nativity stood in its customary place just inside the north door – the same solid wooden statues, carved by a forgotten Victorian hand, that had been there when she was a child. Their features were as familiar to her as some of her friends and she soon identified the damaged figure, one of the three kings whose painted crown was chipped and split, revealing the bare wood beneath. She removed the carving from its place, then paused to look at Mary by her makeshift crib in the centre of the scene, just an ordinary woman with her child. Had she felt cheated at the end, she wondered? Had she looked back on those years of love and questioned what it had all been for?
The weather was turning when she left the church, and by the time she reached the handful of buildings at the foot of the Mount, rain was drifting in waves like the sea, sweeping across the backdrop of woodland and darkening the castle’s stone. She pulled her coat closer around her, cursing the heavy figure that slowed her progress, and headed for the small museum at the side of the harbour. Her husband was busy on the pier, overseeing a delivery of coal and logs, and she changed direction to speak to him. He waved when he saw her coming, but made a point of continuing with his work, as if that could deter her from what he knew she was going to ask. ‘Has the post boat been yet?’ she called.
‘Yes, half an hour ago.’
‘And?’
‘There was nothing from Jenna, love. I’d have brought it up straight away.’ It was what she had been expecting, but still she couldn’t hide her disappointment and Tom put his hand on her arm. ‘There’s still a few days before Christmas. Don’t give up hope.’ He meant well, but she shook him off, trying to ignore the hurt in his eyes. Changing the subject, he nodded to the figure in her arms. ‘What are you doing with that?’
‘Getting it mended. Everything’s got to be perfect, apparently. God knows why we’re doing all this extra work for a load of strangers with more money than sense.’
‘It’s for a good cause, Nora. I can’t think what it must be like to leave your home at that age.’
She shrugged, hardly in the mood to be charitable about parents who were losing their children, even if they were refugees; her hardness was out of character, and Tom looked at her impatiently. ‘It’s what she wanted, love. Jenna is happy, even if we find that hard to understand.’
‘You’re sounding just like her now,’ Nora said bitterly, gesturing back to the castle. ‘I’m sick of people telling me what’s for the best and how blessed I should feel. I just want to know that all those years meant something, that she’s missing us like we’re missing her, even if it’s only for a moment. Why can’t you support me in that?’
He walked off, refusing to have the argument again. She watched him stride round to the other side of the harbour and begin to load the first pile of coal into the tram which transported goods and luggage up to the castle. No matter how much she loved him and how hard she tried, she couldn’t let him comfort her. She knew that he longed to be enough for her, just as she was for him, but she couldn’t pretend, even to be kind. As the reality of this bleak, empty Christmas opened up before her, she wondered how she would ever find the strength to get through it.
4
The late-night tram ground its way defiantly across Blackfriars Bridge, an oblong of warm yellow light moving slowly towards the city as the snow fell thickly around it. Alex Fielding waited for it to pass, then checked the settings on the camera for the final shots of the session. It was a photographer’s job to see the most familiar things as if for the first time, but not even a lifetime’s devotion to this melancholy streak through the city’s heart could exhaust its possibilities. The Thames was always at its finest at dusk, Fielding thought, watching as the oily expanse of water defied the snow’s attempts to settle; somehow, darkness made more sense of the muddled rooftops, chimneys and spires, simplifying the outline of the city in a way which was reassuring, and for a few, comforting hours it was almost possible to believe that life was as easily sorted.
A police boat chugged under the bridge, dispelling the illusion, and in the glow of the navigation lights, Fielding could just make out two figures hunched in the stern; the engine was cut off suddenly and the boat drifted silently for a moment, then there was a splash as the drag hit the water, seeking some lost soul for whom the season had proved too much. An instinct for news should have rooted any decent journalist to the spot, but it wasn’t the time of year for other people’s tragedies and Fielding turned to go back to the office, leaving the river police to carry out their sober work in private. In the distance, the chimes from Big Ben struck the hour.
The air was raw now, even away from the water, but the brightly lit windows on the north side of the street helped to temper the bleakness which had crept up on Fielding like an early morning mist. The Times headquarters – a plain, red-brick building opposite Blackfriars underground station – stood aloof from the pack of press in Fleet Street, as if keen to claim superiority. The latest fall of snow had deadened the city’s familiar evening sounds, and the photographer crossed the road to deliver a good day’s work, glad that the thrill of the job was still as fresh and unspoilt as the whited streets and pavements.
The fug of cigarette smoke in the third
-floor offices was less opaque than usual, a sure sign that things were winding down for Christmas. Fielding knocked at the editor’s door and received the customary curt admittance. Dick Robertson was standing by the window, laying down the law to a junior reporter who fled the room gratefully at the first sign of a reprieve. Tuesday’s paper lay open on the desk, already dissected and annotated as old news gave way to the stories that had arrived too late, and Fielding wondered if Robertson even had a home; no matter what the shift, he was invariably somewhere on the premises. ‘You asked to see me, sir?’
‘Yes, but that was hours ago. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Down by the river, gathering shots for the piece in tomorrow’s—’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Robertson interrupted, holding up his hand in exasperation. ‘Sometimes I wonder why I do this job. We’ve got all hell breaking out in Europe, and still the only thing that anyone wants to read about is the weather. What’s wrong with people? Why can’t they just look out of their bloody windows?’
‘It is Christmas. I suppose they’re making plans for the holidays.’
‘Yes, well, so is Hitler.’ Robertson gestured to the open newspaper, where a picture of starving refugees arriving in Shanghai sat incongruously next to Fielding’s own photograph of the skating in Hyde Park. ‘Anyway, Christmas was what I wanted to talk to you about. Are you all set for Cornwall?’
‘Raring to go. Any final instructions?’
Robertson looked his senior photographer up and down, taking in the shapeless trousers and the overcoat with its missing buttons. ‘Smarten up for a start, and try to look a little more … well, respectable. You know what the aristocracy’s like, and you are representing this newspaper while you’re there.’
Fielding winked. ‘I won’t let you down, sir. Best bib and tucker already packed. They’ll think I was born to it.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. You wanted the story and God knows we’ve paid enough for the privilege of sending you there.’
‘Well, it’s not every day you get the chance to sit down to dinner with a Hollywood star. I don’t think I’ve taken a decent picture of that woman in five years of trying.’
‘So make sure you get more than a good meal out of this trip and don’t ruffle any feathers. I know what you’re like.’ He glanced down into the street where the snow was deepening, stealthily undoing the hours of work that had gone into clearing it. ‘Mind you, it’ll be a miracle if you get there at all at this rate – you or any of the other guests. It would have to be at the other end of the bloody country, wouldn’t it?’
‘Don’t worry – I’ll get there, come hell or high water.’ The words came out more passionately than intended, and Robertson raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s such a good story,’ Fielding added, worried that too much enthusiasm might betray a more personal motive for wanting to be part of the Christmas gathering at St Michael’s Mount. ‘People are really getting behind Baldwin and this refugee fund, and the more closely we associate ourselves with that, the better the publicity we’ll get out of it. Throw in a glamorous film star with a point to make …’
There was no need to preach to the converted. Robertson sat down at his desk and took a bottle of whisky from the top drawer; he poured two glasses, never seeming to remember that Fielding hated the drink. ‘There’s something else I want you to keep an eye on while you’re down there,’ he said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘I’ve been having a word with a friend of mine who runs one of the Cornish papers. Rumours are that Hitler’s got his eye on Cornwall, and the Mount in particular.’
‘What?’
‘Von Ribbentrop spent a lot of time there when he was the British Ambassador, and apparently he’s been promised St Michael’s Mount. Alf was in the room when he announced it, at some do with the Lord Lieutenant. Spitting nails, he was, after two hours in that idiot’s company.’
‘Now that I can believe.’ The Nazi Foreign Minister was a figure of ridicule in the press for the gaffes he made on a regular basis. ‘So why hasn’t Alf printed the story?’
Robertson scoffed. ‘He can’t, can he? Not while the official line is still appeasement – but that won’t last for ever, so get plenty of shots of the castle while you’re there. You never know when they might come in handy.’
‘The Lord Lieutenant’s coming for Christmas, isn’t he?’
‘That’s right, with his daughter – and she’s been very friendly with Von Ribbentrop’s aide, if you know what I mean, but for God’s sake don’t mention that at the dinner table. Now, I’ve got a final list of guests for you somewhere.’ Fielding waited while the editor rummaged through a full in-tray, eventually pulling out two lists of names and discarding the older one in an overflowing wastepaper basket. ‘Here it is. We’ve got a vicar, a policeman, two writers …’
‘Sounds like a game of Happy Families,’ Fielding said. ‘With Angel the Actress at the top of the pack.’
There was a knock at the open door, and the office cleaner stuck his head round. ‘Sorry, guv, I didn’t know you were busy. Do you want me to come back later?’
Robertson shook his head. ‘I’ll be busy all night, Jack, so you might as well get it done now while we’re finishing up here. Don’t go overboard, though.’
Jack grinned at Fielding as he emptied the ashtray and gave it a polish. ‘Looking forward to your Cornish trip? All right for some.’
Fielding ignored him and stood up to go. ‘If that’s it, sir, I’ll be off. I’ll check in with you again before I leave on Friday.’
‘No you won’t, because you’re leaving on Thursday. Who knows what this weather will be doing by the end of the week, and I can’t risk any mistakes. I’ve cleared it with your hosts.’ Robertson slid an envelope across the desk. ‘Here’s your train ticket, so get yourself there in good time and make sure you’ve got a feel for the place. Detective Chief Inspector Penrose of Scotland Yard is escorting our Hollywood star down on Christmas Eve, and we’ll need plenty of shots of her arriving at the Mount. Penrose is a good friend of Miss St Aubyn and he’s from that part of the world, so keep on the right side of him.’ He smiled at Jack, who had stopped what he was doing at the mention of Hollywood. ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re dying to know who we’re talking about, but you’ll have to wait until Saturday.’
‘She must be someone important if she needs a police escort.’ The cleaner looked curiously at Fielding as he gathered up the rubbish from the waste basket. ‘Are you sure you don’t need someone to carry your bags for the weekend?’ he offered. ‘I’ve got nothing special planned for Christmas.’
‘Thanks, Jack, but I’ve got this one covered.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Robertson said. ‘Seriously, Alex, I’ve stuck my neck out to persuade the boss that this story is worth a generous donation to the Appeal. Don’t let me down. I want you right there on the spot every time she so much as sneezes.’
‘I won’t let her out of my sight,’ Fielding promised. ‘By the time this is over, I’ll know her better than she knows herself.’
5
The tearoom was even busier than usual, but for once everyone seemed happy to wait and the season of goodwill lived up to its name. The morning flew by in a flurry of Christmas shoppers, and an assortment of bags and boxes from every store in town spilled out from under the tables, taking up precious floor space. Violet glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that it was already a quarter to twelve – time to brace herself for the lunchtime rush and a different clientele. The shop girls and office clerks were never as patient as the housewives, but at least she’d have room to move without causing an avalanche.
She collected the tip from a table by the door – more silver than copper at this time of year – and re-laid it quickly for a party of four young men in naval uniforms. They were in high spirits, full of their plans for Christmas and the girls they were going to spend it with, and she dealt with their flirting as efficiently as she handled their order. It came n
aturally to her to be nice, and she always smiled when she remembered the manageress telling her at her interview that a pleasant personality was more important than good looks. She had taken the back-handed compliment in the spirit it was meant, and it turned out to be true: she hadn’t been short of offers, although she’d vowed never to do anything as predictable as falling for one of her customers. It wasn’t the first time she’d been wrong.
A queue built steadily at the door, and she was far too busy running to and from the kitchen to see Johnny arrive. By the time she noticed him, he was already seated at a table next to the Christmas tree which had had a reserved sign on it all morning. He grinned when he caught her eye, pleased to have surprised her, and she thought how nice he looked – smarter than usual in the better of his two suits, with a tie that she hadn’t seen before and diligently polished shoes. Instinctively, she straightened her cap, glad that she’d found a minute to comb her hair between orders. ‘Got time to join me?’ he asked, when his turn to be served finally came.
‘Are you mad? It’s the busiest part of the day. I’ll be flat out for the next hour and a half.’
‘It’s all right, Violet – you can take your lunch break early today. The girls will cover for you.’
Violet turned round and looked at her manageress in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ridley, I didn’t know he was coming …’
Her apologies were waved away. ‘Go on. Don’t keep the poor man waiting. I can’t spare you all afternoon.’
‘Of course not. Thank you, Mrs Ridley.’
