The Christmas Stocking and Other Stories

by Katie Fforde

  She went upstairs to see if the bedroom was the cloud of Hungarian goose-down duvets and pillows, thousand-thread-count sheets and memory-foam mattresses she’d been promised. It wasn’t.

  There was a beautiful brass bed but it was covered in a patchwork quilt, made with tiny hexagons, not the bigger ones she was used to. Under it were sheets – linen sheets – and blankets. And a paisley eiderdown. Not a hint of what she’d been longing for these past difficult weeks.

  The bathroom next door didn’t have a walk-in shower big enough for two; it had a very antiquated lavatory with an overhead cistern and a wooden seat, a washstand with a matching jug and basin and a towel rail. There was also a large brass jug that could have done with some flowers in it. On the towel rail was an arrangement of linen face towels and a couple of very small ordinary towels. She knew by now there would be no fluffy bathrobes hanging on the back of the door but she looked anyway.

  She went back into the bedroom thanking her lucky stars they didn’t have to walk down a path to an outside privy, even if the bath was probably hanging somewhere and had to be filled with hot water from the brass jug. With her luck recently, an outside lavatory could have been considered ‘charmingly rustic’ and cost extra.

  As she walked down the wooden stairs (no carpet, not even a runner), she realised she might have to admit to Ben there’d been a mix-up and sort it as soon as she could. Was it possible to live in a house like this without at least a decent sleeping bag to offset the discomfort? But there was no way she could face having a row with the house owner, or the agent, or whoever, now. And tomorrow was Christmas Day and then it was Boxing Day so the sorting out might not happen for three days at least. So she wouldn’t say a thing to Ben until matters could be put right.

  But the fire was going in the sitting room, and the brass candlesticks on the mantelpiece and the oil lamp were lit. Also, there was a vase of holly, bright with berries, she hadn’t noticed before. It all looked very pretty, she decided, in an antique sort of way.

  Ben must have done that, she realised, and reluctantly gave him a good mark. But lighting fires was macho and manly – and easy. Far harder to stand by her side and tackle her determined mother and her ridiculous wedding requirements. But the live flames and the crackling sound cheered her. She went out to help with the bags. He’d obviously done the fire and gone back out for them.

  She was about to congratulate him on lighting the fire when he forestalled her.

  ‘Idiotic Eddie! He forgot to put the box of food in the car.’ He looked rueful. ‘Sorry, darling. We’ll have to find a pub, or maybe there’s a takeaway we could ring. There’s bound to be menus in a holiday cottage.’

  Hadn’t he noticed it wasn’t the usual sort of holiday cottage when he went into the sitting room? Obviously not. He apparently had zero observational skills.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage something.’ Ginny had squashed some of the leftover goody bags into her case. The odd wedding favours might turn out to be very useful. If they had biscuits and cheese, they wouldn’t starve.

  ‘This is a bit different!’ said Ben, dumping two cases in the hall. ‘I rather like it! Sort of olde worlde. But not tacky.’

  She didn’t comment. ‘I’ll take my case up,’ she said. ‘I need to find a cardigan.’

  Rather to her surprise, the bed was turned down, both sides, and very neatly. It was odd, but she’d remembered it being all tucked in. How strange. She must have spent so much time dreaming about this bedroom, when the wedding preparations were getting on top of her, that she’d forgotten what it really looked like.

  Feeling better now she was wearing her favourite cashmere cardigan, she went downstairs to find Ben in the kitchen. She hadn’t been in here before but it was perfectly in keeping with the rest of the olde-worlde feel. There was a range, which seemed to be lit, a butler’s sink, and an enamel table as a work surface. There was a simple wooden table with two kitchen chairs drawn up to it. Another dresser stored more plates and some old stoneware jars, possibly containing basic ingredients like flour and sugar. Then she suddenly wondered – didn’t sugar come in cone form in the olden days? She chided herself for being ridiculous. However ‘period’ the house may have been it was still the twenty-first century.

  ‘Hey!’ said Ben. ‘I’ve found a casserole! Piping hot and smells delicious. Baked potatoes to go with it.’

  ‘Oh! That’s a bit of a surprise!’ said Ginny.

  ‘Really? I expect it’s one of those places where they deliver food without you noticing they’ve been; you know, the invisible butler or something. Specially for honeymooners.’

  ‘I don’t remember that being mentioned,’ said Ginny, feeling anything but honeymoonish, ‘or I wouldn’t have bothered with that box of groceries that got left behind.’

  ‘Bloody Eddie!’ said Ben. ‘He was a rubbish choice of best man, I do admit. But never mind, this is far nicer than having to cook for ourselves.’

  Ginny didn’t mention the special smoked salmon, the potted shrimps, the pâté with truffles in it. Just the thought of it made her mouth water. And they were having stew. Although it was better than just having wedding-favour cheese to eat. She wondered why her brain had been so wiped that she’d forgotten this detail about food being provided. She was tired, but this wasn’t like her.

  ‘And look!’ he said. ‘A bottle of wine!’ He picked up the bottle. ‘It has a handwritten label. Elderberry! Good God! I wonder if it’s drinkable.’

  Ginny didn’t say anything; she just opened a cupboard and found some lovely glasses, obviously antiques. Everything was so odd, so not what she was expecting. She came to the conclusion that her nightmare of a wedding had addled her brain. ‘Let’s try it.’

  Ben filled the glasses, which were sherry-sized, and they clinked. ‘Well, here’s to the rest of our lives!’

  ‘The only way is up!’ said Ginny ruefully. Things could hardly get worse, after all.

  ‘Actually, it’s quite nice!’ said Ben. ‘Full-bodied, probably quite strong but—’

  ‘Delicious!’ The warmth of it, fruity, a little sweet but not overpoweringly so, was extremely comforting. ‘It’s like cough medicine without the nasty taste.’

  Ben nodded. ‘I always thought home-made wine was fairly vile, but obviously not always. Hey,’ he went on, ‘I think we should eat next door, in front of the fire. These old plates on the dresser are quite deep, aren’t they? Perfect for a stew.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ginny, opening a drawer on the hunt for knives and forks. Just then a whiff of something cooking caught her nostrils. ‘Hang on, I think there’s something in the oven.’

  Taking an old-fashioned pot holder from a hook, she opened the door of the range. ‘Yes! It’s a pie! It smells wonderful!’

  She took it out. ‘Some sort of fruit, I think. Perfect for a pudding. It just needs custard,’ she added, looking at Ben.

  ‘I’ll manage without custard,’ he said. ‘Let’s go through and eat this.’

  They ate the stew with the baked potatoes and a slab of country butter put on the table by the ‘secret butler’. Ginny might not have known he was coming, but he was jolly good at his job.

  ‘I think this is venison,’ said Ben. ‘It’s really tasty. Well done finding this place, Gin. It’s brilliant.’

  Ginny wasn’t as confident although she had really enjoyed the stew. ‘I’ll go and get the pudding,’ she said.

  ‘While you do that, I’ll put some more wood on the fire,’ said Ben.

  Ginny picked up their empty plates. She had eaten rather a lot and she wasn’t sure if she could manage pudding as well. She went through into the kitchen.

  On the table, by the cooling fruit pie, was a little jug covered with a beaded cloth. Ginny investigated. It was cream, thick and yellow.

  ‘The secret-butler thing is really efficient,’ she muttered as she found bowls and spoons and served the pie. ‘It’s just really odd I don’t remember anything about it.’ She added cream an
d carried their pudding back to the sitting room.

  ‘Hey, darling!’ said Ben excitedly. ‘It’s snowing!’

  ‘Is it! How wonderful!’ said Ginny. ‘I didn’t think it was that cold or even that snow was forecast.’

  ‘Well, it’s doing it. Maybe it’s magic snow, just for us.’

  ‘To go with the magic cream that just turned up in the kitchen.’ She laughed, but not sincerely.

  ‘Well! I do have to say again, darling, you’ve done brilliantly booking this place.’

  ‘Booking here wasn’t difficult. It was the wedding that was so hard.’

  Ben looked away, possibly not wanting to talk about the wedding. ‘This wasn’t at all what I was expecting.’

  ‘Nor me,’ murmured Ginny. He probably wasn’t expecting the wedding he’d ended up with, either.

  ‘But it’s great! Really different.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, hoping the antique bed with its charming coverlet was comfortable. ‘I’m not quite sure about the bathroom. It hasn’t got a bath in it. Or a shower.’

  ‘We’ll manage. There’s probably one somewhere. We can explore tomorrow.’ He looked at her speculatively. ‘Is it time for bed?’

  Ginny was very tired. They hadn’t made love for ages and she still felt too resentful about the wedding to want to change that. ‘Absolutely, but I warn you, I’m not up for anything except sleeping.’

  He didn’t argue. ‘It was a shattering day, wasn’t it? I hadn’t expected the wedding to be so – over the top.’

  If Ginny had had a fraction more energy she might have started to explain why the wedding was so over the top and how he could have helped prevent it. Instead she said, ‘Me neither! Now let’s put the candles and the lamp out and make sure the fire is safe.’

  When the room was in complete darkness they gazed out of the window at the falling snow.

  ‘It’s coming down really thick now,’ said Ginny.

  ‘Imagine if we’re snowed in,’ said Ben.

  If Ginny had been in a state of marital bliss, the thought of being snowed in with Ben would have been heavenly for so many reasons. Now, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to be married to him, let alone snowed in with him. ‘It is proper, Narnia snow,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t hear that actually, she felt like crying.

  ‘Come on, let’s get to bed,’ he said, putting his arm round her. ‘We can play in the snow in the morning.’

  Ginny hadn’t noticed the little fireplace in the bedroom the previous times she’d been in it but now there was a fire burning brightly there.

  ‘How charming!’ she said. ‘We can go to sleep by firelight.’

  ‘The secret butler really has excelled himself,’ said Ben. ‘Though I don’t suppose he’ll manage to be secret tomorrow, with all this snow. He – or she – will leave tracks and he’ll have to reveal himself.’

  As she washed before bed (somehow there was hot water in the jug, all ready to pour into the basin, and a bar of perfumed soap next to the bowl) Ginny admitted to herself she hadn’t forgotten about the secret butler; there’d been no mention of it on the website or in subsequent communication. She was tired, not stupid.

  As soon as she’d finished, she went back into the bedroom. Laid out on the bed was an old-fashioned, Victorian-style nightie, with a high neck and long sleeves. When Ben was in the bathroom she found herself happy to put it on. She was sitting up in bed wearing it when Ben came back.

  ‘Actually, that nightie is really pretty,’ said Ben, ‘but I do think the secret butler has a sense of humour! Does he know it’s our honeymoon? That’s not exactly sexy, is it?’

  ‘It’s warm! Now hurry up. I really want to go to sleep.’

  Although she closed her eyes and listened to the occasional crackle of the dying fire, she didn’t immediately sleep. There was no secret butler, and she didn’t like the only other explanation that had occurred to her.

  She followed the footprints in the snow, winding through the trees, their boughs heavy. Each time she felt about to catch a glimpse of her guide, the figure would be lost behind another corner. But she kept going, spurred on by a sense that this journey was important; that this person wanted to show her something.

  Eventually the trees thinned and she could see a church ahead, and a woman standing holding the door ajar. Immediately she knew this was the woman she’d followed. Dressed in a long, plain black dress – cinched at the waist and high at the neck – this was a woman she felt she’d seen before a thousand times, in school lessons, exhibitions, television shows. But it wasn’t just the recognisable Victorian dress that made her familiar; it was the atmosphere around her, an air of benevolence and understanding.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling!’ Ben’s kiss woke her with a start. He smelt of toothpaste. ‘I’ve made tea. It was ready on a tray; all I had to do was add water to the pot. It was even warmed!’

  Ginny sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes of sleep and her vivid dream, pushing the memory to the back of her mind. She took the dainty teacup and saucer he was handing her. The tea was delicious, quite unlike the ordinary teabags she used every day. ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘Porridge,’ Ben went on. ‘I found it in a pot with the lid on. I don’t usually like it but there was a bowl of brown sugar and the cream was there again. I’m prepared to give it a go.’ He paused. ‘There’s a loaf of bread for toast, although I expect I’d have to do it in front of the fire. There’s a toasting fork, so if you want it, just say the word.’

  Ben was obviously trying very hard. ‘How quaint,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want it in bed? I could easily bring it up.’

  She thought about it. ‘Is it cold in the kitchen?’

  ‘No. The range is going full blast.’

  ‘I’ll get up then.’

  ‘I’ll start making toast. I fancy trying out the toasting fork.’

  ‘After breakfast I want to go in the snow. Is it still there?’

  He nodded. ‘Masses of it! It’s really amazing. I’ll go to the car later and get our wellies. They are in there, aren’t they?’

  ‘Should be. But make sure Eddie hasn’t put spiders or frogs in them. His idea of a joke.’

  ‘I’ll check. See you in a minute.’

  Going to the window in her long nightie and looking out at the snowy landscape – more snow than she ever remembered seeing in England – made Ginny feel as if she were in a children’s story. She loved it, letting her imagination drift just as the snow had done.

  She stayed staring until she got cold and then she gathered up her clothes, helping herself to a couple of extra layers from the case, and then took them all back into bed and put them on there. She remembered her mother telling her that’s what she and her brother had had to do when they were little. That was back in the days when Ginny was still a child, years before her mother turned into the mother of the bride from hell.

  Ben called up the stairs. ‘Hurry! I’m starving and I don’t want to start without you!’

  She came down to join him. He looked particularly fresh-faced and healthy, she thought.

  ‘I’ve been to the car and got our wellies. I couldn’t resist going out in it.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. I so love snow!’

  He came round the table and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m really glad it snowed then. Because the Christmas presents aren’t in the car.’

  ‘It’s OK. I don’t really mind.’ They’d agreed on only giving each other small things. They were saving hard for their deposit.

  ‘Right, let’s eat!’

  He put a plate of porridge in front of her and moved a bowl of brown sugar and the jug of cream so she could reach them.

  ‘The other thing’, he said, clearly puzzled, ‘is that there are absolutely no tracks from our secret butler.’

  Ginny wasn’t really surprised. ‘Oh! How odd! I wonder how all these things are happening then. The fires being lit, food being left.’

  They regarded each other for long seconds. ‘W
ell, what do you think?’ Ben asked eventually.

  Ginny didn’t feel ready to share her thoughts with him. They were too – ridiculous.

  It had been fun making toast with the toasting fork. It had a special flavour that was so much better than toaster toast. The butter was delicious too. Ben, who had investigated the jars on the dresser, found marmalade in one of them, thick cut and obviously home-made. And the porridge with cream was extremely filling but so delicious it was hard not to eat too much of it.

  Ginny felt so full she could hardly move but she couldn’t resist the snow either. So, wearing all their clothes, plus some hats and scarves that were on the hallstand, they set forth. Ginny knew they were meant to wear the hats and scarves because she was quite sure they hadn’t been there the previous evening.

  It was easy to see where Ben had floundered through the fresh snow to the car, and it was perfectly clear that no one else had been near the house. Ginny was reminded of her dream – wandering through woods in the snow, following footprints – and felt a chill go down her spine that had nothing to do with the freezing air. But Ben didn’t seem to want to speculate on what was going on in the house. Ginny thought he had probably come to the same conclusions that she had, and didn’t want to talk about it either. After all, nothing at all bad had happened – yet.

  ‘This is paradise!’ said Ginny. ‘Really deep, proper snow, on Christmas Day, in England! It’s unheard of!’

  ‘I tried to look on my phone to see if the whole country is snowed in,’ said Ben, ‘but needless to say there’s no coverage here.’

  ‘I think I saw about there being no coverage on the website,’ said Ginny. ‘I thought we would enjoy being out of contact for a while.’

  ‘Well, that part went right then,’ said Ben. ‘With our honeymoon accommodation.’