Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Green

  It was also agreed that one of the traditions of Chatfield family Christmases — one that dated back to Cora Chatfield herself — was to be resurrected. Every member of every family would bring along a small present. Paul, who would play Father Christmas, would collect the presents and place them in two sacks, one for children and one for adults. The presents would be handed out randomly, so that everyone in the hall received a surprise gift. Every present would have the giver’s name on the outside to ensure that Father Christmas didn’t end up giving the gift back to the person who had donated it.

  Even Nigel appeared to be entering into the Christmas spirit. He promised two deer, a pig and six chickens. On Christmas Eve, to everyone’s surprise, the Chatfield family announced that the next day, for the first time, they would be dining with the rest of their relatives in the Great Hall.

  At five o’clock on Christmas morning, the Dalton family, under Aunt Margaret’s command, took over the kitchens. The meal was to be at two in the afternoon. The timing was another Chatfield family tradition. Christmas lunch was always served at two o’clock, so that at the conclusion of the meal they could listen to the monarch’s Christmas message broadcast at three o’clock. It didn’t occur to Aunt Margaret that Christmas lunch could be served at any other time, even though this year there would be no royal message.

  After breakfast the Steed family retired to their quarters for a final rehearsal of the nativity play. Meanwhile, in the Great Hall, many eager hands set to work decorating and laying the tables. Jasper and Damian arrived and announced that the hall needed to be reorganised to accommodate more furniture. In the spirit of Christmas there were no complaints as Paul’s family filed up to the staterooms and carried a huge table and five chairs down from the Ballroom. Four of the chairs required two people to lift each of them. The fifth chair, for Nigel, required four.

  A little later, the Morgan girls, who had been hoping for a day’s rest, were summoned to the staterooms. They spent an hour trudging backwards and forwards to the Great Hall carrying the exquisite Worcester dinner service for use by the top table.

  By one o’clock in the afternoon the Great Hall was almost ready. Paul began putting the final touches to the huge Christmas tree that had been erected in one corner. Gathered around him were the younger children of the community, all eager to help decorate it.

  Paul smiled. It was a magical time; surely nothing could spoil such a perfect Christmas Day. The thought had no sooner entered his head than the four Chatfield brothers entered the Great Hall.

  ‘Everybody out,’ Damian snapped.

  ‘We’ve nearly finished,’ Paul said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Just another couple of minutes.’

  ‘I said everybody out.’

  ‘But we haven’t put the fairy on top of the Christmas tree,’ Mary-Claire said, holding up the fairy queen that Aunt Margaret had made specially. The doll had taken her great-aunt many days to dress, the aching of her arthritic hands restricting her to a few minutes of close needlework each day. ‘And Grandad said it will be the last thing to go on the Christmas tree and I can put it on for being so good and making the bestest bell.’

  Damian snatched the fairy doll roughly from Mary-Claire’s hand and handed it to Greg. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the top of the tree. ‘Stick the top branch up its arse.’

  The children filed dejectedly out of the room. Paul followed them. He hadn’t heard Mary-Claire crying like that since the day her father had died.

  At a quarter to two, the families filed across to the Great Hall. Everyone had found some way to add a splash of colour to their threadbare clothes — a simple sash, a colourful tie or a ribbon in their hair. Little girls wore party dresses made from curtain material. Little boys had similarly tailored waistcoats. The room was alive with colour; everyone was more relaxed and happier than they had been since the first day they had walked into Haver Park.

  ‘What’s that?’ Robert Dalton, serious-faced, asked his father after they’d sat down. As usual, despite the happy occasion, Robert was scowling, doing his best to look older than his tiny frame suggested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That thing on the side of the dais.’

  ‘It’s a lectern,’ Adam explained.

  ‘What do we need a lectern for?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to have the king’s speech,’ Fergus joked from the adjacent table.

  Meanwhile, Aunt Margaret was whizzing around the kitchen in her wheelchair and, despite the arthritis in her hands, stirring the odd pot, tasting the food and generally marshalling her troops.

  ‘Those Chatfields had better hurry up,’ she complained at a quarter past two. ‘I can’t keep this food hot forever.’ She looked at Diana who, despite having a day off from the kitchen, seemed to be finding it hard to stay away. She was watching the activity from the doorway. ‘How about sending one of your daughters up there to give Nigel a hurry along?’

  ‘Can’t,’ Diana said. ‘We were told no one is to go to the staterooms after one-thirty.’

  ‘Well, if they’re not here in another ten minutes I’m serving the soup, with them or without them.’

  ‘Listen to that noise,’ Diana said suddenly.

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘Music — it sounds like a gramophone.’

  ‘Can’t be a gramophone, dear. No electricity.’ Then she heard the music too. The tune was ‘Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ and the noise was growing louder. The families in the Great Hall heard the music as well. The children strained their necks to look.

  The doors beside the dais swung open and Miles, dressed in a bright Tudor costume, walked in pushing an old fashioned hand-wound gramophone. The great brass horn threw forth its sound, filling the Great Hall with music. Instinctively everyone in the hall got to their feet, clapping and cheering.

  The clapping was beginning to subside as Nigel, Jasper, Damian and Greg entered. Nigel and his three other sons were also dressed in Tudor costumes. They had chosen the most colourful from an extensive wardrobe abandoned by a film company, which had been shooting a costume drama at Haver when the pandemic broke out. Among the props, Nigel had also found a white-haired wig that he’d promptly donned for theatrical effect. Convinced it took years off his appearance, he was to wear it in public from that day on.

  At the sight of their splendidly dressed cousins, a fresh round of applause broke out in the hall.

  Nigel motioned to everyone to sit down. The gramophone mechanism wound down and Rudolf died a slow and agonising death.

  ‘There you are,’ Diana said to Aunt Margaret, ‘the Chatfields are human after all.’

  ‘“Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”! They could have given us a carol,’ Aunt Margaret replied. ‘Now you go and sit down, dear. We’ll serve the soup right away.’

  The meal proceeded happily; for once there was no distinction between the meals served to the Chatfield family and those enjoyed by the others. The meal prepared by Aunt Margaret and her helpers was, everyone agreed, the best Christmas meal any of them had ever had.

  The only difference was the exquisite tableware from which the Chatfield family were eating and the excellent wine they were drinking from crystal glasses. The remainder had beer or parsnip wine in pewter mugs. Nevertheless, the families were happy enough.

  Between the main course and Christmas pudding, Paul, playing the role of Father Christmas, distributed the presents from his sacks. There was excitement, laughter, joking and gasps of delight as the presents were unwrapped.

  The reintroduction of the old family tradition helped to bring the groups closer together. Members of one family, who had barely spoken to those of another for weeks, got up from their benches and walked across to an adjoining table to hug the donor of the present they had received.

  ‘You know who didn’t get a present?’ Mathew said to his father as Paul returned to the table with the last present — his own — in his hand.

  Paul spun round. ‘Who?’

  ‘Them,
’ Mathew said, pointing to the long table on the dais. ‘The Chatfields.’

  Paul sat down. ‘Clean forgot about them. Oh well, it’s their own fault for not telling us until the last minute that they were coming. Anyway, they haven’t brought presents for us, I see.’

  Aunt Margaret and her helpers had been working in shifts, bolting down their own meals in between serving at the tables. Once the pudding dishes had been cleared away, they brought out platters of cheeses, fruits, nuts, Christmas cake and sweets. At last they could take their places with the rest of the Dalton family. Aunt Margaret said how much she was looking forward to the Christmas service and the nativity play starring the young children.

  It turned out that Paul had done Nigel an injustice. Damian, Jasper, Greg and Miles left the room and returned with four huge sacks. Then, to another round of applause, they began distributing gifts.

  There was a parcel for everyone, each wrapped in identical Christmas paper and carrying a label with the recipient’s name. The first ones to receive their gifts began to open the packages while the rest looked on impatiently. As the gifts were unwrapped, each recipient did their best to hide their disappointment. Everybody received a similar gift — two grey tunics, together with two grey hats or scarves.

  ‘Well, I guess it’s the thought that counts,’ Diana joked to Duncan at the next table.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to wear these things,’ Andrea said, tossing her head of red hair contemptuously.

  It must have been the embarrassment of the presents that prompted Duncan to stand and announce, ‘Thank you for the lovely gifts, Nigel. You didn’t have to give us two each — one would have been enough.’ There was a ripple of laughter, particularly from those who had had too much to drink. ‘And now, if the children in the nativity play would like to gather beside the tree, we’ll begin the Christmas service.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Nigel’s voice was menacing and it stopped Duncan in his tracks. ‘I have given you all a present,’ he continued. ‘More, I might say, than you gave me!’

  ‘We didn’t know you were coming until it was too late,’ explained Paul, embarrassed.

  ‘I gave you all presents,’ Nigel repeated, ‘and I want you to wear them.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Nigel,’ Duncan said. ‘We’re going to have the Christmas service now.’

  Nigel glowered down at him. ‘There will be no Christmas service,’ he announced.

  The room broke into uproar. People stood up and began shouting angrily. For the first time they noticed Nigel was alone. The sight of him standing exposed on the dais only caused the shouting to escalate.

  Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash. The Christmas tree had toppled and fallen to the ground, revealing Damian with a machine gun mounted on a tripod before him. The adults in the hall gasped, and anxious mothers grabbed their children and pulled them close to their sides. A scraping noise in the Minstrel Gallery above the great screen caused them all to look up. Jasper stood behind another machine gun, glowering down at the community below. Miles and Greg stood beside him, each holding a rifle.

  ‘Now strip off and put my presents on,’ Nigel snapped. No one moved. ‘Get changed!’ he yelled.

  In the silence that followed they heard the click of the safety catch on Damian’s machine gun. Instantly everyone scrambled to change. Some of the young girls, who were not wearing undergarments, tried their best to hide their bodies. The older women, self-conscious perhaps about sags and creases, were likewise embarrassed. There were tears in Cheryl’s eyes as she tried unsuccessfully to hide the scars that covered her body.

  Only Aunt Margaret couldn’t manage; for her, dressing was a major exercise that took almost half an hour. Allison changed quickly, and then hunted frantically around the room, begging for pins and hairclips — anything she could find to pin the grey tunic over her mother’s colourful dress. When Allison had finished, Aunt Margaret, sitting sad-faced in her wheelchair, looked the same as everyone else.

  As soon as they had changed, the members of the community sat down quietly and waited. Damian and Jasper remained at their machine guns as Miles and Greg returned to the dais. Once they were seated, Nigel moved to the lectern with a sheaf of notes.

  He surveyed the sea of grey below him. ‘Today’, he began, pausing for effect, ‘is the beginning of a new era at Haver. Almost a year ago you walked into my park. You were starving, and had I not taken you in, you would have perished. It was my stockpile of food which got you through the winter and then, as spring approached, it was I who organised you.’

  ‘We organised ourselves,’ Fergus whispered.

  Nigel paused for a moment, distracted. There was a shuffling sound from the direction of Jasper’s machine gun. Nigel glowered at them, daring anyone to speak again.

  ‘So how has my generosity been rewarded?’ he asked, pausing before he went on to answer his own question. ‘Some of you, I’m told, are thinking that maybe in the spring you might desert this community and swan off to pastures new.

  ‘Well, that is not going to happen. It was fate that the Chatfield dynasty survived the pandemic, and it was fate that brought you to Haver and placed you under my protection.

  ‘We no longer have electricity, fuel, oil or the other goods and services that were previously taken for granted. Neither do we have the population to re-create or support modern technologies. We are therefore forced to rely upon the practices that existed when Haver was first built.

  ‘And for Haver to function smoothly, we must revert to the system of administration that supported the estate’s efficient operation. I am therefore issuing the following decrees:

  ‘With immediate effect, I am assuming the position of Lord of the Manor — and as your Lord you will belong to me. My title is Lord Chatfield of Haver. You will address me as “Your Lordship”.’

  A murmur of dissent swept through the hall.

  ‘I will not be interrupted,’ Nigel shouted. Gradually the noise abated. ‘My sons will be the only persons permitted to bear arms. As bearers of arms, they are Knights, and you will address them respectively as Sir Jasper, Sir Damian, Sir Miles and Sir Greg.’

  A satisfied smirk spread across Damian’s face.

  ‘As your Lord, I will be responsible for all decisions, together with the administering of justice. My sons are responsible for ensuring that my decisions are enacted and obeyed.

  ‘The existing laws of England remain in force, supplemented by new laws, of which I will inform you shortly.

  ‘Locking up criminals and feeding them while they do nothing is a waste of resources. In future all crimes will be punished with hard labour.’

  As another murmur of disquiet swept through the hall, Duncan rose to his feet.

  ‘Ah yes, Duncan Steed,’ Nigel observed. ‘You will have an opportunity to speak shortly. In the meantime sit down.’

  Duncan, tugging nervously at his beard, hesitated.

  ‘Sit down, unless you want a bullet in your back!’ Damian yelled from the back of the Great Hall.

  Duncan sat down.

  ‘Very little of any credit ever came out of the American judicial system,’ Nigel continued, ‘but one innovation that had merit was their three-strike system, a system I therefore intend to adopt. Serious crimes will result in a strike being recorded against your name. Once you have three strikes, you will be executed.’

  Agitated whispers swept through the hall, and family members looked at one another in disbelief.

  ‘If you do commit a serious crime, and so that everyone can be reminded you are a criminal, you will be branded. So that the simpletons among you can remember how you’re doing,’ he sneered, ‘you will be branded as appropriate with the numbers one, two and three. Once you receive the number three you will be executed within twenty-four hours.

  ‘Minor offences will result in hard labour. The Steed family have kindly built us a treadmill. If you commit a minor offence your family will operate the treadmill for seven days, unl
ess another family commits a minor offence in the meantime, in which case they will relieve you.

  ‘Major offences, which will result in an automatic three strikes, and therefore execution within twenty-four hours, are murder and rape.

  ‘Offences that will incur a single strike and a branding include: assault, theft, leaving the park without permission, allowing the treadmill to stop, and unauthorised sexual liaison.’

  The younger members of the community began muttering. Fergus held his finger up to his temple, suggesting that Nigel was mad.

  ‘Other serious offences include sedition, insurrection and the holding of, or partaking in, religious services.’

  Again whispers swept through the hall, this time the consternation being led by Aunt Margaret.

  ‘Religion’, Nigel declared, ‘has been the scourge of mankind. It has been the cause of most wars. There is no place for religion in the new order.

  ‘Minor offences — offences which will incur a week on the treadmill — include: failure to wear the uniforms you have just been provided with, insubordination and dereliction of duty.’

  Nigel finished so abruptly that it took the community by surprise. He gathered his papers and walked back towards his seat.

  Slowly Duncan rose to his feet again. ‘Nigel …’ he began.

  ‘Ah yes — Duncan Steed,’ Nigel sneered, as he sat down on his huge chair. ‘Approach the dais.’

  Duncan did not move.

  ‘Sir Greg, Sir Miles — bring him to the dais,’ Nigel snapped.

  Miles and Greg, following their father’s instructions, walked down the hall and took Duncan by the arms. Several members of his family jumped to their feet.

  ‘Sit down,’ Jasper shouted from the Minstrel Gallery. Everyone looked up and saw him swinging the machine gun across the room. They hesitated.

  ‘Or else,’ Damian called excitedly.

  ‘Sit down, everybody,’ Duncan said quietly, nodding to his family. He walked up to the dais and stood before Nigel.

  ‘What do you want to say?’ Nigel asked, as if he were a headmaster addressing a naughty child.