by Ann Granger
‘Good job I’m able to earn my living, wouldn’t you say?’ Meredith pointed out.
Aunt Lou looked glum. ‘It was different in my day. Mind you, I’m not saying everything’s for the worse. Lots of girls married in haste and repented at leisure then because they were afraid of being left on the shelf. But now it’s all divorce and even the married ones carry on in a very odd way. I read about it in my newspaper. That woman upstairs,’ Aunt Lou’s walking stick made an aggressive stab at the ceiling. ‘Men coming and going. Lost count of ’em. And take Mr Ballantyne next door – he’s a very nice, well-mannered old gentleman, must be oh, seventy something.’
‘He’s got women coming and going?’ Meredith asked innocently.
‘Behave yourself!’ ordered Aunt Lou. ‘Of course he doesn’t.’
‘I saw a young woman leaving as I arrived, rather narrow face, nice clothes, looking cross.’
‘That will be his daughter, Felicity, I was about to tell you about her, don’t keep interrupting,’ said Aunt Lou sternly. ‘Mr Ballantyne comes in here sometimes for a glass of wine.’ Meredith knew Aunt Lou meant by this thick sweet sherry. ‘He’s a widower. Quite a wealthy man, I believe. He lives in that big house all on his own with a woman coming daily to clean and cook his lunch. He hasn’t done as I did and chopped his house in half. I wish I hadn’t. Such odd people upstairs and one has no control over who lives there. I was ill-advised.’
‘You couldn’t manage the whole house, Aunt Lou.’
‘Well, I could have made some other arrangement. However, I was telling you of Mr Ballantyne. He has just the one daughter and that girl has given him great cause for concern. He tells me about it. He likes someone to confide in. She married a very unsuitable fellow. I’ve seen him a few times and he’s never made a favourable impression on me! But he doesn’t come often, only when he wants Mr Ballantyne to put up the money for one of his schemes or projects, which Mr Ballantyne usually does for the sake of his daughter. It’s all wrong. Generally Felicity visits her father alone. No children. Poor Mr Ballantyne can’t make it out. He says that they more or less go their separate ways, Felicity and this green fellow she’s married to. He says it’s entirely the fault of the green man and he doesn’t approve of his ideas at all really and only backs them because of a natural wish to support his daughter. I’ve told him, he shouldn’t do it.’
‘I would have thought,’ Meredith murmured, ‘that as a life-long vegetarian, you’d approve of green ideas.’
‘What’s that?’ Aunt Lou hadn’t caught the words. ‘Mr Ballantyne is most unhappy. He’s thought of changing his will and his investments – but she is his only daughter. One understands that. The wine is in that sideboard, Meredith. Pour it out.’
They sipped at the sherry and Meredith presented the hand-embroidered handkerchiefs which were well-received. Wine disposed of, they proceeded to the kitchen where the bean casserole was making its presence known by a savoury odour.
‘I’ll take it out of the oven!’ Meredith said hastily, seeing Aunt Lou wrestling with walking stick, oven gloves and oven door. Privately she wondered how much longer the old lady could continue to live alone, even in this flat. But to wrench Aunt Lou from the home which had been hers for such a long time would be to kill her.
They ate in the kitchen. The bean casserole really wasn’t bad and was followed by a savoury because Aunt Lou did not believe in sweet puddings.
They sat gossiping in the afternoon. Meredith described Rose Cottage. Aunt Lou said it sounded very nice but to make sure the bed was aired because old places were often damp. She hoped Meredith would look after herself. She supposed Meredith still ate meat, which couldn’t be helped, ‘but according to the newspapers so many cows are going mad. Roger, I remember, had to deal with the tsetse fly and I suppose it’s something similar. It caused endless trouble because of all the bride-prices being paid in cattle. Meat-eating causes so many problems.’
They parted with expressions of mutual affection.
‘So nice of you to come and see me, dear. Do drive carefully,’ were Aunt Lou’s parting words.
Meredith stooped and kissed a faded cheek and smelled the sweet perfume of rose pot-pourri. Sadness swept over her. This might be her last visit. Even if she saw Aunt Lou again, the circumstances were likely to be much altered. Behind the old lady in the hall stood the little brass dinner gong, but even that looked much smaller than in memory. It was still brightly polished.
Meredith drove home to Pook’s Common. The visit intended to boost her morale had had a very different effect. It had reinforced her awareness of time racing by, running like grains of sand through your fingers.
Monday before Christmas and the sense of urgency had even reached Pook’s Common. Meredith supposed Harriet would be fully committed socially over the Christmas period but she wanted to offer some token of hospitality, so she went across the road after breakfast and asked if Harriet would like to come over to lunch.
‘Not that I’m a great cook, I’m not like you. It will be make-shift.’
‘That’s fine.’ Harriet smiled. ‘I’d like to.’
From the kitchen behind them came the sound of Mrs Brissett cleaning up vigorously and singing ‘The Holly and the Ivy’.
‘Mrs B. has got the Christmas spirit,’ said Harriet.
Meredith knew herself no cook but, inspired by the thought that even Aunt Lou at eighty-three could produce a bean casserole, she managed to produce leeks rolled in thin slices of ham, topped with a slightly lumpy cheese sauce. It was a dish which was one of her standbys if faced with a guest.
Harriet arrived with a bottle of wine. Away from her home ground she seemed surprisingly ill at ease at first, almost shy. She was polite about the leeks and lumpy cheese and said a similar thing could be done with endives and it looked at first as if the lunch was going to prove a slightly awkward affair. But then Meredith discovered that the way to get Harriet relaxed and talking was to introduce the topic of animals. Harriet tossed back her luxuriant mane of auburn hair, drank deeply of her wine and launched into tales of the ponies she had learned to ride on and grown up with, and of Blazer, her current horse. She did not talk much about people, once mentioning her cousin Fran in connection with a horsy narrative, but otherwise saying nothing about family or friends.
Beneath that assured exterior, thought Meredith, she’s vulnerable. Perhaps that was why she acted so aggressively sometimes. What had gone wrong? she wondered. A love affair which didn’t work out? A personal loss? A family quarrel? It would be interesting to know, but Harriet would never tell, that was clear.
They turned to the subject of Christmas and the festivities nearly upon them.
‘I’m not religious,’ Harriet said. ‘And I don’t go for the fancy decorations and general hoo-hah. I’m a sad disappointment to Mrs Brissett in that respect. She insists on tacking up a bit of tinsel and so on and I see she’s done the same for you. I just like the food and the booze and turning out on Boxing Day for the hunt. You must come along and see us move out.’
‘I might,’ Meredith said.
Harriet glanced at her watch. ‘Hell’s teeth . . . I promised Tom I’d be at the stables at two. I must dash. He’ll dive into a prolonged fit of the sulks again. Thanks for the lunch.’
As in the ballad, Tuesday was the night before Christmas. Christmas Eve, when the Victorians sat round and told ghost stories. When Meredith had been a child, her father always read A Christmas Carol aloud to his family on Christmas Eve. As a youngster she had always been truly terrified at the point in the narrative when Marley’s ghost clanked in.
She supposed she was feeling a bit down in the dumps, apprehensive too about celebrating Christmas Day at the Danbys. She peered at the Christmas cactus she had bought for Alan and decided it looked distinctly sorry for itself. It had looked all right in the shop. But it hadn’t flowered and as far as she could tell, had no intention of doing so. She also felt the tiniest bit muzzy and hoped that she hadn’t a cold co
ming on. In the end, she made herself a drink of hot milk with a dash of brandy and took it up to bed, taking along the hot water bottle for good measure.
Either it was the brandy or it was the heat, but she went out like a light. As sometimes happened she awoke equally suddenly. It was dark, dully, her hot water bottle was now a clammy unwelcome intruder in her bed, and it was quiet. Meredith pushed out the cold bottle and lay listening. Slowly she became aware that it wasn’t quiet at all. There were a dozen different kinds of squeaks, creaks, groans, clunks and rattlings. Mice? She hoped not. Old wood settling in changing temperature? Much more likely. Or the pookas, emerged on this Christmas Eve to make mischief?
Horse-like pookas, thought Meredith. Their symbolism must be ancient. Horses were a sacred beast once. All those carved white horses on chalk hillsides. Fertility symbols, also. Did the pooka bring good or bad luck? It was while she was trying to decide this one that she heard, or thought she heard, a faint clop of a hoof.
Meredith sat up in bed and listened. She had just decided it was imagination when there it went again. Clip-clop. Outside. In the night, in the darkness. She rolled over to see what time it was by the luminous numbers on the dock-radio. Just a little before two in the morning. Clip-clop. And now, faintly, a whinny.
A sudden chill rippled the length of her body from head to toes. She slid out of bed, reluctant but inexorably drawn to the window.
Outside the moon shone down brightly, casting a weird pale light over the cottages and the trees and fields beyond. The fields shimmered, unearthly silvered, the trees raised bare tormented arms to the sky. No lights showed at any windows. But half these cottages were empty anyway. So few people. Herself, Harriet, Joe Fenniwick and his wife and possibly the Haynes also, staying over. Six souls. All alone. The total population of Pook’s Common. Human population, anyway. Meredith’s breath had fogged the window and she rubbed a clear circle. That wasn’t good enough. She opened the window altogether and leaned out, shivering as the night air struck icy through her thin nightgown. She looked to the right, towards the junction with the B road. Nothing. She looked left, down towards Pook’s stables. Nothing. Right again . . . my God, there it was!
Scudding clouds had temporarily obscured the moon, but now they flitted aside and revealed against the horizon the black outline of a horse. It stood, head high, tail flowing, ears pricked, silhouetted against the silvery grey backdrop at the junction with the B road. As she watched, holding her breath, it reared up, threshed at the air with its forelegs, and then leapt away and was lost to her sight beyond a rise.
Meredith closed the window and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her knees felt weak and she was shaking. It was all very well to laugh at ancient superstitions by light of day and in company. All alone at dead of night was another matter. Pook’s Common. The place wasn’t called that for nothing.
Meredith went downstairs and made a cup of tea. She felt better afterwards. But she wouldn’t tell anyone what she thought she’d seen, least of all Alan. He’d think she was crazy. Or dreaming. But it hadn’t been a dream.
Christmas Day fell on the Wednesday. Meredith had told Markby she would rather like to attend Westerfield church on Christmas Day morning before going to Laura’s if he didn’t mind, so Markby drove out from Bamford after breakfast to accompany her. They walked there from Pook’s Common across frost-crisped fields.
It was too late to be worrying over any implications inherent in spending Christmas with the Danbys and now the day had dawned Meredith was rather pleased she was going to be with company, especially after her sighting of the whatever-it-was during the night. But the lingering memory of the ghostly horse and a nervousness which couldn’t be denied at the thought of meeting the Danbys made her feel more than a little awkward. Markby asked twice if she were cold and she knew he’d noticed and was politely trying to find out what was wrong. She assured him she was quite warm and felt fine, and silently hoped he didn’t think she was regretting her promise to spend Christmas with him and the Danbys. He probably did, but it couldn’t be helped. She was glad when Westerfield church hove into view and sensed that he was just as relieved.
The church was not in permanent use and had no resident vicar but it held occasional services and now at Christmas an elderly cleric in retirement had volunteered to conduct a sung Eucharist at nine-thirty with the help of a volunteer choir assembled from the Women’s Institute. A large number of people had turned out for it. Cars were parked all along the grass verge outside the church. People’s voices, exchanging Christmas greetings echoed on the clear air.
Markby nodded towards the line of people ahead of them on the flagged pathway to the church door. ‘Good turn-out.’
‘Glad it’s not raining.’
‘Should hold off.’
The weather to the rescue again.
The elderly cleric was standing in the doorway in his surplice to welcome them. He was indeed very old, white-haired, pink-cheeked and frail in appearance.
‘He ought not to be standing about in that cold church porch!’ muttered Meredith as they strode towards him.
They had reached him and he grasped their hands in turn and beaming, chirped, ‘Welcome, welcome!’
‘I think he’s enjoying himself,’ whispered Markby.
He sat back in his pew and looked around the church which the indefatigable ladies of the WI had transformed with flowers and holly sprays. There was even a Christmas tree set up by the altar.
‘Nice mixture of the Christian and the pagan,’ he observed casually. ‘I haven’t been in this church for years.’
Meredith was suddenly struck by the thought that a local man by origin, he might have married Rachel here in this very church. The possibility filled her with horror. Supposing in innocently requesting him to escort her today, she’d unwittingly committed a crass blunder? She peered cautiously at him.
He was now studying the crayoned pictures of the nativity by local children which were taped up on the pillars. From the nearest one Mary and Joseph stared out with large round eyes. The ox was very small in proportion to the adult figures, rather like a large dog with stubby horns. It was smiling. The donkey was as big as the ox and its ears were short like a pony’s. Its hooves were crayoned jet black and it looked oddly mischievous, slightly malicious. Pooka-like. Of the baby all that could be seen were two stiff arms poking up out of a manger well supplied with bright yellow straw.
‘What,’ asked Meredith hoarsely, ‘are you thinking about?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m uttering a private prayer that Laura’s children will be on their best behaviour for you. Let’s hope Matthew hasn’t been given any of those battery-operated toys which make irritating noises and Vicky doesn’t mangle everything.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ exclaimed Meredith in relief.
‘Why, what did you think I might be thinking about?’
‘Nothing. Well, I thought you might, you might know this church well and have personal, um, memories of it.’
‘Yes, I’ve got some of those. But all childhood ones. I haven’t been to a service here for years.’
Meredith experienced an absurd sense of relief. Not married here then. She was glad when someone, after a false start, struck up the organ. The WI choir plunged shrilly into voice. Markby hurriedly opened his hymnbook and burst into a stentorian ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, considerably disconcerting the old lady in front of him.
Next to him, Meredith made a feeble stab at joining in. She had warned him beforehand that she couldn’t sing, he recalled. She was right, he thought, as she got underway. She wandered all over the stave and produced a curious counterpoint to the tune. It wasn’t a question of singing flat, he decided, but of simply singing the wrong notes. He felt a new bond between them. He liked some music but generally wasn’t musical and was always slightly put off to find himself in the company of those who were. As the sopranos of the WI soared off into the upper atmosphere he began to feel for the first time that t
his Christmas had meaning. And it was nice to be here with her, of course.
Festivities at Laura’s house were already well underway by the time they arrived there. The lounge floor was a sea of discarded, brightly coloured wrapping paper. Matthew had acquired a tank which trundled over the carpet emitting small but sharp percussive explosions accompanied by a shower of sparks. Emma was experimenting with atonal motifs on a xylophone and Vicky had been given a doll but had pulled the arm off. She presented it trustfully to her Uncle Alan as he came in, to be mended. He tried to introduce Meredith, holding the broken doll and shouting above xylophone clamour and a relentless pop-pop from the toy tank.
‘Happy Christmas!’ yelled Laura happily. ‘Like a glass of sherry?’ She was wearing a jade green velour ‘leisure suit’ and her blonde hair was twisted up in a knot on top of her head. Long strands escaped and hung fetchingly round her flushed face. ‘Paul’s in the kitchen. He was up at the crack of dawn doing something unspeakable to the turkey, but the kids were up anyway. I made the brandy sauce for the pud but I think I’ve put too much brandy in it and now Paul won’t let me back in the kitchen. I’ll go and get the sherry. Make yourselves at home!’
She disappeared towards the dining room. Markby hastily jammed dolly’s arm back into its socket. ‘There you go, Vicky, don’t bust it up again, there’s a good girl. Give me your coat, Meredith. And, um, do you want to put down your bag?’
They had both of them brought mysterious plastic carrier bags about which they ostentatiously avoided asking one another.
‘It’s my presents,’ said Meredith. ‘Not much of interest, I’m afraid.’ She stared at him with defiant hazel eyes.
‘Oh, yes, well I . . .’
‘Sherry!’ announced Laura reappearing with a tray. ‘Paul will join us in a minute.’
Meredith delved in her plastic bag and produced a bottle of wine and – because she had not been sure whether her hostess drank – a box of chocolates.
‘Oh, lovely!’ said her hostess who showed every indication of drinking like a fish, grabbing the wine. ‘And chocolates, super.’
