Twelve Days of Christmas

by Trisha Ashley

  January, 1945

  When Becca had gone (with a big wedge of foil-wrapped cake in her coat pocket), I finally had time to take another look around the house, Merlin at my heels. He had taken to following me about so closely now that if I stopped suddenly, his nose ran into the back of my leg. It felt quite cold and damp even through my jeans; generally a healthy sign in a dog, if not a human.

  I wanted to familiarise myself with the layout and especially with the position of anything that might be valuable, and make sure that I hadn’t missed any windows last night when locking up. I would mainly be living in the kitchen wing, unless the urge suddenly came upon me to watch the TV in the little morning room. . Though actually, I’d really taken to the sitting room, vast though it was, so I might spend some time there once I’d lit a fire.

  I can’t say I found any valuables, apart from a pair of tarnished silver candlesticks and an engraved tray on the sideboard in the dining room, and a row of silver-framed photographs on the upright piano at the further end of the room.

  When I lifted the lid of the piano I was surprised to find it was only slightly out of tune and I wondered who still played it. I picked out the first bit of ‘Lead Kindly Light’ (a hymn Gran taught me to play on her harmonium), which echoed hollowly around the room. It was a lovely instrument, but in the event of a fire I’d be more inclined to snatch up the silver than heave the piano out of the window.

  Closing it, I examined the photographs, most quite old and of family groupings — weddings, picnics, expeditions in huge open-topped cars — all the prewar pleasures of the moneyed classes.

  At the end of the row was a more recent colour picture of two tall, dark-haired young men, one much bigger, more thick-set and not as handsome as the other, though there was an obvious resemblance. The handsome one was smiling at whoever held the camera, while the other scowled — and if this was Jude Martland and his brother, then I could guess which was which, even after speaking to the man once!

  The library held a very mixed selection of books, including a lot of old crime novels of the cosy variety, my favourite. I promised myself a lovely, relaxing time over Christmas, sitting beside a roaring fire with coffee, chocolates and cake to hand, and Merlin and the radio to keep me company.

  The one wall free of bookshelves was covered with more old photographs of family and friends — the Martlands were easy to pick out, being mostly tall and dark — but also of men strangely garbed and taking part in some kind of open-air performance. It might have been the Twelfth Night ceremony Sharon mentioned, in which case it looked to me like some innocuous kind of Morris dancing event.

  The key to the French doors in the garden hall was on my bunch and I let myself out into the small walled garden, after pulling on an over-large anorak. If this belonged to Jude Martland, then he was a lot bigger than me — about the size of a grizzly bear, in fact!

  The garden had a schizophrenic personality: half being overgrown and neglected, with roses that had rambled a little too far and encroaching ivy; while the other was a neat array of vegetable and fruit beds. The large, lean-to greenhouse against the back of the barn could have done with a coat of paint, but inside all was neat and tidy, with tools and pots stowed away under benches or hung up on racks, and a little hidey-hole at the end behind a sacking curtain where Henry hung out, though it was currently vacant. He had a little primus stove, kettle, mug and a tin box containing half a packet of slightly limp digestive biscuits and some Yorkshire Tea bags.

  I went back indoors, shivering. It was definitely getting colder and if we did get ice and snow, as the forecast for next week had hinted we might, I was sure that the steep road down from the village would quickly become impassable and we’d be cut off. This was a situation that had often befallen me in Scotland, so I wasn’t particularly bothered by the idea, though I made a note to check that I had all the supplies in the house that I needed, just in case. I could call in at the lodge and make sure they were well prepared too.

  Upstairs I wanted to check on the attic, but the door to that was locked and I didn’t have the key — which would be unfortunate if the pipes or water tank leaked or froze! But perhaps it had been entrusted to Noël for emergencies and I made a mental note to ask.

  I stopped by my bedroom to hang up the rest of my clothes and stack the books I’d brought and my laptop and cookery notes on a marble-topped washstand, ready to take downstairs later. Gran’s little tin trunk looked right up here, the sort of thing a servant might once have had. . I sat on the edge of the bed and flicked through the first journal until I found where I had left off reading last night: the next few entries seemed to increasingly mention the new patient. .

  Firmly resisting the urge to skim, I closed the book: I was enjoying slowly discovering my gran through her journals every evening, a couple of pages at a time, and didn’t want to rush that.

  ‘Come on, Merlin,’ I said, gathering up my books and stuff for downstairs, and he uncoiled himself from the little braided rug at the end of the bed and followed me.

  I dumped everything in the kitchen then checked out the cellar, where I was happy to see a whole wall of dry logs and kindling for the sitting-room fire and the boiler burbling quietly away. The wine cellar door was locked of course, but funnily enough, Jude Martland seemed to have overlooked the drinks cabinet with its decanters of spirits and bottles of liqueur in the dining room, so if the urge did uncharacteristically take me to render myself drunk and disorderly, the means were freely to hand.

  But this was unlikely: I like to be in control way too much!

  By the time we emerged back up into the kitchen, Merlin had begun to heave long-suffering sighs, so I put some dog biscuits from an open packet into his bowl and had a lunch of bread, cheese and rich, chunky apricot chutney from a jar I’d brought with me, before checking up on the provisions.

  The kitchen cupboards were well stocked, though some of the food looked as if it hadn’t been touched for months. The tall fridge contained butter, eggs, bacon and an awful lot of cheese left by Mo and Jim, plus the few perishable items I’d brought with me. Mo and Jim obviously liked to go the whole hog at Christmas, because as well as the gigantic turkey and a ham joint in the freezer, there was a pudding the size of a small planet, jars and jars of mincemeat and even some of those expensive Chocolate Wishes (like a delicious fortune cookie) that are made in Sticklepond, a village near where I live.

  The biggest freezer was packed with game, meat and fish, and the other contained an array of bread, pizza, chilli and a whole stack of instant meals of a sustaining nature: these probably formed the owner’s staple diet, in which case gourmet he was not. What with those and a very plentiful supply of tea bags, coffee, longlife milk and orange juice, I was starting to get the hang of what Jude Martland lived on when he was home!

  I noted down anything I thought I might run out of, which the village shop could probably supply, but I was unlikely to starve to death any time soon.

  Merlin, bored, was now fast asleep in his basket by the Aga — sweet!

  I chopped up a carrot and took it out to Lady, dropping a bit down for Billy, who was scrabbling at the fence with frantic greed. Lady has lips like softest velvet and, although her coat is snowy white, oddly enough the skin under it is black.

  When the carrot had all gone, she and her odoriferous little friend wandered back up the paddock and I went to check the level of oil in the huge tank in the outbuilding (satisfyingly full), and had a look at the generator. This was a dauntingly large piece of machinery but apparently should switch itself on if the mains electricity fails, then back off again when it returns. The Homebodies folder did mention that if it didn’t turn on automatically, you had to come out here and do it manually. .

  I was just leaning over it, examining the switches, when a voice suddenly rasped behind me, ‘You don’t want to mess with that there bit of machinery, gurl!’

  I whipped round, startled, to find I had company in the shape of an elderly man, sma
ll and thin, with long limp wisps of snuff-coloured hair on either side of his cadaverous face. He was holding a bulging sack in one hand and a slightly threateningly raised stick in the other. I have seen more prepossessing old men.

  ‘Women shouldn’t meddle with what they don’t understand.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be Henry, would you?’

  He nodded. ‘My daughter ran me up to fetch a few taters and carrots. And you’re the gurl has come to look after the place, instead of Jim and Mo?’

  The tone of his voice left me in no doubt that this was not, in his opinion, a good exchange. In fact, I was beginning to find Jim and Mo Chirk a hard act to follow: they seemed to have made themselves very popular with everyone in previous visits!

  ‘I haven’t been described as a girl for years,’ I said pleasantly, ‘and I’m actually one of Homebodies’ most experienced house-sitters.’

  ‘You’re a grand, strapping lass, I’ll allow that,’ he conceded, ‘but all the same, you shouldn’t meddle with the generator. I showed Jim the way of it, but I’m not having it messed about by any Tom, Dick or Harry.’

  ‘Thomasina, Richenda or Harriet?’ I suggested and he looked at me blankly. ‘If the electricity goes off and it doesn’t switch itself on, then I’ll have to know how to do it, won’t I?’

  ‘Nay, you leave it to them as knows what they’re doing.’

  ‘Meaning you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you might not be around when I need to switch it on — perhaps we’ll get snowed in, and then what would I do? But don’t worry, Mr Martland left instructions and it looks perfectly simple.’

  ‘You don’t want to tinker with it,’ he insisted obstinately.

  We seemed to have reached an impasse. I said calmly and perfectly politely, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s part of my job to keep the place in good running order, so if I have to run the generator, I will: after all, I can’t be expected to sit in the dark in a cold house over the Christmas holidays, can I?’

  He gave me a look of deep disfavour, but seemed eventually, after much rumination, to accept the logic of my argument. ‘I can see you’re a stubborn, determined creature, just like Jude, who always thinks he knows best. . Well, I suppose I’d better show you the way of it, then, but you’re not to touch it unless you can’t get hold of me, mind?’

  ‘Certainly,’ I agreed, and we shook hands on it, though since he spat into his palm first, it was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever had to do while maintaining a polite expression.

  I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about really with the generator, it was quite simple. Then Henry said his daughter was waiting and hobbled off with his sack of booty and I went indoors and washed my hands with bacteria-busting hand gel.

  I fully intended raiding his vegetable plot myself, but I would be scrubbing everything well before cooking it, because I wouldn’t put it past him to pee on the compost heap like a lot of old gardeners — if not worse.

  Once I’d thawed out, I cleaned out the hearth in the sitting room and laid a fire, fetching up kindling and logs from the cellar in an ancient-looking wicker basket. I only hoped the chimney had been recently swept, because setting the place on fire would probably be the end of my home-sitting career. But luckily the smoke drew upwards, rather than billowed out, and no clouds of soot descended.

  Once it was going well I set the brass fireguard in front of it, then opened all the unlocked doors in the house to let the warm air circulate through — old houses could quickly get musty if you didn’t keep them aired.

  I settled down for a nice rest in front of the sitting-room fire once I’d done that, with a good, strong pot of tea and another slice of my slightly depleted fruit cake to hand.

  I felt I deserved a break: there was quite a bit to do at Old Place compared to some other house-sits, though I was sure I’d soon fall into a routine with the animals now I’d got the hang of it. Then the rest of the time would be my own. . except that I really would have to clean this lovely room if I intended spending much time in here!

  I’d been half-expecting Jude Martland to ring again much later in the day, but it was typical of the man I was beginning to know that he should instead call just as I’d finally sat down for a rest! The phone in here was on a round table by the window, too, with only a hard chair next to it.

  This time he was fractionally more conciliatory, presumably because he’d read my glowing references from satisfied clients, and I was determined to keep my cool.

  ‘Miss Brown, I don’t think I thanked you yesterday for stepping into the breach at such short notice,’ he began stiffly.

  ‘Mrs — and of course I understood that you were concerned that your house and animals were being taken care of by a total stranger. But you can rest easy: everything is perfectly under control and your Aunt Becca came here and gave me some excellent advice about Lady, as well as her phone number, should anything crop up.’

  ‘Oh good!’ He sounded relieved. ‘You did put Lady’s medicine in her warm mash last night, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And kept Billy away from it until she’d eaten it?’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said, though it had been quite a tussle to stop Billy diving into the bucket before Lady was finished. ‘Lady’s fine. And your gardener, Henry, helpfully showed me what to do if the electricity goes off and the generator doesn’t come on automatically.’

  ‘Henry told you?’ he repeated incredulously.

  ‘Of course! He could see the necessity, in case he wasn’t available to come to Old Place and deal with it himself. And I mean to walk into Little Mumming tomorrow, so I’ll call in to see your aunt and uncle at the lodge to ask them if they need any shopping. So you see, you’ve nothing to worry about and can enjoy your holiday,’ I finished kindly.

  ‘It’s not entirely a holiday: there was a ceremony to unveil one of my sculptures yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve seen that horse you did up on a hill near Manchester and it’s very nice.’

  ‘Nice? Do try not to sound too impressed,’ he said, seeming a bit miffed. ‘I’m supposed to be off to the Hamptons to stay with friends for Christmas tomorrow, but I don’t see how I can possibly relax and enjoy it when I know you’re alone at Old Place looking after everything — the weather can be bad up there, you know, Little Mumming is often cut off in winter.’

  ‘So I’ve already been told — and really, the dimmest person would be able to appreciate that if the steep hill down from the village was icy, it would be impassable. But don’t worry, I’ve often been snowed in up Scotland and it’s not a problem.’

  ‘You don’t mind isolation then?’

  ‘No. In fact, I enjoy it. I have some work I want to finish off too — a book of house-party recipes I’m compiling.’

  ‘Yes, you said you were a cook,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Look, I know you said you didn’t celebrate Christmas, but I really think you might reconsider—’

  I could see he was about to ask me to cook the family Christmas dinner all over again, probably due to a suddenly guilty conscience, so I interrupted him quite firmly before he got going.

  ‘Mr Martland, I try to ignore Christmas as much as I can and also I recently lost the grandmother who brought me up. She was a Strange Baptist, so I wasn’t raised to think the worldly trappings of the season of importance in any case.’

  ‘What was strange about her being a Baptist?’ he asked, diverted.

  ‘Nothing. Strange Baptists were a breakaway sect at the turn of the century, though there aren’t that many of them left.’ I glanced out of the window. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, your uncle and niece have just arrived in a golf buggy, so I’d better go and let them in, there’s a biting wind out there.’

  ‘No, wait,’ he ordered, ‘go and fetch him to the phone, so I can speak to him. I—’

  ‘Call him yourself later, if you want to,’ I interrupted and put the receiver down. Cut off in his prime again. This
was getting to be a habit — but he was proving to be a most irritating man, especially that deep, rumbling voice: it was as disturbing as distant thunder!

  Chapter 8

  Deep Freeze

  The new patient’s leg is answering well to the penicillin but he teases me when I am changing his dressings and tries to make me laugh. . and sometimes succeeds, despite my best attempts to keep a straight face.

  January, 1945

  ‘We thought we would call in and see how you were getting on,’ Noël explained, ‘though Becca stopped briefly on her way home and said you were doing fine. But I wanted to return some books to the library in any case. Jude doesn’t mind my popping in and out, I’ve always had the run of the place. And Mo and Jim said they didn’t mind in the least, either.’

  ‘Of course, it’s your family home, so you must come and go as you please,’ I assured him.

  ‘Thank you, m’dear,’ he said, with his attractively lopsided smile, ‘only of course, now I have had to give up driving the car, the golf buggy is very chilly and really not up to winter weather conditions.’

  ‘I drove Grandpa up,’ Jess said. ‘I was bored and I like driving the buggy; only I’m not allowed to do it on my own.’

  Seeing she was looking wistfully at my slice of fruit cake I said, ‘Can I get you both some tea and perhaps a slice of cake? Mine has gone cold because your nephew just rang again, so I was going to make a fresh pot anyway.’

  ‘Oh, Jude got through?’ he asked. ‘What a pity we were not here in time to speak to him.’

  ‘I’m afraid he simply had to go. But I expect he’ll phone you back later.’

  ‘Very likely. . but we don’t want to disturb you if you are busy,’ he said, with a look at the pile of papers next to the easy chair.