by MARY HOCKING
Anita, recognising a situation from which her brother would not extricate himself easily, said briskly, ‘Well, then, we’ll look forward to seeing you all tomorrow, about noon.’
‘You’re sure you’ll find the way?’ Frances asked.
‘There and back,’ Nicholas assured her. ‘I’ll call tomorrow at nine o’clock to help with the shopping.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. That will leave Thomas free to go for a walk with Andrew, who does like to spend some time with him.’ She opened the front door and began to rephrase her thanks, but Nicholas, scenting freedom, walked into the night.
‘Thank you for the cocoa,’ Anita said, moved to fellow feeling by the look of baffled resentment on Frances’s face.
‘Not a saint after all,’ she said to Nicholas as they made their way into the wood. ‘Just a Rapunzel in need of rescue. So what about it? You are a mountaineer and she has the rope.’
‘Don’t be silly, Annie.’
‘Are you afraid those tresses might bind you?’ She continued in mock dramatic vein while they climbed slowly upwards; then, needing to recover breath, turned to look to where the house lay beneath them. ‘Even now, she’s probably sitting by her bedroom window, brushing her hair and casting spells.’
Nicholas, who had been glancing from side to side as he walked as though searching for something, turned, and swinging her into his arms, lofted her into the fork of a broken tree. ‘I read a story once of someone being dropped into the trunk of a hollow tree from which they could never escape.’
Anita peered down at him, a latter-day Titania with twigs and dead leaves in her hair. ‘How very unpleasant. Is that what you wish on me?’
‘Who knows?’
His upraised face, pewter in moonlight, was indifferent and unfamiliar. It occurred to her there might be sacrifices he was prepared to make in order to protect himself.
‘You wouldn’t have the courage, Nicholas.’
‘Don’t put me to the test.’
How oddly courage and cowardice can be blended in one person, she thought, and said, ‘Why are you so afraid? She’s a little scrawny thing and I don’t suppose her spells are very strong.’
He turned and walked away. One minute he was there, the next the white trees blotted out his figure. Anita leant forward, looking for the easiest way down. Suddenly, she began to scream, ‘Pax, Nicholas, pax, pax . . .’ When he came back she was rocking from side to side on her perch, screaming. He hauled her down and she clung to him.
‘There was blood on the snow, Nicholas. When was it? Do you remember?’
‘No more nonsense.’ He urged her forward.
‘It happened. Don’t you remember? I looked down and there was blood on the snow.’
‘Look up instead of down.’ He was taking long strides, dragging her with him although she could barely keep her balance. ‘You won’t have many chances to see such a sky.’
‘I hate this place. Give me a street lamp any time.’
He went on as if she had not spoken, ‘The desert is best, of course . . .’
‘If the desert is best, how come they don’t know their good fortune, all these Arabs rolling up their tents and exchanging oil for sand?’
He pointed. ‘See that great mound of snow on that boulder? Just beyond it you’ll see the cottage.’
Sophia was waiting for them. She asked no questions about why they had been away so long, but gave each of them a hot toddy and a candle. As she went up the stairs, Anita wondered whether it was her imagination that the house smelt of gingerbread.
Sophia had been out to light the Calor gas stove in the shed so that the room would be warm when she went to bed. The flickering gas cast blue shadows, but when she came out and shut the door no light penetrated the shutters over the windows. The shed looked as if there were no entry to it, a closed, secret place; yet it was well timbered and capacious and in summer must have opened out welcomingly on to the garden.
Sophia stood for a moment looking around, wondering if the old fox had come yet for the food she always put out for him. He was nearing his end and she would miss him when he no longer dragged his weary way to her door. She could see the footprints made by Nicholas and Anita, and a series of little arrows made by a bird. The snow, crisp now, clotted the trees; the flowerpots foamed and the lawn was a great ice floe surrounding the cottage. An owl perched motionless on the post of the garden gate.
She went round to the back of the cottage and into the scullery. Snow, melted from the boots that had been abandoned there, was now turning to ice. She wiped her own boots clean and fetched a kettle which had been warming on the Aga. ‘We don’t want any broken hips this Christmas,’ she said to Tobias, who had come to complain because he was shut away from the bedroom. He slapped at her with an angry brown paw and she flicked the scrubbing brush at him. He walked away, lashing his tail and hissing at any obstacles in his path.
Once satisfied that she had taken reasonable precautions, Sophia went into the dining-room to set the table for breakfast. ‘You note we are eating in style tomorrow,’ she said to Tobias, who was sulking on the stairs. ‘So we must behave as if we knew how it was done. We have let things go a bit, you and I.’
When she had finished, she sat for a while in the kitchen, enjoying the hunched-down feel of a household under snow. ‘This is a good time,’ she said, stroking Tobias. ‘A time when people are grateful for comforts they usually take for granted.’ He bit her hand.
She thought about the morning, not as Florence might, making mental checks on provisions, but about the people who would come. Terence, in particular. Florence had made it sound as if he were no more than an escape route – from what, or whom, did Florence think her daughter was escaping? It would be interesting to meet the man on whom the beautiful Anita had bestowed herself. Then there was Andrew. She was glad that he would be here – there should always be children on Christmas Eve and in snow; children are so much better at celebrating than adults. She hoped Nicholas would take the boy out, carrying him on his shoulders through the wood, the erl-king and his child. The thought made her laugh. Her own pointed face, with the wide-spaced eyes which seemed always to glance askew and the smile like a slice of melon, had an elfin quality, but this was tempered by the broad, flattened nose which had a peasant robustness that earthed the humour.
The clock in the hall struck midnight. ‘If you are very good I will take you up to Konrad,’ she said to Tobias. She went into the hall and paused for a moment outside the sitting-room. There was no sound. Nicholas, however restless his spirit, was a quiet sleeper. Sophia climbed to the landing, placing her feet carefully, knowing every creaking tread; there the house divided, three bedrooms to the left at the front of the house and to the right, two steps down to one bedroom, the bathroom and a store cupboard. Konrad had been given the isolated bedroom because it was near the bathroom. She found him sitting by the fire. The night seemed to be his best time; a fact which Florence could not accept because it was contrary to medical experience. She considered this preference for the night to be yet another instance of Konrad’s perversity. Sophia made no remonstrance, but seated herself on the hearth rug, knees drawn up. Tobias burrowed beneath the eiderdown.
‘It must have been a hard journey,’ she said.
‘All our journeys are hard; mine has been no worse.’ He frowned. ‘That sounds ungrateful. There has been much for which to be grateful.’
Sophia took the poker to one of the logs, turning it to break the wood until the log fell apart and flames spurted up.
‘Will it make things hard for you that it should happen here?’ he asked.
‘Where else? And it’s time Florence came. We got on so well as children I used to think she was part of me. I remember Aunt Winifred saying, “It must be marvellous to have that lovely companionship available for life.” I suppose at that age our differences didn’t show – or didn’t matter.’ She gazed into the fire, chin on knees. ‘It’s only when we get older that it matters tha
t other people are different.’
‘It matters a great deal to Florence. She has so many certainties.’
‘Certainty may not be good for us, do you think – not food? I wonder whether we’d grow at all if we lived in certainty.’
‘I couldn’t say. It’s something I’ve never had. And I’m not likely to have it now, am I?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure of that. You may be nearer to it than any of us.’
‘But I don’t know what I want to be certain about. Whereas Florence will go to her Maker with a list ready prepared.’
Sophia looked at him, studying the face in the firelight, which had the appearance of being eaten into by the flames. ‘You will go with other things, more important,’ she said softly.
They sat in silence, both gazing into the fire, then Konrad said, ‘She doesn’t know, does she, Sophia?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Will she have to?’
‘She may.’ She put her hand on his knee. ‘ “And it came to pass . . .” I always find that a very potent phrase, don’t you? “And it came to pass that when Konrad was dying, Florence chose to spend that Christmas with her sister, Sophia.” ’
Chapter Two
A bitter wind swirled up the high street, scything through the group of people huddled outside the closed door of Barclays Bank. A fair-haired man with the dimpled, pampered face of a baroque putto banged on the door.
‘We’ve already done that,’ a woman said, aggrieved by this presumption.
The door opened and the head of a young man appeared.
‘Don’t fool around like a ventriloquist’s dummy,’ the fair-haired man said in a high, petulant voice. ‘Get this door open.’
The head announced that there had been a bomb scare; the staff had been given fifteen minutes to clear the premises, so it was not possible to admit customers.
This was greeted with a storm of protests about cash needed for last-minute Christmas purchases and the necessity of paying in takings. ‘Barclaycard won’t be pleased,’ one man said. ‘I’m not going to pay interest just because you haven’t passed on my cheque.’
The head was withdrawn and after a few moments was replaced by the whole body of another man, chunky, leather-jacketed. He closed the door behind him and leant against it, in the manner of a sheriff keeping a lynch mob at bay.
The fair-haired man said, ‘May I introduce myself? I am Terence Palmer, one of your customers. You have my money. I have a long journey to make. Although you may not have noticed it, the weather is worsening by the minute and it is imperative that I start soon.’
The young man said, ‘On your bike, then.’
‘I shall report you to the manager.’
‘You do that.’
‘Safeways had a scare last week,’ a woman said. ‘We had to stand around in the rain for over an hour and then they didn’t find anything.’
‘Who would want to do a thing like this on Christmas Eve?’ an old man asked Terence.
‘Someone from the Nat West, perhaps?’
A man in a blue raincoat pushed through the crowd and was immediately admitted by the leather-jacketed sentry.
‘He the bomb squad?’ a woman asked.
‘No, local CID. He come round when our shop was burgled. They won’t call the bomb squad ’less they find a package.’
Terence, who was short, stood on tiptoe to peer through the nearest window. The staff were assembled at the far end of the foyer, looking bored and irresolute. The man in the blue raincoat had disappeared and there seemed to be little activity.
‘They catch them? The blokes what done your shop?’
‘No. Just brought back a lot of empty bottles. “What’s this for?” I asked. “Don’t you have a dustbin at the police station?” ’
A queue had formed in front of the cash dispenser. Terence joined the queue, reflecting grimly that it would be much longer by the time he had finished. He was never able to remember his pin number; he knew that there were two sevens, a four and a one, but had difficulty assembling them in the right order. Today, the machine was out of patience; by the time he had tried three combinations, it told him to see the manager and confiscated his card, Terence thumped the machine. It had begun to snow heavily,
‘College lecturer arrested trying to break into cash dispenser,’ an amused voice said at his elbow.
Terence turned to see one of the administrative staff from the training college smiling archly at him.
‘Darling Jenny!’
‘Amanda, actually.’
‘Gorgeous, heaven-sent Amanda, have you any money?’
‘I will have, if you haven’t damaged the machine.’
‘Could you be so full of Christmas goodwill as to get fifty pounds for me? I haven’t enough petrol and by now I should be half-way, to this God-forsaken place where I’m spending the festive season.’
‘Fifty pounds for petrol? Where can you be going?’
‘There may be extras, like finding accommodation if I get stuck on the way, which seems more likely with every minute that passes.’
She inserted her card and tapped away efficiently. ‘There you are. Have a lovely Christmas.’ She handed him the money and murmured, ‘I may ask for interest.’
‘There is no way I’ll have a lovely Christmas. Not with Anita’s mother around.’ Snow was trickling down his neck and he felt the familiar onset of self-pity. ‘She’s one of those women who can never leave any object or person as she finds it. If you’re sitting quietly reading, she plumps herself down beside you and says, “Don’t put your book down, Terence, I don’t want to stop you reading,” and prattles on for the next half-hour. If you’re up and doing, it’s, “Working, Terence? This I don’t believe.” Last Christmas I got a shock changing a light bulb, thanks to her.’
‘Poor Terence.’
‘It will be like spending Christmas with a human sheepdog constantly snapping at your ankles.’
‘What about the rest of the family?’
‘Anita actually enjoys wrangling with her mother. Nicholas – the brother – will only be with us in his bodily manifestation; his spirit will be roaming free in some desert region. The father is dying.’
‘Really dying?’
‘Yes, yes, people do, you know. They really do shuffle off this mortal coil. Anita and her mother and Nicholas are unable to accept this – but it does happen. In fact, knowing this family, it will probably happen on Christmas Day.’
‘Well, at least Anita will have you to comfort her.’ Her voice had become tart. Terence, watching her walk away, reflected on the general absence of charity.
Florence and Anita were working together in the kitchen. Florence sat upright on a stool, back straight, the great shelf of her breast creating the illusion of a flat stomach. She had long ago decided that attention to posture was essential for a fat woman. One must be thrusting, positive, never a suggestion of apology; every movement, the smallest gesture, must be executed with the precise perfection of the ballerina, and, above all, the head must be held high. This had now become so natural to her that she had no idea of the studied elegance with which she cracked another egg. Anita, unable and unwilling to compete with her mother’s vitality, was content to present a picture of languid abandon, her face lemon pale beneath the brilliant hair, her limbs seemingly reluctant to meet the small demands made on them. ‘I think I must have been a slave in one of my earlier existences.’
‘I doubt that your owner got much out of you.’
‘There were slaves and slaves. I wouldn’t have been the willing kind. A little bit of smouldering, I think, would have suited me. You do realise you’re using all the eggs?’
‘Nicholas is bringing a further supply. Sophia says there’s never any difficulty getting eggs hereabouts.’
‘And particularly not now when they come with a health warning.’
‘I’m not scrambling them. Egg nog can’t hurt anyone.’
‘On the contrary, uncooked egg is abou
t the worst thing . . .’
‘People will want a nice warming drink which they can have without worrying about driving.’
‘Adding eggs and cream to whisky doesn’t make it any less potent.’
‘It neutralises the effect,’ Florence said with cheerful firmness.
‘At the end of this party, those who aren’t laid low with salmonella will be arrested for driving while under the influence.’
They continued in this vein for some time, neither taking the other seriously; instances of real bad feeling were rare between them. Florence worked quickly and untidily, dropping eggshells on to the table and occasionally the floor. She shouted instructions to Anita, who obeyed at her leisure. ‘Cut the French bread into pieces – even you can do that at a reasonable speed. Then you can cut the cheeses.’
‘What’s wrong with letting them help themselves to cheese?’
‘They’d make pigs of themselves. The last party I gave at home, one man ate all the Brie.’
‘If the egg doesn’t do for them, the Brie will,’ Anita said, cutting the French bread.
Florence poured the last of the egg nog into a cracked earthenware jug of some antiquity. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t have any of this; just keep it for the visitors. We’ll serve it out here, then they needn’t see where it’s come from.’
‘It does look rather like one of those pots people dig up on archaeological expeditions, doesn’t it?’
Florence rubbed her hands down her thighs to dry them. ‘We’ll have coffee now, shall we?’
‘What is Sophia doing while we’re wrecking her kitchen?’
‘She’s sitting with your father.’
‘Shouldn’t you be doing that?’
‘One thing about an Aga, it does keep things beautifully warm.’ Florence poured coffee.
‘I said . . .’
‘Yes, I heard what you said. He’s asleep.’ She sat on a stool and looked out of the window as she sipped the coffee. ‘It’s beginning to snow again. I hope Nicholas will come straight back. It would be just like him to waste time playing games with this child – what’s his name?’
