Tidings of Comfort and Joy

by T. Davis Bunn

  "That's right. Wait a minute, okay?" She put down the phone, went over to the sink, and tore off a paper towel. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep breath, another, and forced herself to steady. Then she picked up the phone and said, "I want you to do something for me. I want you to go out and have a great time."

  Hearing she was back in control gave him the strength to breathe hard, and say, "Okay."

  "I mean it. You have to have a double good time, one for you and one for me. You have to do everything. Do you hear me? The only way I'll know anything about it is from what you tell me."

  "Dad gave me a camera for Christmas. He said I needed to take pictures for you."

  "Lots and lots of them." She wiped away the tears that continued to spill over. "And remember everything you see, okay? Because when you come home you have to tell me."

  "Okay, Sis. I'll try."

  "I love you, Buddy."

  "I love you, too. I wish you were here. It's not the same. Nothing is."

  "I know. Put Momma back on, okay?"

  In just a few seconds Carol was asking, "How are you feeling?"

  "Tired. But Gran is taking good care of me."

  "I'm sure she is. You're here with us, honey. We hold you close in our hearts."

  "I love you, too, Mom. And I'm so sorry."

  "There's nothing to be sorry for. It's all behind us, all right? You just stay busy getting well."

  Marissa waited until the tears had stopped before going back upstairs. Gran was in the same position she had been in when Marissa left. But as she climbed back into bed, she heard a quiet voice say, "I'm very proud of you, honey. You did the right thing."

  "I was just awful," she said, then bit down hard, because she didn't want the tears to start back.

  "Well, it's okay now." Gran rolled over in her little bed. "Are you sleepy?"

  "No, not really. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

  "It doesn't matter. Old folks don't need sleep like young people do. Would you like some hot chocolate?"

  Suddenly that sounded like the best thing in the whole world. "Oh yes. And would you tell me what happened next?"

  "Of course I will." Gran rose to her feet, turned on the lamp, and smiled at Marissa across the room. "I'll be right back."

  GRAN'S STORY

  On the last day of the year, they finally let me out of the clinic. I felt much better by then, and had been asking them to release me for several days. But they refused, supposedly because I had nobody to look after me if the fever returned. I think it was also partly because they wanted to punish me for refusing to answer their questions.

  I felt eyes follow me out of the ward, down the hall, and into the front lobby. They had called for the village's only taxi to come and take me, because I was still too weak to carry my bags very far, and because I didn't know where Grant's house was. None of the nurses or the doctor had much to say to me while I waited. I signed the papers and sat on the hard wooden bench, my cases at my feet, and knew that they were irritated with how I had refused to feed their curiosity.

  The taxi driver finally came in, a gnarled and knobby little man who doffed his cap and proudly displayed his remaining four teeth. "Down to Wharfe Lane, are you, Miss?"

  "I think so, yes." Grateful to be leaving the stares and the whispers behind, I followed him outside. After being cooped up inside for so long, the snow-covered lane and the crisp winter air and the billowing storm clouds overhead seemed strangely invigorating. Then I glanced in the direction we were headed, and I stopped to stare at his vehicle.

  "Never seen a gas bag, then." He wheezed a chuckle as he heaved the cases into the front compartment. "Ain't too many of them still about, but this one's served me well. My engine's been set to burn a lot of gas and just a little petrol. With that bag there, I can go almost a week on one tank. Petrol is easier to come by these days, but long as the rationing's still on, I'll keep her for safety's sake."

  The boxy little car was dwarfed by a great metal cage attached to its roof and sliding over its rear end. In this cage was stuffed a bulging black balloon. The cold wind buffeted the apparatus, causing the entire cab to shake and roll.

  He saw me into the backseat, offered me a thick horse blanket, then settled in front. "You'll like it down there, you will. Good sort, those folk. Like to know everybody's business, but that's village life for you."

  Just what I needed, I thought to myself, more curiosity hounds. As soon as he started off, I understood what the blanket was for. The car had heat, but it also had holes in the floorboards. My upper body was surrounded by the heater's oily fumes, but my feet and legs were freezing. Swiftly I wrapped the blanket around my legs, and planted one end under my shoes. "Is it very far?"

  "A fair piece, much as you can have and stay in the village. Wharfe Lane sits right down by the river's edge." He rattled on down the hill, and gave someone on the sidewalk a cheery wave. "Dropped a customer off this morning, had a chat with your landlady. She's a right one, old Rachel Ballard. Can't wait to be making your acquaintance."

  "I'll bet." I could just see her, fat and round as a butter ball, with a huge nose that she loved to stick into other people's business. There was no telling what Grant had told her.

  Then a thought struck me with a force that made my cheeks flame. What if I wasn't the first lost and forlorn little thing to show up at Grant's doorstep? What if the whole village was laughing behind their hands? Oh, look, there goes another of Grant's floozies, and this one all the way from America, can you imagine. I flipped the collar up on my coat, and buried my face out of view. Yes, I could just bet the landlady was looking forward to meeting me.

  The taxi took a sudden turn, and there at the bottom of the road was water. A large flowing stretch of it. "What is that?"

  "That?" My question caused the driver to laugh out loud. "Why, that's the River Thames, Miss. Didn't you know we're a river village?"

  "I suppose I did." Of course. The town's name was Arden-on-Thames. But I had no idea the river was so close. The road seemed to simply drop into the water. As we drew closer, I saw how it took a right-hand bend and went up to join with an old stone bridge.

  But the taxi did not follow the road around. Instead, it took a sharp turn to the left, down a tiny cobblestone lane. The alley was so narrow that no one could pass the taxi when its doors were opened.

  The driver pulled up and stopped. "Here we are, Miss."

  Hesitantly, I inspected my new home through the grimy window of the taxi. There was not much to see. The entire street was one long wall of two-story houses all joined together. They looked like the neatly painted brick tenements of a big city. But this was a small village, and tenements had no place here.

  "Fred, yoo-hoo, I say, Fred!"

  "There's your landlady now," the driver said, opening his door. He scrambled from the taxi and doffed his cap.

  "Fine morning, Miss Rachel."

  "Oh, it's not, it's cold and it's dreadful and you still haven't done a thing about that horrid floor of yours, have you?" The woman coming their way was limping heavily and leaning upon a cane. She stopped and huffed a moment, then finished, "Shame on you, Fred."

  The driver responded with another grin. "I put the blanket in like you said, Miss Rachel."

  "That's not good enough. It simply won't do." She started toward my side of the taxi. "To think our new arrival has been forced to rattle about our little town in such a condition!"

  I opened my door and rose to greet her. Only then did I realize how tall the woman was. She had to be over six feet in height. She was stooped somewhat, and she walked with difficulty, but still she had a regal bearing. And a grand light to her eyes.

  "Oh, my dear," she said. "If only I could have come up and gathered you myself. But the old banger caught a terrific cold last year and I still haven't managed to obtain the required parts." She frowned at Fred, as though it was all his fault. "A dreadful state, if you ask me."

  I was caught flatfooted. Th
e only thing I could think to say was my name. "I'm Emily Robbins."

  "Well, of course you are. And I should have been up to see you long before now. But I came down with the worst influenza, which of course was the last thing you needed breathed upon you. All sorts of germs are floating about these days. It's the cold, you know, they're predicting the worst winter since the last war."

  She gave her head an impatient shake. "Then when I was better, that new doctor we've been saddled with actually ordered me to stay well away from the clinic."

  She snorted her derision, which instantly warmed me to her. I didn't like the doctor either.

  Rachel went on, "I told him time and time again, the young lady needs a bit of company, especially over the Christmas holidays. But he kept going on about the new babies and such. He actually claimed he would bar the doors if I came up! Can you imagine such nonsense?"

  I decided I liked this tall, angular woman. Enough, in fact, to confess, "I was very lonely."

  The words brought a great ballooning of her emotional sails. "Well, of course you were." She hefted her cane and shook it fiercely. "I didn't half give him a piece of my mind, I can tell you that. But you see how much good it did. Nobody pays any attention to an old woman. Not these days."

  "There's a chill wind blowing down the lane, Miss Rachel," the driver pointed out.

  "Quite right, Fred. Come along, my dear. We mustn't be keeping you out here in your condition." She reached into the pocket of her shapeless sweater-coat and came up with a bundle of keys. A skeleton key almost four inches long was used to unlock the red door. "I came by this morning to light the heater and dust a bit. Couldn't manage more than that, I'm afraid. I'm only a few days out of bed myself, and all the energy I have has been spent up at the College. There's far too much that's gone undone while I've been lying abed, don't you know. Poor Colin can only see to so much on his own, and most of the others wouldn't know to wipe their own noses unless someone's there to tell them how."

  I did not understand what she was talking about, but decided it did not matter. Her voice was the nicest thing I had heard since stepping off the boat. I followed Rachel into a very small, very plain front room. It was not much warmer than outside. A disused fireplace stood empty and cold in one corner. Three high-backed chairs and a cracked side table were the room's only furnishings. I said doubtfully, "You didn't have to go to any trouble on my account."

  "Nonsense, of course I did." She flicked on the light switch, illuminating a single bulb in a white ceiling fixture. The room still looked faded and full of cold shadows. "Now I want you to give Fred here some money. Fred, go down to the shops and buy her some provisions." Her long age-spotted hands dived back into her pocket. "Here, I've made you out a list."

  "The rationing's still on, Miss Rachel."

  "Oh, stuff and nonsense. She has to eat, hasn't she? And how on earth is she supposed to have a ration card when she's been laid out in the clinic since she arrived?"

  Fred mulled that one over, then brightened. "I'll have the grocer put it on Mr. Grant's card."

  The saying of his name was like a knife stabbing straight to my heart. Rachel shot me a swift knowing glance, then said, "Of course you will. I should have thought of that myself. Tell Bob I'll drop the card by myself later on."

  "Right you are, Miss Rachel." The driver accepted my bill with another doffing of his cap. "I'll bring your cases up with the provisions, Miss. Don't you worry now, Miss Rachel will see you right, sure enough."

  The kind words and the unspoken knowledge behind them brought a burning to my eyes. Rachel's shrewd gaze caught that as well, for she turned me around and guided me to the stairwell. "Up here, my dear. Let me show you your new home."

  Home. Despite my best efforts to maintain control, sorrow was an overpowering vacuum that drew me in. So many dreams had been contained in that one word, home.

  I followed her up the stairs and down a narrow hallway. Upstairs, the house was warm and cozy. As we entered the front parlor, I swallowed the lump in my throat, and said, "It's very nice."

  And it was. The room was small but very tastefully appointed, with mahogany double doors and a matching built-in cupboard. The fireplace was black marble, with a mahogany mantel. The furniture was old and worn, but welcoming. Big windows and another mahogany door, this one with a glass centerpiece, looked out over a nice little balcony. Beyond the balcony flowed the river.

  There was no sign of Grant having ever been there. None at all. Suddenly I understood what Rachel had meant by a bit of dusting.

  "The structure itself is Victorian, designed and built around 1890. It was turned into a series of row houses about thirty years ago." Rachel stood in the center of the little parlor and surveyed it with a critical eye. "It's all rather in need of a dash of paint and a bit of work, I'm afraid."

  "It's wonderful. Really." I stepped to the window and looked out over the river. It flowed gray and silent beneath the blustering storm. The banks on the other side lay still and white. Hills rose into the lowering clouds, disappearing like quiet old men gathered beneath a floating veil. A sigh escaped from my heart. It would have made a lovely home.

  "Yes, the view is what makes this place so special."

  Rachel moved up beside me. Her natural effervescence was quietened. She looked out over the river and said confidentially, "We bought this place for our boy, Samuel. We lost him over Normandy."

  I turned from the river. "I'm so sorry."

  "The one good thing about it all, if I can call it that, was that my husband passed on the year the war began. Otherwise the loss of Samuel would have killed him stone dead, and I couldn't have managed the two losses at once." The lines on her face deepened, her tone dropped. "He was our only child, you see, and we had him rather late in life. A grand boy. A flier. Just like your Grant."

  She cast me a quick little smile, one at direct odds to the hollow grieving in her gaze. "That's why we decided to let this flat to him, you see. Grant was so much like our boy. Tall and dashing and devil-may-care."

  "A laugh for every problem, a smile for every girl," I said, and could not keep the quiver from my voice.

  "Oh, you mustn't think Grant did not care for you, my dear." Rachel turned her gaze toward the river, allowing me privacy in this intimate moment. "He spoke of you as he spoke of none other."

  "But he's gone," I said, wiping my eyes.

  "Yes, well, some men are not the marrying kind. They are meant to soar the heavens in search of adventure and glory." Rachel took a ragged breath and drew herself up taller. "That is what has kept me going, you see. Thinking that perhaps my Samuel was never truly meant for this earth, not in the way of most mortals. He came and splashed us all with the light of heaven, did his part for God and country, and left us richer for having known him. Even for a little while. Even when the loss is a wound that shall never heal."

  Rachel turned away from both the window and me, raising up one corner of her sweater to wipe at her eyes. She hobbled across to the doors, and said with forced cheerfulness, "I'll leave you to rest a bit and get settled. Fred can set your cases and the provisions by the stairs." She stopped in the doorway, and said without turning around, "I must ask a favor of you. If you're up to it, could you perhaps accompany me to church for the New Year's service this evening?"

  I was about to tell her that I couldn't. I was too tired, too weak, too anything so long as it kept me from having to face a church full of curious eyes. But something held me back. I felt as though a strong yet gentle hand had settled over my mouth.

  "There will be words of remembrance, you see," Rachel went on, her back still to me and the room. "I find such outings hard going on my own, don't you know. So many of my friends will be locked in their own grief. Most of us have lost someone close. I don't see how I could possibly burden them with my own woes just now, but I am not sure I can hear those words alone."

  "Of course I'll come," I said weakly, not understanding at all what was tugging at my heart.
/>   Rachel released a sigh, one that sounded as though she had been holding it ever since we met. "That is so very kind of you, my dear. You have a nice rest, and I'll be back for you around eight."

  EIGHT

  I ate and rested and ate again, aching with the emptiness of moving about what should have been our house, sleeping in what could have been my marriage bed. Then in the afternoon I felt strong enough to do something that could not wait. I bundled myself in layer after layer and went out.

  It was hard to believe this was truly New Year's Eve. Other than a fly-specked banner in the grocer's window, no doubt left over from years gone by, there was little to suggest this day was different from any other. People moved down the snow-covered walks in cautious haste, so hidden beneath layers of old dark-colored clothes I could scarcely make out whether they were male or female. There was little conversation, and none of the festivities that must have been going on back home. Only once did I hear someone wish another a Happy New Year.

  Yet despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise, the village of Arden-on-Thames held a truly charming air. The softly falling snow and empty streets helped transport it back to an earlier era. The frills and laces of a red-brick Victorian gothic structure stood alongside a staid Queen Anne cottage and that beside a bowed Elizabethan building, one that dated from before the American colonies were settled. I was so very glad to be out of the clinic and strong enough to be walking around. The freedom meant a great deal, and the air was crisp and cold and held a clean snowy taste I loved.

  I arrived at my destination, very pleased that I had found my way back. A shop I had passed in the taxi had displayed a P & O Steamship placard in the window. I inspected the snow-dashed display, and saw that this was indeed a travel agent. But the cruise poster was so old that the women's dresses had gone out of style and were back in fashion again.

  Inside the shop had a dismal, disused air. One elderly woman sat behind a long counter, and seemed utterly astounded that I had decided to enter. "Can I help you?"

  "I'd like a ticket to America. A steamer." I selected one of a half-dozen chairs lining my side of the counter. All of them bore a layer of dust.