Maxwell's Crossing

by M. J. Trow

  She acknowledged his smile by burying her nose in her mug, but he could see by her bunched cheeks that it still gave her a kick as well.

  ‘I think that the intended victim—’

  ‘Did you just say victim?’ she asked, sharply.

  He looked alarmed. ‘Did I?’ He looked at the ceiling and reran the sentence. ‘Yes, I did. Freud, eh? Tchah! Where was I? Yes, the intended exchange colleague knew she wasn’t coming ages back, but they kept it to themselves so we wouldn’t make a fuss. Bit like Pearl Harbor in reverse. They say Churchill knew all about the Japanese attack beforehand but kept it under wraps so that Roosevelt would have to come into the war. These exchanges are sorted out very carefully, you know – people are vetted and each side has to agree, that sort of thing. UN Security Council, the Politburo has to be consulted – oh, and the Pope has to give his blessing, of course.’

  ‘I hope that doesn’t mean they are trying to get this Hector person in under the wire, then.’

  ‘I checked with Paul. We can refuse to keep him, if he’s that bad. But … would he be that bad?’ He smiled at her hopefully but she just raised an eyebrow in reply. ‘Yes, I know.’ He sighed. ‘We’ve had some corkers, haven’t we, even after a two-day interview.’ He blew out his cheeks and looked doleful. There was that Mrs Whatserface of the Methodist persuasion; that little bloke with the high-pitched voice and the Cornishman Who Never Spoke. Amongst others even more distressing.

  Jacquie smiled across at him and thanked every lucky star. Maxwell looked so like Nolan in this mood it was uncanny. In certain moods, he also looked like the cat; in others, like a curmudgeonly old git. But they suited each other, by and large. She dug her toes into Metternich’s side, as the great black and white animal snoozed at her feet. He acknowledged her with a chirrup and a flex of a claw. ‘Do you want to have them round?’

  He looked up. ‘Nah,’ he said, in flawless Nolan. ‘Too near Christmas. Mrs Whatmough lets her prisoners go tomorrow and, let’s face it, Nole is manic enough without introducing a clutch of American strangers.’

  ‘Just strangers will do, Max,’ she said, slightly sharply. ‘Remember what we agreed about flagrant xenophobia?’

  ‘Oooh, Inspector Carpenter Maxwell,’ he purred. ‘Are you sure you’re a policeman? Using words like “flagrant”, and such?’

  She cocked her head at him, a sign that planning mode was now in place. ‘He’ll just have to learn that Christmas is not just for him,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t that an animal charity’s slogan?’ Maxwell wondered. ‘Near enough, at least.’

  ‘No. It isn’t. It means that we can’t let our son think that just because the house looks like an explosion in a tinsel factory and that Mrs Troubridge has enough parcels with his name on under her tree to stock Hamley’s, that he can avoid spreading a little goodwill to all men. I know we don’t usually do much entertaining once you guys have broken up, and I know that we fobbed my mother off with tales of me being on call, and I know—’

  Maxwell knew he was beaten and reached for the phone. ‘I’ll ring Paul, shall I?’ he said.

  ‘Do. And then we have to get going – if anyone’s late for the Carol Concert, apparently Mrs Whatmough tells Santa they have been bad and he just leaves coal in their stocking.’

  Maxwell looked up from the receiver as the phone peeped the number into his ear. ‘Coal? When I was a lad, we’d have given our eye teeth for some coal. Why, one year, I remember—Oh, hello, Paul. That was quick.’ He grimaced at Jacquie who went out laughing to get their coats. ‘Are your visitors with you yet?’ There was a squawk from the receiver. ‘Yes, now you come to mention it, I can hear them.’ Maxwell’s heart began a tiny downwards slide. ‘I’m ringing with an invitation …’

  The candlelight flickered on the diamante on the wings of Rosemary Whatmough’s glasses as she stood outside the little church to welcome the parents to the Carol Concert. She looked more like a character from The Nightmare Before Christmas than one of Santa’s jolly helpers, but the snow newly fallen on the ground and the general goodwill of the end of term reduced the effect to one of mild peril, familiar to any watcher of a PG DVD.

  ‘Mr Maxwell, Mrs Maxwell,’ she said, scarcely moving her lips. She was in a bit of a quandary over the Maxwell family in general. Nolan was obviously incredibly bright, but he burnt with a light in a spectrum she scarcely recognised and she didn’t know how to bend the beam to her will. Nolan’s father was just too peculiar for words and she had a horrible feeling that Nolan was simply a chip off that old block. The mother, now, she was a nice woman; Nolan looked just like her, lucky child, and she seemed to be relatively normal, but she was a policewoman and Mrs Whatmough had heard that the police were ever vigilant for the smallest infraction, not that anyone ever infracted on Rosemary Whatmough’s watch. But still, it paid to be careful.

  ‘I’ve reserved you some seats at the front,’ she said, gesturing. ‘So you get the benefit of Nolan’s performance.’

  The Maxwells didn’t miss a beat as they smiled, nodded and made their way down to the front. A small child dressed as a sheep waved them into their seats and it was only when they were safely seated that Maxwell turned to his wife.

  ‘Performance?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have literally no idea,’ she said. They sat in silence, each one going over conversations with their son in the last month or so, filtering for any mention of a performance. There was none.

  Jacquie smiled at Maxwell, a little uncertainly. ‘He’s probably a lamb or something; an ox, maybe.’

  ‘Most likely,’ Maxwell said. He knew his son and how easily a performance could become a Performance. On his day, he could give any diva a run for her money. The next thing he had to say was sensitive and could go either way. ‘If he isn’t an ox, though, or a camel or similar, you won’t cry, will you?’

  She fixed him with an eye already filling up. ‘Not if you don’t,’ she agreed. They linked little fingers and waited as the lights went down slightly and the firm footsteps of Mrs Whatmough echoed from behind them as she made her way to the front. She paused, in much the same way as a galleon in full sail loses way and steadies itself against the swell, and surveyed the ranks of parents, mentally noting absentees.

  ‘Thank you all so much for coming,’ she boomed. ‘The children and staff have been working for many weeks, as you know.’ She leant forward waggishly. ‘Some of you mums,’ and she smiled condescendingly at them, ‘may have been wondering why you hadn’t had the usual request for costumes this year.’ There was a pause to give these women time to nod and reinforce their status as star mum. ‘Well, some of you may remember the Camel Debacle of last year,’ pause for sycophantic laughter, ‘so we have made all the costumes ourselves this year, to avoid a repetition.’

  There was a muffled sobbing from the back as the Third Camel’s mother from the year before could hold her tears back no longer. The Maxwells breathed a sigh of relief as one. So that was one thing they could tick off their ‘Haven’t Done’ list.

  ‘But, enough of that,’ Mrs Whatmough suddenly boomed, making a rather nervous grandmother in the third row wee herself ever so slightly. ‘I give you …’ she flung her arm out in an expansive gesture, ‘The Carol Concert.’

  To a tumult of applause, the lights went down the rest of the way. Then came on again. Then went down again and stayed down. In the flickering health-and-safety mock candlelight that was left, there was a shuffling silence, followed by a reedy single note from a recorder, then the hesitant beating of a drum. Then, a voice that made the hairs on the backs of the Maxwells’ necks stand up and take notice. It wasn’t trained, or powerful. It wasn’t even always dead on the tune. But it was a voice which meant what it said, and it was the voice of their son.

  ‘’Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled,’ it sang. Then, on the rush of a gathered breath, ‘That mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead. Before their light, the stars grew dim, and wondering hunters hear
d the hymn,’ then, joined by all the other little voices of Year One, ‘Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.’ Then, Nolan, in full Red Indian regalia, war bonnet on his curly head, had drawn level with them, beating his drum. He didn’t look at them, but as he passed, Jacquie saw his left eyelid drop in a secret wink.

  ‘Within a lodge of broken bark, the tender babe was found.’ Somehow, Maxwell and Jacquie managed to keep the sobs in their throat. ‘A ragged robe of rabbit skin enwrapped his beauty round. But as the hunter braves drew nigh, the angel song rose loud and high, Jesus your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.’ Nolan took the opportunity of the chorus to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Maxwell was impressed – good, authentic pre-Colombian stuff.

  The Huron Indians had reached the chancel steps now and turned to face the audience. From behind them, from the vestry, a little band of travellers emerged, from Year Four, looking huge by comparison with the little ones in the front. The hunters parted in the middle, leaving Nolan and his drum still facing the audience.

  ‘O, children of the forest free, O, seed of Manitou, The Holy Child of earth and Heaven is born today for you. Come, kneel before the radiant boy who brings you beauty, peace and joy. Jesus, your King is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria!’ A triumphant drum roll finished their song, and in the ringing silence a single sniff was heard. Only her secretary, sitting with her at the back, knew it came from Mrs Whatmough.

  And so the Carol Concert wound its way through the story of the Nativity, from the angle of distant lands. As a theme it was sometimes a little stretched, but from the Huron Indians to the inevitable Dylan Thomas, it was a roaring success. Mrs Whatmough was flushed with pride as she stood in the doorway to usher the parents into the church hall for a mince pie and coffee. She bestowed a smile on the Maxwells.

  ‘Did you enjoy Nolan’s performance?’ she said, archly. ‘It was so good of you to rehearse with him; you must be very tired of that carol by now?’

  Maxwell wasn’t lying when he said, ‘It was as if I was hearing it for the first time tonight, Mrs Whatmough.’

  The woman looked as if she wanted to pat him on the head and say ‘well done’. As an answer it had ticked all of the boxes, from polite to pithy and it also had the bonus of being totally true. Fighting with glutinous pastry, Jacquie could only smile her recognition of a gaffe well avoided.

  The doors from the church crashed back and the children poured in. One child had refused to remove her costume and so would have to go home dressed as a pine tree, but otherwise they were all back in mufti. Nolan’s head swivelled as he looked for his parents and then he bounced over to them, a rather circuitous journey as he had to be hugged by various grannies and mothers trying to show they weren’t jealous. Eventually, he was at their side. He turned a beaming face to them.

  ‘D’you like it, Mums, Dads?’ he said, bouncing lightly on his toes.

  Jacquie was torn, in the mothers’ dilemma. Did she pick him up and bury her nose in his hair, sniffing up the little boyness of him, while yelling, ‘This is my boy – isn’t he wonderful?’ Or did she say, ‘You were pretty good, but did I hear a bum note in the third verse?’ She settled for silence and a curl ruffle.

  Maxwell was the one who bent down and picked him up for a hug. ‘Mate,’ he breathed in his ear, ‘you were amazing!’ His teacher’s sensibilities meant it was done so fast that most of Nolan’s friends missed it, but it was that or cry. ‘I have to ask you one thing, though, if that’s all right?’

  Nolan looked quizzically at his father. At this time of the year you couldn’t be too careful. You heard things about Father Christmas, knowing if you’re good or not, that kind of thing. So he settled for, ‘Mmm?’ and a bright smile.

  ‘Practising.’

  Still the bright smile, one eyebrow perhaps a little raised.

  ‘The carol.’

  Nolan breathed again. ‘Oh, yes. I did it with Mrs Troubridge. On Tuesdays.’

  Troubridge Tuesday had become an institution and although it wasn’t always necessary for the mad old trout to watch Nolan after school it had somehow become carved in stone. Plocker’s mother – Maxwell felt sure that he had once known both her name and that of her son, but now could remember neither – would drop Nolan off at Mrs Troubridge’s door and watch while she came down and let him, and usually a lurking Metternich, in. Then he would have his tea with her and, after doing his homework and having a bit of a chinwag, would run downstairs, out through her front door, and with a quick wiggle through where the hedge met the wall, would be home again, ringing at the bell by jumping up and fetching it a thwack with his satchel, Nolan Maxwell being the last child in the Western world to own a satchel. He would then ring up Mrs Troubridge to say he was home safely and that would be another Tuesday done and dusted.

  ‘I didn’t know Mrs Troubridge could sing,’ Jacquie ventured. ‘And you should have told us, Nole,’ she said. ‘It would have been nice to invite her.’

  ‘I did ’vite her,’ he said, drawing himself up a little. ‘She said she would cry, so could she have a copy of the DVD?’

  Maxwell rumpled his son’s hair. He could see that this could turn nasty, given half a chance. He bent down to him and gave him an extra kiss on top of his head. ‘Sometimes, mate,’ he said, ‘I wonder who has been bringing you up. Whoever it is, they’re doing a bang-up job. Well done. Very thoughtful all round.’ He gave Jacquie a warning glance. When she was feeling a bit fragile, she often became what she thought was businesslike but could seem to a five-year-old a bit policeman-like.

  ‘Well, I thought so,’ muttered the forty-year-old that seemed to live in Nolan’s little body sometimes. ‘The DVDs are fifteen pounds,’ he said, addressing himself to his mother. ‘Nana wants one as well.’

  ‘Does she?’ was all Jacquie could say, weakly. ‘How does she know about them?’

  ‘I told her last week, on the phone.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jacquie reached for her purse. ‘I wonder if it’s buy one get one free.’ A glance in the direction of Mrs Whatmough, beaming in the corner with her hand full of tenners, answered that question. ‘You guys get in the car, while I buy some lovely DVDs.’

  The first day of the Christmas holidays had always followed a certain pattern in the Maxwell household and this year was no exception. Get up. Add some more tinsel to any lingering bald spots in the decor. Go out and buy more tinsel. Remember that no one had ordered a turkey. Go out and order a turkey. This year another dimension was added; go out and buy nibbly bits and some cheap but stylish presents for the visit that afternoon by the Gold family party. Nolan was excited; he always tended to be a bit of a method actor and his Huron Indian persona still lingered, so Americans were very much the order of the day. Maxwell was getting by on deep breathing and concentrating on Jacquie’s instructions to stop saying ‘Howdy’ all the time. They had invited Mrs Troubridge. The DVD was a great success and somehow, in all the cooing, and the aahing, someone – and Maxwell feared it may have been him – had asked her round. Still, as he told Jacquie, in for a penny, in for a Troubridge.

  ‘She can hand things round,’ he added as an extra encouragement. ‘Olives. Buffalo wings. Things of that nature.’

  Huron Indians have razor-sharp hearing. ‘Have buffaloes got wings?’ Nolan said, materialising at his father’s elbow. ‘They seem a bit big to be able to fly.’

  ‘And think of the poo,’ Maxwell added, leaping on to his son’s train of thought as effortlessly as a hobo on to a boxcar.

  Jacquie looked up from her list-compiling. ‘I was thinking of keeping the food a bit more traditional,’ she said. ‘Mince pies. Sausage rolls. Umm …’

  ‘Mini pizzas,’ Maxwell offered. ‘Filo-wrapped king prawns. Satay chicken onna-stick.’

  Jacquie screwed up her face. ‘You’re right. What is traditional these days? I think I’ll just have a bit of a mooch round M&S – that’s traditional, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Maxwell said. ‘And do
n’t overdo it. The Golds’ll only just have got over Thanksgiving. While you’re out, Nole and I will tweak the decorations.’

  That seemed like a good deal to Jacquie – the thought of shopping with two overexcited Maxwell men did not appeal at all. She grabbed her handbag and was down the stairs like a rat down a pipe, hauling on her coat as she ran. ‘It’s a deal,’ her voice floated up to them. ‘See you later.’ And with a crash of the door, she was gone.

  Chapter Three

  The sound of the Mosses’ people carrier drawing up outside 38 Columbine was the innocent precursor to possibly the oddest Christmas drinks party the Maxwells had ever thrown. That it was the only Christmas drinks party the Maxwells had ever thrown was only part of it. Mrs Troubridge was waiting at the door to greet what she had decided to call ‘Our Transatlantic Cousins’. This had confused Nolan at first, whose life was pretty devoid of cousins, having only a couple of the species – girls who were too old to play with and too far away to know. Jacquie had explained the reference and it hadn’t helped much, but at least now he wasn’t expecting the cast of Hannah Montana to tumble out of the people carrier.

  Maxwell and Jacquie took their places at Mrs Troubridge’s side, with Nolan between them. Maxwell feared they may strike the Gold family as a bit of a cliché, but it was too late now. First out of the car was a woman so manicured and coiffed it was a wonder she could move her head, let alone speak or blink. She was tiny but not, as Jacquie told her mother later, in a good way. Everything spoke of gym and surgeon, and as she got closer, it was clear that she was carrying a few more years than it at first appeared.

  Mrs Troubridge rose to the occasion, stepping forward and speaking very clearly, as befitted someone who was divided from the guest by a common language and six thousand miles. ‘Hello,’ she trilled. ‘I am Mrs Troubridge, Mr and Mrs Maxwell’s neighbour. Welcome to Leighford.’