Every Day in December

by Kitty Wilson

  ‘Yep, still hate it.’ But he says it with a smile rather than murderous loathing.

  ‘You like snow? Your words about the whisper of a snowflake were damn near poetic.’

  ‘Aha, your love for metre and verse must be rubbing off on me.’ His eyes crinkle as he replies and I see the beginning of where his crow’s feet will start as he ages. In this moment I feel like I want to watch them crinkle forever.

  Argh. It’s the snow’s fault. It makes me all romantic. I’m blaming every Christmas movie ever for this complete misbehaviour of my hormones. Hopefully next week I’ll be back to my usual uninterested self.

  ‘But, poetry aside, do you remember, back when we…?’ Aha, he’s going to be persistent. Of course he is.

  ‘Go on,’ I say, wanting to scrunch up my eyes and put my fingers in my ears.

  ‘That time I drove you home and we got a puncture and I thought it would be easy to fix and you buggered off and sat on a gate and smoked a joint whilst I wrestled with it.’

  I laugh, relieved that this is his question. ‘I do. I was bloody useless, wasn’t I?’

  ‘I would never have thought on that day that we’d be traipsing around stately homes together all these years later. And you weren’t useless, just young. I imagine if it were to happen now you’d elbow me out of the way and try and get the wheel-nuts off with your teeth!’

  ‘Probably.’ I grin and he looks back at me and my tummy flips a bit.

  ‘They’re here, they’re here. I saw it, there’s a whole horse, a whole horse, and he’s so big. Quick, quick, come on, before they go.’ Marsha rounds the corner and pelts at us full speed, the words falling from her mouth neatly changing the conversation, and Rory and I start walking again. I hadn’t even clocked that she had disappeared around the corner. How could I? I let her wander around a vast public space with millions of bushes. Millions of bushes that could easily have had murderers sitting inside them, sharpening their knives and practising their scariest looks.

  Okay, so she was unlikely to have been kidnapped and killed in the three minutes I’ve taken my eyes from her, but still it’s a reminder not to be remiss about my duties, which are making today super Christmassy for my goddaughter and not indulging in unattainable romantic imaginings about this man beside me. Bad, Belle, bad.

  Rory.

  ‘You’re right, this horse is huge,’ I say to Marsha as we round the corner and she stands there looking up at it in awe, its head topped by a weird feathery thing.

  ‘Isn’t he handsome, Rory?’ Marsha answers me, her words breathless and slow as if she’s been placed in front of some kind of magical castle. Which I suppose she has. For the horse is standing in the driveway of Tyntesfield House. A large Christmas tree stands out in front of the house and the pillars of the doorway are wrapped in garlands, interspersed with red roses, in keeping with the red ribbons we had seen bedecking the large shrubs as we drove into the estate. It is pretty Christmassy and, as Belle had promised, pretty Victorian. Tinsel and piped Christmas muzak nowhere to be seen or, thankfully, heard.

  ‘Are you here for the pony ride?’ a young woman dressed in Victorian attire, complete with top hat and scarlet tie, asks.

  ‘Yes, we are,’ Marsha says quietly, clearly still awed by it all.

  ‘Okay, well then, if you and your family would like to hop up here…’ The woman waves us up into the carriage at the back. She isn’t addressing either me or Belle individually, but the three of us as a family unit. Belle’s cheeks flame and she starts to stammer. I hold out my hand to Marsha to help her up the step and to give Belle a moment or two to stop feeling so embarrassed and then realise that I am just as stung by the words as she is. Not embarrassed – Marsha and Belle would be perfect family – but saddened a little.

  As I grew up, I hadn’t ever considered not being a father, my determination shaped by my own father’s absence and the solidity of Dave to make sure that when I had children, I committed, I was there. For ever. That had been unswerving. And then Jessica. Jessica and I had planned a family; we were going to have three children and they would have golden hair like their mother and laugh and play in the garden of a house we would buy on the outskirts of… Well, that was a dream that never came to fruition. And after Jessica one of the things I have had to make my peace with is the fact that having a family may not be for me after all. If I can feel that much pain, that much hurt after losing Jessica, then how much worse would it be if it had been the woman who had also given me children, if it had been my child… No. That level of loss does not bear thinking about. It is a very good reason for embracing a solitary life.

  I need to distract myself. Belle is her normal colour again and as the carriage fills up she pulls Marsha onto her lap. The two of us are now pushed up close together, our thighs touching, our bodies almost overlapping as we squish together.

  ‘Are you excited?’ she whispers.

  ‘I am a bit.’

  ‘So am I,’ Marsha responds, and I realise the question had been for her. ‘Do you think they’ll go really fast? I want them to go really fast.’

  ‘I think they’ll go at a speed that keeps us all safe but is still quite exciting,’ Belle answers. Both Marsha and I look at her, our eyebrows raised. That is not the answer I expect from Belle.

  ‘That doesn’t sound fast,’ Marsha says.

  ‘It’s as fast as Santa goes,’ Belle says, nodding firmly, ‘and if it’s good enough for Santa, then it’s good enough for us.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I say, wanting to back her up. ‘Santa is very fast but very safe, wooahh.’ We tip forward as the horses start to move off. Marsha wibble-wobbles and then rights herself, satisfaction all across her face.

  ‘Yeehah!’

  The ride only lasts five minutes, but Marsha is entranced as we trot through the snow, nodding her head to the clip-clop of the horses’ feet on the tarmac.

  ‘That was so fun, so fun,’ she says after climbing down from the carriage, stroking the horses’ flanks for what seems like an excessively long time as Belle stands staring at her with a crazy amount of love in her eyes and I find myself staring at Belle.

  ‘We could go in the house, see what they have to do that’s Christmassy. Get in and warm up for a while, what do you think?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marsha’s answer is quick, to the point. Belle looks at me.

  ‘Rory?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m keen.’

  ‘Keen?’

  ‘Well, you know, happy to come along,’ I say. It’s true.

  Dave has taken the day off and is taking Mum away for the night as a special treat, although she kept trying to cancel, claiming it was selfish to go away when I was in the UK. The only way I could get her to go was to admit that I was spending the day with a friend. The word ‘female’ had magical properties. The grin that spread across her face threatened to overwhelm me as she raced up the stairs to pack her bag, shouting over her shoulder that they would be away all weekend and if I wanted them to stay away longer then I just had to text.

  I pointed out that I had my own flat in Bath but Mum was adamant that I might want to bring ‘your new friend’ back here, to see where I grew up, and did she have time to whisk around with the Pledge first? Dave doubling over laughing as she bleached the loo again – just in case – did not help. Neither did me repeatedly (at least five times, maybe more) shouting the word platonic up the stairs.

  On the upside, despite the fact I will be questioned to death over her deliberate misunderstanding when she gets back, it does mean my weekend is free. And as Christmassy as Tyntesfield is, I’ve surprised myself with how much I’m enjoying myself today.

  I hurry through the front door to find Belle and Marsha already in the large hallway standing around a grand piano with a small group of others whilst a young man in Victorian garb is belting out ‘The Twelve Days Of Christmas’z in a deep baritone and with a huge amount of jollity, shaking bells with gusto as he does so. I don’t think I could fake that for eight hours a
day.

  ‘…And a parsnip in a pear tree,’ he booms out to his amused audience. Okay, that’s it, I admire him but I can’t listen to much more. I’m beginning to have murderous thoughts that include putting those bells somewhere illegal.

  There’s a great tree to the side of the piano which I examine in detail to avoid concentrating on the song. A song the guests are now beginning to join in with.

  ‘Let me know if you need a silent, darkened room to lie down in,’ a voice whispers in my ear and I turn my head to see Belle standing close, her Belle smirk on her face.

  ‘I’ll try to struggle through. Although a dark room shouldn’t be too hard to find. The amount of dark wood in this house is quite a thing.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? I love it. All those wood carvings and engravings. All this work was done by master craftsmen, the dedication, the excellence. I don’t find the darkness of it suffocating, I find it comforting, like a duvet. I can imagine swanning around these rooms at the height of their glory, sighing Victorian heroine sighs as my one true love goes off to fight in the Crimea and I am forced to marry the local landowner who looks like a frog and has seriously impairing digestive disorders. Not that I would necessarily be the daughter of the house…’ she adds in a rushed voice. ‘I can also picture myself as a kitchen maid, scrubbing like mad on the floors but still sighing for my sweetheart, also off to the Crimea, and trying to avoid the handy nature of the under-butler, Rawlings, who is so greasy he looks as if he would drip on you.’

  ‘You’ve put quite a lot of thought into this.’

  We move away from the piano, following Marsha as her eyes fall upon a small table offering the chance to do colouring in. The girl is very fond of a crayon.

  ‘No thought, that was all spontaneous. It’s a gift I have.’ She smirks again, and I can’t help but grin myself. When she’s comfortable with someone she’s such a pickle, as my mum would say. Her naughtiness radiates from her, pulling her confidante into a special kind of world.

  ‘Ha! You have the imagination of a doomed romantic,’ I say.

  ‘I am a doomed romantic,’ she responds and then lets out a little half laugh. ‘Although Luisa would say I am a doomed romantic with appalling taste and intimacy issues.’

  ‘Oh, I’m with you all the way on the intimacy issues,’ I say, surprising myself that such a statement should fall from my lips. I hadn’t realised it was true until I said it. Let’s face it, I hadn’t even thought it until I said it. But now yes, it’s a fair point to make. Maybe Belle Wilde is good for me after all.

  ‘I drawed this for you.’ Marsha presses a piece of paper into my hand. It’s a picture of a reindeer. ‘Ooh, what’s that?’ She says as her eye catches something and she’s off again. I swap a smile with Belle as we trail after her into a large room where there’s a woman, again in Victorian dress, with a gramophone playing behind her and a keen smile on her lips as we enter. Bar her, we are the only people in the room.

  She is welcoming as she waves us in but I feel the hackles on my neck rise. This is not feeling friendly, this feels trap-like.

  ‘Hello, hello, how are you today?’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ Belle answers.

  ‘Christmassy, we’ve made decorations, done snow tasting, ridden in the horsey carriage and I’ve just done colouring in,’ Marsha informs her.

  ‘You have been busy. And how do you feel about learning to do a dance?’

  ‘Oh, I like dancing, look.’ Marsha breaks into some weird dancing style that seems to combine acid house and the Charleston.

  ‘Ooh, yes. I see. Most unusual. Here we like to dance to celebrate Christmas.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing.’ Marsha pants, still free-forming with the whole of her heart.

  ‘Yes, I can see. That particular style hasn’t caught on here yet. Would you like me to teach you our dance?’

  Marsha pauses, ‘Hmm, my godmother Belle says you should always be willing to learn new things.’

  ‘She sounds like a very wise woman. Your parents chose well.’ She flicks a smile across at us. Oh God, she thinks we’re the parents. I’m about to interject when Marsha speaks again.

  ‘Yes, they did. What’s this dance then?’

  ‘It’s the St Bernard’s waltz. Would you like to learn with me? Then Mummy and Daddy can dance with each other.’ The woman holds her arms out wide and Marsha goes towards her.

  ‘Oh we’re not…’ I start to say.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Belle says, that mischief back on her face, a complete reversal of her blushes earlier.

  ‘You have to be joking me,’ I mouth as she stands in the centre of the floor and holds her arms out waiting for me to join in, knowing full well that I won’t abandon her.

  ‘My mummy and daddy aren’t very good dancers, they could probably use some practice. But my Aunty Belle, she is the best dancer, she taught me all my moves.’

  ‘That explains a lot,’ I say, reaching Belle who gently taps me on the arm.

  ‘Be kind,’ she admonishes.

  ‘I was.’ I laugh.

  ‘Shhh!’ Marsha shoots over her shoulder.

  ‘Okay, ignore the music for now and we’ll learn the steps. Three slide steps towards the window, one two three, then tap, tap, tap.’

  I hold Belle and we do our slide steps and tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Two steps back to here then I’ll step forward with my left, if you do that as well, sir, and then you step back with your right.’

  I step forward and so does Belle.

  ‘Ouch!’ I say, picking up my foot and waggling it in the air.

  ‘Oh, you make such a fuss, put your foot down.’

  ‘And two forward and then two more steps back.’

  ‘Ouch! Are you doing this on purpose?’

  ‘No!’ she says indignantly. ‘I’m not good at formal dancing. Honestly, they tried to kick me out of country dancing at primary because I kept stepping—’

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Marsha hisses at us again.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry!’ Belle adds and gives me a fierce look.

  ‘Don’t go looking at me like I’m the bad one. You’re the one with the rhythm of a demented otter.’

  ‘A demented otter, that’s very rude, how dare you… Ooh, what are we meant to be doing now?’

  ‘Sliding, I think. Let me lead.’

  ‘Let you lead, why let you lead?’

  ‘I’m the man, I’m meant to.’

  ‘Let me tell you what I think of the Patriarchy…’

  ‘I don’t think Victorian heroines had an opinion on the Patriarchy. Look, tap, tap, tap.’ Somehow we’re managing to do the dancing thing, with Belle only trampling on my feet periodically and giggling as we do so. The woman restarts the gramophone and we dance. Belle is clearly made for a slightly more modern era.

  ‘You’re meant to love dancing,’ I hiss at her.

  ‘I do love dancing but I can’t find the beat.’

  ‘Here, listen, one two three, one two three, one two three.’ I count out the rhythm and she joins in, our feet sliding and stepping and tapping in unison once she masters it.

  ‘We’re getting quite good.’

  ‘We are,’ I say in return as we glide around the room, lost in the music and with me enjoying the feel of having Belle in my arms, her looking up at me as we both silently mouth the numbers. Half of me wants to pull her close and keep dancing. There’s something about having another person so close to me, something I hadn’t realised I had missed as much as I have. Somehow this crazy world I now inhabit means that I, Rory Walters, am waltzing around a Victorian stately home with Belle Wilde in my arms and absolutely loving it.

  We keep dancing, both of us caught up in each other’s rhythm, only to be jolted out of our little waltzy trance state as I hear the woman who had taught us the dance say in an aside to Marsha, ‘That’s lovely, isn’t it? To see your mummy and daddy so in love.’

  Boldness be my friend.

  Decemb
er Thirteenth.

  Belle.

  Luisa asked yesterday if I’ll have Marsha for a few more hours today, not having finished all the Christmas prep she had planned to do whilst child-free yesterday. I’m so keen and with the weather obliging overnight I have the perfect day planned for the two of us. We just need to get a wriggle on before the heat of the sun starts to melt the snow.

  I still haven’t fully processed how I feel about dancing with Rory yesterday, how I had to break the spell when I heard that woman saying we were Marsha’s mummy and daddy to squawk that we weren’t. Dancing with Rory, seeing the sinews in his forearms, the way the hair was sprinkled lightly up his arm, had made me feel a bit dizzy. A little bit too lustful for a celibate Saturday afternoon. And way too intimate for my head to be able to cope with. I’m fine being friends with Rory, I’m enjoying it, even. But being that close, that’s a step towards a world that isn’t going to work for me. The sheer Christmassyness of yesterday had caught me up and made me a little light-headed. Today I know that even the teensiest crush is not to be indulged.

  I’m taking my vow of self-respect and celibacy very seriously; a lifetime of dating twats means I absolutely do not want to engage with anyone sexually again unless it’s meaningful and the start of a happy, healthy adult relationship. I’m done with sleeping with men who have zero respect or consideration for me, and so far I seem to have failed to find any other type. My sexual judgement has proved itself time and time again to be seriously flawed.

  Having said that, I don’t want a relationship, not a long-term do-everything-together type of thing, matching anoraks on hallway hooks and so on. I can’t begin to imagine how claustrophobic that would be. And certainly not with Rory, who is not my type – even though I recognise I need to break that type thing – but I wouldn’t know what to do with a decent man. I’d be on tenterhooks the whole time, worrying that he would go off me real quick rather than wishing they would go off me real quick as I am used to. It would get way too stressful.