by C F Dunn
He was right. Setting Christmas aside, the remainder of the cash was barely enough to pay for necessities, let alone the vital repairs to make the house weathertight. Several roof tiles had slipped, letting in sparrows and the rain. Come spring there would be a flock of them up there in the rafters, holding court in high voices.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. Among the papers in the leather document wallet, I’d seen George Redgrave’s contact details. Loathsome misogynist he might be, but he was also the family lawyer and was under strict instructions to help me if Matthew was unable to do so. Through him I might be able to release some of the wealth Matthew had tied up in businesses and shares and things about which I had absolutely no idea at all. But Redgrave did. I had a thirty-second window to find out before the call could be traced.
I prayed the battery would hold out long enough as I punched in the numbers on Beth’s old mobile and spoke to an officious receptionist.
“Your name?” she asked in tones that made my toes curl.
“Lady Cordelia Flyte,” I said stiffly, feeling obdurate.
Twenty-five seconds.
Redgrave was patently a snob if ignorant of the literary reference; he took the call immediately. “Lady Flyte,” he drooled, “how might I assist you?”
“This is Emma Lynes, Mr Redgrave; I need your help.”
Twenty seconds.
The ensuing pause echoed down the phone. “Lynes?” he stated. “You must be mistaken. I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“You hold my husband’s account – Matthew Lynes. We visited you…”
“Ah yes,” he hurried, “I do recall something.” I heard a faint click, making my blood run thin. “I will need to look at my records. Where are you staying now?”
Fifteen.
Why wouldn’t I be in Maine? Where else would I be? “Mexico City,” I lied.
“Very good,” he said smoothly. “Give me your contact details and I’ll…”
I didn’t let him finish. I stared at the mobile long after I’d cut him off and saw it shake in my hand. He hadn’t asked where Matthew was; he assumed I wasn’t in Maine. He knew – and if he knew, it meant he had been told. Who else had been listening?
“Mummy?” Rosie stood by my side holding a piece of paper.
“What is it, darling?”
“I’ve made a letter for Father Christmas.” She held out the letter. “Can we put it in the chimley?”
Kneeling in front of her, I took the paper on which she had written, in green crayon, a list in oversized letters. Here and there, a beautifully formed letter stood out as palpable evidence of her father’s late-night writing sessions. Figures in red decorated the edge of the paper, and above them a big yellow sun smiled.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my vision swimming.
“Mummy, read it.”
I rubbed the back of my hand across my lids, coming away wet. “My eyes are tired, Rosie; will you read it to me, please?”
“Dear Father Christmas,” she read from the jumble of squiggly letters. “Please bring me my daddy and a puppy and make Theo grow quicker so he can play more.” She pointed to a large green dot. “I put in a period.”
I smiled, “So you did; well done. In England, we call it a ‘full stop’. Who are these people?”
“That’s Father Christmas, and that’s Theo and that’s you and that’s me and that’s Daddy. And that’s Puppy.”
“What’s Daddy doing?” I asked, puzzling at the figure with his arms raised towards the sun.
“He’s looking at Jesus,” she said, as if it were obvious. “Daddy says Jesus is the Sun of God and we have to look to Him for all our hope, so he’s looking at Jesus because he hopes to come home.”
I pressed my lips together and breathed carefully to still the bulging emotion galloping up my gullet. Why was I being so wretchedly emotional all of a sudden? Must be PMT. “And what would Theo like for Christmas, do you think?”
She stuck her finger in her mouth thinking and swaying back and forth. “Theo would like… a puppy,” she said firmly with a nod. “Can we put dec’rations up now? Please?”
Christmas and decorations were the last thing on my mind, but I would have to make an effort for the children’s sake. “It would be fun to make some, wouldn’t it? We could decorate the house as Daddy did when he was a boy – with ivy and holly and berries from the garden.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Rosie jumped up and down.
“But first I have something I must do. Why don’t you get yourself ready and see if you can get Theo into his boots?”
I took the battered metal box from where I had hidden it from inquisitive little hands and secreted myself in the stone-lined pantry. We assessed each other – it with an unblinking eye and me with mounting caution. Matthew had made me practise unlocking the complicated mechanism until I could do so blind, and I did now, eyes tightly shut, listening for the telltale click and whirr of the locks deactivating the explosive device in the lid. Easing the lid open released the heady perfume of parchment and sealing wax and leather. I removed the contents and, leaving the box out of harm’s way, took the documents through to sit by the fire in the great hall.
Setting aside the journal in its stained leather bag, I started to sort through the pile. I don’t know quite what I expected to find, perhaps some cash stashed away between the neatly stacked documents, or a secret bank account I could raid. Instead, I unfolded page after page of title deeds going back centuries and each signed and sealed with Matthew’s distinct antique signature: Matthew Lynes – his history laid out spanning generations and continents – land in countries that no longer existed, houses long since demolished and eaten up by motorways and shopping centres. Retrieving a loose scrap with a scribbled address that had fallen free of the rest, I looked in despair at the documents spread around me on the sofa. What had he hoped we could gain by keeping these, other than a record of his life in wax and ink – an elegant reminder of what had been? Only one seemed of any value: the title deed to the Old Manor and its lands. He had paid Mrs Seaton a fair amount for the farm, but it gave us little more than a roof over our heads and nothing with which to repair it. Matthew might have known what to do with this lot, but I hadn’t a clue. I refolded the deed and chucked it on the pile. At least we couldn’t be evicted.
Sounds of struggle and protest came from the hall. Rosie had Flora’s old ladybird wellies on and was trying to persuade Theo into the boots Mum had bought him, but he sat stolidly on the floor with his legs thrust stiffly out in front of him and a look of deep resentment in his downturned mouth.
“Come on, Theo, we’re going into the garden. Look, Rosie has her boots on.” I wriggled a boot on one foot and stretched for the second. “Da-dee,” he said, and fixing me with an accusing glare, dragged the boot off his foot and lobbed it as hard as he could. It struck me squarely in the face. My lip began to swell beneath my fingers. I looked at his stubborn jaw, his sister’s shocked expression, and something inside crumbled. Without speaking, I left them, stumbling along the corridors until I came to the church. Closing the oak door on the world, I leant against it, not knowing why I was there but feeling the desperate need to escape.
From what?
From everything: from this house and its need to feed off non-existent funds. From my children and their dependency on me, when I failed them in so many ways. From Matthew, because every waking moment reminded me of what I’d lost and the torment he might be going through. And I resented it. I resented being in this ridiculous position. I resented years of looking over my shoulder, and obfuscation and lies. I resented the short time we had spent together – this reining in of my emotions, of the loss of hope and the futile stiff upper lip and the gnawing reminder of what I should be. Of the almost getting there only to have it taken away. I resented my failure. I resented the years spent in guilt. I resented God.
Collapsing against the Lynes family tomb, I looked up at the window above the al
tar. “Why?” I demanded of the crucified image. “What is this all for? Why do you give so much only to take it away again? Why bring us here when Matthew is… is locked away somewhere? Do you even give a monkey’s what happens to us? What more do you want, when we’ve done all we can?” I curled my fingers into fists. “Don’t you understand – I can’t go on – I have nothing. Left. To. Give.”
No answer. No sudden flash of insight. No peace.
I didn’t even have the energy to cry. I pushed wearily to my feet. “I give up. You win. Have it your own way.”
Rosie and Theo sat side by side on one of the sofas in an aura of deep blue melancholy. Theo had his boots on and his feet stuck out over the edge.
“I said Bear wanted to go outside so he had to put on his boots,” Rosie explained. “Theo didn’t mean to hurt you, Mummy.”
“I know.”
“Can we go out now? Please?”
I nodded, subdued, flat, and Rosie hopped off the sofa and ran towards the hall. I picked Theo up – a warm bundle in his padded suit. He regarded me sombrely, and putting his hand to my sore lip, patted it. “Mumma.”
I returned a weak smile. “It’s all right, baby, it’s almost better.”
Out under the wide sky, I followed Rosie without enthusiasm, helping her gather strands of ivy with bobbly heads of sloe-blue berries, and red-berried serrated holly. She then ran ahead to the walled garden to find mistletoe. I found her hanging upside down from her favourite pear tree, singing to Ottery. I popped Theo in the baby swing Dad had rigged for him, and went to cut mistletoe.
“‘I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear’…” Rosie sang, “… ‘But a golden nutmeg and a silver pear…’” From across the garden a robin chided. It flew to the wall-head, cocking its bead-black eye. I cut a few sprigs of mistletoe, preoccupied, as Rosie started her song again. “‘I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear…’” The robin flew down to a nearby branch. “… ‘But a golden nutmeg and a silver pear.’”
“Silver nutmeg, Rosie, and a golden pear,” I corrected without thinking.
She swung back and forth in a halo of red-gold hair. “Daddy said ‘golden nutmeg’, like mine – look.” I cast a sideways glance at my daughter, holding out her nutmeg necklace for me to see. I frowned.
“Yes, but the rhyme is ‘silver nutmeg’, darling. Daddy must have forgotten.”
“Golden nutmeg, golden nutmeg,” Rosie sang. “Daddy said I carried our hope in my golden nutmeg.”
I stopped snipping. “What did you say?”
She ceased swinging, reached up to take hold of the branch, and did a neat somersault to the ground. “Hope in my nutmeg.” She waved it at me and it rattled heavily in its cage of gold.
“Rosie, may I see it, please?” I helped her undo the catch. The gilded nutmeg lay solidly in my hand. Peering closely, I made out the fine line where the two halves of the cage around it joined. Rotating the nutmeg, I pressed the cage gently. It remained whole. I turned it over and inspected the bottom, and back again to look at where it attached to the decorative jump ring.
“Are you trying to open it, Mummy?”
“I thought it might, but I must be wrong.” I handed it back to her.
“Like this.” With a quick twist of the jump ring the cage sprang open in her fingers and, beaming, she held out her hand on which the loose nutmeg rolled. “Daddy showed me.”
I took the nutmeg and this time, without its cage, noticed how heavy it felt. Shaking it, I detected a distinct thud of something solid inside. Certain now, I pressed firmly where the casing naturally cracked, and the nut broke open. Instead of the nut-brown fruit, something refracting light tumbled into the long grass. Rosie pounced.
“Glass! It’s pretty!” She waved it in the sunlight, splitting the rays. I took it and held it up to the sun, squinting.
“I think… it’s an aquamarine. It’s huge!” I swallowed. “Golly.” Cleared my throat. “Wow.” And I found myself laughing and, not being able to stop, collapsed into the damp grass, where the laughter became sobs that shook my body, sucking air in painful chunks.
“Mummy!” Rosie tapped my shoulder, peering past my loosened hair. “Mum-my!”
Gradually, I brought myself under control and pulled her to me. “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s just that God has a strange sense of humour sometimes, and I just saw the joke. How could I possibly think that we wouldn’t be provided for? How could I have doubted for one moment that he doesn’t have us, right here, in his hand?” The pale blue, exquisitely cut stone, glittered on my palm.
“It’s mine,” Rosie said. “Daddy gave it to me.”
I hugged her tightly. “Daddy trusted you to look after the nutmeg so that he could help us when we needed it. This stone is his way of looking after us even when he isn’t here. We can mend those roof tiles now. We might even have a bit left over.”
“But… my nutmeg…” Her lip began to wobble.
“Look, the halves fit together and we’ll put it back in its cage just as before.” I kissed her forehead. “You have carried our hope so carefully; Daddy would be very proud of you.”
She brightened and, wriggling free, said, “Can we put the dec’rations up now, please?”
“Yes,” I said, climbing to my feet and feeling my trousers sticking damply to my skin. “It’s time we made this house our home.”
CHAPTER
21
Father Christmas
Sitting in the window embrasure in a patch of sun, I nudged the stone and it spun on the deep sill, sending shafts of fractured light spinning like a disco ball. My attempts to sell it had proved worryingly fruitless.
“And you came by this, how?” the besuited jeweller had asked, holding it between thumb and forefinger like an accusation.
“My husband. He gave it to me.”
He looked me over and I scraped my still-damp hair behind one ear and sat up straight. I’d left a trail of mud across their plush red carpet and my sister’s old hacking jacket didn’t help my image. The only respectable thing about me were my rings, which he had already sized up. He probably thought I’d nicked them.
“And you have documentation – proof of ownership, a GIA certificate?”
“No. What’s that?”
“Verification that the stone is genuine… authentic.”
“Well, it is, isn’t it?”
He smiled in that condescending manner some men have towards younger women. “Without a certificate I would be taking a risk…”
“Are you interested in buying it, or not?”
“If you let me have your details, I’ll get back to you.”
Plucking the stone from the table and slipping it back into my pocket, I stood up. “Thanks for your time.” And I left, keeping my face averted from the intrusive surveillance of their security system.
I now faced an unenviable truth: it must be worth a bit – I knew that much from my days browsing Bond Street jewellers – and I possessed the means to fix those tiles, feed my children over Christmas, and perhaps even put petrol in the car, but without authentication and giving my name and address, I couldn’t sell the wretched thing. Anyway, with a frantic week until Christmas, most reputable dealers were putting off new trade until the New Year, and the less than respectable ones – well, I had hoofed it out of there quicker than I could spit. Perhaps I could take Dad along with me and lend an air of gravitas to the next meeting. He could always growl at them. On the other hand, I didn’t want to have to explain to him why I was suddenly in possession of a large aquamarine. There was no other option but to put it away until after Christmas and hope for inspiration.
The lid of the metal case fell back, making the phials of explosive chemicals rattle and me flinch. Wrapping the stone in one of Mrs Seaton’s old lace hankies, I dropped it in a corner. As I began to close the lid, a loose piece of paper, caught in the perpetual draught from a ropey leaded windowpane, floated haphazardly to the floor. Smaller than the rest, it seemed out o
f place, so I put it to one side as I relocked the box and took it to the pantry to hide.
The scrap was still there when I went back in. Flicking it with a nail, I read my husband’s writing: Levi Dobranovich, and an address in Birmingham. Nothing more. Was it significant? Probably, but nothing indicated its relevance other than Matthew had thought it important enough to leave it there.
I left the paper under a pine cone and went to stoke the Aga to reheat my sister’s lasagne and put the kettle on. The solid mass of chilled cheese and white sauce looked particularly unappetizing, and my stomach quailed at the thought of eating it. Christmas was going to prove interesting.
“But of course you’re coming home to us for Christmas, darling,” Mum had said on her last visit. “Beth, Rob and the children are coming over for the day. You can’t possibly be here by yourselves – that would be quite miserable. Think of the children.”
I had – endlessly – but an undefined notion kept niggling away in the nether regions of my psyche, compelling me to stay. “Thanks, Mum, but we’ll have Christmas here. Perhaps we could pop over on another day?”
“That’s silly, Em,” Beth said when she heard of my decision. “You could have had a few days off, being mollycoddled, fed and warm. Golly, I couldn’t survive without a hot bath. How do you shave your legs? And how you cope washing your hair under that hand pump I’ll never know.”
“We manage. It’s quite fun, really – like camping.”
“I hate camping. I always had my period the moment we arrived at the campsite. That reminds me – do you need any more supplies? You must be due.”
“What?”
“You know – feminine products.”
“Yes, I know, I know. Hang on…” I counted on my fingers while my sister waited impatiently. I looked up, aghast. “Oh, no, Beth – no, I can’t be!”
“You’re not pregnant, are you? Em, you idiot!”
I flumped onto the wheezy stool by the stove and must have looked pretty desperate because Beth wrapped her arms around me. “You are in a bit of a pickle, aren’t you? It’s not the end of the world, Em. Let Matthew know and then perhaps he’ll cut short whatever he’s doing. He won’t want you struggling alone here if you’re pregnant.”
