by Anna Blix
She lowered the ramp carefully. The reindeer was frightened and scared-eyed. He stood still, eying her suspiciously. Clare approached him gently and clipped the rope back on the halter. She guided him down the ramp and out onto the drive. Inside the timber barn were a number of stalls. Clare chose the largest one, close to a window. She gave him some more pellets and fresh water. “Now rest and let that knee mend.” She left him to calm down.
Up at the house, the curtains in her dad’s bedroom were now open. Clare turned the key in the lock and went inside. She stomped the snow off her boots, then she placed them on the old newspapers that were spread out on the floor. She hung her coat up on the peg above, along with her hat and gloves. She rubbed her hands together and held them above the warm radiator. Her dad sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket and holding a cup of tea with both hands.
“Good to see you’re up on your feet, Dad. Are you feeling a bit better today?” Clare said.
“A wee bit better, perhaps,” admitted Mr Sheldon. “How’s the herd?”
“Mostly good. I brought an old buck back down. Had a sore knee, so I figured I’d better keep an eye on him. Otherwise, they’re all fine.”
“Good call. I’ll be back on my feet to help you soon, Clare.” Mr Sheldon smiled. He was seventy years old and had been a reindeer herder for nearly sixty of those years.
“Not until you’re well, Dad. I can manage.” Clare poured herself a cup of tea from the pot and joined him at the table.
10
Niklas stood outside the little Victorian house with the sign that read Mrs Dollimore’s B&B. The house was dark, but from time to time, cars drove past, their headlights falling on its exterior, highlighting the rain-streaked brickwork, and reflecting in the black windows.
When was the last time he had seen a hotel or a bed and breakfast? It must have been more than two hours since he last passed one on his nighttime walk through London. If every single hotel in town was fully booked, why would this little bed and breakfast have a room free? And by the looks of it, it had closed for the night. In fact, it didn’t even look like anybody was in.
But it was still worth a try. No matter how slim the chance of there being a room for him in this dark little house — and a bed, with crisp white sheets. Maybe a chocolate on the pillow. Niklas’s stomach cramped with hunger. He had got off the plane at Heathrow in the early afternoon and had not had anything to eat since the stale, cling-film-wrapped cheese roll he had bought on board.
He walked up to the door and rang the bell. He waited, but nothing happened. The house remained dark and quiet. He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Not a sound. He shivered in his soaked parka. Another car drove by, the rumbling bass of a rap song seeping out as it passed. Then again, quiet. He peered at the dark upstairs windows. Not a trace of light.
Niklas turned to leave. But had he actually heard the doorbell ring inside the house? He stopped, turned back to the door and pressed the button once more. There was no sound from within the building. No doorbell, and no movement. He pounded the door with his fist. If anybody was in, they had to hear him now. Then he waited. At first, there was another long silence. But then, a light switched on. He pounded the door again.
Another minute passed. From somewhere within the house came the sound of footsteps. Soft steps walking up to the door. Keys rattling in the lock. Slowly, the door opened.
A little old lady peered out at him. She was wearing a pink dressing gown, which she doubled up across her chest and clutched in a firm grip. On her feet were fluffy pink slippers, and her hair was in rollers. She gave Niklas a scrutinising look from top to toe. “What on Earth? I almost thought it was the police… are you…” She leaned back and squinted, as if trying to bring him into focus.
Niklas looked down at his red parka, streaked with rain, and his shapeless jeans tucked into his snow-boots. He pushed his dripping hair out of his face and attempted a smile.
The little old lady continued, “What’s the matter? Have you been in an accident?”
He held up his hands. “I’m not from the police. I just wanted to ask, do you happen to have a room free for the night?”
The little lady shook her head. Then her eyes wandered past Niklas to the B&B sign in her front garden. “Oh. The sign. Bed and breakfast… Right. I’ve been meaning to take it down…”
“Isn’t this a bed and breakfast?” Why would she put up a sign if it wasn’t?
“Oh no, this is a bed and breakfast. It’s just… I just haven’t had any guests for a while. And… it’s past midnight.” She paused and squinted at him again. “You do look like you need a room.” She seemed to be considering the possibility for a moment. Niklas smiled his mildest smile.
The lady nodded thoughtfully. “I think we’re going to have to sort you out, young man. If someone shows up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, it must be for a good reason. That’s what I’ve always said.” She ushered him through the door. “Come on, don’t let the heat out.”
Niklas stepped inside. The house was nice and warm and had a diffuse floral smell.
“I’m Mrs Dollimore.” The little lady stretched out a veined hand.
“Niklas. With a k. I’m from Finland.” He squeezed Mrs Dollimore’s warm hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Niklas,” Mrs Dollimore said and peered at him as if she was gauging him. “Do people call you Nick for short?”
“No.” He wasn’t going down that slippery slope again.
Mrs Dollimore smiled. “Then Niklas it is.”
The small hallway was decorated with pink wallpaper and on the walls were family photos, a man and a boy. But there was only one coat on the coat rack, and just one pair of ladies’ shoes was placed underneath. A large angel doll sat on a wooden shelf. It looked hand-made, with shiny pink fabric, lace, curled string for hair, and a serene face, drawn in coloured pencil.
He took off his coat and hung it on the rack. “Most of the other hotels are fully booked. Because of Christmas.”
Mrs Dollimore smiled. “Well, this isn’t exactly prime location. But you’re here now, that’s all that matters. Let’s get you a room and a warm bath. Where are your bags?”
Bags? Niklas looked around as if some would magically appear at his feet. But none did. “I haven’t got any.” Mrs Dollimore gave him a funny look and he added, “I left in a hurry.”
“Oh.” The old lady walked ahead of him up a flight of carpeted squeaky stairs. Niklas left his boots in the hallway and followed her. Upstairs, a door was ajar and Mrs Dollimore stepped inside and switched on the lights. “I’ll give you my best guest-room,” she said.
The room was a floral shock. Pink roses were liberally dotted all over the wallpapers. The dark red carpet had a sprawling pattern of multicoloured flowers, as did the curtains. On the little nightstand beside the bed was a pink lamp, its shade decorated with little fabric flower heads. The throw on the bed was embellished with purple flowers which Niklas didn’t know the name of, but recognised from his grandmother’s garden. It was folded halfway back to reveal a fluffy pink pillow, and on the pillow lay not a chocolate as he had hoped, but a large black cat. It opened one eye and glared sleepily at him.
Niklas dug his toes into the thick carpet. Yes — this was England. He remembered now.
“Don’t mind Black,” Mrs Dollimore said. “That’s his spot, right there on the bed.”
“Should I lift it out?” Niklas asked.
“Oh, no. Just leave him where he is. This is a pet-friendly B&B. He’ll move when he’s ready.”
Black the cat didn’t seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere. He had closed his eyes again and set his head back on the pillow. The only sign he had not yet gone back to sleep was his front paw, which was rhythmically piercing the pink fabric with long, needle-sharp claws.
Mrs Dollimore disappeared into the en-suite bathroom. “I’ll run you a bath. You can put your clothes outside the door when you’re ready. I’ll pop them in th
e washing machine for you,” she called back out.
Niklas heard her turn the taps and water come gushing out.
“You go ahead and jump right in,” Mrs Dollimore said, and left the room.
Niklas had not had a proper bath for as long as he could remember, only showers. He tested the water with his toe. Then he submerged the rest of his foot and leg. And then his other leg. He sat down and leaned back. The steaming water flowed and the level rose until water covered his body, thawing his fingers and toes and slowly warming his core. Steam filled the room and obscured the bathroom mirror in a white mist.
Mrs Dollimore had placed little bottles of shampoo on the side of the bath. Niklas sniffed the soapy liquid, poured some out in his palm and lathered up his hair and body.
Half an hour later, he returned to the bedroom and found his clothes were missing from the chair. In their place was a set of striped pyjamas. Mrs Dollimore must have sneaked into his room while he was in the bath, and taken his clothes. Reluctantly, he held the pyjamas up. They looked brand new, and about his size.
Black the cat had left his spot on the pillow and was now sitting by the door, staring at the knob. Left on the pillow was an indentation, with an abundance of black cat hairs. Niklas slipped into the pyjamas and opened the door to let the cat out. He picked up the pillow, shook it, and brushed off the hairs best he could. He sneezed and placed the still-hairy pillow back on the bed.
Mrs Dollimore had left him a cup of tea on his bedside table, along with a milk jug and a dish with three thick slices of generously buttered toast. He pulled the duvet around himself and sat on the bed, sipping his tea and eating the toast. Warm and with a full stomach, he lay down, closed his eyes and went straight to sleep.
Niklas sat up straight in bed, gasping. At first, he couldn’t remember where he was. Roses. On the walls were pink roses. It was raining roses. He was in England. He ran his hand over the unfamiliar pyjamas he was wearing. He remembered walking through London in the rain, cold and scared. He remembered the little old lady who had taken him in, Mrs Dollimore.
He looked around the room. On his pillow, right next to him, lay the big black cat, fast asleep. And on the chair by the end of his bed, neatly washed, ironed and folded, were his clothes. A dull morning light seeped through the closed curtains. The door was ajar. Mrs Dollimore must have let the cat in when he was asleep, and come into his room to leave the clothes on his chair. Had she washed, dried and ironed them overnight?
The stairs creaked when Niklas went down. An open door led him into a large breakfast room, which smelled of bacon. A Christmas tree towered in the middle of the room and there were three round tables, all with wipe-clean cloths, but only one laid for breakfast.
The little old lady appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Good morning!” she said. “Slept well?”
Niklas nodded.
“Did the pyjamas fit?”
“Yes.”
This piece of information seemed to bring the little lady great joy. She clapped her hands together. “I thought they would! I bought them for my son, but that’s fine, I’ll get him a new set when he comes to visit. You’re welcome to keep them.”
Niklas stuck his hands in his back pockets. The Christmas card was gone. “You washed my jeans.” He patted the flat denim.
“Hang on.” Mrs Dollimore retrieved a wet lump of cardboard from the kitchen and handed it to him. “I took it out before I popped your clothes in the machine, but I’m afraid it was already sodden from the rain. Was it something important?”
A kettle boiled in the kitchen and before Niklas had a chance to answer, she continued, “Can I make you a cup of tea or coffee while you wait for your breakfast?”
“Coffee.” He carefully unfolded the soaked piece of cardboard.
“How do you take it, dear?”
“Black, no sugar.” Beach-Santa was no longer smiling. In fact, he was completely unrecognisable, transformed into a grotesque abstraction of himself. The red colour of his lips and Santa Claus outfit was running out in all directions, and the yellow piña colada in his hand had turned a toxic green. On the back, his mother’s handwriting had washed away altogether, leaving nothing but a blue tint to the page. He folded the wet card and put it back in his pocket, then he checked the inner pocket of his parka. Sophie’s letter was wet and crinkled. He carefully pulled the sheet of paper out of the envelope. It had survived the rain better than his mother’s postcard and even though it was damp, it was still fully legible. He went back upstairs and placed it on his bedside table to dry, gently smoothing it out with his hand.
Back in the dining room, he navigated his way around the abundantly decorated Christmas tree to the table by the window. He looked out over the back garden with its neat lawn and wooden fences. A washing line was suspended between two wooden posts, and a large timber shed sat at the back. It was another dull day with overcast skies, but at least yesterday’s rain had stopped.
“Here’s a newspaper, if you’d like to read.” Mrs Dollimore handed him the Telegraph. “Unless you think it’s too awful what’s going on in the world? But I suppose we need to keep ourselves informed.”
Niklas put the newspaper on the table and Mrs Dollimore disappeared back into the kitchen. He pulled out the chair. It was unusually heavy. On the seat was a large white cat. Niklas gave it a gentle push, but the cat didn’t move. “Shoo, shoo,” he said, waving his hands above the cat’s head.
“White won’t hear you, dear,” called Mrs Dollimore from the kitchen. “He’s completely deaf.”
Niklas pushed the cat towards the edge of the chair. The cat let its relaxed body flop back onto the seat.
“Since birth. He’s doing just fine, and the Hoover doesn’t frighten him — that’s a positive. But of course, there’s no use in shooing him. Did I tell you this is a pet-friendly B&B?”
Mrs Dollimore came to Niklas’s rescue, picked up the cat and placed him over her shoulder. She carried it out to the kitchen, and a little while later, she reappeared with a cup of coffee. “Your food won’t be a minute.”
Niklas turned the pages idly. There was nothing that interested him. He folded the newspaper back up and sat and waited instead.
After a while, Mrs Dollimore brought him a plate full of sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, cooked tomatoes and mushrooms, along with a rack of freshly toasted bread and a little dish with butter. “I thought I’d cook you a proper English breakfast, seeing as it’s your first day,” she said and sat down with her own cup of tea.
Niklas tucked into his food. He’d not had a cooked breakfast since the last time he was in England, but he could easily see it becoming a habit.
Mrs Dollimore watched him eat. After a while, she said, “I don’t mean to be rude…” Her fingers fiddled with a thin gold chain around her neck. “And I hope you don’t mind my asking. But, just for my planning… How many nights do you think you’ll be staying?”
Niklas swallowed down a bite of toast. “I don’t know.”
“Oh. Well, it’s just that… It would be good to know. A couple of nights, maybe? A week?”
“I’ll find somewhere else after Christmas.”
Mrs Dollimore’s eyes widened. “Christmas, you say… That’s… That’s over a month away.”
“Yes.”
“Right. It’s just that… You see… It’s just that my son and his wife are coming to visit me.”
Niklas cut into one of the rashers of bacon.
“They spent last Christmas with her family. And the one before that, if I remember correctly. I’m sure you’ll understand, I will have to ask you to check out before they arrive. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.”
He nodded. “I’ll find somewhere else.”
“But please don’t worry, you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. Until they arrive.”
Niklas put half a rasher in his mouth.
“Anyway, let’s not worry about that now. We should get to know each other, you and I, since we’ll
be each other’s company. Tell me everything about Niklas. What brings you to London?”
Niklas chewed. He turned the salt shaker around on the table. Then he picked it up and shook a few grains over his scrambled eggs. “I’m a scientist.”
A telephone rang in the hallway.
“Oh, that must be my Steven now. When you speak of the devil…” Mrs Dollimore hurried to answer.
Niklas could hear her muffled voice from the hallway. She returned a couple of minutes later. “It was just a prank caller,” she said. “Wanted me to switch electricity company. But I’ve been with the same one for fifty years, so the joke was on them.”
11
Clare was halfway out the door when her dad called from the kitchen, “How’s that reindeer doing?” She stopped. “The one you brought in the other week?”
She looked back through the doorway. Mr Sheldon was sitting at the table reading The Scotsman and had just finished his breakfast. “I took him back up on the mountain yesterday. He’s doing really well.” She took his egg cup and empty bowl for him. Then she wiped a few crumbs off the counter with the dishcloth. “The swelling has gone down completely.”
“That’s great. I’m coming with you today — just give me a minute.” Mr Sheldon took off his reading glasses and folded up the newspaper.
Clare turned to him. “Are you sure you’re up for it?” Her dad had suffered what Clare had first thought was a cold, but it had turned out to be a nasty flu and rendered him bedridden for over a week, and housebound for another. He was still pale and tired.
“I can manage, you know.”
It had been hard work managing everything around the farm, as well as looking after the herd up on the mountain all on her own, and Clare was relieved her dad was feeling better. She hoped he’d soon be back to his normal energetic self. Clare smiled. “Okay, but you take it easy.”
