The Christmas Invitation

by Trisha Ashley

  I didn’t usually need an extensive wardrobe because I tended to live and work in jeans, T-shirts and hand-knitted jumpers. At the Farm, changing for dinner meant removing any garment that smelled of goat and replacing it with one that didn’t. This time I wasn’t sure what I would need, or even how long I would be staying. Still, since I didn’t actually have that many clothes, and few that were really smart, I just packed everything.

  Early on the Wednesday morning I finally headed North, Joe and Freddie having returned my camper van to me the evening before. Or rather, Joe returned it and Freddie followed him in their old 2CV to drive him home again.

  Though they’d cleaned the van, it still smelled pleasantly of coriander and the other exotic herbs they grew in their ecologically heated greenhouses, along with several kinds of chilli peppers, which they sold to local pubs, restaurants, shops and cafés.

  Freddie, at my request, had also brought me a large hamper of the jams and chutneys he made, for it had occurred to me that if I was to end up staying for Christmas, then some form of gift offering would be a good idea. And if I’d had enough by the Winter Solstice and decamped with River, it might sweeten my departure somewhat.

  I wasn’t sure how Freddie’s new line, Fiery Fiesta Chilli Chutney, would go down, but no one could dislike the lemon, orange and lime curds he bottled so prettily, the jars wearing gingham mobcaps in the same colour as the contents and tied with matching grosgrain ribbon.

  The good thing about travelling in my own cosy snail-shell home was that I could stop wherever I liked and make a hot drink and something to eat, without having to run the shopping gauntlet of the service stations in search of something vegetarian and edible, which in most of them would be akin to finding the Holy Grail on offer in the local supermarket.

  I didn’t do sat nav, but I’d checked the route via Google, which had also offered me views of a reservoir in the valley below Starstone Edge, where I would be staying. The photos had obviously been taken in high summer, with white-sailed little boats on a still surface that reflected a blue sky and a few snow-white puffball clouds. The amenities of the hamlet (the larger village in the valley having been flooded by the creation of the reservoir) included a seasonal sailing club, a handful of holiday cottages and a B&B. The delights of the area around Starstone Edge were described as good walking and birdwatching country, with sailing and fishing in the reservoir. I’d stayed in remote moorland areas before and strongly suspected that the whole place would shut down from early autumn to late spring.

  The recommended route was via the village of Thorstane in the next valley, and then over the moors, the only alternative being a narrow zigzag pass, which I can’t say I liked the look of, especially in the middle of winter.

  I got lost twice after leaving the motorway, but eventually found myself winding my way upwards along ever narrower country roads until eventually I saw the sign for Thorstane. It was a large village with an ugly Victorian church, a couple of shops and, right on the furthest edge where the road began to climb steeply again, a large pub.

  I stopped to take a look at it: it was evidently an old building, though now extended, and with a motel wing in what had probably once been stables and barns. It sported a sign: the Pike with Two Heads.

  That struck me as being an odd choice of name for a pub on a remote bit of moorland, with not a river to be seen …

  But there was no time to linger, because the afternoon dusk was already seeping in, as was the cold, the camper van heater not being terribly efficient. I started the engine again and set off, labouring upwards and then, with relief, over the crest and down into the next valley.

  Far below a sheet of water gleamed dully, like polished pewter, and a line of toy buildings straggled along the road that edged this side of it. There were a lot of conifers crowding up to the water’s edge and spreading up the hills on the far side.

  In the other direction, the road snaked down the valley in a series of zigzags towards the dam. Slowly trundling up this route, and looking the size of a toy car, was a white pick-up truck. It vanished as I ran the camper carefully down the single-track lane, reversing at one point into a passing place when I met a tractor.

  Finally, I reached the junction with the valley road and turned right … and there in front of me was the imposing and impossibly overblown shape of a Victorian Gothic mansion: turreted, pepper pot-towered, gingerbread decorated, gabled and many-chimneyed. It was built of some grey stone, divided by lines of red brick, some of it in herringbone pattern.

  I’d come to a stop in order to gaze at the monstrosity in amazement. It was as if the architect had tried to include every element of Victorian Gothic in one house. This must be my destination. There couldn’t be two of them.

  The last of the light died and the façade turned dark, except for the many casemented or cusped and arched windows.

  It was growing colder by the minute, so I set off again and turned up the drive, parking on a sweep of gravel behind what looked like the white pick-up I’d seen heading up the pass.

  I got out reluctantly, thinking that, what with the rapidly vanishing light and the chill wind whistling round my legs, it didn’t seem the most inviting venue I could think of for a cosy Christmas party.

  A tall, wide-shouldered man, his dark curling hair whipped into a frenzy by the breeze, was lifting down a small boy from the passenger side of the pick-up. The child ran off up the steps to the house, a blue rucksack trailing from one hand. The door swung open and he vanished inside.

  I was still shrugging into my old down-filled anorak when the man turned and took a step towards me … then stopped dead, staring.

  I froze, and it wasn’t because I’d caught the full blast of the icy wind whistling down off the moors, or the glacial expression of horrified disbelief in his dark moss agate-green eyes … eyes that could also look as velvet-soft as catkins.

  But they weren’t soft now.

  Memories of the Lex Mariner I’d once known shuffled quickly through my mind: striding through the art college, his tumbled black curls, his long dark coat flapping, his winged brows and narrow face with its thin, curved nose that gave him the look of a young hawk, the sound of his deep voice raised in some artistic discussion … and another memory, long suppressed: the feel of his arms around me.

  Then it all morphed into the man standing in front of me, an older version, with lines of pain and endurance etched on his face like a map of the past.

  I felt myself flush hotly and then the blood drained away into my boots: old wounds might heal on the surface, yet underneath, remain raw. I never thought I’d see him again – and I hadn’t wanted to.

  The feeling appeared to be mutual, for without a word he swung on his heel, climbed back into his cab, executed a tight three-point turn and roared off, spattering me and my van in gravel.

  Stoned – and I’d never even been guilty as charged.

  5

  All Enveloping

  A voice finally broke into my stunned reverie, in which, among other chaotic thoughts, a strong desire to get into the van and head straight back to London was forming.

  ‘Miss ’Arkness?’ it said.

  I turned and found that a small, entirely bald man with a friendly, simian face was bobbing about next to me. He was attired in an over-large brown linen overall.

  ‘Where’s ’is ’ighness gorn off to in such an ’urry?’

  The roar of the pick-up’s engine receded like a lion down the valley and then was gone. Without waiting for an answer, the man continued, ‘I’m Den, cook and dogsbody round ’ere. Yer to go in – drawing room’s on the left. They’re all waiting for yer. I’ll bring yer cases, if you show me what you want, won’t I?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, finally getting my vocal cords to work and leading the way to the back of the van. ‘Just that holdall and the suitcase. I’ll leave the painting gear and everything else for later.’

  ‘Right you are,’ he said, swinging my luggage down. He sniffed
, his flattened nose wrinkling slightly. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, there’s a strange smell in this ’ere van. Not bad – just … funny.’

  ‘It’s mostly coriander, I think. Friends sometimes use the van to deliver herbs from their market garden.’

  ‘That would account fer it, then,’ he said. ‘And if you give me yer keys, I’ll move the van round the side in a bit, where it’s more sheltered, ain’t it?’

  I had no idea, nor could I quite place his accent. There seemed to be elements of Cockney, but overlaid with later strata that were less easy to pigeonhole.

  I shut the door again. ‘That man who just left …’ I began, cautiously.

  ‘Lex Mariner, Clara’s nephew.’ Den picked up my luggage as if it was as insubstantial as a cloud, which it wasn’t, due to my having shoved several books in there, plus my wellies. ‘She was expecting ’im to come in fer tea, be introduced to you, like, but ’e must ’ave ’ad something urgent to do. Maybe Teddy knows.’

  I assumed that to be the small boy – could he be Lex’s son? I took my tapestry shoulder bag and followed Den up the steps and through a vestibule with a half-glazed door into a vast hall, from which a grand staircase curved upwards into darkness. The eagle sitting on the barley sugar-twist newel post at the bottom looked as if it was about to swoop forward and carry me off in its huge talons.

  Den nodded to a door on the left. ‘In there. Unfreeze yer marrow while I dump yer bags and fetch in fresh tea – unless Tottie’s already on the case.’

  As he bent to pick my luggage up again, the collar of the brown overall rode down and I could see a tattoo on the back of his neck. It was a luridly coloured arrow pointing upwards, underneath it the words, ‘This way up.’

  ‘Interesting tattoo,’ I commented.

  ‘Ta. Got it done in Brixton. Passes the time, don’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it does,’ I agreed, slightly startled. Could he mean Brixton as in prison? Did they spend the long hours tattooing things on each other … with sharp instruments? Surely not!

  He plodded off upwards, refusing my offer to take one of the bags, and I turned my steps towards the drawing-room door. The hall was cavernous and dark, so that you could only just discern the outline of a vast coat-stand, wooden chairs with pointed canopies, a long table pushed against one wall and a grandfather clock ticking heavily away, like the heartbeat of the house. The floor was tiled in a beautiful pattern of oak leaves in ochre red and sage green, and the air was fragranced with lavender polish and pot-pourri, plus a slight overlay of damp dog.

  But on opening the door, I blinked as I found myself in a very large room that dazzled the eye with light. It was painted a bright shade of golden yellow, to start with, hung with many gilded mirrors, and illuminated by a huge and glittering chandelier. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of twenties-style squishy velvet sofas and chairs, hideous camel saddle stools and Egyptian leather poufs. Ancient Eastern carpets hung on every spare bit of wall and a full-sized statue of the god Anubis was standing right next to me. He was wearing a gilded loin cloth and a very beachcomber straw hat with a frayed brim, adorned with a faded ribbon.

  There were several people grouped around a roaring fire, like a slightly offbeat illustration for Homes and Gardens, and they had all turned to look at me.

  Clara was sitting on one sofa before a large coffee table on which was a tray of tea things and a depleted plate of sandwiches. A thin, desiccated-looking middle-aged woman, with fair curling hair, sat on an upright brocade chair nearby, teacup in hand, while opposite on a mustard velvet chesterfield sofa was the small boy I’d seen earlier, leaning affectionately against a silver-haired and handsome elderly man, whom I immediately recognized as the great poet himself Henry Doome.

  Rollo would have been dead jealous.

  ‘There you are, Meg,’ Clara said, with the beaming force-field smile that I remembered only too well. ‘Great timing, because Tottie’s just gone to put the kettle on for fresh tea, and the cheese scones should be ready by now. I expect you’re starving?’

  ‘I … yes, I am hungry,’ I discovered, surprised. You’d think the shock of seeing Lex Mariner again would have put me off food for life.

  I was also freezing, so when she patted the sofa next to her I was happy to obey.

  ‘Come and sit here to thaw out and I’ll introduce you to everyone. And here’s Tottie now,’ she added as the door opened and a tall, weather-beaten woman of flatly angular physique, with cropped pepper-and-salt hair, and dressed in corduroy trousers and a checked shirt, pushed a tea trolley into the room with a rattle.

  This sofa seemed to be an upmarket version of the one in my flat, for it enveloped me in such billowy softness that I wasn’t sure I’d ever escape its clutches.

  ‘Meg, this is Tottie Gillyflower, one of the household,’ Clara said as Tottie removed the dirty cups and empty teapot and replaced them with a fresh supply in an entirely different pattern of china, before adding more sandwiches and a large plate of scones. The smell made me salivate.

  ‘Ha!’ said Tottie, by way of greeting, then shoved the trolley away into the middle of the room and planted herself opposite on the other sofa, next to the small boy.

  ‘That’s Henry, my husband, of course,’ Clara continued.

  ‘How do you do, my dear?’ said Henry in a voice I recognized from broadcasts. We may have never had a TV at the Farm while I was growing up, but we had the radio. ‘I can’t get up because Lass is asleep.’

  What I’d thought was a hairy black, grey and white rug spread across his knees was actually a spaniel. In fact, it now awoke with a snort and, opening its eyes, spotted me. A tail flapped a little, narrowly missing the scones.

  ‘Teddy’s in the middle,’ Clara said. ‘He’s my niece’s little boy, but he makes his home with us because Zelda is an actor and it’s so difficult otherwise when she’s on tour round the provinces, which she mostly seems to be.’

  ‘It’s a pity they didn’t keep her character on in Coronation Street. That was really handy, since they film it so close by,’ Tottie said.

  ‘It was just a bit part, unfortunately,’ Henry explained to me. ‘You can’t really make a big impression with only two lines to say.’

  ‘That depends on how good the actor is,’ Clara said.

  ‘Mummy and Daddy are strange,’ the little boy put in, fixing me with a pair of dark eyes.

  ‘Estranged,’ corrected Clara. ‘Though the ways of modern coupling and uncoupling certainly are strange. Sybil, we haven’t introduced you yet,’ she added to the desiccated woman sitting in the brocade chair.

  ‘Meg, this is Sybil Whitcliffe, Henry’s niece. Her son, Mark, has inherited the family pile, Underhill, and is ripping the place apart so he can turn it into some kind of bijou wedding reception venue and country house hotel, so she’s escaped over here to have her tea in peace.’

  ‘So pleased …’ murmured Sybil faintly. She reminded me of one of those plants that seem dead until you put them in water, when they spring back to verdant life. I thought she looked about fifty and would be pretty if you soaked her for long enough.

  The door opened and Den, still wearing the brown linen overall, wandered in, took a cheese scone, which he ate in two large bites, then wandered out again.

  Lass scrambled down and followed him through the door before it shut.

  ‘It’s her dinnertime, more or less,’ Henry explained.

  ‘We had fishfingers for lunch at school today,’ Teddy said, looking up from a book he’d opened on his lap. ‘But fish don’t have fingers, do they? I asked Miss Dawn and she said, “Let’s not get into one of your long discussions till after lunch, Teddy. Just eat it.”’

  ‘None that I’ve ever seen,’ I agreed, beginning to feel as if I’d strayed into some Mad Hatter’s tea party. ‘I think they just make them out of minced up bits of white fish and call them that.’

  ‘Good, because I don’t want to eat real fingers,’ said Teddy. He subjected me to a close scruti
ny. ‘Are you going to paint Aunt Clara?’

  ‘She is, and Henry too, I hope, but Meg’s recovering from an illness, so she needs lots of rest, fresh air and good food,’ Clara told him.

  ‘Your hair is very green,’ Teddy observed, with one of those sudden changes of subject children are prone to. ‘I can paint, too, so I might paint you with green hair.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, Teddy. I’d love you to paint my portrait.’

  ‘It’s a very pretty shade of green,’ Henry said kindly.

  He should have seen it after Roz had first dyed it, when it was more dark emerald than waterweed.

  He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘And your eyes are a very unusual shade, my dear, somewhere between light green and turquoise …’ He frowned. ‘I seem to recall someone else with eyes of just such a shade …’

  ‘You know, I thought the very same thing when I first met Meg,’ Clara agreed. ‘I can’t remember where, though. It’ll come back to me.’

  I got my unusually pale hair and the colour of my eyes from Mum (though my father was also fair, even if more of a dishwater blond), but I thought it unlikely that her path had ever crossed with the Doomes. Still, coincidences do happen.

  ‘You haven’t been to India in the last few years, have you?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘No, not for … oh, perhaps fifteen years. Time flies,’ said Clara, accepting the change of subject without apparent surprise.

  My sudden flare of hope died: Mum had vanished there some years ago and though that hadn’t been unusual, she’d always previously resurfaced after a while. This time, however, she simply seemed to have been swallowed up and there had been no contact.

  ‘My mother has the same colouring as me and she went missing in India a few years ago,’ I explained. ‘We haven’t heard from her since, so I just wondered if your paths might have crossed.’