For the Love of Emma

by Lucy Gordon

  Carlyle was everywhere with his camera these days, picturing Emma stirring the Christmas pudding, for Nora made her own. Emma in the choir for the school’s Christmas concert. Emma wrapping gifts and writing labels, her tongue stuck out with concentration; Emma joining a crowd of carol singers who called one night and sang around the tree in the garden. That one was especially hard to watch, with the lights falling on her eager, upturned face and shining eyes, her childish voice raised in Christmas worship for the last time.

  “Let’s put them away,” Carlyle said, turning off the video. “Next year will be the time to watch them.”

  They were sitting in the near darkness at one in the morning. Briony could hardly see him, but she could sense the outlines of his body, drained and weary with the effort of putting on a smiling face while his heart broke.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she said, touching him gently.

  “Yes, all ri—Good God! What’s that?”

  From up above them came the sound of Emma’s voice calling urgently. “Mummy, Daddy! Come quick.”

  “She’s ill,” he said in fear. “She’s had a bad turn.”

  They rushed out into the hall to be confronted by Emma’s nightgowned figure on the landing, bouncing with excitement.

  “Come and look!” she cried urgently, pointing out of the window. “It’s snowing.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT THE wedding Briony had had little time to take in the details of Carlyle’s family, but when they arrived for Christmas she began to observe them more closely. Joyce was as she’d remembered, warm-hearted and bracing, with a tendency to sweep all before her. It amused Briony to realize that just as Emma had inherited her forceful strain from Carlyle, so he’d inherited it from his mother.

  Lionel, his father, was a mild man, a few inches shorter than his wife, who regarded the world with an air of bemusement, and his son with something like awe. He had no business sense himself, and left all household paperwork to his wife. His own interest was painting, and he arrived with an easel and palette and promptly set to work in the garden, trying to capture the falling snow, until Joyce hauled him indoors with a trenchant demand to know if he’d set his heart on pneumonia, or would he be satisfied with flu?

  Apart from them there was Carlyle’s older sister Paula, who held a tutorship at a university some distance away. She was a tense woman with a stern aspect and a sarcastic tongue. But Briony noticed that Emma liked her and would seek her company, ignoring snubs, or perhaps not feeling them as snubs.

  The younger sister, Elaine, had come up from Cornwall with her husband and eleven-year-old twins, Dawn and Belinda. They were jolly children, but sensible, and both of them obviously knew that they had to treat Emma with care. After the first hour Briony left the three of them together with an easy mind.

  The day before Christmas Eve she was still making charts and lists to find ways to accommodate so many guests. She managed it at last, and although the house nearly burst at the seams, at least everyone had a bed. And even Paula declared that there was something cheerful about so many people under one roof.

  “Not that you’ll think so on Christmas Day, when the rest arrive,” she declared gloomily.

  “Are there many more?” Briony asked. “I knew at one time, but I’ve lost track.”

  “Various cousins,” Paula declared, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. Denis—you met him at the wedding. Peter, Andrew—they’re all right, some of them. At least Peter isn’t such a fool as he looks. Not like Denis, who is.”

  Emma giggled.

  “Well, I know you like him,” Paula said. “All children do. Mind of a child himself, if you ask me.”

  “Exactly,” Carlyle said with some asperity. “I don’t remember inviting him for Christmas. If fact, I don’t remember inviting him to our wedding.”

  “Of course not,” Joyce agreed. “Nobody invites Denis anywhere. It isn’t necessary. He simply turns up.”

  Somehow, in the melec, Briony got a chance for a quiet sherry in the kitchen with Joyce. Now they were friends it was easy to confide her worries about Carlyle’s inability to talk to Emma, except superficially.

  “He adores her, he’d do anything, give anything—except speak to her from his heart. At first I thought it was wonderful that he could play the ‘Oswald’ game, until I realized that the Oswalds make it easy for him. While he’s fooling about them he doesn’t have to be talking about anything else. He’s not a shallow man—”

  “Oh, no, quite the reverse,” Joyce said. “Things go so deep with him that he can’t find the words. It’s the same with his father. The only way Lionel can talk is through paint. He’s never told me that he loves me, but all his best portraits of me have been done since I lost my youthful looks. That’s how I know.”

  Briony smiled. “That’s nice. But I wasn’t talking about Carlyle and me.”

  “If your husband can’t speak of his feelings, it must be your problem, too,” Joyce said shrewdly.

  A jealous imp made Briony ask, “How did Helen manage? Did he tell her he loved her?”

  “I’m not sure. But that was different. You see, they grew up next door to each other, went to school together, understood each other through and through. Helen didn’t need the words.”

  “I see,” Briony said with a sigh. “Yes, I see.”

  On Christmas Eve Emma said anxiously, “Daddy, you forgot the ladder.”

  “What ladder?”

  “The one to the landing window, for Father Christmas.”

  “He doesn’t need a ladder, darling. The reindeer will drop him just outside.”

  “He’s always needed a ladder before. You used to put it up against the wall and leave the window open six inches.”

  Carlyle gave in without further argument. “All right. A ladder.”

  Lionel helped him carry it from the shed, and Briony stood and watched as the two of them adjusted it. “There,” she said. “Now Father Christmas can get in without any trouble.”

  Her husband cast her a disgruntled glance. “As far as I’m concerned,” he muttered, “Father Christmas can fall down it and—”

  “Careful. Emma’s at the window. Is that all right, darling?”

  “Perfect,” Emma called back.

  “Time for bed.”

  It was easier to get Emma to bed now she was sharing her room with Dawn and Belinda. The whispering went on far into the night, as Briony had discovered, listening outside. Tonight she watched as they hung up their stockings, and mentally ran over the plan. The three children would be allowed out when the church clock struck midnight, which would just be in time to see Father Christmas’s arrival. He would go downstairs to put the main presents around the tree, and while the children watched this Joyce would slip into their rooms and exchange the empty stockings for identical ones filled with oranges and small toys.

  At eleven-thirty, when the house was growing quiet, Carlyle asked, “Just how far do I have to take this? Because if you think that I’m going to climb in through that window—”

  “No, of course not,” Briony soothed him. “You can’t actually see the window from the spot where Emma will be watching, so she won’t know how you got into position. Come on. You’ve come this far. Don’t give up now.”

  “You will make sure that Emma’s watching, won’t you? I’d hate to think I was making a fool of myself for nothing.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  At ten minutes to midnight Briony checked the landing outside Emma’s room. It was empty, but a cheeky head appeared around her door. “Midnight, and not a moment before,” Briony told her. “Back now.”

  The head obediently vanished. Briony went down to Carlyle. “The coast’s clear. Quick.”

  Together they went to the little junk room near the window, where she’d stored the costume. After helping him on with it, she said, “Now, you’ve just come in through that window, with your sack full of presents. You creep out onto the landing and look around you. Then you go down
stairs and in the hall you discover the beer and mince pie that Emma’s left you, and you look delighted.”

  “How can I look delighted under this hood?”

  “You can give a big thumbs-up sign. Make sure you’re near the little wall light, so that she can get a good view. She’ll be looking through the banisters. Then you go into the front room and put the presents around the tree. As you come back you drink the beer, eat the mince pie. Now you’re almost ready to go.”

  The window through which Santa was supposed to climb had been left open a few inches on the insistence of Emma, who plainly had the poorest opinion of his ability to get in without help. Briony now pulled aside the heavy curtains, meaning to fasten it shut, and gave a little gasp. Before her incredulous gaze, the window was being pulled wide open. A hand appeared.

  “Someone’s breaking in,” Carlyle murmured.

  “Perhaps it’s Father Christmas,” she said lightheadedly.

  “Nonsense. How can it be Father Christmas when I—” Carlyle checked himself on the verge of an absurdity, and heard Briony smother a laugh.

  “Wait here,” he said masterfully, and launched himself forward just as someone came over the sill.

  What happened next didn’t take long. There was a thump as they hit the floor together, followed by a scuffle that ended with Father Christmas on top.

  “Ow! Gerroff!” said a familiar voice.

  “Denis!” they both said together.

  “What the devil are you doing breaking into my house?” Carlyle demanded.

  “No such thing. I just arrived a little early. I thought I’d slide in quietly, so as not to cause any trouble, and was attacked by a mad Santa.”

  Briony hastily closed the window. “Get up, you two,” she said. “The clock’s striking twelve.”

  Carlyle rose and took up his sack.

  “You? Father Christmas?” Denis demanded. “Let me do it.”

  “Definitely not,” Carlyle growled from behind his beard.

  “It’s the sort of thing I’d do much better than you, you know I would. Come on, let me—”

  Denis had started to pull at the heavy white beard. The next minute he was startled to find himself pinned against the wall, with a pair of blazing eyes staring straight into his own.

  “Get this straight,” Santa raged. “There’s only one person going to be Father Christmas to my daughter, and that’s me. Do I make myself quite clear?”

  “All right, all right,” Denis said in a strangled voice.

  “Any more trouble from you and you’ll find yourself back out in the snow.” Santa released his prey, who slid down the wall rubbing his throat and breathing hard.

  From overhead, out of sight, came the sound of childish whispers. “Never mind this now,” Briony urged. “You’ve got a job to do.”

  Carlyle hoisted the sack on his shoulders and went along the passage to the landing, where he began to descend the stairs into the dimly lit hall. Briony moved quietly behind him until she could see the stairwell, and the faces of three children overhead, watching everything intently. They were perfectly still as Father Christmas reached the hall, but when he gave a big thumbs-up sign over the refreshments smiles broke out all over their faces, and they began to creep down further.

  From their new vantage point they saw him approach the tree, covered with glittering lights and tinsel, and begin to empty his sack around the base, laying gifts to right and left with great care. The job finished, he crept out of the room to where the refreshments waited.

  As he drank the beer Briony saw one child detach herself from the others and move softly down the stairs. At last Father Christmas finished the mince pie, but before he could move, a small figure came flying off the last step and launched herself at him. Santa clasped her tight, her little face buried beneath his billowing beard, and the two of them stayed like that for a long time.

  Later, in bed, Carlyle said wonderingly, “She knew it was me from the start, didn’t she?”

  “Of course she did,” Briony said, smiling. “She told you last year, she doesn’t believe in Father Christmas anymore.”

  “Then why pretend that she did?”

  “Work it out.”

  After a moment he said, “Yes—I understand. At least—I think so. The little monkey wanted to see if she could make me jump through hoops for her, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, and you did,” she told him tenderly. “You jumped through them beautifully.”

  Denis spent the night on the sofa near the tree. “Guarding the presents,” he said cheerily. “Santa’s Little Helper.”

  Next morning, as the house was stirring, he went around decorating everywhere with mistletoe, of which he seemed to have brought a liberal supply.

  The children were bouncing with excitement, eager to open the presents. The grown-ups gathered around the tree, and the ceremony began.

  Emma was overwhelmed by her gifts. Briony had bought everything to delight a little dancer’s heart, practice tunic, tights and shoes, plus a pink satin tutu, and a pair of “best” dancing shoes. Emma promptly darted upstairs and returned clad in the tutu and tights. She curtsied to general applause and announced her intention of dressing like this all day. There was an ache in Briony’s heart but she smiled. Emma could dream, and need never know that the dream couldn’t come true.

  When the children had strewn the room with brightly colored wrapping paper, the adults could turn to their own gifts. Briony had two shocks. Instead of the modest few recordings she’d asked for, Carlyle and Emma presented her with state-of-the-art CD equipment, and versions of just about every musical and operetta written.

  Her second shock was another set of gifts and cards. “Happy birthday,” Carlyle said, giving them to her.

  “But how did you know my birthday was at Christmas?” she asked in delight.

  Carlyle and his daughter exchanged grins. “Put it there,” he said, crooking his little finger, and Emma curled her own little finger round it. Solemnly they shook.

  “A little nifty liaison work,” he said. “I briefed my agent in the field here to discover your birthday.”

  “I found your birth certificate,” Emma said.

  “And passed the information on to me,” Carlyle added. “When we realized your birthday fell on Christmas Day we decided to surprise you.”

  “It’s the best surprise I ever had,” she said. But the greatest pleasure of all was the fact that he could have discovered her birthday from her work records. Instead he’d consulted Emma.

  A piece of Denis’s mistletoe hung directly overhead. It would have been so easy for Carlyle to make use of it, but apparently it didn’t occur to him. He squeezed her shoulder kindly, said, “As long as you’re pleased,” and the moment passed.

  The house seethed and hummed with people. Not until supper was over did Briony snatch a moment alone. She escaped to the kitchen, in dire need of a cup of tea. Suddenly she was depressed. The day was nearly over, and Carlyle had ignored the mistletoe. With a sigh, she contemplated the washing up.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve promised Nora I’ll do it,” said a cheery voice.

  “Hello, Denis. Don’t tell me the party got too much for you, too? You were born to make a party go with a swing.”

  He fanned himself. “Even the court jester needs five minutes off. Is that tea you’re making?”

  “Yes. Coming up in just a minute.”

  While she busied herself making tea she was vaguely aware that Denis was reaching over her head, but she had no idea what he was doing until she looked round for the milk and found him regarding her with an impish look.

  “What are you up to, Denis?”

  “D’you see what’s up there?” he enquired innocently.

  Briony looked up to the light, where Denis had stuck another piece of mistletoe to the metal shade. Before she could stop him he’d put both arms around her and kissed her full on the lips.

  She wasn’t pleased, but neither was she annoyed. It was only
Denis acting the fool. “That’s enough,” she said, laughing and trying to free her arms, which he’d imprisoned. “Let me go now.”

  “You wouldn’t begrudge me one little Christmas kiss, would you?”

  “You’ve had it.”

  “How about another?”

  “Denis, I’m warning you—”

  “Ah, don’t be heartless, Briony. I’ve fancied you like mad ever since I met you at the wedding, and Christmas only comes once a year. Be kind to a starving man.”

  “Starving my foot, you had half the turkey.”

  “Starving for love. Famished for affection. One touch of your ruby lips and I’ll live on it for a year.”

  Briony freed herself and seized up the soup ladle. “You won’t survive five minutes if I use this on you,” she warned.

  “She spurns me! Calamity!” Denis released her and struck his forehead, seemingly about to expire with grief. Briony chuckled at his clowning and put down the ladle.

  It was a mistake. Quick as a flash Denis flung an arm around her shoulders and drew her close to seize another kiss. Briony, caught off balance, fended him off clumsily. Then, as suddenly as he’d pounced on her, he vanished. She had a glimpse of Carlyle’s face, tight with anger. She steadied herself in time to see Denis being irresistibly propelled out of the kitchen. They vanished into the hall, from where Briony heard muffled voices. Denis saying placatingly, “Don’t be hard on Santa’s Little Helper.” And Carlyle, not at all placated, snapping, “Santa’s Little Helper is lucky he doesn’t find himself strung up on the tree.”

  “Thank you,” she said when Carlyle returned. “He was getting a bit much to handle.”

  “Indeed? A wise woman wouldn’t have come out here alone with him,” Carlyle said coldly.

  She looked up and found him regarding her darkly. “Hey, come on,” she said. “I didn’t ‘come out here’ with him. I came out alone for a cuppa and a bit of peace, and he followed.”