I sorted the triangles into an Alfie pile and a Freddie pile and put them away in the envelope, resisting - with some difficulty - the temptation to indulge in any more detective work.
~~~
After lunch, Gwen wrapped and labelled the rest of her Christmas presents and piled them in a corner of the attic. She was on her way downstairs when she heard a whoop from Hattie and an excited cry: ‘They’re here! Fanny and Deb have arrived!’ Harris and Lewis joined in the chorus of greeting and by the time Gwen had descended to the hall, Alfie, Viv and Hattie were assembled, Hattie looking excited, Alfie stoical, as Viv heaved open the oak door to let her sisters in.
Gwen hung back, standing on the bottom stair, her hand resting on the banister and she was able to look over the assembled heads as the two women entered. She was in no doubt as to which sister was which. Frances, enveloped in fur, her upturned collar concealing much of her face, was a head taller than her elder sister, who wore a quilted down jacket that only added to the rotundity with which Nature had already endowed her. Gwen thought of the Holbein portrait of Henry VIII in which he appeared almost as broad as he was tall.
Deborah was beaming at her siblings and laughing, her round face creased with lines. Her nose was pink with cold and she wore no make-up, apart from carelessly applied lipstick in a shade too bright to be either fashionable or becoming. Deborah hugged Viv and Hattie, then turned to Alfie. She laughed again, at nothing in particular it seemed, then thrust out a hand, saying, ‘Well, here we all are again!’ and shook Alfie’s hand vigorously with both of hers. Alfie said, ‘Hello, Deb,’ and looked relieved when she let go.
Frances, still clutching her fur to her thin frame, inclined her head, unsmiling, to kiss her sisters on the cheek, announcing their names by way of greeting, as if identifying them. Taller than Alfie in perilously elegant heels, she stood and gazed at him in an appraising way. She said, ‘Hello, Alfie’, leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.
Deborah laughed again and Alfie said in a low voice, ‘Hello, Fan. Happy Christmas.’ He turned away, saying, ‘Let me introduce you to Gwen.’
‘Ah yes!’ said Frances brightly, peering over his shoulder. ‘The girlfriend!’ Gwen noticed that she didn’t smile.
Stepping forward as Alfie introduced her, Gwen took Frances’ cold and bony hand, heavy with jewels, and saw the beautiful grey eyes flick up and down, appraising once again. She felt uncomfortable, but assumed this was the professional photographer’s eye, assessing her as a potential subject.
Frances sighed heavily, as if disappointed, and said, ‘Alfie tells me you sew.’ The remark hung in the air for a second. Before Gwen had time to respond, Frances added with a barely suppressed smirk, ‘You and Hattie must have lots to talk about.’ She wheeled round. ‘Hattie, call these bloody dogs off, will you? This coat may be fake but it was still hellish expensive.’
‘They’re just pleased to see you, Fanny.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Frances sneered, ‘the feeling is not mutual. Oh, God, look - I’m covered in white hairs!’
‘Don’t worry, Gwen has a magic sticky thing that removes hairs and fluff.’
‘Thank you, darling, but I won’t be letting sticky things anywhere near this coat, however magical they might be.’
Deborah, whom everyone had forgotten, stepped forward and offered her hand to Gwen. ‘Delighted to meet you, Gwen! I’m Deborah. Everyone calls me Deb. I’m so glad you could join us for Christmas. When we spoke on the phone, Hattie couldn’t stop talking about you. I gather you’re a big hit with everyone - including Rae!’
‘And especially,’ said Frances smiling slyly at her brother, ‘with Alfie… Will somebody please make me a pot of tea before I faint dead away? I drank something disgusting on the train which they claimed was tea, but it most certainly wasn’t.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Hattie, leaping forward. ‘Shall I take your coat, Fanny?’
‘Not unless you’ve had the heating overhauled. Lead me to the Aga, fill me with hot tea, then I might think about divesting myself of some outer garments. Might, I say.’ Her eyes found Gwen again. ‘Are you surviving the cold, Gwen? It’s appalling, isn’t it? The nights are the worst. But then…’ Her lips formed a tight smile. ‘I suppose you’ve got my little brother to keep you warm.’
There was a silence and Gwen, who was beginning to get the measure of Frances, said, ‘I’m upstairs in the attic, actually. Very cosy, in fact, under Hattie’s fabulous quilt. But I’m not one for feeling the cold anyway.’
‘Young people don’t,’ Alfie said, with emphasis. He took Frances’ arm, and steered her away from Gwen. ‘But I believe it’s one of the trials of old age.’
Frances snatched her arm away and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen, heels tapping furiously on the flagstones. ‘On second thoughts, Hattie,’ she called out over her shoulder, ‘would you please pour me a large sherry?’
Viv turned to Alfie. ‘Now look what you’ve done. You’re a naughty boy. We shall all suffer for that.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘She can be as rude as she likes to me, but she’s not getting her claws into Gwen.’ He turned and waited for Gwen who still lingered on the stairs. ‘Come and have some tea. If she gives you any more grief, Hattie will set the dogs on her, won’t you, Hat?’
‘Like a shot. Don’t take any notice of her, Gwen. She’s just jealous.’
But of what Frances might be jealous, Gwen wasn’t altogether sure and Hattie didn’t say.
Frances and Deborah had arrived bearing gifts: six bottles of champagne from Frances and a box of chocolates the size of a coffee table from Deborah. Hattie was thrilled on both counts and insisted on opening the box to see the menu, which, with mounting excitement, she proceeded to read aloud to the assembled company.
‘Chocolate pornography, Deb,’ said Alfie as they drank tea, seated around the kitchen table. ‘Very enterprising of you. Something to please everyone.’
‘Not me, darling,’ said Frances, sipping black tea from a chipped Norwich City FC mug which Hattie had allocated to her as a small gesture of revenge. ‘My post-Christmas diet is starting pre-Christmas, so don’t offer me any chocs.’
‘Would this be the champagne and smoked salmon diet?’ Alfie enquired. ‘Or are you cutting back on the calories this year and sticking to champagne?’
‘You may mock, brother mine, but some of us are determined not to let ourselves go.’
‘Fight the good fight, eh, Fan? With all thy might.’
‘They say,’ said Deborah, leaning over to speak to Gwen in confidential tones, ‘that when a woman gets to forty, she has to choose between her face and her backside. Well, I decided to abandon both of mine as lost causes.’ She burst into laughter and Gwen couldn’t help joining in.
‘Well, why not? I can’t imagine anyone ever lies on their deathbed, moaning, “I wish I’d eaten less chocolate”.’
‘Quite! And now they say, it’s good for you! It’s anti-depressant. Really good chocolate isn’t that fattening anyway.’
‘And this looks really good!’ said Hattie, ogling the contents of the box.
‘Nothing’s too good for my family at Christmas,’ said Deborah, pressing her lips together in a thin smile, meant to forestall tears, but which was only partly successful. ‘Only the best for them - and their lovely guests!’ she added, patting Gwen’s hand.
‘Why, thank you, Deborah.’
‘Deb!’
‘Sorry - Deb. I’m thrilled to be here. I’ve never had a Christmas like this before. I’m so pleased Alfie let me come. He took some persuading and I was worried I might be intruding on a family celebration.’
‘Which is total rubbish,’ said Hattie, breaking off from her chocolate recitation. ‘Because she’s a completely lovely person and I want her to stay for ever and ever. She’s going to help me finish off the Thousand Pyramids quilt!’
‘In which case,’ said Frances, ‘she’ll need to stay for ever and ever. Hattie could you
please stop reading from that card? You’re making me feel quite nauseous.’
Oblivious, Hattie exclaimed, ‘Ooh, listen to this one! “Cranberry and coconut cream enrobed in dark chocolate.” Enrobed. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? I think I’d like to be enrobed in dark chocolate. Then Harris and Lewis could lick it all off!’
Deborah burst into bright, tinkling laughter once again and Hattie and Gwen joined in. Frances stared at her sisters and their houseguest in disbelief, then turned to Alfie. ‘I do believe I am going to be sick…’
Chapter Thirteen
Gwen
It’s difficult now for me to remember all the details of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The jolly festivities paled into insignificance in the light of subsequent events. What I do remember about those two days concerns mainly Alfie and Marek.
By the time Marek arrived for dinner on Christmas Eve, Frances was well tanked up and I suspected she was looking for trouble. Hattie had made the mistake of asking why her sister hadn’t brought her latest boyfriend and this provoked a vitriolic outburst, condemning all men as faithless time-wasters. After that, Frances poured herself another drink and settled into sullen silence, from which only Marek’s arrival roused her.
Tidy and clean-shaven, he looked rather different from the previous occasions on which I’d encountered him but - I was dismayed to find - no less attractive. He was wearing a black shirt and trousers and a red silk tie. With his silver hair, the effect was startling but he looked festive in a sombre sort of way and very tall beside Alfie. Hattie was also wearing red: a vintage 1950s party dress, over which I had almost literally drooled when she came down for pre-dinner drinks. Her loose hair was brushed and shining, held back with antique combs. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement and she kept looking at Marek, smiling nervously. At one point when he was standing beside her, he said something softly which I didn’t catch. After that she seemed calmer.
Marek had brought gifts for the family: a bottle of Krupnik, a Polish liqueur made from vodka, honey and herbs and two homemade loaves of Strucla, a plaited poppy seed bread. Viv fell upon these, delighted. ‘Delicious! I shall serve them with the cheese board. Thank you, Tyler! Why don’t you tell Gwen about the Polish Christmas Eve? I’m sure she’d be interested.’
He sat on the sofa between Frances and me. ‘Christmas Eve is the big social occasion for Poles. It’s known as Wigilia, which means vigil. There’s a twelve course meal that includes no meat, but food from the forest, fields, lakes and orchards. Families sit down to eat it after the first star appears in the sky.’
‘Tell her about the chairs!’ Hattie exclaimed, her eyes shining.
Marek smiled at her, then turned back to me. ‘On Christmas Eve my grandparents used to blow on their chairs before sitting down to supper.’
‘Why?’ I asked, mystified.
‘There’s a traditional belief that you might sit on a ghost who came to join you for supper. So you blew them away. An empty plate was also set at the table, for dead relatives.’
Frances stirred in her corner of the sofa. ‘So morbid!’
Marek turned to her. ‘Not really. Families tend to remember their dead at Christmas anyway. Spectres at the feast. And despite what my grandparents believed, you can’t just blow them away. Poles ritualise this and include the departed formally in the celebrations.’
‘I still think it’s morbid,’ said Frances. ‘Surely if Christmas has any meaning at all, it’s about celebrating a birth.’
‘Yes, but a birth which looks forward to a very significant death. A death foretold. That’s why the Wise Men brought myrrh.’
‘Well, I think it’s a lovely idea,’ I said, ‘to remember absent loved ones like that. Much better than trying to be jolly, pretending you don’t miss them. Which only makes things worse.’
Marek nodded. ‘Denial makes anything worse. The quickest way to process grief is always through, but most people go round. And it can be a long way round.’
‘Right,’ said Viv, getting to her feet. ‘The moment of truth! Alfie, would you go upstairs and fetch Rae? Deb’s been helping her get dressed and I think she should be ready now. If she throws a wobbly, don’t worry too much. I can always take a tray upstairs.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Alfie. ‘Charming birds from the trees is one of my specialities.’
‘I wish you luck,’ said Frances, swallowing another mouthful of sherry. ‘That old bird fell off her perch a long time ago…’
Rae joined us for dinner and Alfie escorted her into the wood-panelled dining room which was sparkling with crystal and candlelight. Viv had made a splendid arrangement of evergreens, fruits and nuts as the centre-piece of the table. ‘All from the garden!’ she announced proudly when I admired them. Alfie led Rae to her seat at the head of the table. She was dressed in an ageless (and no doubt aged) tweed suit which she wore with a fussy lace blouse and heavy amber beads. She was as tall as Viv and her bearing was upright, but she moved slowly, clinging to Alfie’s arm.
She smiled vaguely at the assembled company, looking nervous and confused. I wondered if she remembered my name, or even who I was. Frances and Deborah sat on her left and right and Alfie sat opposite her, at the other end of the table. I was seated on Alfie’s right, next to Marek and opposite Hattie (who, unless I was mistaken, blew discreetly on her chair before she sat down.) I was relieved to find myself seated so far from Frances as to make conversation almost impossible.
Viv brought in a tureen of chestnut soup which was followed by a venison casserole and Mushroom Stroganoff for Hattie. For dessert there was blackberry and apple pie (‘Alfie’s favourite!’ Rae declared in one of her few contributions to the conversation) and Marek’s Strucla with cheese and fruit from Creake Hall’s own orchard. He identified the different varieties of apple and pear for me and insisted I try a piece of each. ‘And you must have some quince paste with your cheese. Viv makes it from the Hall’s quinces.’
Viv smiled at him. ‘You’ll find a large jar under the tree addressed to you. That should keep you going for another year.’ Marek raised his glass of port to her in silent thanks. Viv looked round the table at her family and I saw her shoulders drop a little. Finally, I thought, she can relax. Everyone is here and everyone has made it to the table. Even Rae.
I glanced towards Rae’s end of the table and noticed Frances toying with pieces of fruit, looking bored. Deborah was telling Rae about her son’s exploits in Africa, which might have accounted for Frances’ boredom. She caught my eye and made an effort to smile. Raising her voice, she said, ‘Have they told you yet that you’re to be subjected to Ordeal by Music? It’s a Holbrook family tradition.’ She refilled her wine glass, spilling a little on the cloth. ‘Other families sit back and watch DVDs, but we have to do homemade entertainment, as if this was some Edwardian country house party,’ she added with a humourless laugh.
Hattie had heard and looked uncomfortable, shifting in her seat. I noticed her eyes search for Marek’s but he was talking to Deborah about African wildlife.
‘I’m really looking forward to the concert,’ I said, then smiled at Hattie in what I hoped was a reassuring way. ‘I heard some of the rehearsal and it sounded very good.’
Hattie stood up, shaking out the voluminous skirts of her dress and leaned across the table. ‘Come on, Tyler. I think we need to go and set up.’
‘Yes, off you go, musicians!’ said Deborah, her colour high now after several glasses of red wine. ‘Fanny and I will clear away, won’t we, Fan?’
Frances’ reply was affirmative but unenthusiastic.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ I asked.
Viv stood up and started to clear plates. ‘No, you go and see to the fire, Gwen. Chuck another log on if you think it needs it.’
I followed Hattie, Marek and Alfie to the sitting room, where Marek unpacked his cello and began to tune it. Hattie and Alfie discussed the running order and Alfie made a note on a scrap of paper which he placed in his jacket pocket. Rae, Viv
, Deborah and Frances joined us eventually in the sitting room. With Harris and Lewis stretched out on the hearthrug, the large room seemed almost full.
I realised I was excited. I hadn’t heard classical music played live since I’d been in the school choir and suffered the accompaniment of the school orchestra. But I realised I was also excited at the thought of hearing Marek play, pleased to have an excuse to watch him, unabashed, for the duration of the musical interlude. Why this prospect should seem exciting, I didn’t venture to ask myself.
~~~
Seated at the piano, Hattie regarded her audience. Her mother and sisters sat comfortably ensconced in armchairs and on the sofa, drinking coffee and brandy. Alfie was seated to one side of the room, awaiting his turn. Gwen sat at one end of the sofa, in front of Marek. Waiting for him to look up, indicating he was ready, Hattie felt an attack of the jitters coming on, so she cast her eyes down and stared at the keyboard.
‘Don’t worry about playing the music.’ Marek’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘Let the music play you.’ She looked up but he’d already turned away and was standing, facing their audience.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to begin this evening with a piece by Mendelssohn, one of his Songs without Words, opus. 109. After that we’ll play a movement from a sonata by Rachmaninov, the andante from his G minor sonata, opus 19.’ He sat down again and after a moment Hattie started to play.
The piece was slow and stately and the cello had a soaring, song-like melody that showed off its higher register. Gwen had expected to be transfixed by the intricate movements of Marek’s long fingers and the sweeping movements of his bowing arm, but instead she found herself watching his face. It was not a face she’d seen before. Marek, whose expression was usually calm, occasionally guarded, had dropped the mask he wore to keep the world at a distance. As he played, his eyes were often closed, but when open, they seemed brighter and more alert than Gwen had ever seen them. She’d not seen him so animated, nor seen the muscles in his face working, pulling the skin taut across his wide, Slavic cheekbones. Clearly, here was a man in whom lay depths of passion - for music, at least - and that passion was normally suppressed. Watch Tyler playing Bach, Hattie had said. He bares his soul… Gwen could believe it. It seemed to her almost unseemly to watch while he appeared exposed, almost vulnerable. She shifted her eyes reluctantly to Hattie, who frowned in concentration. There was no sign now of any nervousness. She didn’t look at Marek and he didn’t look at her, but they kept perfect time, linked by some form of musical telepathy.
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