Thicker Than Water

by Anthea Fraser

  James and Abigail exchanged glances, as though the subject had already been discussed between them.

  ‘How about, for this year at least, we compromise?’ James suggested. ‘We’d love to come to you for Christmas Eve dinner, if we may, but we’ll come back here afterwards, and see you again at the parents’ the next day.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ Ben said quickly. ‘An admirable solution.’

  ‘And we’ll bring the mistletoe as usual,’ James added. He turned to Abigail. ‘It’s my contribution to the decorations. We’ll forage for some the weekend before Christmas.’

  ‘Will it involve climbing trees?’ Abigail asked guardedly.

  James smiled. ‘Not really; I usually go to a derelict orchard, halfway between here and Brambles. The trees are mainly apple, and pretty stunted.’

  ‘We’re lucky,’ Ben put in. ‘This is one of the few areas in the country where mistletoe grows. And did you know it’s the only native British plant with white berries?’

  ‘I can’t say I did,’ Abigail admitted, ‘but I confess I’ve never given it much thought except at Christmas – and then only to kiss under!’

  ‘Actually, it’s a fascinating plant – a parasite, of course, and as I said, quite particular about where it grows and what trees it chooses. There are legends and traditions about it dating back to Ancient Greece and Rome, not to mention the Druids.’

  ‘I can see my education has been sadly neglected!’ Abigail said ruefully.

  Tina phoned her mother the next day.

  ‘I know you’ve been worried about James and Abigail,’ she said, ‘so I thought I’d let you know that we went to the flat for supper last night, and everything was fine. I don’t know what’s been troubling her, but whatever it was seems to have passed and she’s back to normal. James seems much happier, too.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ Rosemary Markham replied. ‘Your father and I were beginning to wonder if the marriage had been a mistake.’

  ‘I think we all were. She’s still a very private girl, and I suspect there are areas in her life that are no-go, but as long as she makes James happy, who are we to complain?’

  ‘Who, indeed?’

  ‘And incidentally, I saw Sylvie earlier in the week. We had our usual Christmas shopping marathon.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Coming to terms. She’ll be fine, given time.’

  ‘I’m still embarrassed when I meet mutual friends. The whole business was most unfortunate, but if you say Abigail has settled down, perhaps all will yet be well.’

  The final weeks before Christmas passed in a rush. Abigail spent a night in London with Millie, and the four friends had their usual celebratory meal. She and James went shopping for family presents, and attended a couple of drinks parties. On the work front, she landed a lucrative contract with a London hotel that was undertaking extensive refurbishment. All of which added to her euphoria, and she was actually looking forward to her first family Christmas since childhood.

  On the weekend before, however, it rained unremittingly, and they were unable to make their pilgrimage to the orchard.

  ‘I don’t see when I’ll get the chance to go now,’ James said worriedly, staring through the streaming windows at the deserted square. ‘It’s dark long before I get home these days.’

  ‘I can go,’ Abigail offered, ‘if you give me directions how to find it.’

  ‘Would you, sweetie? It’s no use trying the shops, because although they’re stacked high with holly, mistletoe’s always in short supply, even here, and it’ll all have gone by now.’

  He took out an ordnance survey map, and they spread it on the table while he traced the route to the orchard.

  ‘There used to be a house there years ago, and there’s still a wall round it, so it looks like private land. Perhaps that’s why not many people know about it.’

  ‘It isn’t private, though, is it?’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be. No one’s been near it for years. Look.’ They bent over the map again. ‘You turn off the road down this narrow track – you’ll have to watch out for it, it’s easily missed. It’s on your left, just after the second bend past the Fox and Grapes. Then, a few hundred yards along the track, there’s a gap in the wall where a gate used to be. OK?’

  Abigail nodded. ‘As long as you’re sure I shan’t be arrested,’ she said, ‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

  But the rain continued over the next two days, and by breakfast on Christmas Eve, they were still without mistletoe. However, as they stood together looking anxiously out of the window, a watery sun broke through, and the prospect looked suddenly more hopeful.

  Abigail handed James his briefcase. ‘Don’t worry, Father Christmas,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and get some this morning.’

  ‘Thanks, love. It’s the office lunch today and I’ll come home straight after, so I should be back by three thirty. Then we can wrap the last presents to take to Brambles this evening. They’ll need to be placed under the tree.’

  It was later than she’d intended when Abigail set off, and the sky was darkening with the threat of more rain. She armed herself with a pair of strong secateurs, slipped on a waterproof jacket, and, having let herself out of the flat, walked quickly round to the alleyway to collect her car.

  There were several vans parked in the other spaces, some of them being unloaded by harassed shopkeepers trying to cope with a last-minute rush on their stock. The man from the bakery was among them, and gave Abigail a cheery wave.

  ‘Hope you’re all right for mince pies!’ he called. ‘We’re down to the last couple of dozen.’

  ‘Thanks, but I make my own,’ she called back, and he pulled a face.

  ‘Lucky there aren’t too many of your sort around!’

  She was smiling as she eased the car over the cobblestones and turned on to the main road. The square was thronged with shoppers, and it took her some time to thread her way through the congestion and turn left at the T-junction towards the station and, beyond it, the road to Brambles. The ordnance map, folded to show her route, lay beside her on the passenger seat, but provided she didn’t miss the turning, she shouldn’t need to refer to it.

  The country road was slippery with the past days’ rain, and mist lay low over the hedgerows. Abigail gave a little shiver and turned the heater up a notch. This, she thought ironically, was what was known as a green Christmas; grey would be nearer the mark. Because of the winding road, she was driving at a steady thirty miles an hour, and one or two cars passed her when opportunity arose. As one overtook her too near a bend, she wondered if he’d already been celebrating, and hoped James wouldn’t encounter dangerous driving on his way home.

  And here, on her right, was the Fox and Grapes public house. She slowed down still further, aware of an impatient driver behind her, but fearful of missing her turning. One bend, two – and there it was, on her left as James had said. She indicated, earning an irritated toot from the driver behind, and as she turned on to the track, saw the stone wall bordering it.

  Behind her, cars whooshed past on the road, but here all was quiet and still, the only sound that of her windscreen wipers rhythmically clearing it of the persistent drizzle. Abigail drove slowly, watching out for the gap in the wall that would be her means of entry. And there it was. Though the pitted road, with weeds growing in the centre of it, indicated that little traffic passed this way, she drew in close to the wall, and switched off the engine.

  Silence swooped down on her, not even the comforting caress of the wipers to break it. Suddenly, Abigail wished James was with her. She gave herself an impatient shake, pulled up the hood of her jacket against the strengthening rain, and let herself out of the car, secateurs in hand. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, she promised herself, and she’d be back here, laden with her booty and able to make tracks for home.

  The gateway, such as it was, was filled with knee-high brambles, and she was glad of her boots. Ahead of her stretched row after row of s
tunted trees, bent and misshapen like little old men huddling in the mist. But, as James had said, among their bare, twisted branches hung gleaming green balls of the elusive mistletoe.

  How much should she get? It was a point they hadn’t discussed. Not much, she guessed; just enough to hang in doorways and under a few light fittings. She ventured further in among the trees, looking for the balls that bore the most berries. Odd, that theirs alone in this country were white. She remembered Ben’s comments about myths and legends, and wasn’t there a mournful ballad called ‘The Mistletoe Bough’?

  She shivered. There was no point wasting time in searching for the perfect specimen; she’d collect the most easily accessible, and get home as quickly as possible. She was already cold and hungry, and the rain was beginning in earnest, pattering on the leaf-strewn ground like ghostly footsteps. Balancing on tip-toe, she reached up and pulled down a branch to reach the glistening green globe nestling on it. Then, loud in the silence, a twig snapped, and instinctively she stiffened. But before she could turn to see the cause of it – a rabbit? A squirrel? – a voice behind her said softly:

  ‘Hello, Abby.’

  James turned into his usual parking place, and frowned. Abigail’s space was empty. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to four, and, because of the rain, almost dark already. Where could she be?

  He climbed out of the car and looked about him. Possibly her space had been occupied when she returned with the mistletoe, and she’d had to park elsewhere. It had happened before. But there was no sign of her car in the alley. Perhaps she’d remembered something they needed, and driven into town? Though she usually walked, it was understandable to take the car in such weather.

  As he stood for a moment, undecided what to do, Stan emerged from the back gate of the bakery.

  ‘Merry Christmas, squire, if I don’t see you again.’

  ‘And to you, Stan. I suppose you haven’t seen my wife, have you?’

  ‘I have, as it goes. She went out while I was unloading – about twelve, it must have been. Told her I’d only a few mince pies left, but she said she makes her own.’

  James smiled absentmindedly. ‘That’s right, she does.’

  So Abigail had gone out at midday, no doubt to collect the mistletoe. She should have been back long since. Could the car have broken down somewhere?

  Stan was saying something else, but James had started at a run for the flat. As he’d feared, it was in darkness.

  ‘Abigail?’ he called. ‘Are you there, darling?’

  He went up the stairs two at a time, hurrying from room to room switching on lights. Her shoes lay half under the bed, no doubt where she’d kicked them off to put on her boots. On the table in the living room was a small pile of presents still waiting to be wrapped.

  James went to the phone and dialled her mobile. After a few rings, it switched to voice mail. Trying to keep incipient panic from his voice, he said, ‘Where are you, darling? It’s four o’clock and almost dark. Please ring me, I’m worried about you.’

  Suppose, he thought suddenly, she’d had an accident in the orchard? Tried to climb one of the trees and fallen, for instance?

  She’d have used her mobile, said the other half of his brain.

  But suppose she hit her head and was knocked unconscious? Or the phone might have slipped from her pocket and be out of reach?

  He snatched up the pad by the phone and scrawled a note.

  4pm. Worried you might have had an accident in the orchard. Am going to look. If you get back before me, please phone my mobile at once. Love you. J.

  Then, collecting a torch from the kitchen cupboard, he hurried back to his car.

  Tina loved this time of year. The living room, lit only by firelight and the fairy lights on the tree, had taken on its once-a-year magic, compounded of the scent of pine needles, the strings of Christmas cards, the holly behind the picture-frames. All that was missing was the mistletoe that would arrive with James and Abigail.

  She’d not yet drawn the curtains, and the cosy, firelit room was reflected in the dark glass of the rain-lashed windows. Ben had finished work for the holiday, and tomorrow the whole family would gather at the Old Rectory, to exchange presents and partake of Christmas lunch. With a contented sigh, she reached again into the decorations box and extracted a length of tinsel.

  ‘What time is Uncle James coming?’ Lily asked, hanging a chocolate soldier on the tree.

  ‘About seven, I should think.’

  ‘It’s a pity he’s not staying. It’s more fun when he’s here for the stocking-opening. Have you done one for him?’

  In the Rivers family, it was tradition for the adults also to have stockings.

  ‘Of course not. You have to be here at seven on Christmas morning to qualify.’

  Lily laughed. ‘Perhaps Abigail will give him one.’

  Tina’s eyes met her husband’s, both of them doubting the possibility.

  ‘What time’s dinner?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Not for another couple of hours. You can have an apple or tangerine if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Can I have a biscuit?’

  ‘No, only fruit.’

  Grumblingly, Charlie went in search of some.

  Ben looked up suddenly. ‘Was that a car?’

  Tina frowned. ‘Surely they’re not here already?’

  They both went quickly into the hall, reaching the kitchen as the back door was flung violently back on its hinges, letting in a gust of wind and rain as James, hair wild and white-faced, burst into the room.

  Tina’s hand felt instinctively for her husband’s as they both stared at him. Then, his face suddenly contorted, he burst out, ‘It’s Abigail! Oh God, it’s Abigail! Somebody’s killed her!’

  PART II – CALLUM

  Five

  Mindful of her floury hands, Judy Firbank pushed a strand of hair off her face with her forearm. Her friend Elaine, seated at the kitchen table, watched her with resignation.

  ‘Lord knows why you don’t buy the things from Waitrose or M & S, like the rest of us,’ she said.

  ‘I enjoy doing it myself,’ Judy replied. ‘Anyway, it’s not all that often – only for the children’s parties.’

  Elaine glanced at the elaborate birthday cake on the side, a fairy castle covered in pink icing, with six candles distributed among the turrets and ramparts.

  ‘You make me feel totally inadequate,’ she complained humorously. ‘My kids get whatever’s on the supermarket shelves. Come to that, Bob’s tarred with the same brush, sitting back while Callum coaches Josh with his maths.’

  Judy, her hair screening her face, frowned fleetingly. ‘He enjoys it,’ she said lightly as she rolled the pastry. ‘Being a father of daughters, he looks on Josh as a surrogate son.’

  ‘And it doesn’t stop at the coaching,’ Elaine continued. ‘If you ask me, Bob gets off altogether too lightly, lounging around or playing golf while Callum takes his son to football matches.’

  ‘Well, it’s not easy for Bob to plan his free time, is it?’

  Bob Nelson was a doctor at the local hospital. He and his family lived next door to the Firbanks, and over the years they’d become close friends, often holidaying together.

  ‘I’m simply saying you’re a paragon pair. Don’t argue – just accept the compliment!’

  ‘But let’s face it, Elaine, apart from my voluntary work, it’s all I do. I have all the time in the world to bake fancy cakes and make my own patés and things – and enjoy doing it. You not only have to run your household, but hold down a responsible job as well.’

  ‘Will you settle for domestic goddess then?’

  Judy smiled. ‘If you insist. Anyway, you’re both doing your bit tomorrow, taking Luisa to the cinema. It’s beneath her dignity to spend an afternoon surrounded by six-year-olds.’

  ‘No problem, she’ll be company for Phoebe. Send her round about one thirty – the film starts at two – and we’ll feed her afterwards.’ She put down her coffee cup. ‘I mu
st go; I’ve some things to collect from the drycleaners before meeting the kids. Thanks for the coffee, and good luck with the party.’

  After she’d gone, Judy, continuing with her baking, mentally replayed her friend’s comments. Though Elaine hadn’t realized it, she’d touched on a sore point, for over the last year or so, Judy had become increasingly resentful of the time her husband devoted to their neighbours’ son. Many was the weekend he’d taken Josh to some sporting event, instead of helping her entertain their daughters.

  Once, Luisa, not remotely interested in football, had begged to go with them – simply, Judy knew with a tug of the heart, in order to be with her father.

  But Callum had said lightly, ‘Not your scene at all, poppet. This is boys’ stuff.’ And he and Josh had set off, leaving the forlorn little figure gazing after them.

  Judy had tackled Callum about it afterwards. ‘Anyone would think you loved Josh more than your own children!’ she’d accused, close to tears. He’d been genuinely surprised.

  ‘Sweetheart, you know I worship you and the kids. You’re my whole world. How can you say that?’

  ‘You spend more time with him than you do with them.’

  He’d pulled her gently into his arms. ‘I can see you’re upset, but that really is nonsense, you know. It’s just that I feel sorry for the boy. Bob’s so tied up in his own affairs, he never seems to take him out, and lads that age need quality time with a father figure.’

  ‘Not a father figure, a father,’ she had said.

  But she’d not been entirely fair; Callum was a good father. He had played with his children, read them bedtime stories, taken them to the zoo and for walks along the river. It was only over the last year that he’d spent noticeably more time with Josh.

  Damn it, Judy thought now, with a spurt of anger, the Nelsons weren’t short of a bob or two. If the boy needed extra coaching, they could afford to pay for it, instead of taking advantage of Callum’s good nature.

  She caught herself on the thought, shaking her head. It was no use blaming Bob and Elaine; Callum had volunteered for the duty – been quite pressing, as she remembered. They might have felt he’d be offended if they made other arrangements.