by Nicola Upson
He looked at her stupidly. ‘My car?’
‘Yes, your car. How else will we get all the way to Cornwall?’
‘But we’re not going by car. There’s a sleeper booked on Friday’s overnight train. That’s why I’m here – to go through the arrangements—’
‘No, no, no,’ she interrupted him. ‘Friday is too late. I’ve spoken to my astrologer, and he tells me we must leave sooner. My luggage will be sent on, of course, so shall I expect you here straight after breakfast?’
‘Driving down really isn’t sensible in this weather. It’s such a long way, and we’d have to break the journey.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘There are no hotels outside London?’
‘Of course there are, but—’
‘Then that is what we will do. Go home and pack, Mr Penrose. I’m not in the mood to be sensible, and being a long way away is exactly the point.’
7
Richard Hartley put his head round the living room door to make sure that his wife was still dozing by the fire, then went quietly upstairs. He shut himself in their bedroom and set about repacking the suitcases that Angela had so carefully prepared the night before, removing the summer things that should have been stowed away at the end of the season; the outmoded dress that she hadn’t worn for years but was still sentimental about; the ill-matching ties and socks. There was far too much luggage for three nights, so he put everything back where it belonged as quickly as he could, then set one suitcase aside to return to the box room. He had only just finished choosing clothes more suitable for the weekend when he heard footsteps on the stairs and her voice at the door.
‘Is everything all right, Richard?’
Angela looked anxiously at the freshly packed cases, and he saw the familiar uncertainty in her eyes, the lack of confidence in her ability to do the simplest of tasks which never failed to break his heart. ‘Perfectly all right, my dear,’ he said reassuringly, hating the brightness in his tone which seemed so necessary and yet so false; they had never spoken to each other like this when she was well. ‘I was just making sure I’d got my tippet, but you’ve already packed it. As usual, you’re one step ahead of me.’
She smiled, like a child who had been praised by the adult she most wanted to please, and he prayed that only he was aware of how much their marriage had changed. He remembered so clearly the first indication that something was wrong – five years ago now, when they were still living in London. It had been such an ordinary day – he at home in his study, working on his sermon for the weekend, while Angela went to a committee meeting for one of the charities to which she gave so much energy. At five o’clock, just when he was beginning to worry about her, the telephone rang and he heard her anxious voice at the end of the line, tearful because she couldn’t find her way home. It was a route she had taken for years, little more than a mile through a handful of streets that she knew like the back of her hand – and yet she had been walking for hours, too ashamed at first to admit that she couldn’t remember where she lived. In the end, he had gone out to find her, and their silent walk home through the fog of a November evening had seemed such a cruel metaphor for what lay ahead.
Angela took the black silk tippet out and refolded it, carefully aligning the ends. ‘It was nice of Hilaria to ask you to take the Christmas Day service again,’ she said. ‘Have you decided what your theme will be?’
‘Love,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘What else is Christmas about?’
‘And not just Christmas.’ She sat down next to him on the bed and took his hand. ‘We’ve been happy, haven’t we?’
‘Yes, and we still are.’
‘Even here?’
‘Here, or anywhere else, as long as we have each other.’ He wondered why the sincerest of words invariably sounded so trite, and put his arm around her to give them substance. They had come back to Cornwall in the spring, having spent most of their married life in the city, and he had tried – successfully, for the most part – to make the move without resentment. He was used to a busy parish and his work in London was by no means finished, but he had given it up for something less demanding, knowing that if he didn’t spend more time with his wife now, while it mattered and while she still had a sense of who he was, he would bitterly regret it later. The parish he had taken in Marazion was even quieter than he feared, the community too self-sufficient to need him for much between birth and death, but it made sense: Angela had a sister nearby to whom she had always been close, and he knew that he would need help with her care eventually. ‘Let’s get these cases ready to go,’ he said, before the mood could take hold of them both. ‘Now we’ve packed everything, we can just look forward to the day.’
‘Oh, I am looking forward to it,’ she said with feeling. ‘It will do us good to meet some new people, and Hilaria is such a wonderful hostess. I dare say my mother will be furious that we’re not spending Christmas with her this year, but we’ll just have to make it up to her.’
He fumbled over fastening the suitcase. Angela’s mother had died shortly after the war, but he knew better than to contradict her; these sharp reminders of a reality that now ebbed and flowed only made her anxious and less self-assured than ever, and more often than not he colluded in keeping them at bay. ‘I’m sure she’ll forgive us,’ he said. ‘Now, let me bring these downstairs while you go and make us some tea.’
‘And we’ll have some of Mrs Curtis’s Christmas cake,’ Angela said. ‘We might as well cut it now, as we’re going to be away.’
‘Perfect. I’ll be down in a minute.’ She left him to it, and Richard noticed the sudden emptiness that he had felt more acutely of late whenever she left the room – and, occasionally, even when she was at his side. As the older of the two, he had always assumed that he would be the first to go and he had worried about how she would cope without him; now, he faced a different sort of loneliness, and he wondered again if he had the strength. The air in the room was chilly, and he got up to close the curtains against the draught. Already, the waves were high up the beach, and he never ceased to marvel at how quickly the water covered the causeway once the tide had turned. He waited until the last glimpse of the cobbles had disappeared, transforming the Mount once more into an island, familiar but unreachable, then went downstairs to be with his wife.
CHRISTMAS EVE
1
‘Happy Christmas.’
The station platform was so tightly packed with Christmas Eve travellers that Josephine hadn’t seen Marta fighting her way through the crowds. She turned and gave her lover a hug, shivering as the snow on Marta’s coat and hair touched her face. ‘Happy Christmas. I was beginning to think you’d had a better offer.’
Marta waited to catch her breath. ‘It’s bedlam out there. Nothing’s moving. I’m only here now because the taxi driver ditched his cab on Craven Road and helped me with my bags.’
‘I hope you tipped him.’
‘The fare cost more than the hotel room, but it was worth it.’ She smiled, and squeezed Josephine’s hand in the crush. ‘Typical. You’re on the sleeper from Inverness and I’m five minutes round the corner, and still I’ve kept you waiting.’
‘It doesn’t matter. As you can see, no one’s going anywhere in a hurry.’ She looked round as the crowds continued to spill into Paddington, some taking the crush in good heart as part of the holiday mood, others frustrated by the threat to their plans. The Cornish Riviera Express had laid on three extra trains to cope with the pressures of Christmas Eve, made worse by the heavy snowfalls of the previous week which had forced many travellers to delay their journey or choose the train over a perilous drive out of London. Now, an air of suppressed panic had begun to take hold as people imagined the empty places around the dinner table and the presents left unopened, and Josephine was glad that their reservations were for the first scheduled train, before the chaos had a chance to build. ‘We could just stay here,’ she suggested, watching as an angry couple stopped an already overburdened porter and adde
d more luggage to his trolley. ‘I fancy a quiet Christmas, with just the two of us. No house parties, no strangers, no awkward parlour games.’ She smiled at Marta and shrugged. ‘After all, if the trains aren’t running, there’s really nothing we can do.’
‘But the trains are running, and Archie would never forgive us. He’s promised we’ll be there, and then there’s his big surprise …’ The shrill sound of a whistle cut through the noise and Josephine’s fate was sealed as the passengers for the Cornwall train were encouraged to start boarding. ‘Anyway, it’s not just Archie who’s made plans,’ Marta called back over her shoulder as they forced their way to their carriage. ‘I’ve had your present sent on ahead.’
‘That was uncharacteristically organised of you.’
‘Perhaps I’m turning over a new leaf.’
‘Not too new, I hope.’
The train settled down quickly and Josephine glanced round the carriage, pleased that fate had seated them with other couples who seemed content to keep themselves to themselves. ‘I suppose some of our fellow guests might be on here somewhere,’ she said.
‘How many people are going?’
‘About a dozen, I think, including us. I’ve got the details here somewhere, and a copy for you, too.’ She searched through her bag for the letter from Hilaria which had arrived by special delivery before she left Inverness, a short note of welcome accompanied by a brief history of St Michael’s Mount and a list of those coming for Christmas. ‘Right – Detective Chief Inspector Archie Penrose and guest.’ She rolled her eyes, and Marta laughed. ‘I really don’t know why they’re stringing the suspense out like this. It’s going to be very embarrassing when the big reveal comes and none of us have ever heard of her.’
‘We can but hope,’ Marta said, reading quickly through her letter. ‘I see what Archie meant by the company being dull, though. The Reverend Richard and Mrs Angela Hartley, Colonel Arthur Penhaligon and Miss Barbara Penhaligon …’
‘Daughter, presumably.’
‘Or sister. Either way, God and the military round the dinner table doesn’t sound like my idea of fun.’
‘No, nor mine.’ Josephine scanned the list, trying to find some common ground in the names. ‘Mr and Mrs Gerald Lancaster—’
‘I’ve never liked anyone called Gerald,’ Marta interrupted, ‘but there’s an Alex Fielding from The Times. He might be interesting.’
‘Yes, if a little intrusive. I’m not sure I like the idea of a journalist hovering round all weekend.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. He won’t be remotely interested in us once Archie arrives with his “guest”. Have we missed anyone?’
‘Only Mrs Carmichael. No other information supplied.’
Marta smiled. ‘Thirteen at dinner, then, if you include our hostess. That bodes well. I hope nobody’s superstitious.’ She took off her coat as the train pulled slowly out of the station, glad to be warm at last. ‘You say Archie’s a friend of the family?’
‘That’s right. He and Hilaria are roughly of an age, so they were children together at the same dull, grown-up parties, and they’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s often in London.’
‘Which is how you know her.’
‘I wouldn’t say I know her. Archie had to remind me that we’d met, but I do remember finding her interesting. I think you’ll like her.’
‘The paper said she was connected to a lot of charities. Just how much of a do-gooder is she?’
Josephine laughed at the horror on Marta’s face. ‘I don’t think we’ll be forced onto too many committees, if that’s what you mean. It’s going to take more than a well-intentioned coffee morning to solve this particular problem.’ The early edition of The Times did nothing to curb her pessimism. She flicked through the first few pages, stopping at a photograph of Hitler leaving for Christmas at Berchtesgaden, having just had dinner with the seven thousand workmen building the new Reich Chancellery. ‘Money will decide who wins the war,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I just hope we’re up to it.’
She put the paper down and looked out of the window, tired of news which grew more inevitable and depressing every day. The country seemed divided between frenzy and apathy, between those who argued passionately for or against another war, and those who were resigned to trouble but too weary to do anything about it. She veered unreliably between the two. Today, though, she was happy to join with the rest of the country in using Christmas as an excuse to put her fears to one side, and there was something soothing about letting the countryside slip past as they moved further away from the capital. She watched, entranced, as dense evergreen forests gave way to more typically English stretches of woodland: thickets of silver birch, their distinctive feature now lost against the snow, and ancient oak trees whose gnarled branches drew stark, charcoal shapes in the air. The train entered a long cutting, then the banks cut away without warning, revealing a vast, sloping landscape of white, leaving the carriages feeling suddenly exposed.
‘Oh my God.’ Josephine looked at Marta, who had picked up the discarded Times. ‘No wonder Archie was so smug. Just look at this.’ She passed the newspaper back, open at the article that had caught her interest. ‘Christmas with Marlene. That really is a coup. Why on earth didn’t I pack something more daring?’
Josephine laughed. ‘I love the idea that we could even begin to compete.’ She scanned the news story in disbelief, feeling both excited and intimidated at the prospect of meeting one of the most famous women in the world. The headline – ‘Hollywood’s “Angel” lives up to her name’ – sat next to a familiar photograph, a still from the film Morocco in which Dietrich wore a man’s tuxedo and top hat, brazenly modelling the androgynous image that had made her so popular with men and women alike. There was a cigarette poised provocatively at her lips, her eyes a mixture of defiance and devilish charm; Josephine looked admiringly at the high cheekbones, sculpted so carefully by the light, and wondered what it would be like to sit across from that face at the dinner table.
Marta seemed to share her thoughts. ‘It’s silly, isn’t it? You and I know lots of actors and actresses. We’re both familiar with that world and really shouldn’t be star-struck, but I’m already panicking about what I might find to say to her.’
‘At least we can be honest about her last film,’ Josephine said wryly. ‘It was the first time she seemed human.’
‘And it’s given The Times a good headline.’ Marta took the paper up again, but it was impossible now to settle to the rest of the news. ‘I bet Archie will have some tales to tell by the time he gets to Cornwall,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to get him on his own.’
2
The church was quiet in the early morning, although the wind was rising again outside, finding a rhythm with the waves on the rocks below until it was difficult to separate one sound from another. Nora Pendean hesitated by the north entrance, taking in the familiar stillness, the faint smell of incense and polish, and the soft rattle of the organ loft door as the draught from the terrace caught it. She had known this church all her life, through good times and bad. People had worshipped here for eight hundred years, and – despite the hand of a more modern restorer – these old stone walls still carried echoes of the monks for whom they had originally been built. Sometimes, if she was here at night, she imagined she could hear their prayers in the wind that came off the sea, their footsteps climbing the narrow staircase to the top of the tower, lighting the beacon to guide fishing boats home under a star-bright sky. Here, the past was never far away.
She closed the door behind her and walked down the central aisle, where a shaft of light through the east rose window threw a kaleidoscope of colour onto the flagstones to dance in patterns at her feet. The winter sun was grudging, but still it reached the statue of the saint who gave St Michael’s Mount its name, bringing out the fire in the bronze and giving the winged figure a dramatic intensity, appropriate to the struggle of good over evil. The combination of zeal and mercy on the saint’s face never failed to mov
e her, although she couldn’t help but feel that it was she who was judged these days, and not the figure of Lucifer who lay at his feet. She shivered as the initial relief of coming in from the cold subsided, and turned to set about her work, struck by how beautiful the church was, and by how much she hated it. Its magic, once so compelling, was dead to her.
Two crates of holly and other greenery had been left ready for her, freshly cut and brought over from the mainland. She rinsed all the vases in the tiny vestry and began to make up the arrangements for the service the following day, wincing whenever the holly caught her skin. There was more than enough to dress the altar, so she filled each window ledge with garlands of ivy and mistletoe, the berries stark against the green like tiny moons on a winter’s night. The wood around the altar needed polishing and she did it with care – not out of love now, but because it was her job – then hung the last of the greenery at the end of the family pews, fighting back tears as the familiar rituals of the season emphasised the passing of time.
The pews hid a narrow staircase leading down to an underground chamber, once a hermit’s cell and used these days as a storeroom. Nora took the uneven steps carefully, glad of the daylight that followed her down, and braced herself against the mustiness of the small, enclosed space. She rummaged around in some boxes and soon found the last of the decorations, together with one or two pieces of silver which were used for the most important services of the year. When the altar was complete, she unwound the chain which lowered a heavy gilt chandelier down from its place above the nave; changing the candles was a laborious task and she was glad that they were lit only at Christmas, but Jenna had always loved helping her, demanding to be lifted up in her mother’s arms until the year that she was finally tall enough to reach the highest crown of fixtures on her own. Nora paused, feeling for a moment the warmth of her little girl’s body, remembering the laughter that had seemed to fill so much of those eighteen treasured years. She had been so proud of the young woman who replaced the child, and even now, when there was no option but to accept it, she could scarcely believe that she would never see her daughter again. Perhaps, in time, her memories would be a comfort to her; at the moment, with her grief still so raw, it was as much as she could do to get out of bed in the morning.