by Rosie Thomas
The Griffin was packed. Beside the door was another 5K Fun Run poster. Sam and Toby pointed it out to each other.
‘Got to be done, eh?’
‘Bloody hell, Tobe, Boxing Day? Are you mad?’
‘Come on, I’ll beat you both,’ Selwyn shouted.
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Oh please, don’t,’ Polly begged him.
At one end of the bar a band was sending their special version of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ booming through the amps, the bleached singer lost in being his equally special version of Billy Idol. Behind the bar, framed by fairy-lights flashing in complicated sequence, Vin Clarke sweated under a foil banner wishing A Merry Christmas to All Our Customers. Amos led the way through the crowd, greeting by name a surprising number of the crimson faces that swam up out of the throng. When Alph and Omie took off their hats they attracted a lot of attention from the boys crammed in next to the band. Nic stayed glued to Colin’s side. Miranda came in last, imagining she was shielded by the broad backs of the Knight boys. Vin, however, spotted her at once.
‘Evening, Mrs Meadowe. What a pleasure, and on Christmas Eve,’ he bawled.
‘Jingle Bell Rock’ ended on a ragged chord. In a momentary hush a voice cried out, ‘What have you done with our princess?’
A space opened, leaving the Mead arrivals in the centre.
Amos wheeled around. ‘I’ve told you, Stan. And if I’ve anything to do with it, she’ll be coming back to rest. That’s a promise.’
‘Where’s her treasure?’ another voice called.
Amos was easily up to this amateur cross-examination. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Or perhaps better.’
There was a rustle and a rippling shove, the circle threatening to close in on them. From just behind her Polly heard a woman murmur, ‘She never comes down the village because she don’t like the way her old man used to be friendly with some people round here.’
‘Old Jake Meadowe never strayed once he was married to her,’ someone else insisted.
Polly looked, but all she could see was a row of backs. That was what villages were like, as she knew perfectly well. Gossip had a half-life of approximately twenty-five years.
You could listen to it, or choose not to.
The band was already into the next number. Most of the Griffin’s patrons were more interested in getting another drink before last orders than in the dim provocations of archaeology.
Miranda said, ‘Good evening, Vin. Merry Christmas.’
A large man heaved himself off the corner bar stool and halflifted Joyce into his place. He patted her fur shoulder and she gave him a frown.
‘Who are you? You’re not my cousin’s husband? He’s not as bald as you.’
‘I’m Roy, my love. Merry Christmas.’
Amos was buying drinks for anyone whose glass was empty, which turned out to be most of the crowd. Polly was impressed and amused that he had discovered how to work the pub to his advantage. Miranda was standing quietly, a little apart from the rest of the party.
If the whisper she had heard contained any truth, Polly thought, it would explain why Miranda kept out of Meddlett. Then her gaze travelled on and she saw Selwyn looking at Miranda too. His smile for her alone was tender, without any piratical gleam.
Polly turned away. She let Toby lead her into the dancing.
Jessie pushed through from the kitchen and dumped two full plates on the nearest table.
‘That’s your lot. Kitchen’s closed,’ she yelled. ‘Back again?’ she asked Amos as she passed.
Ben was dancing with Alpha. His spidery arms and legs shot out in different directions, attracting sniggers from some of the onlookers, but he was oblivious to them. Omie and Sam Knight joined in, followed by Selwyn, who drew Miranda by the wrist. In the end the Mead people were absorbed into the Griffin festivities without too much difficulty.
Nic had refused to dance with Ben. She was standing a little to one side while Colin made sure that Joyce had the right drink.
‘I don’t dance either,’ a voice said in her ear.
‘Actually I can dance all night, but I’m not going to, not at getting on for seven months gone,’ Nic retorted.
The man looked stricken. ‘No, of course not. I didn’t mean you should be. Sorry, I don’t really know what I meant. Is that your husband dancing there?’
Nic exploded with laughter at the idea of being married to Toby Knight.
‘I haven’t got a husband. I’m going to be a single parent. It’s Kieran, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He looked pleased.
Four or five men including Stan Cooper and Joyce’s new friend Roy pushed their way out past the dancers. Vin rang the brass bell behind the bar and called time over the band’s finale of ‘I Wish it Could Be Christmas Every Day’. After a little while, through the hubbub and the stamping and singing, Polly heard a different clamour. It was the church bells, ringing out for midnight service.
The streetlamps were no more than pale smudges in the murk. The bells were muffled and damped but they rang on, drawing a stream of people from the pub and the cottages to the looming bulk of the church. The congregation filed in, coughing and whispering and sobering up, insistent fingers of fog following them in and melting away beneath the soaring roof. Within the body of the church the bells were insistent and a glimpse of the shirtsleeved ringers and the rising striped sallies connected the peals.
The Mead group filled two pews on the south side. Polly reached out for and grasped Selwyn’s hand. Miranda tilted her head towards the war memorial. Nic’s baby kicked hard against the stretched skin of her belly. It was listening to the ringing, she thought.
The vicar came up the aisle as the bells chased each other down and were stilled. The congregation shuffled to its feet with the first chord from the organ. A small boy with an old-fashioned parting in his hair appeared on the chancel steps. He composed himself, after a quick glance at the large woman in the front pew who was evidently his mother, and in a pure soprano began to sing ‘It Came Upon A Midnight Clear’.
Standing between her husband and her son, Polly found that there were tears in her eyes.
Once the pub had emptied out, Jessie cleaned up in the bar. It had been a long, hard day’s work and she was tired. Vin was clicking off the lights as she finally took off her apron and replaced it with her coat. Tomorrow at least was a day’s rest, because the Griffin wouldn’t reopen until Boxing Night. Geza kissed her on the cheek and wished her a happy Christmas as he loped off towards his caravan. She called after him that she would be eating her Christmas dinner at her mum’s tomorrow afternoon, but he could come to hers after that.
‘I will sleep and sleep, that will be the best present for me,’ he called back. ‘And I will see you after I wake up.’
Jessie made her way through the dense murk to the shed. She unlatched it and Rafferty burst out. His paws hit her shoulders and his wet tongue flagged her cheek before he bounded off.
‘Rafferty!’
The last verse of ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ thundered to a close and the organist crashed out a major chord before picking himself up and trickling into a voluntary. The congregation began a surge for the west door, beaming and glowing with goodwill and conferred sanctity. Joyce had fallen asleep during the communion, her knitted hat askew, and once awakened she was confused and querulous. Colin and Miranda helped her to her feet and Amos led the Mead party from their pews. At the door the vicar wished each of them a happy and blessed Christmas, and they streamed out into the fogbound churchyard.
There was a knot of people chatting at the lychgate, where the great yew was no more than a patch of darker darkness. Amos passed by them, affably nodding goodnight. He had told Miranda that he would walk ahead and collect the car, so Joyce wouldn’t have to make the return trip to the Griffin car park. He heard Omie and Alph laughing and chattering with Sam and Toby just behind him. Amos walked fast, keeping to the narrow pavement that hugged the flint wall of the
churchyard. Damp glistened on the flecks of quartz and he realized in a split second that there was a car coming, travelling much too fast, the headlamps twin cones of light breaking through the swirling murk. He pressed instinctively against the wall but there was something else moving, a black streak that intersected with the light cones. There came a screech of brakes that failed to muffle a small, sickening thud. The black streak instantly became a bundle, rising and then falling through the air in a smooth arc. The car accelerated, diminished into a brief glow of red taillights, and then was swallowed up.
Amos heard a voice, a rising scream. He started running to where the black bundle had landed yards away at the kerbside. He knelt down, but Jessie was there before him. She flung herself over the dog’s wet, bloodied body.
‘Rafferty, Rafferty,’ the girl crooned his name as she lifted and cradled the animal in her arms.
Amos saw that the dog’s eyes were dulled. There was no doubt that Rafferty had been killed by the impact.
THIRTEEN
Geza pushed between the overgrown shrubs blocking the concrete path to the front door of Jessie’s place.
He had telephoned his mother in Kosice, but otherwise he had spent most of Christmas Day asleep in the frowsy capsule of his caravan. Now it was dark again and as he made his way through the village most of the curtains were already closed, leaving only a few lamplit tableaux of families gathered around their tables or televisions for him to spy on. The overnight fog had broken up, but the brackish smell of it seemed to linger still.
There were no lights showing in Jessie’s dilapidated cottage. He banged quite hard and then rattled the letterbox before listening to the silence that followed. A car swept along the road behind him, the headlights briefly lighting up the thatch of spiny twigs that hooded the door. He waited and listened again before trampling through the undergrowth to peer in through the front window, cupping his hands to his eyes as he did so. There was only darkness within.
Geza frowned. She wasn’t here. This was unlike Jessie, who was surprisingly reliable, given the way she looked and talked. She must have decided to stay longer at her mother’s, even though she had insisted to him that just enough time to exchange a gift and eat Christmas dinner would be plenty for both of them. He hesitated, becoming more aware of how hungry he was. He did enough cooking six nights a week not to want to bother with it for himself, but in his bag were two steaks and a bottle of nice wine, French, good stuff. That was what he had promised Jessie, who complained that her mother could burn water. Now he would have to go back to the caravan to cook and eat their meal on his own. He retraced his steps down the cracked path and turned back along the Meddlett road. No more cars came by. In the village, by the time he reached it once more, all the curtains were drawn.
In the barn, Polly embarked on the washing up. Selwyn and the three children were setting up a game of Pictionary, automatically Ben’s favourite because it was the game he was best at.
‘You’re going to be a father, Benj, not the baby yourself. You’ll have to get used to not getting your own way every single time,’ Omie tartly observed. She had wanted Trivial Pursuit.
Selwyn flashily shuffled and cut the deck of cards.
‘Come, my children. Let’s play, and no bickering. Christmas Night is a time for wholesome family fun. Poll, aren’t you going to join in?’
‘No,’ she said. Polly hated most games, seeing them as a waste of good reading time.
‘All right, then. Ready…go,’ Selwyn said, upending the egg timer.
Alph scribbled furiously as Ben scratched hooked fingers in his hair.
‘Alps? Wait…armadillo? Erm, iguana? What’s that supposed to be coming out of its mouth? Bad breath? Is that the word? Halitosis?’
‘Minute’s up,’ Omie and Selwyn called.
‘It’s a dragon, you loser,’ Alph sighed.
‘You’re the loser. What kind of a dragon is that?’
Polly reflected that Ben was still only a child himself, and it was impossible to imagine him taking on the responsibility for a baby. Luckily Nic was different. Polly was glad they had been able to persuade her to come up to Mead for the holiday, even though Nic had politely but firmly made it clear that she would prefer to spend today with Colin and Miranda rather than with Ben in the embrace of his family. She was even right about that, in a way; it had been good to have this interval, one day of it, just for Selwyn and Ben and the twins. All day long, Selwyn had been bearishly genial, intent on the four of them, as assiduous as if he were playing the role of father and husband for some hidden camera. Even so, though she deplored herself for being easily mollified, Polly felt happy in the glow of his attention.
Polly was determined that when the time came she and Selwyn together would make sure that Nic and this first grandchild got whatever they needed. If it was money, it would somehow be found. If it was love – Polly briefly rested her bulk against the sink, staring out into the blackness of the woods that sheltered the burial site – there was plenty of that, and some to spare.
At the table Omie’s phone beeped a text message signal. She groped for it with the hand that wasn’t drawing. Ben flung himself back in his chair.
‘How many times has Tom texted you today?’
‘Lots, thank you.’
‘I know! Weather,’ Selwyn shouted in triumph, with twenty seconds to spare. ‘Well done, Omie. We’re way ahead.’
Polly put away a pile of plates. ‘Anyone hungry again?’
They all groaned.
Polly left them to the game. The fire was banked up so high and glowing on Selwyn’s vast hearth that the room actually felt stuffy. That was a first.
She put on a coat over the vast, multi-striped, multi-coloured, exuberant chunk of mohairy knitwear that had been Selwyn’s gift to her, and slipped out into the yard. The stillness descended, cooling her hot cheeks. She could hear the creak of a rising breeze in the branches, and knew that it would chase away the last pockets of fog. There was even a single star showing over the square shoulder of Mead’s tallest chimney. She walked through the gate and took a few steps along the path that led to the wood, but then slowed and hesitated. She knew what she really wanted to do. Why not? Everyone else was occupied. She turned back again.
The idea that was steadily taking shape in her mind was a big one, and she was grateful and intrigued by the way that it occupied more and more of her thoughts. I must have been so mentally disengaged, she reflected. What did I think about?
The kitchen of the main house was deserted, although there were pans and dishes and the signs everywhere of a large meal prepared and served. The remnants of Colin’s extravagant present wrappings spilled out of a bin liner, jumbled up with more humble crimson or Christmassy prints. The dining room was empty too, the table scattered with nutshells and the debris of crackers. It was a sweet thought, the idea of her grandchild’s mother pulling crackers with Colin and Joyce. With Miranda, too.
Polly walked along the passage that led to Jake’s study. From the drawing room she could hear the television, turned up loud for Joyce’s benefit. She opened the study door and clicked on the light. In the grate lay a pile of grey ashes, but Polly hardly noticed that the room was cold. She pulled her coat more closely over the billows of knitwear, and took from an old box at the back of the shelves a bundle of letters. They were all in brittle brown envelopes, addressed in black handwriting to Mr and Mrs G. H. Meadowe and stamped with a crimson triangle enclosing a crown and the words ‘Passed by Censor’. Very carefully, so as not to crack it along the folds, she took a sheet of lined paper out of the top envelope and settled down to read.
Miranda didn’t want to move. It was warm and comfortable on the sofa. Beside her Colin was watching television and Nic was curled up on the other side of him. In the armchair next to the fire, Joyce had fallen asleep again. She dipped in and out of her dozes, often resuming her monologue from five minutes or half an hour earlier without being aware of any interval. Her cough was almost
gone, and with Colin’s teasing and Nic’s treatments she had acquired a haphazard sparkle. Colin was in good spirits too. His decorations and extravagant gifts to each of them and his ironically camp spun-sugar or savoury-torte elaborations on Miranda’s straightforward cooking had all been a big success.
‘This food,’ Nic had said thoughtfully as she dipped her spoon, ‘makes me want to write a poem.’
‘You should have done this years ago,’ Joyce said to her daughter, over the Christmas pudding.
‘Done what?’
‘Had a family.’
Colin and Nic smiled. They were all used by now to Joyce’s tangential pronouncements. Whether Joyce was confused about whose daughter Nic might be, or was mixing up Colin with Jake, there was somehow a zigzag of truth in what she meant to say. Colin silently raised his glass to Miranda, and Nic followed suit.
It had been a remarkably happy day, Miranda thought.
‘Are you asleep?’ Colin murmured now. ‘Nic is. She’s like a puppy that’s overeaten.’
‘No, I am not. But I might as well be. Why are we watching The Vicar of Dibley?’
‘Because it’s Christmas Night. And I fancy Hugo.’
‘What’s this? You told me you didn’t fancy anyone these days.’
‘I know. I find I suddenly do. Rather good, isn’t it?’
Desire was good, Miranda thought. But – unless attached to television actors, made safe by sheer distance – at this time of life it came shot through with so much danger and discomfort that it was more like an affliction.
She slid away from Colin and stood up.
Christmas was almost over. The holiday had been a barrier between herself and Selwyn and the future, and now that barrier was slowly lifting on a landscape that seemed to contain all their small figures, heading in uncertain groups towards an unfamiliar horizon.