The Christmas Forest

by Rebecca Boxall

  ‘Right, this is war!’ he laughed, and before I knew it I’d forgotten all about my ten-minute fun limit.

  An hour later, wet and freezing, I decided the time had come to check on the hedgehogs. After that we headed back inside.

  ‘I’m soaked!’ Fred said, his cheeks pink and his hair dusted with snow from my successful snowball aims.

  ‘Go and warm yourself up by the Aga,’ I said. ‘I’ll just feed Clifford then I’ll run a bath.’

  I replenished Clifford’s bowl, then ran up the stairs two at a time, hurrying into the bathroom and stripping off clothes as I began running the taps of the claw-footed bath. It’s a big one and takes a while to fill so I turned to the mirror, planning to clean my teeth while I waited, but as I went to grab my toothbrush I was taken aback by what I saw. It sounds strange, but it was like I was looking at someone else. My skin looked glowing and my eyes bright and animated. I smiled. I’d never seen myself smile before. I’ve seen photos, of course, but I realised I had never in my whole life smiled at myself in the mirror. I looked happy.

  ‘I’m cooking us some brekkie!’ Fred shouted up the stairs. ‘It’ll be ready in fifteen!’

  ‘Okay!’ I replied. ‘I’ll be down in a minute!’ I hopped into the bath, had a good scrub and, feeling nicely warmed, I dressed in dry clothes and headed downstairs for my second test of the day: a different sort of breakfast – bacon and eggs. But when I saw how delicious it looked, there was no way I could resist it in favour of my boring old bran flakes.

  Just as I’d finished the last mouthful I heard the post being dropped through the letterbox. I always have to pick it up immediately so I jumped off the stool and grabbed the letters from the porch before heading back to the kitchen, where Fred was mopping up his egg yolk with some bread. I began opening Christmas cards. I scanned most of them quickly before piling them neatly on the island, but then, out of the final card, a photo fell into my lap. A little girl: Shemika.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Fred.

  ‘The girl I helped at the airport,’ I explained.

  ‘What girl? I don’t know about this.’

  I told Fred the whole story, then read the message in the card.

  Dear Enid,

  It’s taken me a little while to track you down, so I’m sorry for the delay in writing. In the end a police officer agreed to send this card on to you, rather than give me your address, so I pray to God that you receive it.

  I wanted to thank you properly for taking such good care of my girl at Gatwick airport when that terrifying incident happened. I had no idea at the time quite how much you’d helped her, but Shemika has told me all about it since. How you comforted her and distracted her and then, of course, how you shielded her when the uniformed officer opened the cupboard door and – reading between the lines – you thought it was the gunman. I have no doubt that you were sent by God as an angel for my little girl that day and I thank Him daily for keeping you both safe.

  I’m sending a picture of Shemika in case you’d like to remember her. She sends her love and wants me to tell you that Pixie is well and was happy to see us again after everything that happened. We are trying again with our trip to Ghana in the spring, by which time I hope we’ll feel brave enough to travel. Sending you my heartfelt thanks and prayers and wishing you a peaceful and joyful Christmas with your loved ones.

  Pearl (Shemika’s mummy)

  I wiped away a tear and passed the card to Fred. He read it quickly, then took me in his arms.

  ‘I knew you were wrong about being selfish. You were prepared to be that girl’s human shield. When it comes to it, when it’s a matter of life and death, you’re selfless.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Christmas Eve 2017

  Bess

  Christmas Eve is surely the best day of Christmas. That’s what I’ve always thought, anyway. Aside from the year that Mum and Dad died. That Christmas Eve is best forgotten.

  It did feel odd to wake up alone this morning, though, as usually Nigel would be with me. And it isn’t like I have a new love interest anywhere on the horizon, much as Enid would love me to hook up with George. Anyway, my evening with him proved to be rather revealing about his own love life.

  ‘At last, I’m off duty,’ George had said, pulling off his dog collar as he shoved a couple of pizzas into the range at the rectory, then cracked open a bottle of red.

  ‘How are you finding it, being vicar here?’ I asked him, but George, passing me a glass, shook his head.

  ‘Let’s not talk about the parish or my work. I need a break. Actually, I need someone to talk to.’

  I was surprised. It was flattering, actually, because I realised this was the first time George was going to allow himself to be himself and not just the rector. It was lovely to think he was that comfortable with me.

  ‘Fire away!’ I said, smiling.

  ‘It’s Morag,’ George said.

  ‘Morag?’ This was a surprise. I couldn’t think why he wanted to talk about my friend, unless it was to do with the whole Melissa saga.

  ‘Yes, you’re her best friend, aren’t you? I need to know whether she might be interested. You see, I’m interested in her. Very much. But I don’t know if she just sees me as a friend?’

  I felt a bit dizzy as I tried to take this in.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked George. ‘You look a bit shell-shocked. There’s nothing going on between her and Harry, is there? I know they live together, but Morag explained she’s just a lodger.’

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing between them – they’re definitely just friends,’ I replied, taking a sip of wine. I tried to work out whether I’d noticed anything between Morag and George, but I know Morag well and she’s one to play her cards very close to her chest.

  ‘She’s secretive, that girl,’ I said to George. ‘Mysterious Morag, I call her. She’s always super-friendly with everyone, but it’s almost impossible to know if she fancies someone. She’s proud, you see. A proud Scot. She’d never want to openly face rejection. There’s only one tiny little way you can tell if Morag’s interested.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked George, pouncing on my potential lead.

  ‘When she’s into someone she does this cute little wrinkling thing with her nose. If she smiles without a nose wrinkle it means she likes you. If she smiles with a wrinkle then it’s more than likely she fancies you.’

  George thought for a moment then smiled slowly. ‘Thank you, Bess!’ he said. ‘Oh shit, can you smell burning?’ He jumped up and checked on the pizzas.

  I’ve no idea what George has done about it all since, but tomorrow we’re all congregating here for Christmas lunch: Morag, George, Harry, Dan, me, Enid and Fred. I trudged up the hill through thick snow this morning to get some final bits and bobs from the shops at Red Houses, then headed home and set to with my preparations.

  I dumped my shopping bags next to my cluttered pine dresser and switched on the TV beside the Aga, thrilled to see that Delia’s Classic Christmas was on. Nothing makes me feel cosier than watching Delia, while following the recipes from her cookbook. Mum was a huge Delia fan and I like to keep the tradition going, so each year I cook every single festive meal I make from her book. Seeing her stirring her Christmas pudding reminded me that mine was resting under the bed in the spare bedroom, so I nipped upstairs and brought it down.

  Next, I rummaged around in the larder, finding an onion and some cloves ready to make the bread sauce, then I peeled and chopped potatoes and prepared all the vegetables, crossing the ends of the sprouts in the way Mum always used to – though I’ve never been quite sure why.

  I paused to make myself a sandwich for lunch, still watching Delia.

  ‘I have to say I’ve never in my life had a dry turkey,’ she boasted from the TV set.

  ‘Nor me, Deals, nor me,’ I told her. It was like having a nice companion to chat to. My sandwich eaten, I continued with my preparations: I made a trifle for those who don’t like Christmas pudding (Enid,
for one), and made my pastry for the mince pies, leaving it in the fridge until later. I always have to make mince pies while listening to Carols from King’s on the radio in the afternoon.

  My next task was to lay the table. I usually host in the kitchen but on Christmas Day I always use the dining room, so I unearthed my linen tablecloth and spread this over the oak table, then found candles and candelabras, linen napkins, my best cutlery and crockery (inherited from Mum and Dad), and laid out crackers. There’s a fireplace in the dining room, too, so I cleared the grate and laid it, ready to be lit the following afternoon. Once this was all done I stood at the door and observed it. I could imagine it at four o’clock on Christmas Day – the time I always serve the meal – and I knew that, with the candles and fire lit and the curtains drawn, it would look perfectly festive.

  I’d just organised the log burner in the sitting room ready for the evening, and was about to set about making the mince pies, when my attention was caught by activity through the sitting room windows. Thick, fresh snowflakes had started to fall in the darkening afternoon, and dancing around in them were Fred and Enid. It made my heart ache with joy and sadness to see Enid so happy while I felt so lonely. Lonely romantically, but, I reminded myself, I wasn’t alone. Unlike many poor souls, I would be surrounded by loved ones on Christmas Day, and I resolved to feel grateful for this. I thought about opening the door and calling to Fred and Enid, inviting them in to help me make the mince pies and listen to carols, but then I stopped. They looked so happy; so wrapped up in each other. I would see them the following day.

  And being alone wasn’t so bad: I changed into some comfy leggings and a thick sweater and some silly Christmas socks, and when my baking was done I went through to the sitting room and lit the fire. Having cooked all day, I wasn’t interested in eating anything substantial, so I drank tiny glasses of sherry and demolished a box of Ferrero Rocher instead, while I watched a murder mystery on the TV. I was just nodding off, exhausted from all my preparations, when I heard a knock at the door, followed by a baritone singing voice. I went through to the porch and opened the door.

  God rest ye merry, gentlemen,

  Let nothing you dismay.

  Remember, Christ our Saviour

  Was born on Christmas Day

  To save us all from Satan’s power

  When we were gone astray.

  O tidings of comfort and joy,

  Comfort and joy,

  O tidings of comfort and joy.

  It was Harry, standing at the door wearing, obscurely, a top hat, with a lit lantern in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other, presumably bearing the words to various carols.

  ‘Couldn’t disappoint you this year,’ he said, smiling. ‘There’s at least one carol singer left in the world!’

  I burst out laughing. ‘A Dickensian one at that! You’ve made my Christmas!’ I said, welcoming him in. ‘Come on, you don’t want your mince pie and glass of sherry out in the snow. Come and get warm by the fire.’

  ‘Are you sure this is the done thing?’ he asked. ‘I’m not sure you’re meant to invite the singers in.’

  ‘I’ll make an exception,’ I replied. ‘Sherry?’ I asked, then I realised I’d drunk it all. ‘Oops, maybe some red?’

  ‘Red wine would be perfect,’ Harry said, and he settled himself down by the log burner. ‘Actually, Bess, I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, passing him his glass and sitting down on the hearthrug.

  ‘This is probably a little formal of me, but I’m out of practice at these things and I live in fear of offending anyone . . . So, I’m just going to ask this now and if you say no then we won’t say another word about it.’

  I was intrigued. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bess, would you like to go out with me?’

  ‘Go out with you? Where?’

  Harry blushed. ‘Wrong choice of words . . . Oh bugger, this will sound like the kids at school, but . . . would you like to be my girlfriend?’

  I was shocked, but nicely so. Perhaps blinded by familiarity, I’d overlooked easy-going, affable Harry. Now, with him sitting there in the armchair, I was struck by how natural the idea of the two of us seemed to be.

  There was just one thing I needed to do. I got up from my place by the fire and leant across towards him, kissing his lips. It felt electrifying, just as it had the time we’d kissed by accident in the pub, though I’d disregarded those feelings at the time. The chemistry was there alright. I pulled back and then sat myself on his lap.

  ‘Just to be sure, is that a yes?’ Harry asked.

  ‘It’s a definite “let’s see how this goes”,’ I replied.

  ‘I’ll take that,’ he smiled, and this time he kissed me.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Christmas Eve

  Fred

  On Christmas Eve, Enid suggested she and Fred walk through the snow to St Aubin, so they wrapped up warm and trudged along. As they walked beside the golden beach, then up the hill before diving down on to an attractive pathway that used to be a railway line, Fred was taken aback by the incredible scenery. It was so silent, too, and he soon realised why: the strange lack of any traffic.

  ‘The whole island grinds to a halt when it snows this heavily,’ Enid explained. ‘It’s nice, in a way. An enforced break for everyone.’

  ‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ Fred remarked when they arrived in St Aubin and he spotted all the sailing boats lined up along the bulwarks. ‘It’s funny, though. There are little trees here and there decked out with white lights but none of the houses over here have exterior lights on them, do they?’

  ‘The odd one, but not many – guess that’s the understated Jersey way!’

  Fred laughed. ‘So where are we heading?’

  ‘I just need to buy a stamp and post a letter I’ve written to Shemika’s mum,’ Enid explained. ‘The post office is just along here.’

  ‘In that a sailing shop?’

  ‘It’s a travel agency, too. There was this woman who worked here. A real character.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She died recently. She was obese and had breathing difficulties. I feel guilty because I never told her she should lose weight.’

  Fred frowned. ‘To be fair, one comment from you would have been unlikely to get her to change the habits of a lifetime. And you’d have upset her. Don’t feel bad about that.’

  Enid looked at Fred. ‘Do you think that? Really?’

  ‘Deffo,’ he said and he saw a look of relief on Enid’s face as he opened the door to the shop for her. Fred felt so protective of Enid in that moment, as he realised how much she took to heart; how sensitive she was in every way. Life was tough for her and he only hoped he could help her to navigate the future without so much angst.

  The stamp bought and letter posted, they continued along the bulwarks.

  ‘Hey, this looks interesting,’ Fred said, gesturing to a pub at the end of the lane.

  ‘The Old Court House. Come on – let’s warm ourselves up with a mulled wine or something. It’s gone midday.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Fred agreed. They made their way into the pub and, while Fred bought the drinks, Enid bagged them a table by the fire.

  ‘This is magic,’ Fred said, passing a glass of mulled wine to Enid. ‘How old is this place?’

  ‘I think some parts date back about four hundred years.’

  ‘And it’s still standing! They made these buildings well, didn’t they? So tell me what’s happening tomorrow. Christmas Day! It’s going to be so weird. My first white Christmas!’

  ‘In fairness, I think it’s probably mine too. It never normally snows here in December. I hope you don’t mind, but Bess has invited us to hers so we’ll go round there after church and have some champagne and smoked salmon. Then we usually go for a walk, and we’ll eat our Christmas dinner at about four. Bess is an incredible cook.’

  ‘Sounds awesome. Can’t say I’ve ever been to church at Christmas eithe
r, so that’ll be different!’

  ‘Do you mind? I’m not a particular fan myself, but Bess is such a traditionalist and it’s the one day of the year that I try to do whatever will make her happy.’

  ‘No worries. It’ll be interesting to see George in action. And we can have a good sing-song. Christmas carols and stuff. I always like that ding-dong one.’

  Enid smiled. ‘“Ding Dong Merrily on High”, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one! Oh crikey, Enid, I’ve just thought: I haven’t got presents for anyone apart from you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’

  But Fred was adamant. ‘I can’t take all this hospitality and not pay my way or give anyone a prezzie. I’ll get some bottles of booze from that bottle-o I saw along the way.’

  ‘Bottle-o?’ asked Enid.

  ‘You know, where you get wine and stuff!’

  ‘It’s a wine shop!’

  ‘Okay, the wine shop then,’ Fred teased. ‘And will you help me choose some gifts for everyone coming round tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course,’ Enid said. They downed their wine and, feeling warmed, they made their way back along the bulwarks. In the end, Fred managed to find some owl-patterned pyjamas for Dan, luxuriously soft cashmere gloves in emerald green for Morag and baby-pink for Bess, and for George and Harry a bottle each of decent claret – together with festive-looking wine bags. They also managed to track down some lights and decorations for the tree (which had indeed been a gift from Bess). Fred handed his card over again, feeling a great sense of relief that he finally had a decent amount of money in his accounts.

  ‘Do you have any wrapping paper and sticky tape?’ Fred asked.

  ‘Masses,’ Enid told him and, laden with bags, they tramped back through the snow to Number 2 Christmas Cottages, chatting away as they walked so that the long trek seemed quite short, despite the heavy bags.

  ‘I love the name of these houses – it’s cute,’ Fred said when they arrived, but Enid pulled a face.

  ‘So twee!’ she argued. ‘But the name basically sold them to Bess. She’s what I call a Christmas crazy.’