Christmas Days: 12 Stories and 12 Feasts for 12 Days

  Enough. Time to pick up my basket and join the others.

  I retraced my steps. They were easy to follow, though it seemed further than I remembered. But I have no sense of direction. Still, I felt that I was walking away from the house.

  The bright day had faltered. The crisp, sharp air had softened, dampened. Above me the branches dripped wet gouts of ice. I was chilled to the bone.

  In front of me I saw a pair of rusted iron gates, one swinging from its hinges like a broken gibbet.

  I went forward. Through the gates. The ground was overgrown with thorny, leafless brambles and crumpled brown bracken. Either side of the smashed stone path was a line of yew trees, long since surrounded by birch and sycamore that no one had planted.

  It was a graveyard.

  I ran back out – how had I come here? As I ran, I saw that there was only one set of footprints on the ground – and they led towards the graveyard. I stopped to get my breath, to try to understand. I had followed my own prints and I had made a second set of prints. Where were they?

  Whose track had I followed?

  I was moving quickly, jumping over fallen logs, hoping to hear any noise that would help me. At last I heard a car going by. The sound led me to a fence that bordered the road. I climbed over the fence, feeling relieved and ridiculous. What was I frightened of? The others would soon have found me. It was only an abandoned graveyard.

  Then I thought about the footprints.

  Rounding the bend of the road, I saw a stone bridge and said Thank God, out loud. I had driven along this road. The turning for the house was less than a mile away.

  At lunch-time over lasagne I tried to explain to the others what had happened. The boys thought it was funny – is it a male thing to turn the unexplained into a joke?

  Ross was more sympathetic. He had explored the wood. He knew about the derelict cottage.

  ‘This was once a proper estate,’ he said, ‘with land and staff. That cottage belonged to the gardener. But no one has lived there since the 1930s. That’s when the estate was broken up. Death duties, I think. The place has no services, and the water came from a well.’

  ‘It isn’t ours,’ said Amy. ‘The woodland belongs to the Forestry Commission.’

  ‘There’s an abandoned graveyard in there,’ I said.

  Sean whistled low. ‘I’d like to see that. I love old, spooky places.’

  ‘I didn’t love it,’ I said.

  ‘Did you look at the headstones? Loving Wife of Albert, that kind of thing?’

  ‘I ran – like I said, I ran!’

  ‘You really scared yourself, didn’t you?’ said Amy. She put her arms round my shoulders. ‘This afternoon we’ll go into the village – stock up for Christmas. And we’ll all stick ­together.’

  ‘Is there a pub?’ said Tom.

  ‘Of course there’s a pub,’ said Ross. ‘Why do you think we moved here?’

  It’s so easy with them; their warmth, their pleasure in their new home and in each other. And I want to be here at Christmas. I don’t want to be behaving like a Victorian hysteric with the ­vapours.

  But while Tom is clearing the table and I am stacking the dishwasher, and Sean and Ross are bringing in more firewood for this evening, and Amy has gone to get the car out of the garage, I have only one thought in my head: I didn’t scare myself. Something, or someone, scared me.

  ‘I’ll show you the village,’ said Amy as we pulled up outside the pub. ‘It’s a real olde-worlde street, with little shops. There’s a butcher, a baker — ’

  ‘A candlestick maker. . .’ said Tom.

  ‘No, but look at this old chemist’s shop. You ever see anything like it? Sally? What’s the matter?’

  I had let out a small cry.

  I stood staring at the curved bay glass front with its etched lettering on the window. Through the window I could see the high-stacked glass jars.

  ‘There’s a big brass weighing scale in there, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes. . .’ said Amy.

  ‘But don’t you see? This was my dream. I told you. The apothecary shop.’

  ‘You looked up the village on the web, that’s all,’ said Ross, ‘and you dreamed this because we live in a big, strange house in the middle of nowhere. The mind plays tricks.’

  ‘I didn’t look up the village, Ross.’

  I went inside. The bell tinkled as I opened the door, and I thought I would see the small, leering, whiskered herbalist. Instead I saw a plump woman in a white coat. She was measuring out cough sweets from a jar.

  Amy came in behind me. ‘I sent them to the pub,’ she said. ‘We’ll pick up the food. Sally, what’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong,’ said Ross to Amy when she went to get him an hour later, and the two of them were together at the bar while Sean and Tom played table football. ‘I wish she’d calm down. I don’t want ghosts and ghouls all over Christmas.’

  ‘You didn’t want her to come, did you?’ said Amy.

  ‘She’s your friend. You can invite who you like.’

  ‘Yes, she’s my friend, and I wish you’d accept that.’

  ‘I’ve been doing my best. But she always wants attention.’

  I came out of the loo. I could see them arguing. I knew it was about me. Ross never liked the way Amy and I were together. We used to sit up talking non-stop in her big bed, or lie around in our dressing gowns at the weekend watching movies. He was desperate for Amy to move in with him – to be together, of course. And not to be with me, that was part of it.

  I’m not being fair.

  When we got back to the house Ross tramped us round the back to see his satellite mast. They had dug a huge hole to set it in the ground. It was twenty feet tall with a two-metre dish.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Tom. ‘Your phallic symbol?’

  ‘There’s absolutely no signal,’ said Ross. ‘I’m getting it from some sputnik in the sky.’

  ‘You might get more than you bargained for,’ said Tom. ‘You could run your own TV station with this.’

  By the side of the huge mound of excavated earth was a stone staircase leading nowhere.

  ‘We uncovered it,’ said Ross. ‘Must have been cellars down there. Maybe an ice house.’

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘What? You said help me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Ross was staring at me. ‘Yes, you did, Sally. Whatever it is, drop it, OK?’

  He walked off. Tom was standing awkwardly to the side. ‘Take no notice of him. He’s always been moody.’ He put his arm round me. ‘Hot chocolate?’

  The rest of the day and evening was easy enough. Tom and Sean’s high spirits made up for Ross’s mood and Amy had decided to ignore him. At bedtime she offered to come up with me to check the room.

  We opened the door. Lying in the bed, clearly outlined, was a figure under the covers.

  Amy drew back. I was rigid. The motionless figure of who? Or what?

  Amy took my hand and we went straight back downstairs into the kitchen – where Tom and Sean couldn’t keep their faces straight any longer.

  Tom held up his hands. ‘OK, OK, we put a bolster in the bed. Sorry.’

  Amy threw a cushion at him. Ross looked up. ‘Enough attention for the day yet, Sally?’

  I said to Tom, ‘Did you do that last night too?’

  He shook his head. ‘’Course not.’

  I got into bed. Amy kissed me goodnight and closed the door after her. The room felt fine. Absolutely fine. And I fell asleep.

  I dreamed I was in my bedroom, standing at the window. There was a figure lying in the bed and the young woman I had seen in the apothecary shop was standing over the bed with a small glass.

  ‘Sit up, Joshua; you must drink this.’

  The figure tried to raise himself. I sa
w his emaciated arm. His face was waxy.

  ‘You must get stronger. We must get away from here.’

  The figure did not speak. With difficulty he swallowed the tincture.

  I woke. Turned over, terrified. There was no figure in the bed. I lay on my back, my heart thudding. What was going on?

  The next day Sean proposed I show him the graveyard. I didn’t want to do it but I was feeling silly and hysterical and I thought it would be good for me – like holding a spider when you hate them.

  We set out, and after an hour or so of aimless wandering we saw the gate. Sean’s bluff ordinariness was reassuring. He went straight in, deeper than I had done, brushing moss and frost off the pitted headstones to read the inscriptions.

  ‘I always visit graveyards,’ he said. ‘It’s my way of dealing with death.’

  My throat was tight and my lungs resisted the cold air. I was light-headed. Breathe deep. Breathe deep.

  Sean was up ahead now. The morning was clear. There was nothing here but my lurid imagination. And then, on the ground, I saw footprints. Not ours.

  The footprints led towards a mausoleum. Some sort of family vault. The vault must have been handsome in its day. Now it was broken, weather-beaten and colonised by ferns. The lintel bore the inscription: williamson. may they rest in peace.

  There was the usual roll call of names – Augustus, Loving ­Husband of . . . Evangeline, Devoted Wife. Arthur, Killed in Action. And then what caught my eye: Joshua, Aged 22, Died 1851, Also His Sister Ruth, Aged 25, Died 1852.

  Sean came over. He was intrigued. His presence bolstered me, and I walked a little further, to a row of small headstones, children’s graves no doubt. As I bent down I saw a stone tablet lying to one side. Someone had carved on it – hand-carved, with a chisel, crudely – he is not here.

  I jumped back. ‘Sean?’

  He came over and took a look. ‘It just means they’re with Jesus or in heaven. What’s the matter?’

  ‘There’s another set of footprints in the snow.’

  Sean went back the way he had come. ‘No, Sally, just yours and mine.’

  He was right.

  Hallucinations and diseases of the mind.

  What’s the matter with me?

  ‘You know what’s the matter with Sally?’ said Ross angrily, in Amy’s face. ‘She wanted you for herself.’

  ‘We were never lovers,’ said Amy. ‘And so what if we had been? So what? Can’t you cope with intimacy between women?’

  ‘It’s classic,’ said Ross. ‘She’s repressed, she’s resentful. She’s always hated me.’

  ‘She likes you,’ said Amy simply. ‘It’s not her fault she’s taller than you.’

  Ross banged down his glass. ‘She wants to ruin our Christmas because we’ve ruined her life.’

  ‘Of course we haven’t ruined her life!’

  They didn’t see me coming in at the kitchen door. They didn’t hear me overhearing them.

  My cheeks burned with shame and anger. I should go home. Christmas in my flat with a can of soup would be better than this.

  To avoid crossing the kitchen I walked round the house to the back door. There was Ross’s mast and the Piranesi-nightmare stone stairs leading nowhere.

  I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down, still numb from what I had heard. Was Ross right? Was I jealous of them? I am happy that she is happy. I do believe that. But deep down? Did I want Amy for myself? Do I not know myself at all?

  Help me

  I turned round. No one there. Who said that? A woman’s voice. I heard it earlier. In my mind I saw a picture of the footprints – first from the ruined cottage to the graveyard, then in the graveyard itself, the footprints that had led me to the Williamson vault.

  Help me

  They were a woman’s footprints. That is why I had mistaken them for my own.

  I went down the stone steps leading nowhere. But they did lead somewhere. I had a terrible feeling that beyond the bricked-up entrance to what Ross thought was an ice house or a disused cellar of some kind was some secret, awful to know. Some secret hidden through time, intended to be hidden forever, until Ross had sited his mast.

  And I could imagine what they would say if I asked them to unblock it.

  No. Let it be. Pack. Leave. Never come back.

  I went into the house. At the foot of the stairs I met Amy. She looked pleased to see me. ‘I’ve made mince pies. Come and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Is Ross there?’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t want it from both of you. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I was about to pack my things,’ I said. ‘It’s better if I go. I heard you . . . earlier . . . I was at the door.’

  Amy let out a big sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not you. Except that, well, you have been behaving a bit strangely. I told him you’re just tired and this is a big old house in the middle of nowhere. It’s easy to imagine things. Even Sean got spooked in the graveyard.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Don’t make me spend Christmas with three idiot males, even if I do love them all in different ways.’

  ‘I really think I should leave.’

  ‘Give it one more night. If you absolutely want to go, go in the morning. You’ll only get lost in the dark. And we’ve got some people coming tonight.’

  She put her arm round me. I nodded.

  Ross must have decided to make an effort because dinner was pleasant enough and David and Rachel from the village were jolly and easy. As we were heading back towards the fire in the sitting room, I asked them if they knew the history of the house.

  ‘She wants to know if it’s haunted!’ said Sean.

  Everybody laughed. ‘We’ll have to disappoint you,’ said Rachel. ‘There’s no headless horse or ghoulish vicar. The Willamsons had the house built around 1800 and occupied it for about fifty years when the line died out.’

  ‘Joshua Willamson,’ I said.

  ‘She’s been studying her gravestones,’ said Sean.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said David. ‘The estate passed to another branch of the family, and by the 1960s there was not much land left, and what you have here, this house and generous garden, has been bought and sold ever since. I know my local history, so if there was more to tell you, I would.’

  ‘There you are, Sally,’ said Amy, throwing her legs over mine on the sofa. ‘You’ll sleep well tonight.’

  And I did. Until about 3am. I woke with my teeth chattering in my head. My body was frozen numb. I rubbed my thumb and index finger together and felt nothing. I had to get out of bed.

  With all my strength I sat up and forced my feet onto the floor. I had no feeling. The bedroom was shrouded in ice. Icicles hung from the ceiling, pointing down at me like baleful spears. The floor shone with cold. Chattering and shaking, moving on rigid legs, I went to the window. The curtains were frozen apart like caught waterfalls. I looked out.

  Down below, by the mast, on the abandoned stone steps, a figure was being wrestled into an opening that lay in shadow. I knew this was the tall figure I had seen in my bed. Two men fought with him. At the top of the steps, on her knees, begging, was the young woman I had seen in my first dream.

  She looked up, straight at my window. She saw me.

  Help me.

  But the world is darkening. It’s too late.

  Amy woke, not knowing why. Ross was asleep beside her. The house was still. She lay for a few moments, her eyes on the ceiling. She was afraid and she didn’t know why. She got out of bed, found her dressing gown and went out onto the landing. She went to Sally’s room and opened the door.

  The cold was like a burn.

  SEAN! SEAN!

  Sean and Tom carried Sally out of the bedroom and down to the fire. ‘She has barely any pulse – she’s freezing to death – we ha
ve to get her core warm – Amy! Rub her feet! Tom, her hands! Ross, call the ambulance. Sally! Can you hear us? Sally? Sally?’

  It took the ambulance an hour to arrive and by that time I was conscious. My pulse had quickened. I had some colour. Amy was making me drink warm water. Tom was holding me tight against his body, the living warmth of him bringing me back from the dead – or so it seemed.

  ‘What has happened here?’ said Amy. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He is not here,’ I said.

  ‘The graveyard,’ said Sean.

  ‘We have to open the room at the bottom of the stairs,’ I said.

  The next morning Ross, Sean and Tom went at the bricked-up arch with mallets and chisels. The lime mortar and the soft clay bricks were old and damp and yielded easily. A couple of hours later there was a hole big enough to step through. Ross got his searchlight and went inside. Tom and Sean followed. Amy and I sat huddled together at the top of the stairs.

  I heard Sean say, ‘Both are women.’

  It was an ice house. An ice house that had been turned into a room – if a burial chamber can be called a room.

  There was a rough bedstead. A table and chair. A candlestick. Two candles left unburned. An empty jug, a notebook. And two bodies, rapidly disintegrating in the air.

  The notebook told the story.

  Joshua Williamson was a woman. She had been raised as a male as the heir to the Williamson estate. She was unusually tall for a ­woman – especially in the 1840s – and no one but the immediate family had any notion of the truth. Her father had married for the third time – ­determined to produce the heir he needed to stop the estate passing to his cousin. What would have happened to Joshua if he had succeeded is unclear. But Joshua’s fate came sooner than that.

  Joshua fell in love with the gardener’s daughter and announced his intention of marrying her. ‘I have lived as a man; should I not love as a man?’

  To prevent this his father began to poison him with mercury. Not to kill him, it seems, but to weaken and sicken him and break his will. But the mercury doses proved fatal, and in the last stages of his wracked dissolution Joshua had determined to tell the truth about his situation. His sister, Ruth, had gone to fetch the lawyer.