Page 22 of The Christmas Invitation
‘Oh, yes,’ I said, peering out. ‘The two stones on top of the hill do look like just one from this angle, don’t they?’
‘I suppose they do. I hadn’t really noticed before,’ she agreed. ‘Luckily, Underhill was high enough to escape being drowned, though it lost most of the grounds at the front, which used to run right down to the edge of the village. That and Starstone Edge are all that are left.’
‘I can see quite a few roofs,’ I said.
‘It’s more of a hamlet than a village, though, and strung out along the road. Perhaps we’ll have a little excursion up there later.’
‘That would be lovely,’ I said politely, though it looked a bit cold and bleak for hiking.
‘Not that there’s much to see at this time of year,’ Clara continued. ‘Most of the cottages are holiday homes now, only used in the summer, and it’s a different place then. The Sailing Club opens up for the water sports enthusiasts, and the seasonal wooden café in the pinewoods by the water’s edge for visitors: walkers, birdwatchers and the like.’
It was hard to imagine such a transformation, though I’d seen the pictures on the internet myself when I’d looked the place up.
It was a bit brighter out now and there were hurrying white and dove-grey clouds reflected on the water’s surface, like a speeded-up film of the ever-changing sky.
Clara turned away and resumed her tour guide mode.
‘Tottie’s papa disliked Victorian Gothic, so he had most of the furniture put in the attics and replaced it with something that, if less in keeping, was more comfortable and functional. It’s a strange mishmash, and of course Henry and I have added our mite to the mix. We seemed to have accumulated a lot of stuff over the years and much of it was in storage. We did have a flat in London at one time, but it was tiny.’
On the other side of the hall was a matching large room, which contained a TV with easy chairs drawn up around it, but otherwise had been given over to Teddy, for matting covered the rugs and his easel, paints, train set, farm, stuffed animals, bicycle with trainer wheels, sit-on tractor and myriad other toys occupied the space.
‘Good heavens!’ I said.
‘Like an explosion in Hamleys toyshop, isn’t it?’ Clara said. ‘Henry’s a glutton for buying toys. You can’t let Henry and Teddy near a shop unless you confiscate Henry’s wallet first.’
‘Fun, though,’ I said. ‘I don’t think Teddy’s going to run out of things to do on rainy days.’
‘Oh, he’s always busy. Henry and I are teaching him Italian and Greek, and he’s already picked up the rudiments of hieroglyphs.’
As we passed through the hall, Henry opened his door and said, ‘I thought I heard voices. Would you like to come in and see my little kingdom, Meg?’
‘Henry chose this room because he’s always liked writing in cramped spaces, like boot cupboards,’ Clara said. ‘This was the nearest he could get at the Red House.’
‘Slight exaggeration, my dear, but it’s true that I wrote some of my best poems in the hall of our flat in London. But here, you must admit, I have a real room, albeit not very large.’
It was very light and attractive, though, with most of the walls lined with light green painted bookshelves, well-filled. A desk with a laptop on it stood against one wall, next to a cushioned wicker basket in which Lass obliviously snored. Before the window was a battered pine kitchen table, on which reposed the kind of old-fashioned typewriter I’d only seen in pictures. It was black and gold, with ivory-coloured keys.
There was a sheet of paper sticking out of the top, with a thin column of words down the middle.
‘I like to think straight on to the typewriter,’ he said, following the direction of my gaze. ‘I taught myself to touch type as a boy and old habits remain. I have to hear and feel the heavy clunk of the keys in order to create.’
‘He does put his poems on his laptop afterwards, though,’ Clara said. ‘He’s not a total technological heathen.’
‘Far from it, as you well know, Clara! In fact,’ he added turning to me, ‘I’m constantly looking at auction sites on the internet, searching for ornaments and leaving bids.’
‘Ornaments?’ I said, surprised, because I couldn’t really see him as a collector of porcelain animals or Cranberry glass.
‘Baubles, bangles, bright shiny things, tra-la-la-la-la!’ warbled Clara. ‘But Henry doesn’t collect jewellery; his passion runs instead to old glass Christmas tree decorations.’
‘I’ve always loved them,’ said Henry, drawing me over to what looked like one of those Victorian cabinets with drawers for the storing of ghastly things like birds’ eggs, or butterflies and beetles impaled on pins. Above it was a glazed cabinet that lit up at the press of a switch, revealing sparkling rows of glass Christmas baubles in weird and wonderful shapes and colours. They all looked very old, fragile and strangely exciting.
‘I keep most of them stored away and rotate the ones on display,’ he said, opening the top drawer to reveal the usual divisions into little compartments, each filled not with an impaled insect, but a glass ornament in a nest of cotton wool. There were Santas, elves, pixies, fruit, flowers, clocks, angels, snowmen, musical instruments and birds with long tails of white spun glass, one of which looked remarkably like an ostrich.
‘I’m constantly finding new shapes and designs,’ Henry said. ‘They started producing them in a German village called Lauscha in the nineteenth century and they were endlessly inventive. They still make them there.’
A larger drawer further down held bigger ornaments, and blown and silvered glass tree toppers – and one duller object that he lifted out and displayed proudly.
‘This moulded papier mâché Father Christmas tree topper is over a hundred years old.’
