Page 18 of Last Letter Home
Nine
On Christmas morning, Sarah woke to find her bed bathed in an eerie light. She rose, shivering, pushed aside the curtains and rubbed at the window to look out. It seemed that a cloud had descended on them in the night, for all she could see was dense fog from which fluffs of snow floated against the glass. She whisked in and out of the bathroom and dressed warmly, choosing her thickest woollen skirt and jersey, then pulled her dressing gown on over the top for good measure and padded downstairs in her slippers. There she found the new maid, Ruby, hunched over the range, measuring oats into a pan for porridge. Next to it a kettle was sighing into life.
‘Merry Christmas, Miss Sarah. Proper white one, isn’t it?’ Long-lashed eyes sparkled out of a pinched face that put Sarah in mind of a malnourished kitten. Little Ruby was fifteen, the eldest daughter of the Martin family who populated one of the estate cottages at the other end of the village. The girl had been glad to leave off helping her mother look after her numerous brothers and sisters in order to work for the Baileys, but she wasn’t used to sleeping alone.
‘Happy Christmas to you, too, Ruby. I hope you were warmer last night?’
‘Them extra blankets and the hot brick worked a marvel, Miss Sarah. I shouldn’t have got out of bed at all this morning, ’cept I were desperate for the privy.’
‘Yes, indeed. Don’t worry, I’ll make myself tea. I can see you’re busy.’
Sarah carried her cup through to the drawing room, where Ruby had already opened the curtains and lit a fire. There she stood sipping her tea, warming herself by the crackling wood and staring dreamily out of the window. The blizzard seemed to be easing. The room wasn’t exactly cosy, but it was getting that way.
She had decorated the downstairs rooms with the bright holly that the gardener had left. Hartmann, as the Richards family referred to him, had visited every day since the Baileys had moved in, to clear fresh snow from the path and fix a window that wouldn’t shut. Yesterday, unasked, he had arrived humming a German carol and bearing a slender fir tree in a pot, which now occupied a corner of the room, decorated with candles that the new cook, Mrs Allman, had discovered in a cupboard. Next year they’d have proper glass baubles, the Bailey women agreed, but for now Sarah felt a deep thrill at the simplicity of this country Christmas with the snow and the intriguing little pile of gifts bought in London, carefully wrapped, under the tree, and the anticipation of a candlelit church with a wooden nativity scene, to which today a carved swaddled Christ Child would be added.
In India, Christmas had never felt real to her. The colours and the climate were all wrong. But at least – and here she was pierced by the memory – there had been Daddy.
It was nearly eight o’clock now, so she carried a tray of tea upstairs for Mother and Diane. Diane had to be called twice to wake and drink it. Later, Ruby served porridge and toast in the dining room, which was freezing, for all the heat from the fire there went straight up the chimney. As the snow came down outside, they worried about the depth of it, for it was banked up almost to the level of the window.
‘At least we won’t have to go to church,’ Diane said, cutting her toast into dainty pieces. ‘Bung over the marmalade, Saire.’
‘We still ought to make the effort,’ their mother said. ‘If we could convey a message to the Richards, they would surely send someone to clear the path.’
‘Mother, it’s Christmas morning.’ Sarah sometimes found her nearest and dearest appalling. ‘We can’t ask people to leave their families.’
‘Then I simply don’t know how we’ll manage to go up there for luncheon.’ They were due to spend the day with the Richards. Mrs Allman had departed the day before to stay with her sister in Ipswich and Ruby would go home to her family once she’d completed her morning tasks.
After breakfast Sarah helped Ruby clear the table, leaving the bowls to soak in the sink for Ruby’s return that evening, then joined the others in the drawing room where the fire was dancing merrily. Diane had lit the candles on the tree and was gathering up the pile of presents from under it.
‘I think, perhaps, the snow might be stopping,’ Sarah said brightly, peering out of the window, and, indeed, the fog was lightening and the flakes coming down more sparsely. ‘And, look, someone’s come.’
She watched eagerly as a bulky figure clutching a shovel emerged from the misty lane like a yeti from a storm. Its gloved hands pawed at the garden gate and when this didn’t budge, it simply lifted one leg and stepped clumsily over the top. Then, brandishing the shovel in a gesture of greeting, the creature waded up the path.
‘It’s Mr Hartmann. Thank heavens, we’re saved,’ Sarah said, wresting open the window. ‘Hello,’ she called out into the dead air, her breath billowing. ‘Happy Christmas. It’s jolly good to see you.’
‘And Happy Christmas to all of you.’ His eyes sparkled though his words were muffled by his scarf. ‘I thought you might need digging out.’
‘We certainly should, or we won’t get our Christmas dinner.’
He laughed and sank his spade into the snow. ‘I’m building up an appetite for mine.’
‘Sarah, do close the window or we’ll perish,’ her mother snapped behind her.
‘In a moment, Mummy.’ She called, ‘I’ll make you some tea, Mr Hartmann. Would you like a drop of brandy in it?’
‘That sounds wonderful. I’ll clear by the front door first, so you can bring it out to me.’
‘Give me a moment,’ she said and refastened the window, shivering.
‘I knew they’d send someone,’ her mother said, drawing her chair nearer the fire.
‘I suppose this means we must go to church now,’ Diane grumbled.
‘I’ll see to Mr Hartmann’s tea,’ Sarah sighed, and went out to the kitchen where she found Ruby gobbling chocolates from a garish box that Cook had given her all to herself.
The morning service was poorly attended – of the Richards family there was no sign – and the wooden pews were almost as cold as the stone pillars, but Sarah enjoyed singing the traditional carols and the vicar’s voice had a quiet musicality that whispered round the ancient walls. She felt part of a worship that had been going on in this place for hundreds of years. Cut off in this little village by the snow, it was difficult to believe that there was any world beyond Westbury. Never had their old life in India seemed further away.
The Reverend Tomms was as round as the sound of his name, a short man whose moon face was wreathed in smiles. He shook hands very firmly with each of the Baileys and welcomed them to the parish. Outside, the girls couldn’t help giggling at the memory of his rubber boots peeping out from beneath his cassock. How rare it is that we hear Diane laugh, Sarah observed, brushing at the light snow falling on her face.
