The Christmas Angel (36 page)

Unexpectedly he is seized with a terrible sadness. He thinks of Dossie, of her generously loving approach to life, and how he belittled and demeaned her to Kitty in an effort to protect himself. He remembers Kitty, his exciting, enthusiastic companion of those early years of their marriage – how happy they’d been – and how he has implicitly denied her to Dossie. Now he has lost them both.

He sets down his empty glass. His anger has passed and he feels diminished, ashamed, and very lonely.

In her room, Sister Emily is packing Christmas presents. During the year the generosity of the guests and friends of Chi-Meur is manifested in gifts. Some send practical things that they know the Sisters will enjoy using: packets of pretty notelets and postcards; scented soap; pens and pencils; warm socks. The Sisters share these gifts, putting the contents of a parcel on the table in the library and each carrying away one or two objects – depending on the largesse of the parcel – to use or hoard to give as presents in their turn. The Sisters are given individual Christmas presents, of course, and from these the wrapping paper is carefully taken and smoothed out, Sellotape neatly sliced off, tags removed, so that the paper can be reused.

Now Sister Emily examines her little cache of possible gifts. For Sister Nichola, who has a sweet tooth, there is a box of sugared almonds; for Mother Magda, who suffers with arthritis, she has set aside a pair of knitted fingerless mittens. Sister Ruth is more difficult: she is rather a Puritan when it comes to the giving and receiving of gifts and it must either be especially practical or have spiritual properties. Sister Emily’s hand hovers over a simply framed postcard: a print of Rublev’s painting of the Holy Trinity. They have recently had a study day on this icon, led by a Benedictine, and Sister Ruth was much taken with the large print of the painting, which was placed on an easel during that day.

There is a knock at the door, and she swiftly covers the little hoard with her old black shawl before she turns and calls, ‘Come.’

Sister Ruth is standing there with a parcel in her hand. She looks rather awkward, defensive even, and Sister Emily is intrigued.

‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What can I do for you?’

Sister Ruth closes the door behind her and holds up the parcel.

‘My cousin has sent me this,’ she says, ‘and I’ve been wondering if it might do for Janna’s Christmas present. It’s much too fine for me.’

Sister Emily’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and a small spot of red burns on each of Sister Ruth’s cheeks. She pulls aside the tissue paper and a pashmina the colour of blackberries, and threaded through with fine strands of scarlet and gold, flows over Sister Emily’s outstretched hands.

‘Oh,’ she cries softly. ‘Oh, how beautiful it is.’

Her old thin hands tenderly smooth the soft fabric whilst
Sister
Ruth watches, her habitually guarded expression softening into a faint smile.

‘I thought it would be from us all,’ she says, ‘since Sister Nichola has appropriated Janna’s own shawl. Janna need not know where it has come from. I hope you approve. Mother thinks it’s quite in order.’

‘It’s perfect,’ says Sister Emily, ‘and completely solves my problem of what to give Janna. She’s working so hard for us all and this will utterly delight her. It’s a wonderful and generous gift. Your cousin won’t mind?’

Sister Ruth flushes brightly and in that moment Sister Emily knows that, whilst it is no doubt true that the cousin has sent the pashmina, it has been at Sister Ruth’s request.

‘It’s perfect,’ Sister Emily repeats quickly. ‘Thank you very much. Do you have some paper to wrap it in?’

Sister Ruth folds it back into its tissue and glances at Sister Emily’s little pile of Christmas wrapping paper.

‘Perhaps you might do it? I think I shall have to beg some paper this year.’

‘Of course I will.’ Sister Emily hesitates; if this had been Mother Magda they would have had a little hug and a shared pleasure in the prospect of Janna’s delight. This is impossible with Sister Ruth, who would be embarrassed by transports of joy and awkward to embrace. She gives a little nod and glides out, and Sister Emily watches her go with affectionate exasperation. It’s sad that they cannot celebrate such a generous idea but she must respect Sister Ruth’s feelings.

Eagerly she begins to select a suitable piece of wrapping paper.

The Christmas tree has been brought home to the Lodge and put in a large ceramic pot. Clem has strung it about with
the
lights which, by some miracle, are in working order and Dossie has driven over amidst snow showers so that she and Jakey can decorate it together. By lunchtime there are two or three inches of snow and Dossie says that it is time to get back to The Court. She checks the freezer, kisses them both and drives away very slowly and carefully.

As she peers through the windscreen, the wipers sweeping little piles of snow before them, she is aware of the dull ache in her heart; the emptiness where once there had been the prospect of Rupert.

The car slides a little, skidding on the bend in the snow and she grips the wheel more tightly. She switches on the CD and Joni Mitchell: ‘I Wish I Were in Love Again’. She makes a little sound that is a mix of a groan and a kind of sob, and makes an effort to fix her mind on all that she loves and values: Pa and Mo at The Court; Clem and darling Jakey at the Lodge. And Janna. Odd how the positions have reversed and that it is Janna, once so insecure and uncertain, relying on her treasures and terrified of commitment, who is now the comforter, the strong one.

She is glad to get home at last, to turn in through the gates, and to see Pa hurrying out into the snow to meet her with John the Baptist at his heels, tail wagging furiously.

‘Thank goodness you’re back,’ Pa is crying. ‘Mo was worrying. More snow to come, they say. It’s going to be a white Christmas, Doss,’ and she shuts the car door and they all go into the house together.

Jakey is rapt with joy that it should be snowing just in time for Christmas. He waves goodbye until Dossie’s little car is out of sight and then goes back inside to admire the tree and all the familiar decorations: the little carved
wooden
figures – the drummer boy, the snowman and the small boy with a lantern – and the fragile glass baubles: the owl, and the clock and the bell. Clem follows more slowly, thinking about Dossie and hoping she’ll recover from her heartbreak. Of course, he’s said nothing about it – and neither has she – but he’s been well aware of her heightened emotions through the summer and autumn, and he hopes that something good might come out of it all.

Watching Jakey staring up at the tree, he wonders whether either he or Dossie will ever find that special person. It seems unlikely to have such luck twice in a lifetime. Jakey crouches down to examine the brightly wrapped parcels that Dossie has put under the tree and Clem feels all the usual emotions: love, pride, sorrow and responsibility.

‘Look,’ he says silently to Madeleine. ‘Look at him. Am I making a good job of this without you?’

Jakey glances round, sees him standing there and immediately looks guilty.

‘I’m not touching them,’ he says defensively. ‘I wouldn’t.’

‘I know,’ Clem says. Loneliness smites his heart: he will never be able to share the joy of their son with the girl he loved so much. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. Look, shall we get out the Holy Family and put them on the table? I know we don’t usually get them out until Christmas Eve but there’re only a few days to go. Would you like to do that?’

Jakey beams with delight. ‘I’ll do it,’ he cries. ‘I can do it on my own. Oh! And Auntie Gabriel.’ His eyes shine as he remembers her. ‘Can I do Auntie Gabriel, Daddy?’

‘“May I?”’ mutters Clem automatically. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll get out the stable for you. Hang on a minute.’

He goes to the merchant’s chest, opens the heavy bottom drawer and takes out the open-fronted stable. Beside him,
Jakey
reaches for the old linen shoebag. Clem stands the stable on the low table beside the tree.

‘There you are,’ he says. ‘Can you manage?’

Jakey nods, clutching the bag. ‘I’ll do it on my own,’ he says, ‘and then you can come and look when I tell you. It’ll be a surplise for you, Daddy.’

Clem is fighting an uncharacteristic urge to burst into tears. ‘OK,’ he says lightly. ‘I’ll be doing some work while you’re at it. Call me when you’re ready.’

He goes out into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him. There are times even now, with his future full of exciting challenges, when he longs for more certainty, more conviction; a strong, unquestioning faith in the mysterious ways of God. Fighting his sense of loss, he sits down at his computer and opens it. His tutor has given him a title for an essay and he stares at it thoughtfully. It is a quotation from
The HitchHiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
: ‘Who Is This God Person Anyway?’

Jakey slowly draws open the neck of the shoebag and looks inside. They are all there: the Holy Family and their attendants. As he takes the small figures from the bag he remembers how they fit into their stable. Gently he places them: the golden angel standing devoutly behind the small manger in which the tiny Holy Child lies, swaddled in white. His mother, all in blue, kneeling at the head, opposite a shepherd who has fallen to his knees at the foot of the crib, his arms stretched wide in joyful worship. Joseph, in his red cloak, with a second shepherd – carrying a lamb around his neck as if it were a fur collar – both standing slightly to one side, watching. A black and white cow curls sleepily in one corner near to the grey donkey, which stands with its head
slightly
bowed. And here, just outside this homely scene, come the Wise Men in gaudy flowing robes, pacing in file, reverentially bearing gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh.

And all the while, as he is setting out the Holy Family, he is thinking about Auntie Gabriel; remembering her clumsy wooden shoes, and the white papier-mâché dress and golden padded wings; her hair that is made of string and her scarlet, uptilted thread of a smile that is compassionate yet joyful. The clumpy feet might be set square and firm on the ground but when he places the golden wire crown upon the tow-coloured head then there will be something unearthly about her. And, held lightly between her hands, the red satin heart: a symbol of love, perhaps?

At last, filled with happy anticipation, Jakey lifts the big bundle out of the drawer and puts it carefully on the sofa. Kneeling down, he begins to unpack the angel.

Marcia Willett’s early life was devoted to the ballet, but her dreams of becoming a ballerina ended when she grew out of the classical proportions required. She had always loved books, and a family crisis made her take up a new career as a novelist – a decision she has never regretted. She lives in a beautiful, wild part of Devon where she loves to be visited by her son and his young family.

Also by Marcia Willett

FORGOTTEN LAUGHTER

A WEEK IN WINTER

WINNING THROUGH

HOLDING ON

LOOKING FORWARD

SECOND TIME AROUND

STARTING OVER

HATTIE’S MILL

THE COURTYARD

THEA’S PARROT

THOSE WHO SERVE

THE DIPPER

THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

THE BIRDCAGE

THE GOLDEN CUP

ECHOES OF THE DANCE

MEMORIES OF THE STORM

THE WAY WE WERE

THE PRODIGAL WIFE

THE SUMMER HOUSE

For more information on Marcia Willett and her books, see her website at
www.marciawillett.co.uk

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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Marcia Willett 2011

Marcia Willett has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781409045274
ISBN 9780593067383

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