The Willows at Christmas (12 page)

“And this?” he asked, leaning forward to examine a daguerreotype, which was framed with fronds of holly and ivy made most delicately of glass and tin, painted red and green.

“That is Mr Toad Senior and he gave it to me himself at my request. He was too modest a gentleman to think that another might like his portrait. It is my most valued possession. But, Mr Mole, pray be seated by the fireside.”

The thoughtful Mole had already observed that there was only one armchair in the room, which was certainly Miss Bugle’s own. What need had a maiden lady with no relatives of a second comfortable chair?

At once he went to bring a chair from a dining table that was tucked away in one corner, but when he tried to sit on it Miss Bugle would have none of it, and insisted he take her own. So it was that for a second time in three days, though for very different reasons, the Mole found himself the guest of honour in his host’s own chair before a blazing fire. It was a situation that Mole could not imagine being bettered on a Christmas Eve.

It was as well that the compote (his) and the scones and cream (hers) could not be compared because each was sure the other was the better. Nor, had there been a contest as to who was the more sympathetic listener, could one have emerged the victor, for both were undoubtedly experts.

In what seemed like no time at all — though it took a good hour and two pots of tea — Mole had heard the sad story of Miss Bugle’s orphan days and learned how Mr Toad Senior had rescued her.

Miss Bugle, in her turn, had wrung from Mole those secrets of his past that bore upon his lost siblings and present regrets that he would not see them again.

“But have you never tried to find your sister’s address in the north and make contact with her?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“But, Mr Mole, it is not so very far to those who use the railways!”

“I do not think I would have the courage to do such a thing,” said the Mole sadly, “for what must surely be a fruitless search.”

With that he let the subject drop. The darkness of the winter evening had fallen as they talked and the Mole became aware that their time was slipping away — soon Miss Bugle would have to resume her duties.

“Mr Mole,” said his hostess, “I fear that I have no aperitifs to offer you of the kind that I believe bachelor gentlemen enjoy at this time of evening. I have no brandy or whisky, and certainly no gin! But —”

Mole raised his head hopefully and saw that Miss Bugle had glanced once more towards the portrait of the employer whose memory she revered so greatly.

“I do have a decanter of madeira that was given to me by Mr Toad Senior a very long time ago. There is not much left now, but if you would —?”

Mole indicated that he would indeed, and out came the crystal decanter, accompanied by two exquisitely engraved glasses.

“He gave me these along with the madeira. But up till this moment—“

As she smiled her eyes moistened, and the Mole guessed that till this moment there had never been a reason to fill the second of the glasses, though he noticed it was as brightly polished as the first. No one understood the pleasure of that moment better than he.

“It has been my habit to have a single glass once a year on Christmas Eve, when I toast the memory of those most happy years with Mr Toad Senior.”

“Madam,” said the Mole, half—rising in alarm, “I cannot think to rob you of a full glass of a drink that is so special, and which I see has now almost run dry. Rather —”

A glance from her stilled him and she filled the glasses without a word, leaving barely enough for two more in the precious bottle.

“Each Christmas Eve I sit here,” said she, “and I contemplate my little drink, and I look about at these decorations, which are mainly the Hall’s own, for I borrow them from the boxes where they are kept in the attic rooms above, and I ponder the joys of the past year, and such joys as I may find in the year to come. Little did I think that this year would bring into my presence one so gracious and good-hearted as yourself.”

She did not yet raise her glass, and nor did the Mole. “Then I slowly sip my drink and watch the firelight. I think of all those families who have children in their midst, and wonder what they are doing and how excited they must feel…”

“They are inclined to mischief and over-excitement, if my memory of my youth serves me right,” observed the Mole with a smile.

Their glasses remained untouched.

“I think too of those who are alone like me, but not lucky enough to have so happy a situation or so benign an employer as the present Mr Toad, and I wish them better luck in the months and years ahead.

“So do the moments of my little Christmas celebration pass. Then, reluctantly, I come to my final task. As the hour of six rings out from the Village church — and when the wind is in the west as it is tonight I can hear it from my open window — I take down these decorations one by one, and pack them up for another year into those wooden boxes you see beneath my dining table. Then I silently transport them back up to the attic whence they came. By that time it is nigh-on seven o’clock and I have to be on duty once again. Then is my Christmas done, even before it has begun for the rest of the world!”

Miss Bugle was silent, and seemed neither happy nor sad, but rather resigned to this solitary annual ritual.

Breaking her silence at last, she said, “I would be very grateful, Mr Mole, if this year you would be kind enough to propose a toast, for I believe that is a gentleman’s prerogative.”

“I will do so with great pleasure, madam,” said the Mole, who had been much moved by her words. He rose up and declared, “It is my firm belief that this will be the last time that the River Bank’s Christmas will be blighted and I am confident that the spirit of Christmas will win through again. I now feel that in you I have the staunchest possible ally for certain efforts I am planning with the help of Mr Badger and others on the River Bank’s behalf, and so I feel emboldened to propose the health of Christmas now and for always! May all our wishes regarding it come true!”

Their glasses clinked merrily in the firelight.

They talked a little more in general terms before the Mole felt the moment had come to ask her about something that had nagged at him since Mr Baltry the poulterer had mentioned it, and which had been referred to indirectly by all those he had spoken to since.

“Please answer me this, Miss Bugle, for I believe you are best placed to do so. I have been told that Mr Toad’s malaise at Christmas time, and his inability to deal firmly with Mrs Ffleshe, if I may so put it, has something to do with his father. I feel that if I am to take successful action and gain Toad’s help, I need to understand Mr Toad’s state of mind. Can you cast any light on the matter?”

Miss Bugle nodded her understanding and said very sombrely, “The long and short of it is that Mr Toad’s father passed away at Christmas.”

“Yes, that much I had discovered,” responded the Mole sympathetically.

“But did you know it was on Christmas Day itself!” she added tragically. It was plain from the play of emotion upon her face and the passion of her voice that this memory was still very real and fresh in her mind.

“O my goodness!” said Mole with a look of dismay, for this important detail had been omitted from Badger’s account.

“I believe that no son loved his father more than Mr Toad Junior loved Mr Toad Senior. The two were quite inseparable, you know, and for Toad Junior the spirit of Christmas
was
his father. Which for anyone honoured to know that gentleman, his good nature, his high spirits, his generosity in all things and his happy knack of putting others at their ease, is scarcely surprising. Why, if he had been
my
father, I believe I might have found it very hard indeed to celebrate Christmas knowing that he had passed away on that day of all days. So it was that with the death of his father, something of the spirit of Christmas also died in Mr Toad’s heart.”

Miss Bugle shook her head sombrely, the colours of Christmas bright about her.

“Sir, I have striven for years to think of a way of shaking Mr Toad out of his malaise. Indeed, sir, I may say that I have made it my ambition to play a part, however small, in bringing back to Toad Hall the Christmas spirit it has lost. When you suggested that perhaps we might endeavour to do something towards that together my heart was filled with new hope and so — here we now are!”

“Madam,” said the Mole, “I am most encouraged by your words. We shall — we must — find a way to help our mutual friend, in which enterprise I believe we shall be helping the whole of the River Bank! But there is one more thing.”

“Ask it, sir!” cried Miss Bugle. “Let us be entirely frank with one another.”

“Well —” began the Mole diffidently, for he felt a little guilty that his curiosity on a particular point so troubled him, “it was simply that neither you nor Mr Badger has actually explained to me what caused Toad Senior to pass away and I wondered if that was in any way —”His demise was caused by a surfeit of plum pudding.”

For a moment the Mole thought he had not heard aright, but he saw from Miss Bugle’s seriousness that it was exactly what she had said.

“He choked then…?” suggested the Mole. “Perhaps on a stone?”

“Choked?” repeated Miss Bugle distractedly. “On a stone? I think not. No, he was laughing at the time, you see. O it was terrible, and so unexpected. Everybody was in the banqueting room, the fire cheerfully roaring, his friends all about, the tree glorious with candlelight, listening to Mr Toad Junior making his first festive speech. When he had finished, Mr Toad Senior arose to respond in like manner, saying as he did so, ‘I’ll have one more mouthful of Cook’s plum pudding and I had better make it my last!’ Then a spasm of pain passed across his face, and then a look of comprehension as he repeated the fateful word ‘last’ and began to laugh.”

“Laugh?” said the Mole, rather hollowly, for he was not quite sure how to respond.

“Well, they were all laughing, as I remember,” said Miss Bugle, “for they did not quite realise the situation. Then suddenly Mr Toad Senior clutched at a cracker, waved it about his head and slumped breathless into a seat by the fire.”

“By the fire,” murmured the Mole.

“He had begun to recover after his thoughtful son offered him a glass of champagne when he clutched at his chest and fell back once more. Then he bravely managed to cry out ‘Merry Christmas!’ and, offering one end of the cracker to his son, he was suddenly…”

“Suddenly what?”

“No more,” announced Miss Bugle.

“No more?” murmured the Mole, thinking it was as good a way to go as any, and better than most.

“He was gone,” said Miss Bugle with finality. “I could see that my employer was now the
late
Mr Toad. And yet… yet…

“Yes, Miss Bugle?” said the Mole very seriously, leaning forward in a way that perhaps conveyed to her his deep engagement in the story she told.

“Yes,” she continued in a softer voice. “He looked very cheerful with a paper hat on his head, a cracker in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other and the firelight on his face. He looked very cheerful indeed. But there was no doubt that his spirit had departed.”

“Departed,” whispered the Mole, who had some difficulty in picturing the scene without wondering what he might have done in such a situation, had he been a guest at Toad Senior’s table. Death he had known, but not death on Christmas Day, the company full of jollity.

Since Miss Bugle remained silent he felt he should say something. But what?

“I think I know,” he said finally, and for lack of anything more profound, “what I might have done when faced by such a crisis.

“What would that have been?” asked Miss Bugle with very real curiosity, for she often wondered if she had done the right thing herself.

“I would have removed the paper hat from his head,” said the Mole, adding after some thought, “and I think the cracker from his hand.”

“That would have been the right thing,” concurred Miss Bugle, “always assuming that the cracker would come easily. However, it seemed to me that Mr Toad was holding on to it very tightly and, of course —“