Chapter 2

That first night was as good as always. I was forced to tell a ghost story. This was a tradition that had somehow got started – I told a story once and on the next visit Joy insisted I terrify her again with another. I settled into the bed that I knew had only recently been occupied by my neighbouring cousin; and surprised myself with a twinge of solidity to the member between my legs. I consciously thought of something else.

The story I told was one that leant heavily on Mr Dickens’ Christmas Carol; but the younger two had no idea and I changed it enough to maintain the older two’s interest. Scrooge became Mrs Skinflint, as it happened she had four daughters of the same ages as the four in that room. Mrs Skinflint would not let them have a pet. Every time one brought a cat or kitten home, it would disappear very soon after. Joy whimpered, and Mary went round and got into her bed with her. “Go on.”

So the story proceeded and, of course, Mrs Skinflint was shown the error of her ways by the Dog of Christmas Past, the Horse of Christmas Present (who whinnied his story appallingly), and the Cat of Christmas Future. Mrs Skinflint went to old Mr Catchmice and bought all his scrawny old cats and brought them home for Christmas.

The two younger ones fell asleep, Lucy said “You plagiarist! I’m telling Charles Dickens.”

“I doubt that he’ll be too worried, I don’t think I’ll be taking his position as second best author anytime soon.”

“Who is the first ‘Mr Literary Critic?”

“Thomas Hardy. Only my opinion, of course.”

“He’s good, I agree. Very depressing though.” Mary joined in.

So we discussed literature until late into the night. We all enjoyed reading, we all had a preference for the sadness of Hardy and Dickens and the Brontes. Trollope was good but too happy for our young minds.

The following day we helped in preparations for Christmas. Firstly we went around the house putting up decorations – some mistletoe was judiciously put over two or three doors – I think Joy instigated this. She was too young to really understand the attraction, but did understand that there was something slightly dubious in the tradition and yet it was tolerated. I immediately entered into the spirit by demanding a kiss from Aunt J. “My, my, you’ll use all the berries up too quickly.”

“Not to worry, mother. We have some more in the stables.” Sarah laughed. It was going to be a good Christmas.

That evening, the weather began to change. Two days to go to Christmas and the clouds began to build. By six of the clock, a few flakes of snow were drifting to the ground, but Jo Jefferson – the gardener – said “Aye! Calm before storm, this be. Calm before storm.” When he’d gone, we five all went around talking in false country accents and repeating everything.

“Aye, dinner be coming, me dears; Dinner be coming.”

“Aye, ‘appen it will. ‘appen it will.”

“When candle be light then dinner be sight, dinner be sight.”

Aunt J. caught us and gave us a good talking to. She told us about our advantages and the locals who had far less and did not know how to speak correctly. She was, she said, disappointed. We promised to be better. Aunt J. had standards. The girls had all been taught manners with the occasional hazel rod on hand or legs. I was one of the family to be similarly taught that way on one visit. Mother did not interfere though she had never punished me that way. “Under her roof, her rules.” Mother said. Which was probably why I was allowed to share with the girls for so long; I doubt mother would have approved elsewhere.

The fact was, Jo Jefferson was absolutely correct. The younger two went to bed reluctantly, but obediently, as the snow started to fall thicker and the wind started to blow stronger. This would be a night to remember.

The girls kissed their mamma goodnight and then my mother; disappearing off to get ready. Half an hour later I went as well. It made no sense, but as ‘the man of our house’ I was allowed to stay up half an hour longer. If I was ‘the man’ then I should have stayed until I deemed it time to retire, but then I would not be sharing with my cousins, so I raised few objections.

Just another contradiction in a world of contradictory decisions. I had recently been told that I would go to university to study law; no one had asked if I liked law. I had no particular objection to law, but little enough affection either. I learned that, once at university, I could more easily switch courses if I liked. Mother had discussed with Uncle Robert – my father’s brother – and the decision had been made; it seemed that I could be put on a track for the rest of my life in their eyes with no discussion. Yet once at university it seemed likely few would raise more than the normal brief histrionic objections to me changing. My friend Binky at school had a brother who had done just that – for a week, he said, life at home had been hell, then it settled down and continued as if nothing was amiss. He had switched from taking Theology to English and History. From a guaranteed job for life as a minister to a possible life as ... a teacher? What do historians do? So I acquiesced and decided that once away I would settle my own path in life.

I went to the bathroom where I changed into pyjamas nicely warming on the radiator. Another example of the oddity of this house. It had a boiler and hot water radiators in many rooms, making much of it more comfortable than an old house had the right to be. However Aunt J could take umbrage at some slight or ill-discipline, and suddenly the bathroom would have no hot water; a cold bath in winter was not something to wish for. Naturally the adults received jugs of hot water to their rooms.

Tonight all was good humour and good spirits. Warm pyjamas and a stone hot water bottle in the bed. Of such things is heaven made.

In the bedroom I went to the window and looked out, the world was already white. White and black. The very air seemed to be swirling white, yet this blocked light and made all seem darker beyond our safe haven. The two younger girls had gone to sleep and we three conversed quietly for a time.

The first flash lit up the room. I was out like a flash and at the window once more. Then came the crash of the thunder. The storm was still not nearby, I had counted the seconds though I forgot the equation to calculate the distance. Another flash lit up the snow. It was as if the backdrop of black was suddenly lit by the brightest light; for a moment one could see the lawn and the ridge and dip that was ringed in with flower beds, all just a white blanket of folds at the edges. The room behind me lit up too. It was magical. A thunderstorm in snow was truly an amazing sight.

It might have been less magical if the windows had rattled, but here expense had not been spared and the sashes had leather, top and bottom, allowing for a good draught-free seal when closed. The sides had wedges pushed in for the winter to stop them rattling and thus the sides were pushed against the frame giving no room for the gales that would blow in our home windows. My uncle and aunt were careful for their and their daughters’ comfort even as they saved money in not heating extra rooms needlessly. I hoped the servants’ rooms were well insulated too.

Returning to my bed, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and power of creation. Then as I started to get into bed, a crash was followed by a whimper. Was one of the young girls frightened? I went to check on them but no, they were both fast asleep. Perhaps it is true that innocence can sleep through anything. Returning towards my own bed another flash lit up the room and another whimper came from nearby. It was Mary. I moved to her and in the next flash – for they were frequent now – I could see her face just above the bedclothes, glistening with a tear on her cheek. “There is no cause for alarm. It is outside, it cannot harm us.” I reassured her.