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Chapter Text

The first day of December dawned freezing cold. It was a Saturday and there was no special reason to rise early, but Clive had woken up around five a.m. from a rather unpleasant dream – not quite a nightmare, but close enough to disturb him – and gotten out of bed quietly, leaving Robert peacefully asleep.

He had been sitting by the fire in the study, reading some boring papers he’d brought home from Parliament, and had nearly fallen asleep from pure tedium, but as the first feeble rays of the pale, wintry sun crept over the buildings on the other side of the road, he got up, wrapped himself tighter in his warm dressing gown and went to the window. The sky was a dismal blue, with thick clouds threatening to cover it all. People hurried on the street, hats, mufflers, and gloves on, children ran to the morning classes in day school, bundled up in coats and woollen hats, the sunlight reflected in every little residual bit of the snow that had fallen the days before. People threading through the snow had made most of it melt into a muddy slush, but here and there little white mounds had escaped, and there was even a small snowman, now looking a bit slumped to the left, by the side of a brown-stone house where lived a big family with six or seven children. He recalled having seen them the afternoon before, building the thing in a confusion of snowball throwing and screams of pure joy.

The sight made Clive feel cold. With his hands buried deep in his dressing gown’s pockets he walked away from the window, back to the comfortable armchair by the fire. Just then, a discreet knock on the door announced Robert, already impeccably dressed to go out, with the breakfast tray.

- Will you be going out today, sir? – he asked, setting the tray on the little table.

Clive inhaled the delicious smell of scrambled eggs and bacon, mixed with the perfume of his favourite Earl Grey tea. There was brown bread, butter, and strawberry jam as well, he noticed. «Good!» - he thought. He felt uncommonly hungry that morning.

- Yes, Robert, I want to find the right Christmas presents for the children with time. I have some books in mind. But I won’t need the car. I’ll take the tube. I need the exercise; Doctor Hoper is always reminding me of that.

Sitting opposite to Clive, Robert smiled, pouring Clive’s tea.

- Doctor Hoper is usually right, isn’t he, sir? – his tone was light and easy-going – I’ll make good use of the free time: there’s your new suit to get from the tailor’s, an enormous list Mr Clarkson sent me of things I must order for Christmas so we can take them when we go, a whole grocery store from the size of it! And my hair needs a trim or I’ll hear it both from Mr Clarkson and my mum…

- Hmm, I think I’ll like that. I do love fondling the back of your neck after you’ve had a haircut.

Robert poured himself a cup of tea before answering:

- Well, aren’t you all bold, sir! What would Mr Clarkson say? - and he winked, before adding in a business-like manner – Shall I help you dress after breakfast, sir? You’ll get quite late otherwise ...

He insisted on Clive wearing fur lined gloves, his heaviest overcoat, and a muffler.

- It’s very cold, sir, and it’s bound to get even colder.  It may actually snow again before you reach the station, it’s snow weather. Don’t let this bit o’sun fool you.

Mornings were relaxed and intimate. They had breakfast together, sometimes in Clive’s study, sometimes in the kitchen, and always acted playful and at ease. After years of intimacy, they valued those moments when they could be themselves, and do the little unimportant things that an intimate love relationship builds into everyday life: make tea, share meals, dip shortbread biscuits into each other’s teacup, straighten each other’s tie, bump hands, make silly jokes, bicker about the cold...

They left home at the same time. Clive went right, to the tube station, and Robert went left, to the garage where the car was usually kept. As they both looked back to meet the other’s eyes once before going their separate ways for the day, snowflakes began falling again, soft, light, drifting in the last pale rays of the sun, just before a grey cloud covered it.

- I’ll have lunch at my sister’s, as usual, but I’ll be home by teatime, I expect. – Clive said.

- Good! – Robert returned, with a smile – I’ll bring cake and some pork pie then.

 With the same gesture they lifted their coats’ collars and quickened their step. A distant bell sounded the hour.

Chapter Text

Anne had a quiet Sunday. It was cold and grey, but that was to be expected in December. It snowed a little in the early morning, but after breakfast it was good enough for Irene to take Jerry for a walk, while Fox curled in front of the fire in Anne’s little study. She came back after an hour, bringing in a gush of cold air and all her vitality. Jerry had been let in by the kitchen door, so that he could shake the melting snow and wipe his muddy paws away from the carpets and waxed floors.

- Mummy! You should have come with us, it’s lovely out there. Jerry had the most terrific run across the meadow, up to his belly in snow, and tried to fetch the snowballs I threw. Silly dog! – her knitted hat and her woollen mittens were haphazardly hung on the hall, and she sat to take off her boots – It’s a pity we don’t live in the village, so I could go spend the afternoon with Marie and Ems.

Anne looked up from the notebook where she was starting to make her notes for Christmas.

- We aren’t even going to church today, it’s too cold, even if Baynes drove us. Let’s hope it clears a bit before Christmas, for Daddy’s sake. Now be an angel and ring for Clarkson, will you?

Clarkson entered the room just as Irene was going up to change into something more comfortable and fetch the book she was reading.

- Oh, Clarkson, we must start preparing for Christmas. We’ll have a full house this year, with Mrs London, Mr Archie and the children coming to stay. Please have Millie start upstairs, airing the rooms and lighting a fire every other day so they won’t feel too cold nor damp. Miss Maude can share Miss Irene’s room, and put the boys in the Blue room, they are always so noisy in the morning. Better start preparing Master Leslie’s room as well, he’ll be home by the end of next week.

- Very well, Ma’am. I’ve already sent the grocery list to Robert.

Anne smiled.

- That was a fine idea, if I do say so myself, Clarkson.

- Oh yes! It saves so much time and trouble.

The year before, Anne had thought it might be easier to simply ask Robert to have the special groceries delivered at the flat and then bring them when he brought Clive to Pendersleigh. Ordering anything out of the ordinary through the village grocer’s shop was so time consuming, with Mrs Linder many ifs and buts! And more often than not the wrong things would arrive, and usually late. It had been a complete success and they had tacitly decided to repeat the procedure.

Irene came down wearing Leslie’s old flannel trousers and woollen jumper, a book under her arm.

- Brr, it’s freezing upstairs!

Clarkson, after a discreet nod from Anne, announced:

- I’ll have Millie light the fire in your room, Miss Irene. – like everyone else in the house, he had a soft spot for little Miss Irene.

- Oh, will you? You’re a brick, Clarkson! – and she sat on the hearthrug beside her sleeping cat, legs crossed, reading The House at Pooh Corner, that Daddy had brought her the last time he had spent the weekend home.

When Clarkson left, after it had been decided that the London couple would be put in the Russet Room and that the Green Room would be made ready in case Mrs Durham Senior had a change of mind and came for Christmas after all, Anne settled back on her chair, her notebook on her lap.

«Next Saturday Leslie is arriving.», and she made a note to have Baynes fetch the boy from the station «After lunch I’ll have to start thinking about the menus for the ordinary days.» She made another note to remember that Archie hated Brussels’ sprouts.

While Irene plunged heart and soul into the arrival of Tigger and Piglet’s terrifying adventure, Anne made her little cryptic notes about the mince pies she would have to ask Cook to bake and have ready for the Village carollers, about the woollen hats, mufflers and mittens she had knitted through the last few months for the Church Christmas tree, about the claret, the Port and the old Madeira that had to be brought up from the wine cellar, about some new recipe of walnut cake she wanted to try, and about the gold tie pin Clive had bought as their Christmas present to Leslie, to mark how grown up he was now that he went to public school. Only the soft crackling from the fire and Fox’s soft snoring could be heard. The warmth from the hearth and the soft grey light from the window, so feeble that Anne was forced to light her little writing lamp, created a cocoon of home comfort in the little study.

When the lunch bell sounded, Irene put a bookmark on her book and stretched with a muffled yawn. Fox lazily opened one green eye, turned to the other side, and went on sleeping. Anne put down her notebook.

- I thought it was earlier… - she said.

- Oh, Mummy, I wish life could always be the way it is now…!

- What do you mean, my dear?

- You know, Mummy, the two of us sitting by the fire, Daddy and Leslie returning next Saturday, Christmas drawing nearer and nearer, the snow outside, school during the week and not a care in the world. But of course, it isn’t possible, and I dare say we’d grow tired of it in the end…

Chapter Text

Late Autumn and even Winter are mild in Malta by northern patterns, but still cold. And when one’s used to it, rather cold indeed. When Alec left the clinic at four p.m. there was a cold wind blowing outside, and the sun was already low, heating nearly nothing. He pulled his muffler up and held his coat snugger around his neck, walking fast along the narrow windy streets on the way home.

- I’m home! – he announced as he closed the door behind him.

- Come in here! We’re just getting tea ready. – Maurice’s voice called from the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen it was warm, with the woodstove on since mid-morning. Maurice, still wearing his baking apron, was beaming as he took out of the oven a gorgeous golden cake.

- My first honey cake! I only hope it tastes as good as it smells…

Before Alec could say anything, Julie jumped to his neck:

- Da, you’re so cold! It must be freezing outside.

- It is, yes. Good afternoon, everybody! I’ll just go up to change into something warm and comfy. I’m famished!

Hanging his apron on the kitchen rack, Maurice called:

- Wait, I’ll go up with you, I’m all sweaty and sticky from baking, I can’t have tea like this. Kids, take care of the table, will you?

As they went up the stone stairs, Alec remembered:

- And to think we laughed at the weather that first winter we spent here, in 1917! Remember?

Maurice smiled.

- We couldn’t believe it was as cold as it got over here. But we were used to the English winter then…

- Now we feel the cold just like any other Maltese. And let me tell you, it’s damned cold today! Hmm, that feels good…and a bit sticky too. - Maurice had playfully stuck a warm hand down his collar.

Less than half an hour later, they were all sitting at the long kitchen table, having afternoon tea, and talking over the plans for the approaching Christmas.

- It’s Angela’s first Christmas in Malta – Giovanna noted – and the first without her mother as well. We must make her feel welcome and part of the family.

Julie was all for it, between two mouthfuls of bread and butter and apricot jam.

- Yes, please! Let’s have Angela for Christmas, she can sleep in my room.

- Of course we’re having her stay! The more the merrier, I say. We can begin decorating the dining room on the weekend.

That meant weaving a couple of laurel garlands to hang on the outside door and over the fireplace, embellished with golden glass baubles and green and red plaid silk bows, and decorate the Christmas «tree», a little plump rosemary bush Giovanna kept trimmed for that purpose.

- I’ll have to take up the vase and keep it fresh.

- Can I help with the Nativity, Giovanna?

Maurice had sent for a beautiful Nativity Scene for Giovanna the year before. One of his business relations had brought it from Naples, and Julie had found it lovely beyond words as she watched each clay figurine emerge from the straw filled box, beautifully modelled, and perfectly dressed in real little clothes. Maurice knew it was very modest compared to the ones he had seen in Naples, representing whole busy 18^th century streets with its shops and house interiors, all the hustle and bustle of the city and the actual Nativity Scene in a secluded corner, almost unnoticed. This version was just the Holy Family, a small semi-ruined arch as background, a flying angel holding a star, the ox and the donkey, a couple of sheep and a few chubby cherubs hanging around the broken columns, but it was still quite charming to watch. Giovanna had loved it and it didn’t offend either his lack of religious faith nor Alec’s agnostic heart.

- If you are very, very careful… We’ll put it on the sideboard in the dining room and remember to always close the door because of Smoke. He’s a danger around glass ornaments and clay figurines.

Cutting the first slices of the honey cake, Maurice asked:

- What are we having for Christmas supper? Do you need me to order anything special?

- Can you get us a pineapple? It would be a special treat…

- Of course! Tomorrow I’ll cable a fellow who’ll be just leaving the Azores in three days. They have delicious pineapples there and it will be ready to eat by Christmas. Anything else? Gold? Precious gems? Rare perfumes? Mexican chocolate?

Thee last suggestion made everyone cheer. The rich, dark, dense slabs of Mexican chocolate, so hard they had to be broken with a wooden hammer to melt with milk and make the thickest and creamiest hot chocolate one could dream of, were an absolute favourite.  If Maurice was mentioning the stuff, he had already ordered and maybe even received it by now. All that was plain from his amused expression.

- Uncle, don’t be mean! Are we going to have Mexican chocolate for Christmas?

- C’m’on, Maurice, be a sport, do tell us!

He winked and passed around thick slices of cake, with a mocking angry frown and a threat.

- It all depends on how well you receive my honey cake… After all I spent a couple of hours working on it, beat the egg whites myself until my right arm was numb, measured every single ingredient, and Giovanna only supervised. I deserve some compliments, don’t I?

By then there wasn’t a single serious face around the table. Even Alec was snorting with repressed laughter, while he tried hard do push down a mouthful of cake with a few gulps of tea at the same time. Maurice pretended to frown.

- What an example to set for the children, Nurse Scudder! Let’s hope you don’t choke on that!

Alec swallowed the whole thing and was finally able to laugh.

- Oh, you! The cake is very good, you don’t need all the drama…! Really! We are supposed to make plans for Christmas.

Snatching a second piece of cake, Santo got up.

-Delicious cake, Maurice! I’ll be reading my book, Mamma. Hey, Julie, don’t you have something to practice on the violin? There’s three weeks left or so, that’s forever! Plenty of time to plan…

Chapter Text

It was long past teatime, and Robert hurried along the street. Clive had been out for tea with some of his fellow MP and if Robert’s experience was to be trusted, would be returning home in a rather grim mood and famished. He hated having tea out, and always found all kinds of faults: horrible tea, dry cake, no brown bread, underdone toast, whatever… Clive Durham’s reluctance in any kind of outings was legendary in the House, and the subject of idle gossip among his peers.

«Durham? He’s a hermit! Insufferably bourgeois, I say. Never goes out…»

«A hermit? My dear, he’s a saint! It’s home, home, home with him, running to the country every other weekend, devoted to wife and children. I’ve never heard of a simple flirt, let alone an affair…!»

«I say that’s not natural! A man barely in his forties and he’s all domestic bliss, and that kind of nonsense…»

Still, on some occasions, he really couldn’t escape an invitation, and this had been one of those: it was work. Some law or other was to be voted in January and the Committee Clive was on had a saying in it. Feeling as contrary as Mistress Mary in the nursery rhyme, Clive had had to sit for a few hours over the worst Darjeeling tea he had ever experimented, crumbling a slice of some nondescript cake and nibbling a disgustingly dry toast, and being bored into a comatose state by the inane talk taking place around him.

- If politics bores you so much, sir, why don’t you leave it? – Robert had asked more than once – It makes no sense, giving so much of your time to something you dislike…

- I don’t dislike it, not really. Political debate is quite invigorating, lively, and productive. I rather like it. It’s the surroundings I can’t stand, all the pushing and pulling, all the backstage manoeuvrings, the backstabbing, the iffing and butting, and above all the men who love to hear themselves talk, who happen to be the ones who ought to talk the least. Still, one must take the bad with the good I suppose…

All that time he kept thinking how he could have gone home, dress in his comfortable smoking jacket and slippers, have a cosy tea by the fire with Robert. At half-past six, when it finally ended, he called for a cab and as he was driven across the lighted streets of central London, Christmas lights shining in the cold, the only light he craved was the yellowish glow of the reading lamp in his study and Robert’s smile. At heart, he would always be a home and family man.

Robert had taken much longer than he had expected at the mechanic, highly recommended by his brother Alfred as the right man to guarantee that Mr Durham’s car would be ship-shape and Bristol fashion for the journey home, and who happened to have his workshop on the other end of London, bless him! He had driven back as fast as possible, but the lights had gone up by the time he managed to park in the garage and go out to get something nice to prepare a suprise supper for Clive.

With Christmas on the way, the shop windows were extra decorated, mostly with pine branches and holy, and an excess of lights could be seen everywhere. He had already decided on brown bread, Clive’s favourite and that he would have sorely missed at tea – and the baker around the corner always had an extra batch still warm around six p.m. – plus two fat slices of carrot cake, and kippers that would make it feel like a picknick and they both liked a lot. He added a few pickled eggs, ordered two servings of tomato soup from the usual restaurant, and ran home to set the table in the study, light the fire and put the kettle on. He had just finished when he heard Clive’s key.

- Good-evening, sir! Had a nice day?

But Clive’s voice was even more eloquent than his words.

- Oh, my dear, what a criminal waste of precious time! I sometimes ask myself how some of these men have a political career… I expect they are not as dense as they sound over tea.

Robert helping him out of his overcoat, laughed.

- They mustn’t be. They wouldn’t even sound so bad if you enjoyed their company more…

- But I don’t! They sound pompous and empty. Is there anything to eat? Just some real tea and toast would be wonderful!

- I think we can do slightly better than that, sir. Go change into something comfortable. There’s a nice fire in the study and I’ll bring you something on a tray.

When Clive entered the warm study some ten minutes later, the little table was set for two, with tea, real fragrant tea, brown rolls, butter, kippers (Oh, Robert, kippers! You are magical!), a jar of pickled eggs, two covered soup bowls, and cake, beautiful carrot cake. They had supper under the soft yellow light, by the fire, like any young loving couple, as if there wasn’t anyone else in the world.

Chapter Text

As he stepped out of the train in London, amid the confusion of  baggage unloading, trunks and bicycles, hockey sticks, cricket bats and tennis rackets, screaming boys meeting their parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles, little brothers and sisters, running on the platform to retrieve the bags they’d forgotten on their train seats, screaming good byes and promising to write and to visit, Leslie spotted Robert.

- Robert! – he called, and the young chauffer looked back at once and smiled.

- Master Leslie, I’m glad I found you so easily! I wasn’t expecting such a crowd of boys! Your father’s train has just left. He was hoping that you could travel together…

Leslie crumpled his face in a mocking grimace:

- I know, but the school train got late… the others told me it usually does, it’s a kind of tradition, really!

The journey had been long and tiring, in the train full of noisy boys, but he was in good spirit.

- I say, Robert… Do you think I could take a ride with you? You are going to Pendersleigh, right? There’s another train, but it’s after five and I’d have to change mid-way…

Robert winked playfully at the boy.

- You father suggested the exact same thing. You’ll have to travel in the front seat with me though, both the back seats and the trunk will be full to the brim with Mr Clarkson’s shopping list items and we’ll have to fit in your own luggage besides.

Leslie beamed with excitement.

- I don’t mind. The front seat has the best view and we’ll be able to talk. It’ll be quite an adventure. – and in a slightly worried tone – Do you think we could stop somewhere to have something to eat? They packed us a sandwich at school, but I’m famished all the same.

- Your father anticipated that as well. He left me money to take you to the station’s tearoom. While you have your tea, I’ll go to pick up the last of Mr Clarkson’s orders and I’ll be here again to fetch you at half past four.

Everything went according to their plans and before five they had already left London. Both the car’s trunk and the back seats were packed with boxes and hampers, wooden crates and brown paper wrapped bundles, Leslie’s school trunk and a few bits and pieces of his school luggage. Leslie was a wonderful travelling companion. He looked around, finding the front seat a great place to travel, if a bit cold. The side windows had to be left just a bit down or the glass would fog up from their breath, and the wintry wind hissed through the slits, so it felt much colder than it really was. It had rained recently so there was no snow nor ice on the road which would have made the journey much slower.

- I hope there’s pie for diner. It’s one of the things I missed the most at school, Cook’s pie. That and a quiet room. Calverts, one of my dorm fellows, talks in his sleep, and both Hollander and Parks snore like a couple of old rusty doors… it’s like a race, you have to time your sleep: either you fall asleep before they start of, or you’re lost. Poor Stephens had bags under his eyes the whole term.

Robert laughed heartily at that.

- Sounds rather uncomfortable, if you ask me. I thought those upper-class schools were, I don’t know, at least a bit like home.

- Believe me, Robert, even Pendersleigh, cold as it is in winter, with the creaking windows and the occasional leaking roof, is better than school. I believe it’s supposed to toughen us or something, but it’s actually a damned nuisance. And some of the bigger boys are rather brutish to the smaller ones. I kind of blend in, and they don’t really notice me much, but there’s a couple of fellows who’ve had a bad term to say the least…

Robert thought it sounded like life in upper-class schools wasn’t very pleasant, but he kept quiet. Leslie seemed enthusiastic enough, even with all the bad things he could point out.

- All in all – he said – classes are good. And games are good too. And one gets to know different people and learns to appreciate all the good things one has at home and has always taken for certain…

The journey was long and during the last half Leslie fell asleep. Robert stopped for a moment to carefully cover the sleeping boy with Clive’s fur rug and drove away whistling softly. Poor young chap he must be dead tired, all day travelling, first on the train then on the front seat of the car… After all, grown up and serious as he sounded, he was only eleven.

Chapter Text

It was nearly teatime and since right after lunch the Chapman children had been decorating the Christmas tree. The tree itself, a fine spruce, had been delivered in the morning, with a big basket full of pine branches, mistletoe and holy, pinecones and ivy branches. After lunch, Aunt Kitty, who was brave and did not fear spiders, had been to the attic to get the big cardboard box with all the tree trimmings. And soon everyone was occupied.

Amidst a good deal of bickering and quarrelling, Chrissy and Tilly were separating the red, golden, and green glass baubles, and threading new strings though most of them, remembering each other to be «very, very careful, because they break». Mother was hanging them on the tree. Morrie had been untangling the tinsel with no visible results.

- Morrie, you are supposed to untangle it, not tangle it further. Are you trying to make it into a fishing net?

But the boy gave a quick shrug and pretended not to hear. He was eleven, and being the youngest, he was, according to his sisters, outrageously pampered and spoiled rotten.

Aunt Kitty was weaving the garland for the mantelpiece and the wreath for the front door, with pine and ivy and a pretty plaid ribbon. She was very clever with her hands: she had cut the angel for the top of the Christmas tree out of golden paper and made its wings from paper lace, and it was the most beautiful angel the girls had ever seen.

Aunt Violet – who wasn’t really their aunt, but had been living with Aunt Kitty ever since Chrissy, the eldest, could remember – was clipping bits of holy that would be artistically distributed between the garland, the wreath and the centre piece for the diner table, a pretty silver bowl with ivy, golden pinecones and mistletoe.

As Mother began hanging bits of tinsel, after Tilly reluctantly helped Morrie untangle the whole thing, they heard the key on the front door. Mother was always telling Father he didn’t need to open the door, he could ring, they had a butler to open the door, but he had never lost the habit.

- Father’s home! – cried Chrissy and the three ran to the hall to meet him. Smith, the butler, had arrived first and was helping Father out of his overcoat and hat

- Here are my princesses! – saluted Chapman, at the same time he put a big parcel he had been carrying besides his briefcase and umbrella on the hall table – Oh, and the little prince as well…

Morrie frowned. He didn’t like to be remembered of the fact that he was not only the youngest but also the smallest. He really wished Father would stop the «little prince» joke.

Mother came out of the living room with a small piece of mistletoe in her hand and smiling she held it high over their heads as she and Father kissed.

- Good-evening Arthur dear. Kitty and Vi are here, they came after lunch to lend a hand. We’ll have tea right away… What do you have there?

Chapman made a mischievous frown.

- Hmmm, guess. It arrived at the office today.

Ada mockingly knit her brows with a smile.

- I don’t know… An extra-large biscuit tin? No, it’s a Saint Bernard puppy! No? A baby reindeer? Oh, I give up!

- It’s your brother’s Christmas parcel. Here… - he handed her an envelope he took out of his hanging overcoat’s pocket. From it, she extracted a pretty Christmas card.

- Uncle Maurice’s Christmas parcel? – cried the kids in choir, as if they had rehearsed it – Hooray!

Uncle Maurice, whom none of them had ever met, was an almost legendary figure in the children’s imagination. There were only two photographs of him: a very old one, where he was a chubby boy of fourteen, standing behind the double chair where little girl Ada and little girl Kitty were sitting, all three looking stiff and bored (and it was so strange seeing Mother and Aunt  Kitty as little girls), and another of a tall young man in uniform, the cap sporting a red cross – because Uncle Maurice had not fought in the War like Father, but had served as a nurse, treating wounded soldiers – under his arm, blond hair in a military cut, very light eyes and a small dimple on his chin, looking straight at the camera, very handsome and defiant.

They only knew he lived in Malta (Why have we never met him, Father? Because he moved to Malta after the War. Where is Malta, Mother? It’s an island in the Mediterranean, go look it up in the Atlas.) and that both at Christmas and their birthdays he sent them the most exotic and beautiful presents. No other girl in their school had a Japanese doll, with real hair and dressed in a real silk kimono, like the one Chrissy had received on her twelfth birthday, or a wooden box with two drawers full of the most beautiful swiss colour pencils like the one Tilly had got the year before for Christmas. And Morrie’s cricket bat was by far the best in the whole school.

So, the annual arrival of Uncle Maurice’s Christmas parcel, always unexpected because there was no certain day for its arrival and it might be delivered at Father’s office, at home, at Aunt Kitty’s and once it had even arrived in a delivery van because one of the items was a vertical piano for Chrissy, was always saluted with Ohs! and Ahs! and left them in a frenzy of excitement and curiosity.

- Yes, Uncle Maurice’s parcel, but that can wait, and anyway you know you won’t get to see your presents, either from Uncle Maurice or anyone else, before Christmas morning. Let’s have tea then…

Morrie pouted. He was a bit spoiled, really, and still threw small tantrums, though he was too old for that.

- But Mother promised I could put the angel on the top of the Christmas tree!

Aunt Kitty picked him up from the floor and lifted him, with a hearty laugh.

- Come here, little tyke! Here, you take the angel… - she was taller than Mother and much stronger and Morrie was her favourite, just as Chrissy was Father’s and Tilly was Mother’s.

Morrie held out his arm and placed the golden paper angel on the top of the decorated tree. It looked very pretty. Aunt Kitty put him down with a sigh:

- You’ve become quite a heavy bundle, Morrie. Next year I won’t be able to pick you up…

Mother had placed Uncle Maurice’s card on the mantelpiece next to the others, half open, and Morrie just managed to read the last words «My love to you all, Maurice».

Chapter Text

Millie, who had been preparing the rooms for the upcoming Christmas crowd of staying visitors, reported it. The Russet Room’s fireplace was smoking. Christmas was less than two weeks away and the Russet Room’s fireplace was smoking! Clarkson could hardly wait that everyone got up from the breakfast table to break the terrible news to Anne.

Anne panicked.

- Oh, Clarkson, what are we to do? Both the Amber and the Pink Rooms are inhabitable. The Amber Room even has a leak. We really must have the roof repaired next summer… But that doesn’t solve our problem now, I’m afraid… 

Entering the morning room with the newspapers, Clive heard the alarm in Anne’s voice.

- Is anything the matter, my dear?

- Oh, Clive! The Russet Room’s fireplace is smoking. I was going to put Pippa and Archie there, but they cannot sleep there without a fire, it’s freezing! And we really can’t expect them to accept being smoked during the night like two slabs of bacon…

As soon as the words left her lips, and despite the seriousness of the situation, the image of Pippa and Archie hung to smoke like a couple of bacon slabs presented itself before their eyes. It was so funny they both began to laugh hopeless and deliriously, quite unable to stop for some minutes, and even Clarkson produced the ghost of a smile.

- Oh God, you shouldn’t have said that. What an image! I only hope I can keep a serious face the next time I see Archie… - Clive said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

After the hearty fit of laughter, the problem seemed somehow less important. Still smiling, Anne tried to think of a solution.

- There’s not a chance we can get the chimney sweep from the village: everyone is having the chimneys cleaned for Christmas, he must be spoken for at least right up to Christmas Eve…

Clive ventured a suggestion.

- Maybe Robert can give it a try. It could be a bird’s nest or something like that. He could go up and check it.

- Oh, Clive, do you think he’d do it? Will you ask him? – and before Clive could answer, she turned towards Clarkson, smiling – I know the boy is under your orders, Clarkson, but this is an emergency, and chimney fixing isn’t really within his duties, and as he is devoted to Mr Durham… I hope you understand…

- Of course, Ma’am.

And so Robert put on some old corduroy overalls and climbed the tallest ladder in the estate, armed with a stiff bristle broom and some tools, to check the Russet Room’s chimney, while Millie and Lilly rolled up the carpets and covered everything in the room with dust covers and old sheets, preparing for whatever might come down the chimney.

Clive stood with Clarkson by the foot of the ladder, but Leslie insisted in climbing behind Robert till mid-ladder in order to report down the findings. Jerry sat by the foot of the ladder, between both men, looking up and whining as if Leslie was going to disappear at any moment, while Fox paid absolutely no attention to the whole commotion and slept by the study’s fire the whole time. Irene helped Anne secure all the little china, silver, and glass trinkets that were taken from the mantelpiece and the top of the dresser, wrapped up in paper and placed inside a basket.

- It seems it was some less clever swallow that began building a nest on the chimney’s ledge. It was abandoned, but it half blocks the chimney’s entrance, Robert says. – reported Leslie after some ten minutes.

- Ask him if he can break it and take it off from where he is. – cried Clive.

They heard Leslie repeat the question, heard Robert’s voice and then Leslie repeating the answer:

- The most of it, yes, but some will have to be pushed down the chimney with the broom and will fall on the fireplace below, probably with a good deal of soot.

- That’s perfectly alright, sir – said Clarkson – Millie and Lilly are ready for it.

In the Russet Room, Millie and Lilly heard a rumbling noise, a few knocks and then a mass of bits of clay and straw, dust, a few dried leaves and a mountain of soot cascaded onto the fire place, some bits jumping out to the outstretched dust covers, most of it, luckily, landing on the soft layer of ashes left by the fire the Millie had made there very early and that had set the alarm. They carefully swept the whole mess, and then lit the fire again, to see if the problem was fixed.

- Well, thank God, Ma’am! Not a wisp o’smoke in sight! The chimney’s right as rain…

What a relief it was! After lunch, the girls would clean it all up and everything would be ready in time for the visitors. Robert came down, with his face covered in soot and dust, his teeth shining white in a big beaming smile. Leslie had already climbed down and was comforting Jerry, who was licking his nose and madly wagging his tail, glad not to have lost him.

- Thank you so much, Robert! – both Clive and Clarkson said as soon as he set foot on the ground.

- Oh, it was no trouble, sir, no trouble at all. It was all great fun, really.

Chapter Text

Alec was dead tired. He’d had a long night shift at the clinic, starting at ten p.m. with two cases of influenza and one of a six-year-old boy who had been convalescing from measles and had developed pneumonia, and ending at four a.m., just as he was preparing to leave, with an emergency caesarean operation further complicated by the fact that a pair of extremely tiny twins was born in the end and needed all the care, attention and warmth the clinic could provide. When he finally was able to leave, both tiny creatures had been weighted, measured, bathed, and fed, wrapped in a pink blanket each and sleeping, head to toe in the same crib, under a shaded lamp to provide extra heat. They were feisty little things, stronger than they looked and would be alright, the doctor was certain.

Upon arriving home, he was not only tired but extremely cold. Maurice was still up, reading some new book he had just received on the arrival of the last HMS Scoundrel, wrapped up in his warm dressing gown, with a cup of tea cooling on his bedside table.

- What happened? You’re so late…

Alec shrugged, feeling cold and tired to the bones.

- Emergency caesarean, a pair of slightly premature twin girls, both alive and thriving…almost a Christmas miracle if you ask me… That and them being girls, definitely. Baby boys are weaker, you know.

- Well, grown up boys have their weaknesses too. You don’t look at all well either… - Maurice put down the book – Are you sure you aren’t coming down with something?

- I’m only very tired and very cold, you know that kind of cold that goes down to one’s bones.

Maurice got up.

- Get out of your street clothes and put your bath robe on. I’ll prepare you a hot bath.

In ten minutes, Alec was stepping into a hot bath, the bathroom foggy from the steam, and Maurice preparing to give him a proper shoulder rub. He had brought the teapot he had kept under a felt cosy and offered Alec a cup of hot tea with a dash of brandy.

- Hmmm, this is heaven! – he murmured as he felt Maurice’s hands on his shoulders, and he shut his eyes in pure bliss – You have magical hands, you know that, don’t you? I sometimes wish you would come to work in the Clinic couple of days a week.

Maurice’s experienced hands kept working the tension knots out of his back and shoulders and both the heat and the warm foggy air were making him extra sleepy.

- Don’t fall asleep just yet! – Maurice said, sounding amused and playful – Wait a bit, I have an idea to keep you awake.

He swiftly undressed and with a «Move over, please!» stepped into the bathtub that nearly overflowed, sitting behind Alec, who just leaned back on him and sighed as Maurice resumed the shoulder rub.

- Mr Hall, you have the most splendid, if naughty, ideas, I must say… You know, I could get used to this so easily! – and leaning further back, he laid his head on Maurice’s shoulder – Still, on second thought, maybe it’s better to leave things as they are, and make these occasional surprises just occasional…

As dawn began to break, they fell asleep in each other’s arms, like twin spoons under the bedclothes in a private cocoon of warmth and lavender soap scent, having left the bathtub full of cooling water and Maurice’s pyjamas on the bathroom floor, which was no problem at all since the cleaning lady would only come in the afternoon.

Chapter Text

God rest ye merry gentlemen / Let nothing you dismay/ Tarara ta tarara ta/ Tarara Christmas Day…

The Women’s Institute was closed during the holiday season and Kitty was feeling rather festive, humming loose bits of Christmas Carols as she put the last touches on the very simple Christmas decoration of her small flat. Since both her and Violet would be spending most of Christmas Eve and all day on Christmas Day at the Londons, as usual, she felt there was no excuse for elaborate or fancy decorations. Just a few pine branches over the mantelpiece, a bit of tinsel here and there, a small glass bowl with a wreath of holy and a golden candle on the table, and it was done. It gave the place a Christmas feeling, a festive hue, without much work.

From the next room came the sound of the piano played by one of Violet’s little students. Silent Night, wasn’t it? Yes, Silent Night. Probably the child was learning it to impress some doting grandparents or an old aunt. With a smile, she remembered little Maurice, aged maybe six or seven, sitting at the piano and playing that same tune to Grandfather, one Christmas Eve long ago. How jealous she had felt, because her hands were still too small to learn music on the piano!

In one way or another, she now noticed, she had nearly always envied her brother. Because he was older, because he was a boy and was allowed all kinds of things she was forbidden to do, because he learned music and was rather  good at it, because he got to go out every day, to the City, to work and make money, because he had the power to let her study Hygiene at the Women’s Institute and didn’t, because Violet seemed to pay attention to him…

How silly she had been back then! In her own defence, she had to admit that she knew no better then. Girls were kept so ignorant in those days. Most girls from upper and middle classes were still kept in an appalling state of ignorance, as a matter of fact, whilst the working-class girls learned it all the hard way rather early. Both women were deeply involved in the campaign for women’s and girls’ education.

 In her case, as with so many of her generation, the War had been quite an eye opener. That ambulance class that old Doctor Barry had encouraged them to join had proven useful to her, when the War started. Ada, already expecting Chrissy at the beginning of the War, had been forced to stay at home, anxiously waiting for Arthur’s letters. Poor dear Ada! She had had a bad War: four pregnancies, one miscarriage due to a bad bout of influenza, husband posted at the front and once seriously wounded, babies to raise on her own with only Mother’s help, and rationing to deal with…

Being very young, Kitty and Violet had not been allowed to train as a nurses right away, but they had been encouraged to proceed with their Hygiene course, then trained as nurse’s aides, then they had learned to drive and had driven an ambulance quite close to the front because they were damned good at it, practical and brave. The medical staff came to view them as two more lads. In the end she had seen quite a bit of action, and of horror as well, and had grown up into a much better person than she had ever been in peace time.

The hard, judgemental and bitter teen who had nebulously hated her big brother because he’d gone away mysteriously, giving people like Mrs Durham Senior the latitude to invent and spread spiteful rumours that, Kitty believed, brought a bad name to the whole family, had given way to a compassionate, patient and kind, albeit outspoken woman. And, more important, the War years and the shared experience and intimacy, often forced by the harsh circumstances but never unwelcome, had built a bond between her and Violet that no man could break.

«You silly girl!» - had Violet told her after the War, when Kitty had finally built enough courage to confess how she felt - «I would have married that nice – and dense – brother of yours if that was what it was needed to keep me close to you. Poor Maurice, if he could only have guessed…»

«Deck the halls with boughs of holly /Fa la la la la, la la la la»

There was so much she now understood about Maurice. So much she had been able to decipher from Arthur’s half words and prudish metaphors. She had grown to feel a greater bond with her absent brother than she had ever felt while they lived in the same house.

Yes, she felt rather festive. From the next room came Violet’s clear voice:

«B flat scale now, my dear, with both hands.»

The kid had probably resisted the order for she repeated:

«B flat, William! I know you don’t like to play your scales, but you must! It’s like learning the twelve times table, boring but indispensable »

Kitty looked at the mirror on the mantelpiece. She had never been considered a beauty in her teens: the maiden aunts always found some fault in her looks. Either she was too thin, or her hair was too curly, or her legs too long, or she frowned a lot... Now, in her mid-thirties, she was able to feel pretty. The mirror showed her a smiling face, short and curly blond hair, full lips, and rosy cheeks. She was happy and had everything she could desire. A home of her own, a companion she loved and who loved her back, two nieces and a nephew to pamper, a cause to fight for and work that fulfilled her need to be useful. Next to the mirror was Maurice’s Christmas card, extravagantly beautiful as always. The clock struck three p.m. and she heard the child close the piano. She straightened her hair and walked out of the room, humming once more.

«Hark! the herald angels sing, / "Glory to the new-born King!/ Tururu ruru tututu / God and sinners reconciled."»

Chapter Text

Pendersleigh was ready for Christmas. Rooms prepared to receive the visitors, menus planned, both for ordinary and extraordinary days, tablecloths ironed, silver polished. The special wines, bottles carefully cleaned from the wine cellar dust and spiderwebs, were now resting in the pantry. In a week or so, people would begin to arrive. That week of calm was the time Clive used for an annual balance of his year. Once a year, he counted his blessings.

Nobody noticed this ritual, not even Anne, but it was quite important to Clive.

He had gotten up early, dressed in the warmer everyday clothes he used at Pendersleigh, now that he had grown used to the cosy little flat with its heating and the fireplace used merely for comfort, and had an early cup of tea. He was sitting at this desk, journal open on a blank page (he always used a brand-new page for this), pen ready.

Anne, he wrote at the top of his list. Her love and care, her company and companionship when I’m here, knowing she cares and thinks of me when I’m away, her warmth, how wonderfully she understands me. I am certain I would never be as happy with any other woman, so complete and feeling so utterly blessed as I do with her.

Robert, he wrote next. The best half of my soul, and the best half anyone could desire. He could have written so much more, but he was careful.

My children. He paused for a few minutes. Leslie, so mature, so sweet, so clever and precocious. It’s funny how he reminds me of myself at his age but is much more balanced and healthier than I was.

Irene, oh she’s going to be so wonderful to watch as she grows. She’s so independent, such a free spirit, so surprising in all the best ways. I sometimes fear she may be a little too independent. After all she’s a girl. Still Robert insists girls are going to take their place in the word sooner than I think.

Pendersleigh, was the next on the list. I managed to keep it, to preserve the house and thanks to Anne to make the most needed repairs. Anne is the best bookkeeper I could have. We’re still repairing the place, bit by bit, but it will be all done eventually.

My political career. He hesitated before adding this item to the list, but yes, he liked his political activity, even if some parts of it were boring or unproductive, and everything took much longer than was to be desired. Whatever little good I could bring to the constituency by it.

My health. He had put this second or third on the list for some years, and even if it was further down, it would never be left out. It’s true I’m equipped for the rest of my life with an inexpensive and quite reliable barometer. And having to work for my health gave me a clearer notion of the value of life.

My memories. All the things I remember, the good, the bad, Cambridge and Maurice, the trenches, and the horrors of the War which I cannot forget. These things mean that I’ve lived and have managed not to lose my humanity in the process. Also, that I can bear witness.

He was collecting his memories of the War, the real things he remembered and the dreams he’d registered in his dream diary in 1919 and 1920. The heroic little things he’d witnessed, and the laughable ones too. Maybe he’d write a book someday. Not the kind of intensely beautiful thing Sassoon was doing, and that he was reading then, but an honest enough book.

The summer weeks at Juan-les-Pins with Anne. The sea, the promenade, the people they met, the little hotel suite with the Davenport desk Madame Guichard had bought at the auction remembering how much Monsieur Durham liked to write. The smell of the pines and the sea breeze, he wrote, Anne’s perfume and her beautiful Parisian nightclothes in dusty rose satin. Swimming and feeling my strength at every stroke

Slowly, leisurely, he reread it all. He was indeed a fortunate man. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. The leftover tea had gone cold in his cup. Soon the children would be awake. Clive put the usual sheet of blotting paper to mark the last page he’d written and closed the notebook. He was ready to face another year.

Chapter Text

Julie, Santo, Mario, and Angelo were huddled around the dining room fireplace holding the laurel garland. Giovanna was deftly pinning it around the mantelpiece, and already the room had a Christmassy look. A few red and golden baubles, and a plaid ribbon in a big and puffy bow gave it the right touch. Angela was bringing the Christmas cards they had already received to display on their traditional place, a string tied across the over mantel.

- This one is from Uncle Roderick, how pretty! This one’s from Mr and Mrs Chapman.

- That’s Auntie Ada! – Julie said – I’ve only ever seen her in a photograph, but she’s very pretty, and she has two girls and a boy.

- All these are from people Maurice has business with – my, how fancy! This one is from the bookbinder. Maurice must be his best client besides the Government. Now kids, where are your socks? You are all still young enough to hang your socks, right?

Julie answered:

- Not that we still believe that Father Christmas comes down the chimney, as we did when we were really small, but yes, we still do it. Even Angelo who’s almost a grown up… We only hang them on Christmas Eve though. Maurice always said it would make us look greedy if we hung our socks too early, and Father Christmas might be less than well impressed with us.

There was a strong knock on the door from below and Angelo flew down the stairs, screaming:

- I’ll see who it is, Mamma.

The others heard the door open, a mumbling of voices, the door closing and Angelo screaming from the ground floor:

- The pineapples have arrived!

They all ran down the stairs.

- What do you mean, have arrived? On their own? They presented themselves at the door, just like that?

On the kitchen table there was a small wooden crate, still closed, though it was airy enough and you could see there was plenty of straw inside.

- Not on their own, no. A boy brought them over, saying that Mr Andrade presents his compliments to Mr Scudder and hopes he appreciates the fruit.

Giovanna was going to ask how he was so certain the crate contained the pineapples, but the perfume was so evident she didn’t have to ask in the end, it was obvious. She presided over the opening of the box and they all saw four beautiful pineapples, golden all over and topped with green leaves in the shape of a crown, come out from the mass of straw. They smelled wonderfully. Giovanna gave one of them a soft squeeze and then put them all back inside the straw filled box.

- Let’s put them in the patio, on the summer table. If we put them in the pantry, everything there will end up smelling of pineapple. They’ll be good to eat for Christmas.

Angela inhaled once more.

- I’ve never had pineapple. The fresh fruit, I mean, I’ve only ever eaten it canned.

- Well, my girl, you’re in for a real treat then. It’s very good. The fresh thing is much less sugary than the canned, sweet but a bit tart too, it tastes exactly as it smells.

Julie laughed:

- You know, when I was small, I believed Uncle was Father Christmas, because no matter what I asked him for Christmas, he’d produce it, like magic. On Christmas morning it would be inside my sock, the wraping paper a bit dusty with soot at if it had come down the chimney.

Giovanna winked at her.

- You didn’t ask for anything impossible. You were a reasonable kid, you asked for books mostly, and sweets…

Julie fumbled at her neck and pulled out the thin gold chain she usually wore. From it dangled a small gold pendant in the shape of a star. The boys laughed.

- Three years ago, I asked him for a star, remember? – she mimicked her own little girl voice – Uncle, can I have a star for Christmas? God, did I sound so much like a pampered brat?

- No. You sounded quite sweet back then. You are overdoing it now. You were five and you believed he was magic, you loved stargazing with him… So, you asked for a star…

Angela couldn't resist a question:

- What did Maurice say?

- He said he’d talk to Father Christmas about it. He sounded very serious and I was left full of hope…

- And a star you got…! – noted Santo.

- Yes, on Christmas morning there was this very small box right at the toe of my sock, a bit smudged with soot, with a star inside. I totally believed it had come down the chimney in the night.

Chapter Text

It had snowed the night before. Not enough to make it hard to walk on the street, but quite enough to make it fun to play with, and as the day had dawned cold but clear and sunny, Ada had told the children to go out to the garden and play outside. She wanted a couple of undisturbed hours to wrap the children’s Christmas presents, and they had been cooped up inside since the beginning of the school holidays because of the rain, first, and the snow after. A bit of fresh air and exercise would do them good, she thought, not to mention how she would welcome an hour of peace and quiet.  

Chrissy and Tilly were making a snowman on the lawn now covered in a thick blanket of snow, with Morrie supposedly helping, but doing very little besides running around and haphazardly throwing snowballs that frequently hit one of his sisters or the mound they were trying to mould into a figure. He was full of vigour from the forced rest of the last few days and seemed to have five or six hands and to be in two or three places at once.

- Morrie, do stop! – cried Tilly as the umpteenth snowball hit her and crumbled all over her head – You were supposed to help, were you not?

- I am helping! – the boy cried, already shaping a new handful of snow into a roundish shape, his pretty round face dimpled with a hearty laugh – I’m throwing good snow your way so that you can use it!

- Oh, Morrie you’re such a humbug! Stop that this instant, it’s not funny! – Chrissy played her part of the responsible big sister – Make yourself useful, run to the kitchen to see if Tessie will give you a carrot for the nose.

He ran to do her bidding, mainly because he feared Chrissy a little – she was taller than him and very apt at boxing his ears – chanting «A carrot, a carrot, a carrot for the nose» to a tune of his own making, already planning to nibble the carrot’s end just to infuriate the girls.

***

The reverend, Anne, and Clive were having a long talk around the small tea table, in Clive’s study, about what was needed for the Christmas celebration, because Anne always helped with the Christmas decorations at the Church, so she had to go earlier and then either Baynes or Robert drove her back before tea on Christmas Eve.

- I have some lovely white irises in the hothouse, they’ll look beautiful with some green ivy. I’ll have Robert help me to cut them and put them in a basket. Irises are very delicate, and Robert is really good in handling flowers. And the holy is thriving! I really must trim it a bit, so I’ll bring along all the trimmings, they always give such a Christmassy look...

Sitting on the floor, by the fire, Leslie was reading aloud. Irene, sitting cross legged, with Fox sleeping on her lap, listened. Marie and Emily, sitting side by side on one of the leather armchairs, listened as well, so attentively they hardly dared breathing. Sarah slept on her mother’s arms. David and Patrick, sitting on the other armchair, were nearly asleep, though they were putting up a good enough fight. Leslie’s clear voice sounded, low but perfectly audible:

« “He said that Christmas was a humbug, as I live!” cried Scrooge’s nephew. “He believed it too!”»

- What does he mean? That you can eat Christmas up out of a paper bag? – asked David, suddenly woken from his dozing off by the enormity of the nonsense he perceived.

- Not that kind of humbug, you goose! – laughed Emily – He means a silly thing, with no importance. It goes to show how cold and mean he was, Mr Scrooge.

- Oh, I see. – was the answer.

- Do shut up and let Les read on, or we’ll never get to the good creepy part with the Ghost of Christmas yet to come…

«“More shame for him, Fred!” said Scrooge’s niece, indignantly. Bless those women; they never do anything by halves. They are always in earnest.

She was very pretty: exceedingly pretty.»

- What’s «seedingly»? – asked Patrick, showing that he had been listening after all.

- «Exceedingly» – corrected Leslie, pronouncing it slowly and clearly – Means very, very much. Here it means the nephew’s wife was really very pretty. Like Mummy, or Aunt Clarice…

- Oh! That’s very pretty, indeed… - admitted the little boy, his blue eyes very open and round with admiration.

Clive heard this and smiled. Clarice heard it as well, and thanked in a sweet if slightly mocking tone:

- Thank you, my dear, that made me feel very well. Mr Borenius, I doubt I’ll ever again be able to pass a mirror without glancing at my exceedingly pretty reflex on it…

- Neither will I… – added Anne playfully – I am surprised you two gentlemen can survive the excess of feminine beauty in this room!

A laugh from Mr Borenius, whose sense of humour had enormously improved with marriage and fatherhood, crowned her remark.

Chapter Text

Angela was sitting in her room, writing her last Christmas cards to her relatives (one married uncle, a brother of her late father) and friends from school back in Scotland. As she closed the first envelope, she thought about how Christmas used to be when her mother was still alive. Just the two of them, with a little Christmas tree in the living room, a roast with potatoes and vegetables for dinner «Giovanna’s roast is as good as mother’s, though the seasoning is different...», she thought, gingerbread biscuits, mother and her exchanging presents at midnight, the little presents they had secretly bought or made during the previous days.

«It was pleasant, yes. And the Christmas lunch at Uncle James, with the children. I liked that. But this year, it’ll be good as well, with Maurice and Alec, Giovanna, and the children. And Smoke, I do love that cat.»

She began another card, for her uncle and aunt.

«Dear Uncle James and Aunt Mary,

I’m sending you all my love and hoping this card finds you all in good health.

I’m very happy here, and though I still miss mother a lot, I found a whole new family with my employer, who’s a friend of Uncle Roderick’s and has been like a father to me. I’m very lucky indeed.

She smiled at her own discovery. As she wrote down each word, she could see it was the exact truth. Yes, she had truly found a new family not only to love but to rely upon.

I’ll be spending Christmas with them, but I’ll imagine you all around the tree playing charades and eating biscuits, as usual.

Give my love to the children and I wish you all a Merry Christmas and all the best for the New Year.

Your affectionate niece,

Angela»

***

- Kitty?

- Yes…?

They were having a light supper, siting by the fire. Betty, their young maid, had gone home at eight, but she had left the supper ready as she always did.

- Do you sometimes regret not having married?

Kitty looked up, surprised at the question.

- No, why do you ask?

Violet frowned slightly, as she always did when she was thinking something over, and then answered calmly.

- I don’t know… Sometimes it crosses my mind. You look so happy around Ada’s children; I sometimes find myself imaging what a wonderful mother you would have been.

Kitty poured a second cup of tea for herself and picked up a cheese biscuit.

- Even before the War, I never really imagined myself with children. As a mother, I mean, because I often thought I’d like to be a teacher.

She ate her cheese biscuit and spread raspberry jam on a second one before going on.

- The good thing about Ada’s children is that I love them dearly and they love me, I take interest in what they do, especially Morrie, that little rascal, I teach them things but, at the end of the day, I come home and they are not mine. I like children, but I wouldn’t want to have children of my own. This way, I get the parts I like and their mother gets the whole package, plus a little free time that I provide her. It’s the perfect arrangement.

Violet laughed over her cup.

- So, it turns out you are not the motherly kind?

- Not really, no.

- I was afraid you might regret not having a family.

Kitty made a gesture that encompassed their cosy living room, the fireplace, the little tea table between them, and declared:

- But I have a family. I have you, most of all, we have each other. And I have Ada, Arthur, and the children. And Maurice though he’s far away, and in a way Alec and Julie as well. Not all families are the same kind.

Chapter Text

Anne folded her knitting work and kept it in her knitting basket. Clive had gone up to bed half an hour earlier and she had stayed behind «I’ll just finish this row…», and then, of course, she had quite forgotten and done six or seven rows more. She did love knitting.

As she put out the light in the living room, she stood for a moment in the dark. All was silent, it was nearly midnight and even the servants had already retired for the night. Not a creature was stirring as she went up the stairs.

As usual, she stopped at Leslie’s door and was rewarded with a low, muffled «woof» from Jerry, jut to indicate he had sensed her and was doing his dog duty. Then she stopped at Irene’s door, and not a sound could be heard.

She turned out the corridor’s light and entered her own room. Clive was fast asleep, reclined against some pillows, an open book resting beside him and the reading light on. Anne smiled. He had tried to wait up, poor dear!

As quickly as she could, she changed into her nightclothes and wrapped her heavy silk shawl around her shoulders. The room wasn’t cold, and the fire was still alight enough to keep a pleasant temperature.

- Clive… - she called in a low voice – You cannot sleep in that position, dear, you’ll get cold and you’ll hurt your back…

He half woke, enough to collaborate as she pulled out the excess pillows and guided him to lie down. Then she slipped under the bedclothes, turned out the reading light and smiled in the dark as she felt Clive snuggling against her.

- Good night, love. – she whispered – Sleep well.

***

Giovanna was the first person to wake up, regardless of the season or the weather. The children, who of course went to bed protesting the tyranny of having to go to sleep, liked to sleep till late, as all kids do. Maurice and Alec, because of Alec’s hectic schedules, had the most irregular sleeping hours and at six thirty in the morning, Maurice would invariably be deep asleep, and Alec would be sleeping if he was in or would have been gone for hours. As for Smoke, he slept some twenty hours a day and early mornings were an especially good time to nap after having explored every corner of the house during the night.

Daylight was just beginning to clear the sky, it was less then a week to Christmas day, the peak of short days and long nights. She woke up, got out of bed, and put her dressing gown and slippers on.

She loved the quiet of the early hours, the eerie light, the silence… Not a creature was stirring and only a little wind shook the lemon tree leaves in the patio as she crossed it to go to the kitchen to light the woodstove and put the kettle on. Knowing from experience it would take a bit to heat, she went out again to wash and dress – she had it all timed from the routine – and came back some fifteen minutes later to a whistling kettle.

 Before the stroke of seven a.m. she was sitting at the kitchen table to enjoy her first cup of tea of the day in absolute peace and quiet. She gave a contented sigh, and even that was part of her morning routine.

«This is the best hour of the day. Not that I don’t love them all, but without these moments of silence and my morning cup of tea, I’d be good for nothing. Everyone needs a few minutes of loneliness a day, to hear oneself think and enjoy a nice cup of tea… Now, let me see… Pasta al ragú for lunch, with everybody in it’s the best. After lunch, the kids can help me with the gingerbread, it must be baked now, or it won’t have enough time to rest… Pumpkin cream soup for dinner. And of course I’ll have to order the meat for the pie so I can bake it tomorrow or the day after.»

She was aware that in a few minutes, half an hour at the most, little noises would begin, here and there, the cat meowing for his morning food, the twitting of sparrows, the bells for the first mass, then the kids would wake up, and the new day would fully begin, a nice sunny and cold day it appeared, but for now, she was enjoying her morning tea and her morning quiet.

Chapter Text

Every day, as the Earth slowly but steadily revolves around its axis, to every single place midnight arrives at the same slow but certain pace. So it happened on the night of December 20^th 1928.

In Malta, the clock at the Cathedral slowly sounded the twelve strokes of midnight. Alec heard it as he walked to the Clinic, knew he was going to arrive slightly late, and hoped for a calm night shift. Maurice heard it and turned to the other side, closed his eyes, and tried to fall asleep again without Alec, which was always difficult. Giovanna heard the first five, but she fell asleep before the sixth stroke.

At the same time, in Rome, John William, Viscount Risley, a well-known and much respected antique book dealer, signalled the Hotel porter to call him a cab, as he lit a golden tip cigarette. Thank God for the fascist government, he thought, there were less and less British in Rome every year since they’d risen to power. Italy was such a fantastic country to live, so sunny and welcoming. The upper-class Italians were so much more civilized than the English would ever be, and the lower classes so serviceable…! And, of course, nothing, absolutely nothing could shock them. He’d never even consider returning to that cold, damp, pathetic island, he thought for the millionth time as he gave the cab driver the address of his well-appointed villa in Via Salaria.

An hour later, the local church in a nice suburban London neighbourhood sounded midnight, and Ada Chapman stirred in her bed. She was having a slightly puzzling dream about the wrapping of Christmas presents and the difficulty in wrapping the pudding was annoying her, even in her sleep,though in the morning she would only remember what a silly thing it was to dream about wrapping a pudding. By her side, Arthur, who had come from the War with a strong dislike of sudden noises and a sleep as light as a cat’s, woke up, noticed his wife was dreaming and went back to sleep.

In their little Bloomsbury flat, Violet and Kitty were still up. Kitty was finishing an embroidered sachet she intended as a gift for her sister and Violet was reading the newspaper, as she had had no time nor opportunity of reading it before.

- Twelve… – Violet counted – I had no idea it was so late! It’s midnight, my dear, we ought to be in bed! Jennie Hopkins anticipated her piano lesson for half past nine tomorrow, the family has a train to catch in the afternoon or something…

- You go ahead, Vi, I’m just finishing this thread, I’ll follow in a minute…

A few minutes later, the ever late village church clock near Pendersleigh sounded the twelve strokes. Clive closed his book, a new one he had brought from London, fresh from the press, Decline and Fall, leaving a bookmark between the pages, a rather naughty smile on his lips. Anne put down her knitting. She had been discreetly observing Clive for the last thirty minutes and he seemed to be quite amused by his reading. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other, mischievously.

- Shall we go up? It’s that magical hour of midnight, you know, when everything is possible… – said Anne.

Clive winked, feeling exceedingly good humoured.

- Yes, please. In two days, our guests will start arriving and there goes our peace and quiet at least till the new year. Let’s profit of a quiet night…

- I have the feeling we’ll be longing for some of this silence and tranquillity before we get them back…

They turned out the light and went upstairs, softly laughing, Clive’s arm around Anne’s waist.

Chapter Text

Maurice wakes up. It’s 2 a.m. and Alec is doing night shift. A couple of nurses got married during the last half year and the Clinic is understaffed, so he’s been doing some extra shifts to cover.

«I hate it when he does night shift…!» Maurice thinks automatically « I hate sleeping without him.»

He remembers the War days, when they were forced by circumstances to spend so much time apart, because they were on opposite shifts, or on different services. Alec was much more talented as a nurse than him, from the beginning, so military doctors started choosing Alec to assist in surgery almost from the day they finished training. Maurice did mostly strength requiring tasks, like carrying wounded soldiers, or emergency work: bandaging, immobilizing broken arms and legs, that kind of stuff.

Then, as they were sent to Malta, that at some point in the War became known as The Nurse of the Mediterranean, due to the amount of wounded men in there, he learned the basics of physiotherapy and worked mainly on the recovery wards, teaching severely wounded men to walk again or to use their arms or their hands after having been motionless and restrained, sometimes for months. He remembers a few of the most striking cases, like that of a young officer who had broken his right hand in four different places and was learning to write all over again. He hears the toll of 3 a.m. and sighs. Alec won’t be out before 6. «Oh, Alec, I miss you, please come home!» he repeats in his head, like a prayer.

In those War days they slept apart quite often, and Maurice had had to adjust. But even then, when it happened out of dire necessity, he hated it. He missed Alec terribly. He missed the warmth, the spooning, the touch, the sound of Alec breathing softly next to him, the smell of his sleeping body, the weight on the mattress beside him. And he missed the sex too, obviously.

Thinking about all that, naturally took his mind back to the year of 1913, when they were poor as church mice but, no matter what, always had each other. A year of cheap hotels, old derelict cottages and dubious boarding houses, of cooking by the window on a paraffin stove, of counting pennies to pay for the rent and the coal, a year of digging ditches, unloading trucks and picking fruit, scrubbing pots and pans and peeling potatoes, a year of hard work and little pay for it… But through all that, they had each other, and tough as the day might have been, they never slept apart. Every morning he would wake, sometimes bone tired and aching all over, but the first thought that came to his mind would be «Alec is here. We are together. Everything is fine, then.»

Now, of course, he could buy his old self a dozen times at least, if not more, but they have duties, work and family, social and professional ties – and that’s good, that’s wonderful and Maurice wouldn’t change their present life for anything – and that sometimes means they are not completely free.

«Of course one must not only be young but either indecently rich or dirt poor to be completely free…»

Smoke, who is on the final steps of his usual nocturnal circumnavigation of the house, climbs onto the bed and slides his furry head under Maurice’s hand purring loudly. «Hello, old fellow. Come to keep me a bit of company, have you? You miss him too, don’t you?» As an answer, the grey cat curls into a ball right in the middle of Alec’s side of the bed.  At least, Alec has promised him he won’t work on Christmas Eve this year, in fact that’s why he’s doing this particular all-night shift. Last year, he had to leave home at eleven thirty on the 24^th, because he had work. Four a.m. and Maurice feels his eyes heavy with sleep. He lies down again and hugs Alec’s pillow that is cold but at least smells like him. The weight and warmth of the big cat sleeping by his side helps a bit. He fights sleep for a while, but he loses the fight in the end. As he slowly sinks into sleep, against his will, grudgingly, he whispers, again and again, like a prayer «Alec, love, please come home…»

Chapter Text

From one day to the other, Pendersleigh became a full house. The Londons arrived in the morning, with their three children. Samuel and Henry were put in the Blue Room, next to the old school room and immediately started a quarrel about who’d be sleeping on which bed. In the end they flipped a coin for it, and both insisted they had won. The whole thing was futile as the twin beds were completely alike, but Anne found some comfort in the fact that they no longer threatened to beat each other. Maude, as usual, would be sharing Irene’s room and they started at once a long talk about their schools, and the books they were reading.

Around lunch time, Mrs Durham arrived, without warning. Her friend Tilde had gone to the south of France to spend Christmas with her French relatives. Anne was glad of her own foresight in having the Green Room made ready, just for such an occasion, as the Dower House was inhabitable after having been closed for so long.

At lunch time, five children ran down the stairs like a stampede and for the first time Anne wished she had raised her children more traditionally, including have them eat their meals in the nursery. Still, lunch was over rather quickly, and the children behaved much better than she’d expected from all the excitement of having their cousins there and Christmas approaching. Mrs Durham had even praised the cooking, though she had also expressed her doubts as for the digestibility of the peas, and Pippa had simply adored the new glassware Anne and Clive bought in London last spring. Not so bad, Anne thought.

After lunch, as the weather was fine, albeit cold, the children were encouraged to go outside to play. Irene and Maude took their skipping ropes with them and skipped around the flowerbeds, chanting rhymes. The boys threw sticks for Jerry to fetch and then they all played catch, Irene proved herself a master runner, and they were all sweaty, extremely tired, and absurdly hungry at teatime.

Anne gave Clive her most loving smile when he took the lethally boring Archie to his study to show him some of his new books and a very pretty print he’d bought the summer before in Paris, leaving her and Pippa to talk about the children. Mrs Durham complained of a mild headache and went up for a nap.

Right before tea, the village carollers arrived, gave a good concert, and had their feast of mince pies and mulled wine. After a very substantial tea – Cook had saved a few mince pies for the children, there were the first gingerbread biscuits to sample and a delicious cooked ham – Clive, who was in a very good mood, summoned everyone to the dining room to admire the last cry of modernity, the chain of electric lights he had brought from London for the Christmas tree.

It was nearly dark by then and they turned the lights out to better appreciate the effect: it was stunning. Even the London boys produced an Ooh! of delight. Without the flickering of candles, the little lamps shone through the pine leaves here and there, spreading a soft yellowish light around the tree. Indifferent to the commotion around him, Fox slept under the tree, like a slightly oversized furry ornament that had dropped on the carpet.

- How beautiful…! – whispered Leslie, a genuine childish wonder in his eyes.

- Yes, it’s just like magic – said Irene – like the tree is glowing from the inside!

- Oooh! It’s amazing! Mother, can we have electric lights for our Christmas tree next year?

- I dare say we certainly can, my dear… This will be all the rage from now on. – answered Archie solemnly.

- I find them rather flashy, Clive dear… – was Mrs Durham’s dryly stated opinion, because she never really praised anything and was always suspicious of everything new – Appropriate for a fairground, but hardly for Christmas, you know… It looks disrespectful, somehow.

But Leslie didn’t care. Before leaving the room, he looked behind to see again the soft glowing lights on the tree, reflected on the glass baubles. It was beautiful, no matter what Grandma said

Chapter Text

Giovanna looked at the pile of linen napkins and sighed. They were impeccably clean, starched, and pressed, and looked beautiful with the golden embroidery she’d done over the last months. The next day would be Christmas Eve and she was exhausted, but everything was ready, and everybody had helped. There was a big golden chicken pie in the pantry, Maurice’s work, and unsupervised too. Julie had cleaned all the glasses, water, white wine, red wine, Port, and the champagne flutes, and they stood in two straight rows on the dining room table, shining like anything.

Alec had taken care of all the orders on his way to and from the clinic, Maurice had placed all the special orders. Angela had insisted in baking the gingerbread, from her mother’s recipe, and had filled the kitchen with the most delicious smell while baking it.

Giovanna sat on one of the armchairs next to the fire, to rest and feast her eyes on the room. The boys had prepared everything to set the table for the Christmas diner, from the impeccably white tablecloth to the chinaware they reserved for special days. And the new napkins, with their lovely golden embroidery. The rosemary bush posing as Christmas tree stood on a corner, decorated, and looking very pretty. The whole room had a Christmassy look, comfortable and festive at once.

Even with all the help, Giovanna had worked extra hard the last few days. But now she was both glad and grateful for all the help and everything was ready. The goose, already seasoned, was in the ice box, covered in thin bacon slices. The filling was already prepared in a big bowl beside it, covered with an upside-down plate or the whole inside of the ice box would be smelling of sage and onions in the morning. Angelo had pealed all the potatoes that were resting in cold water with a bit of salt. She jumped from her seat. Butter! Was there enough butter for the mash? She ran down the stairs to inspect the ice box and the pantry…

The pineapples were on the patio, perfuming the air around them, ready to be cut and eaten for dessert.  Such a wonderful smell! As she opened the ice box door, she saw the butter and sighed in relief: more than enough. On the lower shelf were the Brussels sprouts, in cold water. Carrots and turnips to glaze, a thick bunch of spinach to cream. Two oven dishes were full of apples, washed, cored and ready to bake. Two thick slabs of the dark Mexican chocolate were in the pantry, wrapped in greaseproof paper, waiting. After diner they’d sit by the fire and play games, tell stories, talk, maybe even sing, and around midnight Giovanna would break the chocolate into small pieces, mix them with milk, a teaspoon of ground coffee, and brown sugar, bring it to the boil once, twice, three times, to make hot chocolate and then pour it into the silver chocolate pot that had a wooden thing to beat  the hot mixture to perfect creaminess. After the chocolate and a slice of gingerbread, they’d all go to bed, leaving the children’s stockings hanging from the chimney.

She made herself a cup of tea and opened the biscuit tin to take a couple of Maurice’s oatmeal and honey biscuits – he had become quite an expert in baking those. Everything was ready for the next day and after her cup of tea she could finally go to bed completely free of worries.

- Thank God! – she whispered. It was almost eleven and everybody else in the house was sleeping.

Chapter Text

The house was so full, or so it seemed, that Clive kept bumping into people wherever he went. When he came down for breakfast, Pippa and Archie were already there, the boys arrived soon after, quarrelling about what they were doing after breakfast. Anne was there as well, and his mother just entered the room as he was serving himself some scrambled eggs.

After breakfast, he sat in his study, only to have Archie barge in inviting him for a walk, «Come on, Durham, corpore sano, and all that, old man!» he blabbered and Clive put on a coat, gloves, and a hat and followed him, because it would be much more trouble to refuse. It was a fine day, cold and sunny, and the walk would have been a pleasure with Anne or the children, but Archie never stopped producing platitudes and Clive got tired just from listening to him.

When he finally got back, exhausted, and slightly angry, he sat again at his desk and picked up some papers, hoping to look occupied in something serious enough to make others leave him alone. He had barely read a couple of words when the girls entered the room and asked if they could sit there with their books, to escape Sam and Harry who wanted to go out and play catch again. He had, of course, no heart to refuse and ended up reading to them.

After lunch his mother went up to her room to rest, Archie went outside to smoke a cigarette and take a digestive walk with his wife, Anne went to the kitchen to make some arrangements with Cook about diner and Robert drove the girls to the Vicarage where they were going to spend the afternoon with their friends. Leslie sat reading in the study, so quiet Clive didn’t even notice him, and the London boys went out, probably to scare the chickens or give a heart attack to the cows on the field.

Clive remembered being maybe fourteen and some relatives coming for Christmas. Suddenly, the house had seemed too full, with people everywhere and all he had wanted was to be alone, «Strange how a house so big gets so small when there’s more people than usual. They seem to be so much more than they are, and I meet them everywhere I go! I like having my sister and mother for some days, Archie is harmless really, but I only wish I could make them stay put in one place for a couple of hours. It’s so tiresome to have to put on a smile and make small talk when one doesn’t feel like it!»

Right before tea, as it was getting dark, he escaped through the French door of his study and went out to smoke. He walked around the back and was pacing behind the garage when he bumped into Robert who had just come back from collecting the girls.

- Good evening, sir!

- Oh, it’s you, Robert. Good evening. Is everything alright?

- Oh yes, sir. Miss Irene and Miss Maude have just gone in. They were very happy on the way back; it seems they had a grand afternoon.

There was no one in sight and they couldn’t be seen from where they stood, anyway. Robert approached Clive and held his hand.

- Cheer up, sir! In two weeks, we’ll be back in London, enjoy the holidays with your family. It’s nice to have a full house for a change.

Carefully, he planted a quick kiss on Clive’s wrist, smiled, and walked away. Somehow, without planning or even meaning it, they had managed to meet, the two of them alone, and that kiss and the words gave Clive a feeling of inner peace he had been lacking all day. «Thank you, Robert…» he whispered.

Chapter Text

Maurice was very careful and ingenious when choosing the Christmas presents he sent to his nieces and nephew. Because he knew how children are fond of mysterious things, and he was certain that few things are as magical as a mysterious Christmas present. Also, he liked the idea of cultivating the image of the distant uncle from far away who sent such extraordinary gifts, just like a book character.

- You’re mad – Alec always said in these occasions – But I can understand how you feel. I sometimes wonder how Fred’s kids are like, you know?

From Kitty’s letters, more than from their father who was bound to be biased, Maurice had an idea of how the kids were: Chrissy, very musical, dreamy and imaginative, and funny though conscious of her role of bigger sister, Tilly, clever and bookish, a bit shy but loving a good laugh and quite capable of a prank to get it, and Morrie, rather spoiled but a good lad, good humoured and liking to please, though he sometimes slightly resented being the youngest.

In ’29 Morrie would be going to public school, and both Chrissy and Tilly already attended boarding school, so he chose three beautiful sets of fountain pen and propelling pencil and had their names engraved. Morrie’s set was a sober and manly black, Chrissy’s yellow, as it was known to please most women writers, and Tilly’s white. Even the wrapping intended to show how grown up they were all turning; simple brown paper packets tied with golden string. As he packed them all to send, together with the Christmas cards, he tried to imagine the kids’ faces when they unwrapped them on Christmas morning,

«How grown up they are going to feel!» - he thought with a smile.

***

Before leaving their flat to spend Christmas Eve with the Chapmans, as they usually did since the end of the War, both Violet and Kitty exchanged their presents. They both enjoyed the search for the perfect present for the loved one on the weeks before Christmas and looking forward for the reaction of the other.

They were ready to leave and met in the living room, already wearing their coats, looking around to see if everything was in order. Windows shut, every object in his place…

- Everything looks fine, my dear. Let’s get our hats or we’ll be late. – said Violet.

- Wait a bit. Vi. I believe this would look nice on you today. – and Kitty produced a long and thin packet, tied up with a blue ribbon.

That year, she had found a very pretty enamelled silver hatpin in an antiques shop, in the shape of a violet, and knew immediately it was perfect. Violet unwrapped it, looked at the pretty object and smiled, clearly happy and even a bit moved.

- Oh, Kitty, it’s beautiful! And shaped like a violet, how thoughtful…! Thank you so much my dear! Here is yours…

By the shape of the packet, Kitty could guess it was a book, her favourite kind of present. Violet had bought the last volume of Parade’s End, that they both had been reading and had loved so far. Kitty was overjoyed.

- How wonderful! I didn’t even know it was already out!  - and with an impish smile – I’m almost tempted to stay home and read it all…

But she was joking. The book was kept in the bookshelf, Violet secured her hat with her new hatpin and checked her reflection in the mirror: the pin was every bit as pretty as she thought. They kissed before leaving.

Chapter Text

- I like winter! – said Julie, as they all sat at the kitchen table to have breakfast on Christmas eve.

- Why do you like winter, Julie? – asked Santo, after downing half of his eggs – It’s cold and it rains, and days are so short there’s barely time to do your homework and it’s time for diner…

She speared a sausage before answering.

- I like sitting in the kitchen with my books and talk to Giovanna while she cooks. I like the warmth, the hot chocolate, the woollen jumpers and wearing gloves. I wish there was snow…

Alec put down his teacup and joined the discussion.

- That’s because you’ve never had to live with snow. Believe me, snow is very funny for, let’s say twenty minutes. After that it’s a damned nuisance.

Maurice added information.

- Walking on deep snow is as difficult as walking on sand. And when it’s windy, it gets into your pockets, inside your socks, everywhere…

- But it’s so pretty…! – the little girl insisted.

- I’ll give you that. If no one steps on it, a snowy landscape is pretty. Why, even a city street is pretty covered in snow, just before people start walking and it all turns to icy brown slush…

Julie put a spoonful of marmalade on her toast and nibbled a corner.

- Maybe you’re right – she conceded – After all, I have only seen snow in pictures. But I still like winter, woollen clothes and cosy kitchens with hot stoves and biscuits. And it wouldn’t be half the fun having Christmas in hot weather!

- You’re mad! – cried Mario – I’d love to have Christmas in hot weather! We could go to Sliema to swim and have a picnic lunch on the beach.

- We do that all summer, what’s so extraordinary about it?

- Why does it have to be extraordinary?

Julie rolled her eyes.

- Because it’s Christmas, you goose!

The three adults observed and listened with a smile.

***

Irene woke up her cousin with the announcement:

- Maudie! Wake up! It’s snowing!

They both stood, in their warm dressing gowns, by the window, watching the snow fall silently.

- How beautiful, isn’t it? And so silent. Isn’t is funny? Rain makes such noise and snow is so silent.

Irene couldn’t stay put for very long. In a few minutes, she was urging her cousin:

- Come, let’s dress something really warm, put on our coats, hats, and gloves… Oh, and let’s call the boys…

- Why?

- We’ll have a snowball battle before breakfast. Come on, it’ll be fun!

Soon they were all outside, running and throwing snowball at each other, with screams of pure joy. Even Leslie, usually so calm, was throwing snowballs with all his might, and Jerry ran from one place to another, barking madly and trying to catch the snowballs. All the racket, of course, woke up the adults.

Anne was the first to wake up. She wrapped herself up in her warm shawl, went to the window, and called Clive:

- Oh, Clive, you must see this!

Clive put on his dressing gown and went to the window as well. Outside, the five children and Jerry were playing in the snow, screaming, and running. Even Samuel and Henry had forgotten their eternal quarrel and were playing with the others, throwing snowballs, and being hit by some themselves, laughing and rolling on the snowy ground.

Then, a window opened, and a thundering voice ordered:

- Come inside this instant! Do you mean to catch your death?

It was Archie. Clive opened his own window.

- Let them play, Archie! They are well protected against the cold and besides they are running and jumping, I’ll bet you they are all as warm as toasts. – and to the kids – Children, I want you all inside in half an hour to wash and be ready in time for breakfast. Leslie, let Jerry in through the kitchen…

He closed the window.

- Imagine that, Pippa’s boys behaving like regular children!

Anne laughed as she dressed.

- Quite refreshing, isn’t it? There must be something special about playing in the snow, I guess… I’m sorry, Clive, but could you do my last buttons? I can’t reach them very well…

He looked at the back of her dusty rose woollen dress. The last three buttons on the back were, in fact, rather high and she’d have serious trouble in reaching them. He buttoned them up.

- Thank you, my dear. I usually ask Irene or Millie, but since you are here…

They heard the children come in and run up the stairs to wash. They were still laughing.

- What a wonderful Christmas eve morning… – said Anne with a smile.

Chapter Text

Christmas eve, after lunch, Maurice and Alec were sitting by the fire in the living room. They were going to use the room for the Christmas eve dinner, instead of the usual kitchen table, and so they had lit the fire to warm it enough that it would be agreeable by dinner time. The children were playing outside in the sunlit patio, their warmest jumpers on. They could hear Julie skipping rope with the chant of her usual gruesome rhyme of the four and twenty robbers. The boys were probably playing ball. Giovanna had confessed she was tired and needed a nap to be rested at dinner time.

The house was not completely silent, but there was a great calm. All around the city, people were resting before the festivities of the night, or hurrying with their normal work to get it done in time and go home to celebrate Christmas eve.

Neither Maurice nor Alec had anything to do. None of them felt tired or sleepy. They sat by the fire, talking of unimportant things: everything was ready for dinner, Angela would be arriving by teatime, and already in Julie’s bedroom was a folding bed prepared for her to spend the night.

Sitting by the fire inspires deep conversation, some say. Flipping his cigarette but into the fire, Alec seemed to follow some thought for a minute or two and then began:

- Have you ever thought about how religious people talk about miracles? My mother used to say I was a miracle child, because I was born when she wasn’t expecting to have children anymore…

Maurice frowned. Alec wasn’t very prone to philosophical talks…

- Well… never having been very religious myself, I have never given it a thought really, I must confess.

- I sometimes find myself thinking these things over. Maybe I’m turning into a philosopher in my old age… Anyway, what’s the definition of a miracle? An extraordinary thing, something you cannot explain by any of the usual means. Now, think about our life. We have a good life, we are together, we have a family, friends, a child… We would be outlaws if we had stayed in England, or  if most people here knew or if the ones who at least suspect cared about… you know…

Maurice kept frowning. A question mark was almost visible over his head.

- You will come to a conclusion eventually, won’t you?

- Yes, Mr Hall, I’ll get to a conclusion. I’m the bluntly direct character, remember?

Maurice’s frown vanished as he laughed.

- You’re right, as usual. Do go on, I’m curious to see where this will lead.

- Oh, don’t fret, it’s easy enough. Our life is a miracle. A real miracle, only operated by us and not by any deity.

- I see what you mean. But were all these thoughts awakened by Christmas?

Alec looked straight into his eyes, a glint of mischief shining.

- Maybe. Or maybe they just popped into my head. One way or the other, we are a miracle. Living the way we do, we are a miracle.

Chapter Text

They had eaten too much. Everything was so good! Children and adults all felt pleasantly full but only one inch away of feeling uncomfortable.

- That was one wonderful dinner, Anne! Cook is still an artist. I miss her cooking, even after all these years.

- Mummy, can we go play games in the living room?

- We’ll all go. Everybody plays games on Christmas night. Even Daddy…

Clive laughed. He was terrible at those games but always joined on Christmas night, and nearly always lost, making the children laugh terribly at his blunders.

Soon they were all sitting, the adults on the sofas and the children on the floor, enthusiastically starting the first round of a charade game. Irene was first.

- Two, no three words…

- She’s rowing…

- A boat…

She nodded a frantic negative.

- Not a boat. Water? No.

- Row? Close…? How close?

- She points to her ears. Music?

Another frantic negative.

- Not music then. Sound?

- The sound of…? Oh, she’s rowing again, how tiresome!

- Wait, wait… Sound, row… Romeo and Juliet!

- Good one, Daddy!

Anne kissed him.

- Well, Clive, that’s a first! You solved it, so now it’s your turn. The best of luck, my dear!

They all took turns, amidst fits of laughter and some slight tension while someone was trying to guess. Everyone made the most incredibly silly gestures but, somehow, in the end someone always came up with the right answer. After that game they played another, and a third one after that. Fox, completely unconcerned with the noise slept all the time. Jerry gladly helped with the charades and upturned the board, with an excited wagging of his tail, in the middle of the second game, making everyone cry and resulting in a second start, for which Clive was secretly grateful for he had been on the verge of losing. He lost the second time as well, but at least he tried…

At half past eleven, Baynes and Robert drove them all to Church for Christmas Service. Irene and Maude almost fell asleep during the last part of the Service, as it was far past their usual bedtime. When they returned, Clarkson had hot chocolate and ginger biscuits on a plate by the fire, to warm the children before going to bed.

As they both got into their warm beds, for Martha had seen that the fire was lit and put hot water bottles in both beds, Irene, got under the bedclothes and sighed contentedly.

- What a good feeling this is, isn’t it?

Maude, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, agreed.

- Hmm, yes. It’s good us being all together, the nice dinner, the chocolate and the biscuits, the games, the warm beds, knowing there’s Christmas presents in the morning…

- … Fox coming to sleep on my feet, the sown outside, Daddy playing charades… I do love Christmas.

- So do I…

And they both fell into a deep, replenishing sleep, and didn’t ever hear the adults coming up just some ten minutes after.

Chapter Text

- … and to all a good night!

They had been sent to bed with these words, right after Church and a cup of hot milk. Father and Mother had followed shortly after, and Aunt Kitty and Aunt Violet as well. They were staying and would be sleeping in the guest room. After a late night, a good dinner and all the excitement, they had slept like logs. But when they woke up, their first thoughts were direct to the Christmas presents that were waiting under the tree..

Morrie would have run down right away, in his pyjamas, not even caring to put his dressing gown on, but Chrissy told him not to.

- Morrie, do grow up! You know Mother and Father wouldn’t like it. We’re no longer little children that cannot wait until breakfast to open their presents.

She was the eldest and Morrie knew she might do something drastic if he defied her authority, so he put on his dressing gown and resigned himself to wait for breakfast. He didn’t have to wait long.

- Children! – cried Mother from the dining room – Come down, it’s time for breakfast!

They ran down the stairs. Breakfast was taken in quite an excited hurry, not wanting to look too eager, the girls trying hard to compose themselves and act like grown up girls, and Morrie not really wanting to be the child in the group but desperately wanting to open his presents. Kitty and Violet were rather amused by it all but said nothing and acted as if everything was just like any other day.

At last, Ada and Arthur took pity on the kids and Arthur announced:

- Well, looks like the time has come to open the presents… Who’s going to be first?

The girls, still acting very grown up, conceded that Morrie ought to be the first to open one of his packets, since he was the youngest, and for once the boy was glad of it.

After that first ceremoniously opened present, things got a little less well-ordered. They showed their appreciation for the books, Chrissy loved the new scores, Tilly was very happy with her watercolours, and Morrie was overjoyed with the toy soldiers he had been secretly wanting for some time, even though he had said he was too old to play with them.

Uncle Maurice’s presents had been saved for last. The sober packing, brown paper and golden string, said nothing about what was inside.  Morrie was the first to untie the string – Tilly picked it up at once «I’ll keep them, they’re so pretty, I’ll crochet a headband for my doll.» – and unwrap a small rectangular black cardboard box. When he opened it, his eyes grew wide with the surprise.

- Hey! Uncle sent me a pen! A real pen, just like Father’s, look! And a mechanic pencil…!

The girls were already opening theirs and finding each a similar object.

- Oh, mine is white! How pretty! No other girl in school has such a pretty set, I’m sure.

- And look! It has my name! Look here, Mother, Christiana Chapman, see?

- So has mine, so has mine, Maurice Chapman, look here Auntie!

Ada had to admit Maurice had hit the nail right on the head once more. The children were beside themselves with joy, and the pen sets were not only very pretty but very good as well as was everything her brother sent.

- Oh, Father, please be sure to thank Uncle Maurice for me when you write him…

Father winked, with a smile.

- Why don’t you write him yourself? I’m sure he’d like it.

Chrissy tilted her head to one side, inquisitively:

- Do you think so? Then I’ll write…

She felt so grown up, looking at those beautiful yellow pen and pencil. She had read in a magazine that most lady writers favoured yellow pens. She wondered if Uncle Maurice knew that.

Tilly was feeling extremely proud. She’d have the prettiest pen in her class. And white on top of it all, it was such an unusual colour for pens! It would really stand out.

As for Morrie, feeling terribly adult with his pen just like Father’s, black and sober as it befitted a man’s pen, summed it all:

- Well, I say this has been the very best Christmas of all!