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Monday 25th of December 1944
Margaret had donated her nicest tablecloths for the occasion, so Anthony’s dining room table was clad in red cotton, white lace webbing across it as if woven by a spider. Dot had created a centrepiece out of pine fronds and holly stems, and this adorned the centre of the table, three candles lit within it. Paper chains crafted from painted newspaper sprawled across the ceiling between the curtain rails and the dresser; Ruth had transported them all the way from Cambridge especially. The room looked very fine indeed.
Anthony straightened the wine glasses before returning to the kitchen, where the rabbit was crisping up nicely in the Aga, the celery and parsley stuffing absorbing the meaty flavour from within. Ruth stood at the worktop, decorating a carrot cake she made for pudding in mock marzipan.
“Anthony, my dear, can you stir the bread sauce? I think it’s ready, but keep it on the heat until the guests arrive so that it stays nice and warm,” she instructed gently.
He did as his mother said, picking up the wooden spoon resting precariously on the top of the pan and stirring slowly. Glancing at his watch, he deemed it time to take the rabbit out, so searched for the oven gloves, lost somewhere in the chaos of the kitchen. His mother, as if she could read his mind, told him they were under the pile of napkins in the far corner of the room. Digging around for a second or two, Anthony found them and took the steaming rabbit out. Just as he had placed the plates into the empty oven to warm, there came a voice from the corridor.
“Merry Christmas Anthony, Ruth!” Dot’s bouncy voice carried through the house, followed quickly by another:
“We have the potato cakes!” Jack bellowed, entering the kitchen at that moment and placing a tray covered in a tea-towel onto the sliver of available surface space.
“We nearly didn’t, though!” said Dot as she entered close behind him. “My greedy husband could hardly keep himself from eating them all the moment they came out of the oven!”
“It was you who nearly dropped them as we left the house, though!” Jack retorted with a laugh.
“The baby kicked! I had nothing to do with it!”
“I’m only teasing, Polka Dot,” he replied, pecking her on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas Dotty, Jack,” Anthony replied, grinning at the whirlwind couple stumbling into his kitchen.
“Yes, merry Christmas! Well, since you are both here, you can make yourselves useful,” Ruth decided, now topping the cake with little ornaments: a miniature snowman and three Christmas trees. “Jack, take the cake through and put it on the dresser ready for after dinner. Dot, you can turn the radio on. I need to hear some music!”
“Ma’am yes ma’am!” Jack responded in a mock salute, though getting distracted by the rabbit before Ruth could hand him the cake.
Dot shook her head and left for the sitting room, turning the wireless up enough so that it could be heard through the house. She added another shovel of coal to the fire and placed the gifts, which she had carried over in a grocery bag, underneath the tree with the others. Straightening up, she glanced at the ornaments, every one of them different. A snowman on skis, a couple of bells, an angel, a little paper dove (she had made it for Anthony last year, and it pleased her greatly to see it again), a quilted heart and a plethora of little glass baubles hung on the branches, small candles glowing softly at safe intervals. A loud thud from the dining room distracted her from the simple beauty of the tree and she hurried towards the noise, worried about what kind of a mess her husband had made.
Walking into the room she saw Jack, looking as startled as a deer in headlights, and on the red carpeted floor, Ruth’s cake upside down.
Dot took a breath. “Jack Brown!” she cried in exasperation.
Jack grinned sheepishly back at her. “The baby kicked?”
“Don’t you be playing games with me! Honestly,” she chided, finding it hard to keep a smile from her face regardless, “you had one job!”
“Well now I have two: Pick up the cake, then clean the floor!”
Dot just shook her head again and walked out of the room. Moments later he heard her telling Ruth very loudly about his mishap, and chuckled at her pedanticism. If the baby was to be anything at all like his mother, then he would count himself as the luckiest man in the world.
***
With the floor cleaned, cake patched up and the rabbit on the table, all that awaited the quartet was the arrival of two more guests. At one o’clock on the dot, Charles announced himself with a bottle of Sherry and a few gifts. After giving everyone a warm greeting, he sat himself down at the table expectantly, eyeing up the feast in front of him.
“I’m afraid we are still waiting for Mrs Johnson, Charlie, so you will have to exercise restraint for a little longer,” Anthony said, removing his garish green apron and hanging it over the back of his chair.
“She lives next door! How on earth can she be the last to arrive?” Jack asked, just as enthused at the prospect of Christmas dinner as Charles.
“You know Margaret, fashionably late. It’s her thing,” Ruth replied. “I can imagine she is yet to decide which hat to wear. I wouldn’t think she’ll be here for another fifteen minutes yet.”
Contrary to Ruth’s prediction, Margaret arrived just five minutes late, announcing herself loudly.
“It smells absolutely fabulous in here!” she declared as she waltzed through the door to the dining room, holding a stuffed canvas bag.
She wore a silk dress in emerald, with matching earrings and a gold bracelet. Her hair was pinned up in the Edwardian style, and she had plastered an ungodly amount of red lipstick onto her lips, a stark contrast to the outfits of the rest of the party. The men wore their best woollen suits in shades of brown, and the women wore simple fabric. Dot had on a white blouse with a faded red cotton skirt, Ruth a blue dress with wooden buttons down the front. Sitting down between Dot and Charles, and resting the bag against her chair, she said: “Well, are we ready?”
“We certainly are, Mrs Johnson,” Anthony confirmed, preparing to say grace.
“Wait!” Jack called, “I have something for us all!” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced six paper crowns made from newspaper and handed them around to the party.
Charles read his hat. “Oh dear, this is the sports section detailing our embarrassing defeat to Guildford last month. I’m afraid I cannot wear such a tragic news story on my head,” he teased, a glint in his eye.
This comment produced a titter of laughter from the table and Charles chuckled himself before putting his crown on regardless. Only Margaret did not wear her hat.
“It will almost certainly ruin my hair! I couldn’t possibly risk looking like I’ve stumbled backwards through a hedge!”
Jack laughed at her superficiality, but did not chide her about it.
Anthony said grace and the party tucked in, Christmas carols gently humming in the background.
“It’s wonderful that the pair of you could get leave for Christmas this year,” Charles voiced, addressing Jack and Anthony. “My William is still in Belgium, hopefully having a jolly old sing song with his pals. It was very nice of you to invite me, Ant, otherwise I would have spent Christmas like the old man I am!”
“It’s a pleasure to have you, Charles,” Anthony replied.
“And it will be even more of a pleasure once we have opened that bottle of Sherry you have bought!” Margaret chimed before taking a swig of her wine.
“Only the best for the residents of Castle Avenue!” Charles bellowed, smothering the awkwardness of Mrs Johnson’s comment as swiftly as stamping on a flame. “Ruth,” he changed the subject, “I trust your journey from Cambridge was pleasant enough?”
Ruth replied that it was indeed, but that the inconvenience caused by the sheer bulk of a box of paper chains made the train a little difficult to traverse.
The conversation continued over the clinking of glasses and scraping of cutlery, Dot speaking of the due date for her first baby, and of how she and Jack will name it Timothy, after her grandfather. Anthony listened intently, excited on his young neighbours’ behalf for the arrival of their child; he didn’t think the pair of them had ever looked happier.
The dinner continued at a leisurely pace, the conversation meandering between sport, music and personal anecdotes, though the war remained firmly at the doorstep, the only mention of it being Charles’ comment about his lad. This suited everyone in the room – conflict had no place at Christmas.
Ruth presented her carrot cake, shooting a disapproving look across the table towards Jack, in jest, of course, when she mentioned its lopsidedness. Regardless of its appearance, the dessert tasted fantastic; the perfect end to the meal.
“Shall we retire to the sitting room?” Anthony suggested as the last of the cake was finished.
Charles leaned back contentedly in his chair. “I think that is a jolly good suggestion, Ant, for the sitting room is where the piano is, and I haven’t heard you play since the autumn!”
“I’d love to play something, then my mother can blow you away with her talent,” Anthony replied, trying to hide his reluctance to perform. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to play recently, but he couldn’t fathom why.
“Let’s go then,” Dot said, hurrying along the party. “I can hardly wait to sing! It’s the carols that make Christmas so special.”
“I do dearly love carols. Didn’t they sound fantastic in Church this morning?” Margaret asked, finishing the last of her wine and pushing her chair back as everyone left for the warmer climate of the sitting room.
“Yes indeed,” Charles replied. “Hark the Herald was my favourite. It was good of you to play, Ant. I don’t think Violet Kingsley had it in her to play something so jubilant.”
Margaret had seated herself in Anthony’s armchair, her hair adding at least an inch to her height and making her look very stately. Ruth perched on the far end of the sofa, Dot joining her with her husband on her other side. Anthony fetched a dining chair for Charles, and he himself took up a position on the piano stool opposite the fire, which glowed gently in the grate. The day had been cold; people left church quite quickly, eager to warm their hands and feet back in their homes. Children giggled giddily in their mittens and hats, running ahead of their parents in anticipation of the presents waiting for them underneath the tree. A cardboard game, perhaps, or a new pair of winter boots traded for something with the house next door. People came together at this time of year, and the festivities were as jolly as ever.
Dot suggested they exchange gifts before carol singing, and everyone else readily agreed. Like a child, she then sat cross legged by the tree and read each label, handing them to the intended recipient.
“Charles, this is yours from Anthony,” she said, handing him a scrapbook with a canvas cover. The front had the emblem of Wimbledon Park Cricket Club embroidered onto it, the blue and yellow standing out against the cream fabric.
“It is every successful game Wimbledon has won since 1934. I have kept all of the newspaper clippings since then, and I thought it would be nice to put them all in one place.”
“Ha! How absolutely fantastic!” Charles exclaimed, leafing through the book with gleeful interest. “I remember this one!’ he said, pointing to an article from 1938. “Best we’ve ever done. Did you know,” now addressing the rest of the room, “that in this game, we scored over 400 runs? Absolutely spiffing. Of course Anthony was there with his batting skills – I’m sure we couldn’t have done it without him! Well, we haven’t since he left, so there we go! Thank you very much Anthony, I love it!”
Anthony smiled at Charles’ excitement, and said that he was very welcome indeed for the gift. “Margaret did the embroidery for me. I’m not a particularly gifted sewer.”
More presents were exchanged, Margaret handing out hand knitted pairs of mittens to Dot and Ruth, sweaters to Anthony and Jack, and a scarf to Charles, all crafted from a truly horrendous maroon yarn with each person’s initials embroidered in yellow in the corners. Regardless, the recipients thanked Mrs Johnson profusely for the gifts before moving on to the next thing. Anthony received a new Rachmaninoff piece from his mother, who in return received an old George Eliot novel of Anthony’s.
Jack and Dot received a joint present from the group: a compendium of hand-written stories for the baby.
“We all wrote and illustrated our own story for the child, and they are in this book, we hope you like it,” Anthony said nervously, handing over the little blue notebook to the couple on the sofa.
“Oh it’s wonderful, thank you!” Dot exclaimed, handing the book to her husband, who leafed through it gently.
“When Pigs Fly by Charles Baker,” he read aloud. “The Duck Race by Margaret Johnson, Counting Sheep by Ruth Greenwood, and Views from the Sky by Anthony Havers. Fantastic! I think I’ll be reading these myself!”
The tree had been cleared of gifts now, save for a little parcel wrapped in newspaper.
“This one is for you, Ant, from us,” Jack said as Dot handed over the small package.
Carefully, Anthony unwrapped it, revealing a very small piano carved from wood and painted in a rich brown with white and black keys.
“It’s absolutely stunning!” Anthony exclaimed, his eyes widening at the sheer beauty of the little trinket resting in the palm of his hand. “Where did you get it?”
“I carved it myself, Ant,” Jack explained, “then Dotty painted it – isn’t she talented?”
“You and her both, Jack. Thank you ever so much; I’ll keep it in my pocket always. It will come with me wherever they send me next.” He looked at the piece of art one last time before slipping it into his jacket.
“Let’s have some music!” Margaret ordered from her chair. “and Charles, why don’t you open that bottle of gold, eh?” she suggested, though it sounded much more like a demand.
“Yes, I shall indeed. Have you got a corkscrew, my fine fellow?” Charles asked Anthony, picking up the Sherry and examining the label nonchalantly.
“I do, and whilst I’m in the kitchen I’ll get my glasses, but I’ve only got four, so we might need to borrow some from your house, Dot.”
“Well I won’t be having any, so you are only one short,” Dot replied as she stood up ready to fetch a spare glass.
“I won’t have any in solidarity with you, my dear,” Jack replied, taking hold of her hand and pulling her back down to the sofa. He wrapped his arms around his wife, who in turn rested her head against his shoulder and smiled.
“I thank you for your sacrifice,” she stated with playful seriousness.
“And I’ll have your measures!” Margaret bellowed, her cheeks already ruddy from her two glasses of wine at dinner.
“You’ll do no such thing, Mrs Johnson!” Charles chided lightly. “You will have to do with just one glass – it’s strong stuff this,” he warned.
“The stronger the better. That goes for most things I think: alcohol, men...” she glanced clumsily across the room at Jack as she said this, smiling.
In return, Jack kissed his Polka Dot gently on her head. Margaret pursed her lips, remembering herself before she said anything else untoward and fiddled with the skirt of her dress.
Anthony returned from the kitchen with four Sherry glasses and a corkscrew, which he handed ceremoniously to Charles, who uncorked the bottle gently, muffling the pop with one large hand. Before long, drinks were handed around, Ruth and Anthony having moved from their seats to the piano stool, poised to play.
A rowdy version of Deck the Halls introduced the duo, accompanied enthusiastically by Charles. Anthony played the bass clef, hammering the piano so that the chords completely engulfed the room. Ruth played the melody on the higher end of the instrument, making it faster and more complex as the song progressed so that by the end the pair of them were moving their fingers so quickly that Charles gave up trying to sing along, choosing instead to listen contentedly.
The party clapped gleefully as the music ended, and Ruth kissed her son affectionately on his head. “What fabulous fun!” she proclaimed to the room, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Now Ant, do some on your own – we’ll all sing this time.”e
Anthony then worked through his extensive Christmas repertoire, starting with Good king Wenceslas (where the group instinctively split into two, the women voicing the page and the men singing the part of the king), then moving towards the softer carols, with everyone singing The First Noel in beautiful unison. To finish, Anthony played Ding Dong Merrily on High. The enthusiastic voices of his closest friends and family faded into the distance as Anthony played, the song bringing back memories of another wonderful person; one who he had not seen for years. It was James’ favourite, and he would ask Samuel Pilkington to play it on the piano every year until the entire unit groaned each time it was the Captain’s turn to choose. Anthony smiled at the memory, as he had done countless other times; he had tried to send letters, but each one ended up on the fire, its writer so nervous that not a single correspondence had been posted into the big red box at the bottom of the street.
***
James politely excused himself from the raucous gathering in the common room of Wyke Regis Barracks, announcing to nobody in particular that he would take a brisk winter walk. The wind bit and tore at his face as he exited the building, which had been warmed substantially by the sheer number of people crammed inside. Turning onto the road, he walked at pace until he met a gap in the thick Devon hedge. He ducked awkwardly through and continued his journey, now sheltered from the wind by the trees that flanked the hidden path. Before long he had reached his destination; the sea stretched out to the horizon, hazy in the winter light. The sting of brine whipped across his cheeks as he took a seat on a conveniently placed piece of driftwood that had been spat out by the writhing sea. The bark had been stripped back, leaving the wood bare and white like a corpse in the sand.
Reaching into his breast pocket, James produced a letter with no address. Opening the envelope, not yet sealed, he scanned the contents as if he had already read it a million times: For the attention of Mr A.P. Havers…he skipped the next few lines…I hope the NAC was everything you hoped it to be…more skimming…I am posted to Weymouth now – stunning views of the sea…the wind folded over the page. James straightened it out and continued: You talked about Dartmoor in January ’40 and I have had the pleasure of visiting it this past summer…he disregarded the following paragraph…I miss you so very terribly.
James let go of the envelope, allowing it to dive and twist away on the air. He clutched the letter in his left hand and looked at it one last time before ripping it straight down the middle, then tore the halves into quarters, then eighths, then sixteenths, until the writing became indecipherable, the crime non-existent. One by one, he let the breeze take away the fragments of paper until his hands were empty. Why write a letter? He will never see Havers again.
With a shiver, he stood and picked up a stone. Skimming it over the water with extreme skill, he watched it disappear into the blue before turning on his heel and wandering reluctantly back up the path to the gathering. The weather? Oh yes, very typical of the time of year. My sister? In excellent health, thank you for asking. He repeated these phrases to himself as he walked the road back to the boxy little collection of buildings, reminding himself that there were only three more hours left until he could excuse himself from the party.
***
Laughing heartily, Anthony guessed in vain as to what Dot was acting out, a spiel of performative gestures and comedic facial expressions.
“That’s time!” Ruth called, looking across to Dot. “What was it, my dear?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream!” she cried, out of breath. “How on earth did you not get that, Ant?”
“Yes, honestly Anthony – how could you not get that, it was blindingly obvious!” Jack retorted sarcastically, looking cheekily at Dot. “You are talented at many, many things, Dodo, but charades unfortunately is not one of them.”
“I’d like to see you give it a go!” she challenged. “If I recall, you refused to volunteer, so you can take that smug look right off your face!”
“I do believe that keeps Ruth and I in the lead,” Charles said loftily. “We have five points, Jack and Margaret have two, and Anthony and Dot are still on nil pois.”
Anthony glanced at his watch, still chuckling. “And I believe that you both win our game, for it is well past five now and we have a game of cards to play.” He reached across the room and picked the deck up from the side table, shuffling them expertly. “Charles, would you care to explain the rules?”
“Of course. It’s one that my boy taught me three or so years ago – a pal of his came up with it, I think. So, in a nutshell…”
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, and eventually each person bid their goodbyes until just Ruth and Anthony remained.
“Dot and Jack seem a very dear couple,” she commented, having now regained her regular seat in the armchair next to the piano.
“I’ve never seen any two people more in love,” Anthony replied. “He’s off to Japan next year, on HMS Indefatigable,” he continued after a brief pause. “May God spare him,” he murmured almost silently. “It was a wonderful Christmas cake again, Mother,” he complimented, changing the subject quickly.
“I know the recipe by heart these days. I had hoped to pass it onto your wife whenever you got married, so the tradition could continue,” she said lightly. Looking across at her son, she realised the inappropriateness of her previous comment, for her son was looking down in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Anthony. That was uncalled for, I’m not disappointed, you must understand that. It just slipped out, that’s all.”
“Don’t fret over it, Mother. It is not that much of a sensitive subject for me.”
“I’m sure the right woman will come along eventually,” she concluded quietly. “Right. I’m off to bed – playing charades really does drain you!”
“Sleep well, Mother,” Anthony responded, rising and giving her a quick hug.
“You too, my dear.” She pecked him on the cheek and left the room.
Anthony listened for her gentle tread up the stairs before collapsing into his chair, head in hands. I’ll likely never see him again. I must stop this pointless yearning, he chided himself, it isn’t doing anyone any good. You know he’ll have forgotten all about you, so you must do the same.
Despite this, before he went to bed, he wished his James a merry Christmas.
***
“Merry Christmas, Anthony,” James whispered and he lay his head on his pillow. This, he promised himself, would be the final time he would indulge these fantasies of them meeting once more. It would never happen, would it?