Last Christmas (32 page)
Authors: Julia Williams
‘I bet,’ said Marianne.
‘That was wonderful,’ said Gabriel, ‘but then I knew it would be.’
‘Of course it was,’ Miss Woods stumped up with her stick. ‘She had me to teach her.’
‘And I was very grateful for the help,’ said Marianne.
‘Marvellous effort, my dear.’ Ralph Nicholas appeared, as he always did, as if by magic. ‘I do hope you’re all coming over to the house for mulled wine and mince pies?’
‘This is fantastic,’ Catherine Tinsall said as they walked from the chapel into the Great Hall, evidently as awed by the fabulous Christmas tree in Hopesay Manor as Marianne
had been a year ago. ‘Noel never told me how wonderful this place was.’
‘So you’re staying then?’ Marianne asked.
‘It looks like it,’ said Catherine, grinning at her husband.
‘Who’s staying?’ Gabriel came up and half-inched a mince pie from Marianne’s plate.
‘Catherine and Noel,’ said Marianne, ‘this is Gabriel North. Gabriel, meet Hope Christmas’ newest inhabitants.’
‘Whereas, I, on the other hand, must depart,’ Ralph came up to them and smiled enigmatically.
‘What do you mean?’ Marianne said, ‘you’re not leaving us?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Ralph. ‘My job here is done for the time being. Until the next time, of course.’
‘Next time?’ Noel looked puzzled.
‘There’s always a next time,’ said Ralph. ‘I believe I can leave the renovation of my cottages in your capable hands, Noel. Oh, and if you’re interested, I do believe there’s a rather fetching old grandfather’s clock in the antiques market, which will look perfect in the hallway of that lovely old farmhouse you are going to buy.’
‘How did you know?’ Noel looked incredulous.
‘Haven’t you worked out yet that I know everything?’ said Ralph with a twinkle. ‘But I have to go where I’m needed and, from what I hear, my grandson is causing merry mayhem in Barbados. I live in hope of bringing him on side, but he tries me sorely. But then, of course, as his father is adopted, he’s not really a St Nicholas.’
‘I thought your name was Nicholas?’ said Marianne.
‘It is, but we dropped the St because it sounded too pretentious,’ said Ralph. ‘Now, really, I must be going.’
‘Why?’ said Marianne, suddenly feeling desolate at the thought that Ralph was leaving.
‘Because that’s just the way it is,’ said Ralph and, in a
familiar gesture, doffed his cap. He walked off down the drive to a waiting taxi, and the snow gently fell on the path.
‘St Nicholas?’ Noel said. ‘You don’t suppose—no, I’m being daft.’
‘What?’ said Catherine.
‘It’s just occurred to me that Ralph is something of a modern-day St Nicholas, or at the very least a guardian angel. But that’s daft. There’s no such thing as angels.’
Marianne looked down the drive—the car, and Ralph, had already disappeared into the night.
‘Do you know, I’m not sure that it is so daft,’ she said, linking arms with Gabriel. ‘I think Ralph’s been like a guardian angel to me.’
‘And to me,’ said Catherine. ‘Besides, you do know what his name is short for don’t you?’
‘No.’ Marianne looked puzzled.
‘He told me his name is Ralph, pronounced Rafe. It’s short for Raphael. Which happens to be the name of the angel in Milton’s
Paradise Lost
who comes to warn Adam and Eve about Satan.’
‘And your point is?’ said Noel, puzzled.
‘Look above the door,’ said Cat. ‘I noticed it as soon as I came in.
That thou are hapie, owe to God; That thou continu’st such owe to thyself.
And that Latin inscription,
Servimus liberi liberi quia diligimus
—’
‘It means
Freely we serve, because we freely love
,’ said Marianne. ‘Ralph told me.’
‘And they’re both quotes from
Paradise Lost
,’ said Cat triumphantly.‘From when the angel Raphael comes to warn Adam and Eve about Satan. I know because I did it for A level.’
‘And look at all those angels,’ Marianne said, with sudden wonder. She pointed above the door, and suddenly they all saw the cherubs flying in the corner, the angel on the door
knocker, and remembered all the angel motifs dotted around the house. ‘It was right in front of our noses all the time. Ralph is an angel.’
‘And you know who St Raphael is the patron saint of, don’t you?’ said Catherine.
‘No, I don’t,’ said Marianne.
‘Lovers,’ said Cat.
‘Whatever he is, I think he’s done rather a good job, don’t you?’ said Gabriel, raising his glass. ‘To all of us. Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas’ came the instant response, and they chinked glasses to the soft strains of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, while they watched the snow fall softly on Hopesay Manor lawn.
A Merry Christmas to my blog readers, one and all.
Cat squinted at the screen on her laptop.
‘Come to bed,’ said Noel plaintively. ‘I’ve got the champagne on ice and everything.’
‘Just coming,’ said Cat who, thanks to Ralph’s generosity, felt she’d probably had enough champagne for one night, but it was Christmas after all.
And thanks to the many readers who’ve kindly commented on my last post and given me such thoughtful and supportive advice. It reminds me what a powerful thing the Internet is and, at its best, what a positive force for good. I have been hugely touched by the outpouring of emotion my post caused, and am deeply grateful to those of you who’ve kindly requested that I stay. However, I think enough is enough. As of tonight, this blog is, like a rather famous parrot, no more. Although, never say never and, like Arnie, I may well be back in another form. Who knows? In the meantime, thanks for reading, and I wish you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas. I hope that, like me, you find the peace you deserve.
Cat pressed send, then powered down the computer and climbed into bed where her husband was waiting for her. He presented her with a glass of champagne.
‘To us,’ Noel said, ‘and to our future. Merry Christmas, Cat.’
‘Merry Christmas, Noel,’ said Cat. ‘It’s going to be the best one yet.’
In a car speeding off in the darkness, Ralph St Nicholas sat back and smiled.
As usual, I have lots of people to thank for the help they gave me when writing this book.
First and foremost, thanks as ever are owed to my brilliant editor, Maxine Hitchcock. When she suggested I write a Christmas book I had no idea how much fun it was going to be. I’d also like to thank Keshini Naidoo and Sammia Rafique at Avon for their continued hard work and enthusiasm on my behalf. Very much appreciated, ladies!
And without the enthusiasm and support of my lovely agent, Dot Lumley, I’d have given up on this writing malarkey years ago, so thank you again for all the help.
Juggling writing and a school-run can be a tricky task. Thanks to my lovely friends, Dawn and Clive Pearce, who picked the children up for weeks while I was writing this book. I can honestly say this book wouldn’t exist without their help.
I’d like to say a special thank you to my sisters Paula, Lucy and Virginia for sharing their different experiences of the school-run in town and country, with a particular shout out to Ginia for telling me about the escaping sheep—genius. And my very clever brother John providing me with a Latin translation, which was a much better result than me trying Google translator.
I’d like to thank Nicola Rudd who has been an enthusiastic follower of my blog from the start and whose blogging about Nativity plays was part of the inspiration for this story; all the long-suffering teachers who have put on the many Nativities I’ve seen over the years; Kate Whalley for enormous help with mental health issues; Chris Montague for helping me out on engineering matters and Heather Choate for giving me background information about Shropshire sheep farming. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
A special thanks goes out to Cath Hicks for sharing her hilarious anecdotes about the pitfalls of having an au pair, although nothing I made up could be nearly as funny as the real thing.
Blogging is something I started to do as a bit of fun, but is now a very necessary part of my online life. I am grateful to Bea Parry Jones for sharing some of the occasional downsides to blogging. However, on the whole I have found blogging to be a positive experience, and over the last year have had much fun, usually David Tennantrelated, with the following people: Rob Buckley, Leesa Chapman, Marie Phillips and the elusive but extraordinary Persephone. Thanks guys, it’s been a blast. To follow my blog go to http://maniacmum.blogspot.com.
Over twenty years ago, I had a fabulous time taking part in the Chester Mystery Plays Nativity, which was the inspiration for Marianne’s play. To all the gang who were there in ’87, I bet you never knew then it would end up in a book! Thank you also to the enthusiastic and lovely ladies who run Burway Books in Church Stretton. Quite possibly the best bookshop in the world.
Shropshire has had a hold over my imagination since I was a child and read
The Lone Pine Adventures.
I’m immensely grateful to my parents for choosing to go and
live there so I could get to write about it too. Thanks especially to my amazing mother, Ann Moffatt, who told me about Plowden Hall, which is the inspiration for Hopesay Manor, and whose own cooking exploits first got me started in the kitchen.
I’d like to give a special thanks to my former English teachers, Keith Ward and Susan Roache for their inspirational teaching, which in part has led me to where I am today. I had no idea when I was studying
Paradise Lost
all those years ago it would come in so handy!
It seems lucky to have one family you get on with. It seems positively greedy to have two. But that’s the fortunate position I find myself in. So for both my families, I’d like to say a big thank you for all the Christmases, past, present and future. Here’s to many many more.
Read on for exclusive Christmas Tips from Julia Williams
to help you through the festive season
- Defrost the turkey in time.
- Try and buy a few presents every week.
- If you’re making a Christmas pudding use Marguerite Patten’s recipe, which can be done the day before.
- Try to remain calm. It’s only a day.
- Don’t invite feuding family members.
- Try and invite only people you like.
- Get those people you like to help you by preparing vegetables.
- Set the table the day before.
- Don’t leave present wrapping till Christmas Eve.
- Don’t leave present buying till Christmas Eve.
- Ignore any child that wakes up before 7am.
- Try and eat in the evening avoiding early morning putting-on-the-turkey rises.
- Most of all…
DO NOT STRESS!!!
Want to know what happened next?
Read on for an exclusive extract from the sequel,
A Merry Little Christmas
, out in October 2012.
The last rays of a winter’s sunset sent streaks of orange and pink across the white fields. Dusk was settling as a motor- bike roared its way through the snowy countryside. Large groups of birds took to the air as it sped past, and flocks of sheep ran wildly round in circles. The sound of the engine echoed down the country lanes, disturbing the chilly peace. The leather-clad rider wore a black jacket with a flaming sword emblazoned on his back which, along with his gold and orange helmet, made him resemble a modern day knight. As the rider stopped at the top of the hill over- looking Hope Christmas, he took off his helmet and stared down into the town. The Christmas lights were still twinkling in the High Street. The lamps from the houses down below gave the place a cosy homely feel, as if the whole town were drawing a collective sigh.
The rider flexed his hands, and smiled; the words,
Dux
, on one set of knuckles and
Michael
on the other, just visible underneath his fingerless gloves. He was good looking, with a dark complexion, devastating cheekbones, curly dark hair which tickled the collar of his jacket, and piercing blue eyes.
‘So Hope Christmas, long time no see,’ he muttered. ‘Uncle Ralph was right, it’s a beautiful little place. I shall look forward to renewing my acquaintance with you.’
He put his helmet back on, revved the engine, and roared down the road and into town, noting the quaint little shops; the antiques market, flower stall, the bookshop and market square where a Christmas tree stood proudly in the centre. The town was deserted, with only one or two brave souls prepared to come out on such a cold night. One of them, a pensioner tootling along on a mobile buggy, stopped to say hello.
‘Well, Michael Nicholas, as I live and breathe. Your uncle said you might be coming. It’s good to see you after all these years.’
‘And you, Miss Woods,’ Michael smiled a devilishly hand- some smile. ‘It’s been far too long.’
‘Will you be staying a while?’ she asked.
Michael looked around him. ‘That, I think depends on who needs me,’ he said.
‘I think you’ll find there’s always a need,’ said Miss Woods.
‘Then yes, I think I’ll be here a while,’ said Michael, his smile crinkling up to his blue eyes.
‘I look forward to it,’ said Miss Woods. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘And to you,’ said Michael, before climbing back on his bike and speeding off to Hopesay Manor.
It was good to be back.
Cat Tinsall unwound the fairy lights from her suddenly bereft Christmas tree, then carefully placed them in the Santa sack which was bulging with the rest of the Christmas decorations. She sat back on her heels and looked out of the large patio door onto her frozen garden, where a lonely looking robin pecked at the crumbs on the bird table. It was a grey cold day, the sort that sapped your soul in early January. She sighed and tried not to feel too bereft herself. Even the Shropshire hills (the view of which was one of the reasons they’d bought this old converted farmhouse when they’d moved up to Hope Christmas four years earlier) were shrouded in grey gloom.
Christmas, her favourite time of the year, was over once more. The bright shiny new year, which had beckoned so enticingly at Pippa’s New Year’s bash through a happy haze of mulled wine and champagne, now seemed less so; reality being grey and drab in comparison. Noel was already back at work, groaning as he’d left in the dark to look at a project the other side of Birmingham, where he’d be meeting Michael Nicholas, Ralph Nicholas’ nephew, for the first time. The kids were at school (Mel to mock-GCSEs for which Cat had seen no evidence of any revision over the holidays), and Cat herself had a pile of proofs to tackle for her new cookbook,
Cat’s Country Kitchen
. They’d been guiltily shoved aside in a pre-Christmas planning frenzy, but she knew she could ignore them no longer. She looked at the picture of herself on the front cover — thanks to the power of Photoshop, looking more glamorous and slimmer then she felt right now. No doubt it would add fuel to the tabloids’ ‘Top Kitchen Totty’ moniker that had haunted her since the launch of her first book,
Cat’s Kitchen Secrets
, three years earlier.
