December 24th
South Wiltonshire, England
Fierro
This should do nicely.
The tree had been my only contribution.
A man and his son sold them out of a truck on the side of the road . He’d been amiable and answered my question about the required care for the tree. This one had been sized perfectly for my modest studio flat.
It seemed unreasonable that decoration couldn’t be purchased from the same place as the tree. It was inefficient. Inefficient in a way that modernity seemed to insist on.
There were shops and a Christmas Village nearly half an hour away in Wiltonshire proper. I could have hired a car and made a trip, but I was unsure where to find what was needed.
Everything was so loud.
It was the only passing observation I allowed myself to make in this modern world.
Colors were unnaturally bright and everything appeared artificial. A simulacrum of what it was supposed to be. No one ever seemed to realize how artificial everything looked. I suppose they had gotten used to it over time. I’d found it best to never look anything directly in the eye. Trying to comprehend anything for too long often gave me a headache.
Worthington College was an exceptional place to escape to. It was devoid of the unending loudness. Everything about the college was unsuitable to the 21st century and modernity. It’s location in the Northern English countryside was too remote for signals and satellites. The board of trustees were staunch traditionalists (sometimes to a fault). I’d been told the last initiative to modernize the university was in 1939–when they joined the electrical grid.
I can almost see the main bell tower from my window. The campus was empty and the few county residents had gone away for the holiday. Ms. Marian graciously agreed to assist with the decorating before she and her husband left for Spain. I paid her more than fairly and she had done an admiral job. I’d wanted to pay her more, but her husband insisted on deducting the extra money from my rent payment.
Ms. Marian had dressed the tree in silver tinsel and glass ornaments. She’d placed wreaths on the front and back of the door, hung stockings and strung a bit of garland around the bookshelves. She’d also tied bows on all the cabinets and purchased a Christmas comforter for the sleeper sofa.
I’d ordered a prepared dinner, tea and coffee from the grocer last night. The rose and poinsettia arrangement I’d ordered some weeks ago still had a few weeks of life left in it. I changed the record to something more festive just in time to hear the old Victorian's staircase creak. Familiar hushed voices go back and forth in the hall.
I open the door to my daughter struggling with a rolling crate. Clara is behind her with an overnight bag, a backpack and a large Christmas bag. She is leaning against the wall and settling into a pair of high heels.
“Merry Christmas." Clara prompts Rose.
“Happy Christmas.” Rose says, though it’s more of a correction.
“Happy Christmas, Rose.”
I bring the bags inside while Clara takes a turn around the studio. There had been larger apartments available on the first floor but this one suited. The sleeper sofa and oversized side table divide the living area from the sleeping. She inspects the bookshelves that line all the walls. She doesn’t cross over into the sleeping area and instead comes back around to size up the grandfather clock by the door.
I’d last seen her two weeks ago but it somehow feels longer. She looks a little flush even though the temperature is moderate. She’d pulled her long hair up with a burgundy velvet bow that matched her dress and lipstick.
“It’s lovely in here”, Clara says, “Very cozy.”
“Thank you.”
“How was your trip?”, I ask. Settling into the chair I kept next to the phone. Rose sits on the sofa while Clara takes the leather club chair I usually reserved for guests.
“We were on the train for hours.” Rose says before her mother can answer, “They started caroling, Papa. I couldn’t sleep at all.”
“Traveling on Christmas Eve puts people in a certain mood.” I remind her.
“It’s really quiet around here", Clara observes, “It’s a little…spooky.”
“Everyone has gone for the holidays. ”
Clara and Rose would be as well. They were catching a flight to Aspen out of Heathrow
tomorrow.
The grandfather clock bellows from its place in the corner.
“It’s a bit later than I thought”, I say , “We should leave now or we’ll be late”
Clara gives Rose a warning look as she slips on a blazer that matches her dress. The car Clara rented is identical to the oversized one she owned. It was always a wonder that cars could be so large and insubstantial at the same time.
“Here. You can drive”, Clara gives me the keys and stretches out in the back. I join Rose in the front. Rose manages to turn the complex machine to a Christmas station. The music is interrupted every five minutes by Clara’s phone. Clara declines each call and eventually decides to silence the device.
Rose gives a detailed recap of her school’s holiday party and thoughtfully compares it to the Annual Christmas Champagne Soiree Emile had thrown in London. It seemed Clara had been his co-host with Rodger now out of the picture. I was sorry to have missed it. Essex had a party for his students the same week, but it had felt more like a lecture and test than anything else.
Rose grows quieter as we approach the church. It’s a modest chapel on a quiet corner street. There is a slight hum in the car as I pull into the overcrowded parking lot. The engine starts to quietly rattle and the lights dim.
“It’s alright, Rose”, I tell her.
“Honestly”, she says taking a deep breath and carefully getting out the car.
Christmas Eve service has drawn more of a crowd than usual. Rose and I sit together towards the front, while Clara chooses to sit in the back pew. Rose listens intently to the Christmas sermon and hums along to Silent Night. Clara’s rather lovely singing voice carries from the back.
Today is one of the days I don't hear the service. The good reverend's words cause me to reflect deeply on my own devotion and understanding. I consider what it means to give your only child to a cruel undeserving world. I consider how grateful I am to have a child at all.
Rose and I lose track of Clara after the service. The fellowship hall is overflowing with cheerful attendees.. I was far from a regular and only know a handful of faces. The Worthington chaplain was on staff, so the church is quite used to students coming and going.
I eventually spy Clara leaving the church with that very chaplain. She thanks him for something and hands back a handkerchief. She accepts a small cup of hot chocolate from a congregant and charms her way into a group. Rose mingles with other children around her age. She mostly observes them while holding a hot chocolate she will likely never drink. The faces I do recognize ask if she is my daughter. I’m grateful to have something to discuss other than myself.
I notice Rose move away from her small group, she notices me watching her and makes her way over. There was still a low nervous hum emitting from her. We walk a little away from the church. Just around the parking lot.
“Rose. Tell me what is happening.”
“There is something”, she says, “Faint. Very small. Barley anything… but it’s always there. I don’t know what it is. But it’s always there.”
“Always where?”
“In places like this. It’s not a bad thing. But there is something here. Something warm. It’s nice sometimes. Do you believe me ?”
“I don’t need to.” I say and hope she understands..
+++
Clara has her eyes on her phone the entire way back to the boarding house. When we arrive she insists Rose take a picture of her in the foyer. Ms. Marian had meticulously decorated it in silver and gold.
“Okay”, Clara says once we are back upstairs, “Rose, how about you open up your present and I’ll heat up an early dinner–what are these?”
Clara had found a package of loud, brightly colored artificially flavored cookies tucked away in the small sideboard that held the dinnerware, textbooks, and stationery.
“Pizelles, pignolli and torcetti.” I say because that is what they are.
Clara considers the selection.
“My mother made these cookies every year for Christmas.” She says, “She knew how to make dozens of Italian cookies, but there were her favorites. They were the only ones she would make for Christmas. We used to pick the best ones for Santa. ”
She takes a bite of one and spits it into a napkin.
“They are terrible.” I admit
“Well. They are from an English grocery store.” She studies the box for a few moments,“I’ll bake some real ones when I get back. I can’t believe I told you about that.”
“I remember vividly. You mentioned your mother baked them every year even though you didn't like them. You said you’d spend all day in the family room singing carols and watching The Shop Next Door. Every year everyone would get a new ornament for the tree and then you’d spend New Year’s Eve at your house in Lake Como.”
It’d seemed like a charmed life to me.
Clara moves items from one side of the dinette table to the other, “I didn’t tell you that.”
“I–”
“I didn’t tell you that.”, She smiles and I can’t exactly figure out why, “ Lucie told you that. I loved my mother’s cookies. We would sing Christmas Carols but Lucie was the one that would watch The Shop Next Door. Lucie would buy us ornaments and Lucie would spend New Year’s Eve in Lake Como. We only went to Como for Thanksgiving.”
She was likely right. My memory was generally impeccable but sometimes the lines blurred when it came to the DeLune family traditions. Lucie and Clara spoke about them in such different but similar ways, often with minor changes in perspective. It was usually easier to sort out.
“Can I open this one”, Rose eases the moment by selecting one of the gifts I’d taken the time to wrap myself.
“Of course, Sweetheart.”
Rose seems grateful for her new books and calligraphy set. She is also quite taken with the Royal Collection tea set I’d found in a Brighton antique shop.
She’s given me a watercolor of Mercier Village that is one of her best yet. She also acted as Emile’s intermediary and gave me a basket of 60’s and 70s’ science fiction books he’d collected. He’s included bookmarks and printouts of contemporary and modern reviews.I hoped Emile would find a use for the suits I’d had my tailor deliver just before Christmas. Clara had insisted on tucking VIP Field Side tickets to the PSG football club in the pockets.
Rose took to the calligraphy immediately. I showed her how to refill the ink and gave her a brief demonstration on writing her name. I wrote with a steady practice. Rose took a more liberal approach. She free formed her letters, adding flourishes and lines as she saw fit.
“At this rate she’ll be out of ink by the morning.”, Clara says as Rose starts practicing on a new sheet. I’d almost forgotten she was here. She’d been keeping to herself in the kitchenette with her e-reader.
“There’s more ink in my desk.”
“ I know you don’t really do gifts but I’m giving one to everyone”, Clara opened the large crate. It was filled with miniature wine bottles. Each one seemed to have a personalized tag on it. She hands me a cabernet.
According to the label, this bold vanilla spiced red wine was given with love and a merry heart from Clara DeLune ( Bottled by Keyheart Vineyard in beautiful Napa California). I open the personalized tag to read the short message.
Fierro.
Merry (or Happy) Christmas
Here is to a calm Christmas in the English countryside
- Clara
“I bought you another present but it seems to have gone missing.” She says loud enough for Rose to hear.
“Thank you. I have something for you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“It’s from both of us." Truthfully Rose hadn’t been that interested in looking through the catalog and selected a page at random. In the end it seemed a fitting choice.
Clara cautiously opens the blue necklace box.I hadn’t had time to wrap it. She admires the gold teardrop pendant. It’s a delicate gold infinity with a diamond on one side and peridot on the other.
“It’s beautiful. Green is my favorite color", She says.
“It’s a peridot. It’s Rose’s birthstone.”
“It’s lovely. Thank you.” She puts it on by herself and briefly glances in her compact mirror.
Rose has decided she wants to try and learn chess again. She refuses to let me help her set the board up. Once that’s done the rules come back to her quickly, but we have to go over the pieces a few times.
“Excuse me”, Clara interrupts, “ Can I…” She gestures to my desk on the bedroom side of the studio.
“Of course.”
Clara sets up her phone and starts to make video calls.
Most of the voices I don’t recognize. Rose briefly joins her for the call from Aspen.
“That’s quaint. Where are you ?”, I recognize Eleanor Caldwell’s voice, “An Airbnb ?”
“No. I brought Rose to spend Christmas with her father”, Clara says.
From the kitchen I can see Eleanor’s face on Clara’s phone. Eleanor's husband is in the background and next to him Ellie is sleeping soundly in an oversized chair. Eleanor resettles herself and her grandmother falls out of view. She tries to call Emile but his flight is still en route to Bergen.
“I think dinner should be warm now.” she says.
I join them at the kitchenette table. I can’t bring myself to do more than drink the wine Clara gave me. Clara doesn’t scold Rose for reading one of my books at the table. She just hums along to the Christmas records that have been playing all evening.
They share a box of French chocolates for dessert. Instead of coffee I drink a cup of Rose’s orange spiced Tea. It’s all the same with a bit of sugar and milk.
Clara insists on doing all the cleaning while I read an abbreviated version of A Christmas Carol to Rose.Towards the end Clara sits on the floor and braids Rose’s hair back. I can tell Clara isn’t really listening. She must be thinking of the long trip ahead of her and the people waiting for her there.
I settle into the chair by the phone in an attempt to give them as much space as possible to get ready for bed. I’d selected one of the books from Emile to keep me company. It had been so long since I read fiction. It gave me a short reprieve from how busy today had been
I let Rose have my bed for the night. It's just past 10 when I tuck her in. Something I hadn’t done as often as I should have when she was younger.
“What’s out there,” Rose asks looking towards the main campus, “What is he keeping down there.”
Essex’s basement.
What is he not keeping down there? I pray I’d never find out.
“Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
I sit with her until she falls asleep. It feels like barely anytime at all has passed since she was 4 years old. I’ve missed so much time with her, and here I was making the choice to miss more.
I take a few pots of ink from my desk and secure them in her book bag. In one of the compartments I find a gift box with a tag that says : ‘To Fierro’.
I set the box aside and make the sofa bed for Clara. Ms. Marian had outdone herself by purchasing a rather involved snow and pine tree embroidered comforter. The set seemingly contained more pieces than I had storage for.
Clara read some papers on my desk while I finished making the bed. Thankfully the papers weren’t from Essex courses.
“I can’t believe you are hand writing these.” She says.
“Many of the faculty here require it for first year classes.”
“This place really earns its reputation”, She decides, “ The formatting and style is perfect. You have a very soothing persuasive voice. You sort of gently lull the reader to your conclusion. I think you could loosen up the language a little bit. Make it more conversational.”
Clara settles on the made sofa bed. She and Rose were sleeping in matching clothes. Though I doubted Rose was aware of that.
“I will take that under consideration.” It’s not lost on me that Clara is a well-educated woman. Perhaps if her father hadn't died she’d be a well-heeled academic. Instead, she’d run off to Europe in hopes of what ? Her happily ever after ?
I sit next to her .
“I should have done this a long time ago.” I admit, “Lucie was always encouraging me to expand my horizons. I should have listened to her.”
Clara had trained herself not to react to the mention of Lucie. I still saw it in the way her hands tensed. Our connection to Lucie always brought to light how tenuous our friendship could be. If we could ever truly have one.
“ I think waiting makes it all the more admirable.” she says reaching for one of the miniature wine bottles.
“Does it ?”
“I think so.”
She carefully sets the papers back where she found them. Her phone rings again and she silences it.
“I’m surprised you get service out here.” I decide to change the subject.
“I have a signal booster. How does anyone get anything done around here.”
“It’s a challenge for some. I find refuge in it. Interacting with the madness feels like giving into it.”
“The…madness ?” She finishes the miniature bottle with a few mindful sips.
I realize I’d only used that phrasing internally or with Emile.
“The existential crisis of it all. I try not to look right in the eye. Keep modernity at bay. I’ve done an admirable job these past 12 years.”
She sits back on the bed, “ I wouldn’t say you’ve done an admirable job of avoiding it.”
“Well, I haven’t fully given into it–”
"What's wrong with giving into it?”
“The same thing that’s wrong with me knowing more about your life from Lucie than from you.”
“You think you know that much." She opens another bottle.
“I do, Clara. We had nothing but time. We used to talk for hours. She was a splendid story teller.”
“Oh. I remember”, She says.
“You don't share like she did.” It’s something I'd long since observed. Clara sometimes talked at length about her life and family to complete strangers, but never with me.
“Can we please not bring up Lucie, especially this time of year.”
For a moment I don’t know why.
Then I do
I always fail to remember that Clara escaped Lucie’s possession on Christmas Eve. Back then time had seemed so stagnant to me that I often forgot dates. My life had felt like a surreal nightmare. Clara’s possession had fundamentally changed the way I live my new life for the better. It forced me out into the world, it reminded me that there were so many unknown things about this world. It had seemingly changed her life for the worse.
“Do you ever think about what would have happened if she knew. Do you think I’d still be here ?”, Clara finishes the second bottle
“What do you mean ?”
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if she knew she had been carrying your child? I don’t think she would’ve let me go. I think she would have possessed me forever. My whole life you have been darkness. Do you ever think about that? Because I do.”
I make my way over to the closet and find the scotch I keep on a back shelf. I’d been saving it for a particularly good or a particularly bad day. I pour two glasses and offer one to her. She taps her glass to mine and drinks it like water.
“Is that why you’ve been so distant today ?” I ask.
She shakes her head, “No. I just wanted to give you two your time together.”
I was thankful for the gesture. I couldn't find the words for why that didn’t sit right with me. Certainly Rose deserved to have both of us.
There is a bit of silence as the record comes to an end. Clara watches the record changer with some considerable interest. Her attention is soon drawn to the gift on the table.
“You found it.” she says.
“It was in Rose’s bag.”
“I’ll just assume it fell in there.” She says charitably.
“May I ?” I pick-up the lightweight box.
“Yes, but don’t tell Emile.”
Curious. I carefully open the lid. It’s a healthy spring of fresh holly adored with a red velvet bow and bells.
“Holly ?”
She flushes a little, “It’s mistletoe.”
“It’s holly. Mistletoe leaves are smoother and the berries are a different color.”
“What ? Are you sure?” She reaches for her phone. An alert flashes about possible flight cancellations and pending storms, “I guess you’re right.”
I can’t tell if she’s cross with me for the correction or herself. I’m not sure which I would prefer.
“It’s a common mistake.” I pour us a little more scotch.
“Well”, She takes her time with this last glass, “I won’t make the same mistake next year.”
“I look forward to it.”
+++
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