Читать книгу After the Snow - Susannah Constantine - Страница 11

Mr Miller, the chauffeur, was waiting at the bottom of the front stairs, with a basket in hand.

‘Your Lordship; tea and flapjacks. The car is just outside.’

‘Thank you, Miller. No need to drive us, I will manage perfectly well. Esme, put your coat and boots on. What fun – a Christmas adventure!’

But Esme noticed that his jolly tone was not reflected in his eyes. They were darting about nervously and he looked worried, even though he was trying to cover it up. Grown-ups often didn’t tell the truth when they were worried. Was it about her mother? Or was he still cross with her father for not seeming to care?

The castle door flew open on turning the brass handle. Snow whipped inside, a frozen rage slicing through the oil-fired warmth. The blizzard had intensified. Esme pictured her mother curled up in a ball, like a frightened rabbit. At least she was wearing a fur coat. That’s how Eskimos kept warm and it was even colder in Greenland. But was mink as warm as sealskin? What if she had fallen asleep? Would she hear them calling?

Mr Miller wrenched the Land Rover door open and as Esme climbed in the wind slammed it shut, almost catching her leg.

‘Where shall we start looking? I mean, Mummy could be anywhere. She might be buried under a snow drift.’

‘Don’t worry, Esme,’ said the Earl. ‘I think I know where she might be. She doesn’t like big parties, so I think she will have gone somewhere she can relax. She just forgot to tell you.’

Of course! He was right. Her mother could be terribly forgetful, especially on bad days.

The Earl wound down the window and yelled over the rumbling diesel engine, ‘Miller, will you call the yard and tell Jimmy we’re on our way?’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Oh, and tell Mr Munroe that I will drop Mrs Munroe and Esme off at The Lodge. If you don’t mind, you will have to take him home in the Range Rover.’

‘Is that where you think she is?’ asked Esme, at once relieved and puzzled.

‘Yes, I know it. Isn’t that where you escape to when you’re sad or just want to get away?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Esme, wondering how the Earl would know. ‘I go and talk to Homer if I’m unhappy or scared. Do you think Mummy is scared?’

‘Your mother’s mind works in mysterious ways, Esme. She probably thought it was quicker to go to the yard than face the steep drive up to the castle.’

Winding the window back up, the Earl suggested Esme pour them both a cup of tea from the flask in the basket. Esme felt grown up, sharing the responsibility of being part of a search party for her mother.

‘So what was the best thing Father Christmas brought you this year?’ he asked.

‘Oh gosh, I loved all my presents but if I had to choose the most exciting it was probably the towel that he used to dry his reindeer. It was still wet!’ She laughed.

‘Goodness. How fascinating. That just goes to prove that Father Christmas is alive and kicking.’

She was surprised by how comfortable she felt being alone with the Earl. She wasn’t at all shy with him like she sometimes was with grown-ups. She pulled the flask from the wicker basket and unscrewed the lid, releasing a hiss as the compressed heat escaped from its container. A steaming muddy waterfall flowed into the mugs, each decorated with the Culcairn foxhounds. As they drove, the beam from the headlamps cut a slice of amber through the speckled grey twilight. The snow was falling so thick and fast it was almost impossible to differentiate individual flakes.

‘Goodness,’ said the Earl, ‘I bet you haven’t ever seen snow like this before, Esme. I haven’t seen it this thick since I was a boy. I remember taking that sleigh – you know, the one on show in the main entrance – for a turn down the drive. My brothers and I used it as a toboggan. We got into so much trouble! Not only for touching a piece of history – Queen Victoria once sped around Scotland in it, you know – but also because it was so heavy it broke Robert’s leg when he fell off head-first.’

Esme could picture them, wild and laughing, using all their boyish strength to pull the thing out from the arch of the great stone hall, its runners scraping over the flagstones. She knew exactly which sleigh he meant. It now sat unused and roped off from tourists tempted to hop in.

‘Good Lord, there’s your car Esme. How on earth could your father have ended up in the ditch like that?’

‘It just sort of happened.’

A warm chuckle escaped the Earl’s throat as he looked at the abandoned car in the snowy trench. It was almost unrecognizable, so deep was the snow covering its roof and clinging to its windows, bolsters of white like sagging bags under tired eyes.

As they passed The Lodge, Esme saw a faint glow of light from the kitchen window. She could just make out Mrs Bee at the sink and waved, in case the housekeeper could see them.

‘Who are you waving to? Mrs Bumble?’

‘Yes. I feel sorry for her having to work on Christmas Day.’

‘But I’m sure she does it gladly to help your mother.’

‘Yes. She loves Mummy so much. Says she’s the kindest lady in the world.’

‘I’d agree with that, Esme. Does your mother ever do the cooking?’

‘In our London house she does. But sometimes she burns things as she forgets to take food out of the oven. Once she left a cottage pie in for a whole night! Daddy said it looked like dog poo.’ Esme felt immediately guilty for telling tales about her mother. ‘But most of the time she makes us lovely food.’

The village appeared before them, unfamiliar with all the houses thatched in snow. As they passed the cottages Esme imagined the families inside; happy, cozied up together, Christmas lights twinkling and brightly wrapped presents nesting under baubled firs. That should have been her family. Instead, here she was with her best friend’s father, scouring the countryside for her mother.

Driving past the village shop she caught a flash of red; mistletoe hanging by a noose of tartan ribbon above the door. A chill gripped her. What if her mother wasn’t at the yard? She might not have made it that far. Again, Esme imagined her stuck in a hole, stiff with cold like the frozen carcasses Digger sometimes found.

Leaving the village behind, the Land Rover started to climb the steep incline. She wondered how they were going to make it up the hill. It was very cold now. She daren’t speak as she could see how hard the Earl was concentrating to keep the car on the road. She studied his profile. She had always liked his face. Greying hair that was swept back off a high forehead, strong nose and thin lips. His eyes had unusual flecks of yellow and orange but if asked what colour they were she’d say green. She noticed that his eyebrows were lower than usual, set in a frown – not cross but more concerned, unlike his jaunty tone of voice.

‘Now, Esme, here comes the tricky part.’

‘Will we get up the hill, do you think?’

‘My dear, of course we will. This old thing can get anywhere. It’s a marvellous lump of metal. Come on, why don’t you sit on my knee and help me drive? Don’t think I don’t know about your and Lexi’s little escapades in the Triumph.’

Esme felt her face flush at being caught out for driving the little green car around the estate. She waited for the reprimand, but it didn’t come.

‘Come, sit on my knee. This bit of road is really wiggly, and four hands will be better than two.’

Hesitating, she shuffled across the bench seat and onto his lap. He felt warm and safe, as did the steering wheel when she placed her hands on the black plastic, next to his. Her father never even let her sit in the front of the car, let alone on his knee to help drive. She had once got on his lap but he had told her to get off. ‘You’re not a dog, Esme.’

‘All right: lean forward, the car needs all the help it can get. Come on, old friend, you can do it. Push!’

He eased his foot down on the accelerator and they lurched forward, wheels spinning as the engine roared, heaving the car forward. With ox-like strength and almost human willpower, they made it over the brow of the hill and shot forward along the now-level road.

‘Well done, Esme! I couldn’t have done that without you.’

Flushed with pride, she couldn’t wait to tell her father and Sophia how she had helped rescue their mother.

‘Now, you’d better hop back, what with being on a public road. It wouldn’t do for us to get stopped by the police. We’d all miss Christmas lunch and I’d be terrified to be on the end of Mrs Bee’s wrath if her turkey went to waste.’

As they drove into the stable yard an avenue of noble horses peered out at them with a lazy interest. Jimmy’s livery was home to sixteen hunters and it always made Esme feel proud of him that four of them belonged to the Prince of Wales. Many people wondered why a Prince chose Jimmy’s place to keep his horses when he stayed at the nearby Balmoral, especially when it was so messy and chaotic. But Esme knew as well as the Prince that Jimmy was the best rough rider in the Highlands and when the horses were presented at the meet, their owners knew their horses’ coats would be gleaming and that they would gallop like machines because they had been ridden out every day of the week and schooled over natural fences. You couldn’t put a price on safety when hunting, and a bit of muck here and there was far better than a broken neck.

Esme crossed her fingers and prayed that her mother was there. As they entered the main house, she could hear wild laughter coming from inside and one of the voices definitely belonged to a woman.

Climbing over various dogs and high-top boots dull with unbuffed polish, the smell of wet fur and drying leather filled the small kitchen. She and the Earl walked into the living room to find Jimmy and Diana doubled up with mirth and holding tumblers – the ones Jimmy collected with his Green Shield Stamps from the petrol station. Esme was so relieved she felt like crying.

‘Oh darling, you’re here,’ said her mother, looking at the Earl, and for a moment Esme felt confused. She had expected to see her mother as she had been when they were separated; slow, confused and unsure.

‘I knew it wouldn’t take long for you to find me. Henry, you are far too clever. Will I never be able to hide from you?’

‘This is not a joke, Diana. Your daughter was extremely worried,’ said the Earl.

‘Esme, sweetheart,’ said her mother, ‘you know me: free as a bird and with a will of my own. I tell you, Henry, I could bloody kill my husband for leaving me alone in this weather. But then again, if he hadn’t I would have had to endure drinks with all your ghastly friends. Instead, Jimmy has been filling me in on all the gossip. Poor Mrs Polk was left for dead out hunting yesterday. Knocked clean out after a fall. When she came round she thought she was at a cocktail party and started offering the whips drinks. It’s too funny. Imagine: “Tim, would you like red or white?” while she’s covered in mud and blood pours from her nose. She’ll be mortified, should she remember. She does so love the importance of her position as chief gate-shutter, poor love.’

It was a long time since Esme had heard her mother utter so many words at once.

‘Diana, I… We were worried. Esme and I have come to take you home.’

‘Yes, Mummy. I thought you were lost,’ said Esme, finding her voice.

‘Sweetie, I’m fine. And angel, you are adorable to come and rescue me. You care, I know you do, darling, and I’m sorry if I worried you. But look, everything has worked out perfectly. Come here and give me a kiss.’

‘You didn’t seem fine, Mummy, and if you were then why did you leave me on my own? Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind and were coming here?’ All of a sudden Esme felt overcome with sadness, as if her mother really didn’t care about her at all.

‘Well, I didn’t think I was and when I lost you I got confused and went back to the church. And there, would you believe it, was darling Jimmy.’

Esme looked at Jimmy for an explanation.

‘That’s right. I left my wallet and had to go back to fetch it,’ he said.

‘That’s not strictly true. Jimmy put five pounds in the collection box by mistake so he returned to take it back. Isn’t that right, Jimmy?’

‘Well, yes, but I replaced it with one pound. I’m not that much of a tight-arse.’

‘So there we go. Come, Esme, come and sit next to me. Am I forgiven?’ She looked at the Earl as she said this.

Reluctantly, yet unable to resist, Esme went over to the sofa where her mother enfolded her in her arms.

She kissed her and whispered, ‘Darling Esme, my darling, darling little squirrel.’

‘Oh, Your Lordship,’ said Jimmy, as the Earl let out a big sigh. ‘Just sit down and have a drink. It’s Christmas for goodness’s sake. Come on Esme, what would you like? There’s some ginger beer in the fridge or make something yourself with the soda siphon.’ Jimmy’s accent was as thick as the smell of alcohol in the room.

The Earl accepted a glass filled with a golden liquid that shone through the crystal.

‘Happy Christmas, to us all. So nice to have the family together,’ Jimmy said, roaring with laughter.

Esme left the room to fetch her drink. Jimmy’s kitchen was as familiar to her as her own. She had been going to the farm since she was four, when she first started hunting. Jimmy had taught her to ride and took her and her fat Shetland pony on the lead rein until she was confident enough to ride to hounds on her own. In those days her mother would drive her to the meet and follow the hunt, forever concerned that she might have an accident. Jimmy had no such qualms. As far as he was concerned Esme was made of rubber and would bounce if she took a fall.

She wondered now how her mother could go from being so quiet and sad to being so cheerful. Her moods could change unbelievably quickly; in church, Esme had been scared she was going to faint. But anyway, at least she was happy now. She was always happy with Jimmy.

Esme poured herself a pint glass of fizz, grabbed an apple from the chipped fruit bowl and, after grabbing her coat, went outside into the yard, causing a sleeping lercher to yelp as she accidentally stepped on its paw.

‘Sorry, Mumfie. Didn’t see you there.’

From the stables, there came a collective whinny from horses always on the lookout for their next feed. A whiskery nose poked up, just visible above its door. It was Homer, standing on tiptoes to make himself noticed, Esme thought. He was pleased to see her. Suddenly she felt as if a balloon had been let out in her chest.

Was Homer the only one in her family who was pleased to be with her? Even on Christmas Day it seemed her mother would rather be with Jimmy. Her father had been happy for her to go alone to find her mother and she hadn’t even seen Sophia at the castle. At least Lexi and the Earl had been kind to her.

‘Hello, fella. Happy Christmas. Did you miss me? Have you had a nice day? Did Jimmy give you extra oats? You good boy. You know that Father Christmas bought you some lovely things. A curry comb and a dandy brush to make your mane all silky. And you won’t have to have a cold saddle next to your skin now ’cause you have a brand new sheepskin saddle pad. Imagine that? Here’s a fella; a lovely juicy apple for you.’

The pony took the apple from Esme’s hand in one giant bite. He rolled it around his mouth in an attempt to gain a good grip so he could crunch through the slippery skin. It popped back out. Esme nuzzled his nose with hers, his warm, sweet-smelling breath thawing the red spots of cold on her cheeks. Stiff whiskers, newly clipped and spiky, prickled her skin. His pretty honey-brown muzzle shone gold against his copper coat.

‘Too big for you, huh?’ she said. ‘Here, let me take a bite for you to make it easier.’ Esme put the slimy apple to her lips and took as large a bite as she could. Juice spurted out as her teeth pierced the taut skin.

‘There you go, boy. That’s better, isn’t it? Who’s my darling boy?’

Homer had disgusting manners, she thought. He ate with his mouth open, turning the apple sap to foam as he chomped away, making loud sucking, squelching sounds and bubbles. Round and round went his jaw in methodical turns to reduce the flesh to pulp.

‘Good boy. I’ll come back and say goodbye.’ Esme patted her pony and walked away.

Back in the farmhouse it seemed a party had kicked off. The Earl had joined in the merriment and was sitting on the sofa with Esme’s mother nestled in the crook of his arm, shoeless feet curled up underneath her. Jimmy sat on his ‘throne’ with Mumfie on his lap. His face was red and his eyes were creased with joy.

Esme went to sit on the footstool by the coal fire. Too big to be a lap dog, the lercher jumped down and lay beside her, his head and half his body on her knees.

She looked at the scene before her. Every time her mother turned to the Earl her eyes seemed to come alive. It was almost shocking in contrast to the detached, milky gaze reserved for her father.

‘Oh, and I’ll tell you another thing, Your Lordship,’ Jimmy was saying, ‘the next time you come to the meet, don’t go fannying around on your feet. It’s about time you got on a bloody horse. I tell you, if the Prince of bleeding Wales can stay on, you can too. Stop being such a prissy little girl and get your arse in the saddle.’

‘Jimmy, you’re a nightmare; my hunting days are over. Diana, tell him to stop bullying me,’ said the Earl, smiling. He flicked his wrist from his sleeve and looked at his watch. ‘Goodness, it’s nearly two o’clock. We’d better be off.’

‘C’mon, Your Lordship. Don’t go yet. One more for the road.’

‘No, Jimmy, you are very kind but I must get Mrs Munroe and Esme back home. We’re already very late.’

‘Oh, Henry, just one more, then we’ll go. Come on, how often do we get time like this? Esme, darling, be a love and call home. Tell Mrs Bee we are on our way.’

Esme was torn between the prospect of lunch and presents and the fun of this little group. She felt like one of the grown-ups now, especially as Sophia wasn’t there to enjoy their secret party, and it was a relief to see her mother full of life and humour again so she went out to the hall to the phone, its disc whirring after her small finger dialled each number.

‘Mrs Bee? It’s me, Esme. We’re leaving now. I’m with Mummy. Lexi’s father is going to drive us home.’

‘Esme! Is your mother all right? Where did you find her?’

‘It’s a long story, Mrs Bee. I’ve had a real-life adventure.’

‘Adventure or not, lunch is going to be ruined! Your father and Sophia are already back; Mr Miller dropped them off an hour ago. They’ll be relieved to hear you’ve found your mother. Will she be needing a hot bath?’

‘No thank you, Mrs Bee. She seems very warm,’ said Esme. ‘We’ve been having such fun. Oh, and I told Homer about his presents – he whinnied with happiness.’

‘He was probably telling you that you’re late for lunch!’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon. Tell Daddy. Bye, Mrs Bee,’ she said, before hanging up.

Esme put on her coat again and ran outside. Jimmy and the Earl were already helping her mother into the Land Rover. She was singing ‘Roll Me Over in the Clover’ far too loudly, Esme thought.

Jumping into her seat, she turned and waved goodbye to Jimmy as the Earl drove out of the stable yard.

‘Mummy, are you drunk?’ she asked.

‘Oh darling, I’m not drunk. I’m just happy it’s Christmas. Darling Henry, I do love you so.’

Maybe she was a bit tipsy but Esme knew something else was not right. Her mother had been so sad this morning and was now very, very happy. When she had two moods so close together it was only a matter of time before she sank into a deep sleep, a lifeless stranger unable to recognize her own children. It was always the same. Esme’s excitement about Christmas lunch and presents around the tree evaporated; her mother was about to ruin it all.

Arriving at The Lodge, Esme and the Earl helped Diana to the front door, where Mrs Bee was waiting to let them in.

‘Mrs Bee, I’m sorry we’re late. Such a relief that Diana has been found safe and well. Now you can all enjoy your delicious lunch…’ The Earl’s apology stopped mid-flow as he took in the sight of Colin, veins on the sides of his neck pulsating; he was clearly struggling to control his rage.

‘Henry, what in God’s name happened? I’ve been worried sick, and with good reason. Look at her!’

Esme took in the sight of her mother and all at once wanted to protect her and the Earl from her father’s anger. She stood next to her and put her hand in hers.

‘If you hadn’t left us, Daddy, Mummy would have been OK. And if Lexi’s papa hadn’t gone to look for her we might not have found her,’ Esme said.

‘Yes. Yes, of course. I am grateful to you, Henry,’ said Esme’s father, guiding the Earl towards the door. ‘Diana… She’s not faring too well at the moment so I think it’s best you stay away from her. For the time being…’

‘Whatever is best for her,’ said the Earl.

‘Now, Mr and Mrs Munroe,’ said Mrs Bee, stepping in. ‘I suggest you go to the drawing room with a glass of champagne and wait for me and the girls to bring the food.’

This simple order and the housekeeper’s calm delivery put everything back to normality. It was Christmas. They would have lunch and open their presents. The day would continue as it had always done. Or at least that’s what Esme hoped, given that she never really knew from one moment to the next what mood her mother would be in and how the next few hours would play out.

The sisters sat around the kitchen table while Mrs Bee busied herself making the final preparations to the meal. The whirring sound of the cooker turned into that of a Force 5 gale when the oven door was opened to remove the picture-perfect turkey.

‘Och, that weighs the same as an eighteen-month-old baby!’ exclaimed Mrs Bee, grunting as she heaved the bird from the roasting tin onto a large white Wedgewood platter on the table.

‘Why was Daddy so horrible to the Earl?’ asked Esme, still preoccupied with the adults’ terse exchange. ‘At least he tried to find Mummy. Poor thing; she could have died and been buried in the snow and we wouldn’t have found her ’til the spring. It’s only because of Jimmy that she isn’t a human icicle.’

Sophia peeled a strip of crisp skin off the plump turkey before her and curled it around her extended tongue. ‘Mmm…’ She licked her fingers. ‘You always try to protect Mummy, Es. She wanted to go to Jimmy’s instead of the castle. She wanted the Earl to rescue her. And now she’s made us all late for lunch and Daddy is pissed off. End of story.’

It was true. Esme did always defend her mother, and her mother, when she wasn’t sad or asleep, did the same for her.

‘Come on, girls, help me get the lunch in. Esme, will you get the bread sauce and the sprouts?’

Out they trooped, all pomp-and-ceremony, Esme leading the way into the dining room, where her father had already taken his position at the head of the table. He stood up and relieved Mrs Bee of her fowl, now garnished with glossy sausages and rolled bacon rashers. Esme was relieved to see her father smiling.

‘This looks wonderful, Mrs Bee. You are a marvel. Shall I sharpen the knife?’

With that, he took up his weapons, the sharpener in one hand and the long thin carving knife in the other. Using theatrical sweeps he ran the blade back and forth against the file before replacing the sharpener with the fork, with which he stabbed the turkey while allowing his foil to glide through the plump breast on the other side. Thin slices of meat fanned out symmetrically as they fell away from the bird, each piece of moist white flesh edged with a half-moon of brown skin. Little puffs of steam rose up, filling the dining room with a smell exclusive to Christmas Day.

Esme was starving. She piled her plate high and poured over so much gravy that it slopped onto the table.

‘Oi, Esme!’ shouted Sophia. ‘Don’t take all the gravy – it’s not soup.’ She snatched the sauce boat from her sister and tipped the rest onto her own plate.

‘You’ve finished it now, Sophs. What about Mummy and Daddy?’

‘There’s more on the side, stupid.’

‘Then don’t get cross with me for taking it all!’ Then, in a fit of defiance, Esme picked up her plate and tilted it towards her, slurping up some of the thick meat juice. ‘There,’ she said. ‘It won’t spill now.’ She looked over to her mother, who had returned to her breakfast self.

‘Esme! Manners, please,’ said Mrs Bee. ‘Now eat up.’

Christmas Day was the one and only day that the housekeeper ate with the family and she did so reluctantly. Esme thought it was because she felt embarrassed by not having any smart clothes to wear apart from the cardigans her parents gave her every year.

‘Quite right, Mrs Bumble. Especially as you’ve been up since the crack of dawn preparing it. Would you like a small glass of champagne?’

‘Well, maybe just a wee one.’ She held up a crystal port glass for Esme’s father to fill. It only took one sip for her face to take on a deep, purple blotchiness.

Esme raised her glass. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’

‘Merry Christmas!’ chimed her father, Mrs Bee and Sophia.

‘This is delicious, Mrs Bee,’ said Sophia, scooping up a forkful of peas. ‘Mummy, aren’t you going to eat your food? Mrs Bee has spent hours cooking it.’

This was a deliberate dig. Sophia knew full well that their mother hardly ate a thing when her mind went elsewhere. At least she would never starve because she made up for it on her good days. Esme had never seen one person able to eat so much at a single sitting. Mrs Bee sometimes had to cook her extra food.

When everyone had finished, Mrs Bee got up and cleared the plates, scraping the leftovers on top of the pile.

‘Digger can have these,’ she said, putting the plate of scraps onto the floor.

Esme called for her dog, who scurried into the dining room and wolfed the lot down in time for Mrs Bee to pick up the clean plate and take it with the others into the kitchen.

Moments later, she returned with a platter of fire: the Christmas pudding made in November for maximum flavour. Esme had stirred the batter and made a wish. The flames died down as the alcohol burned away, leaving behind a mound of glistening sweetmeat.

Helping herself to the first slice, Esme picked out a tiny parcel of tin foil from her pudding and unwrapped it. ‘A shilling!’ she squealed, holding up the hot coin.

‘Well done, darling,’ said her father.

‘Look, Mummy!’ Esme’s shoulders sank as her mother remained silent, not even looking up at the coin.

‘How wonderful!’ said Mrs Bee.

Esme felt silly for expecting her mother to react to her lucky shilling. She licked the coin clean, popped it into her pocket and shook off her disappointment.

‘Daddy, we haven’t pulled the crackers!’ she exclaimed, rising from her seat in anticipation.

‘Goodness, so we haven’t. Sit back down and we’ll do it now.’

‘We can’t watch Her Majesty without our paper crowns on,’ she said, smiling.

The small group crossed arms, a cracker in each hand to form a chain, and pulled. Her mother’s hand in hers held no resistance, so Esme leant across and she and Sophia pulled each other’s.

Sophia groaned and then read out her joke. ‘Why did the lobster blush?’

‘Because it saw The Queen Mary’s bottom. That’s so old,’ groaned Esme, copying her sister, although she actually thought that the picture of Queen Mary in her frilly underpants was very funny.

They all put on their paper crowns, Esme carefully placing one on her mother’s head. It sat lopsided and made her look like a forgotten toy.

‘All right, plates down. Time for presents!’ announced Esme’s father, as they finished their puddings.

Normally, presents were opened before the Queen’s Speech, but the Queen had given a written address instead this year, following a documentary that had aired about the Royal Family a few months previously. Esme was disappointed that they didn’t get to see Her Majesty, although she supposed she always looked the same. An embroidered dress and pearls, a stiff hairstyle and a small smile. Without the Queen, the world would stop turning, Esme thought. She wondered why she never wore her crown in public. If she were the Queen, she’d make sure she put it on every day. Her father always said that Queen Elizabeth was a handsome woman but not nearly as attractive as her sister, Princess Margaret. Maybe people said the same thing about her and Sophia, but Esme didn’t think that either of them was particularly handsome. That was for boys. Lexi had mentioned that the Princess was coming to stay at Culcairn Castle in a few days’ time, so she could decide who was the more attractive sister then.

Mrs Bee ushered everyone into the drawing room, where Esme dropped down next to the gigantic Christmas tree. Every year, her father would go about the dressing of the tree in the same meticulous fashion, while she and Sophia passed him the decorations. First the lights, which were small and white, had to be wound from the top down, ensuring that each layer of branches was equally illuminated. Then came the tinsel; finely woven pieces of silver had to camouflage every inch of the ugly white wire to which the lights were attached. Once this had been achieved – which took a good two hours to ensure perfection – glass baubles collected from all corners of the globe or handed down to them from past generations were hung equidistant from each other in order of size and colour. Holding the tree steady was the sand-filled bucket in which it stood, which was wrapped in golden paper that splayed out around the base in a skirt. An assortment of mismatched gifts lay in the pool of shimmering paper. There was nothing haphazard about the Munroes’ Christmas tree; it had to be visually faultless and decorated in the best possible taste.

Esme’s father was very artistic and loved to paint. Many of his paintings adorned the walls of The Lodge and their house in London. Esme thought that if he spent all his time painting rather than organizing the transport of important paintings all around the world he would be much happier. He loved to talk about art and knew so much about it. Esme loved to sit alongside him whilst he painted, drawing her own pictures and listening to him recounting tales of great artists.

As her father began to hand out the presents, Esme felt a familiar embarrassment that they had so much and Mrs Bee had so little. Even though Mrs Bee frequently told her ‘I’m short of nothing but money’. Quickly, she handed a present to the housekeeper, which Mrs Bee duly unwrapped.

‘Oh, thank you, Mrs M,’ said Mrs Bee, delighted with her cardigan. She looked over to Esme’s mother, who was sitting listlessly in a high-backed embroidered chair. ‘Why don’t you hold the bag for the wrapping paper?’ she asked her.

Seeing that Mrs Bee was trying to engage her mother, Esme picked up the bag and held it out. ‘Mummy, hold the bag open so we can get the paper in easily.’

Diana picked up the other handle in slow motion.

‘Come on, wakey-wakey – it’s not bedtime yet,’ said Sophia, giving her mother a prod.

She stirred and looked over at Esme. ‘Darling, you’d better get a pen and paper so you can jot down who’s given you what – for your thank-you letters.’

Esme hopped up and ran to the desk, flipping its lid back in search of a sheet of writing paper and a biro. Plonking herself back down she waited to be passed her first present.

Darling Esme, Happy Christmas, lots of love Aunt Nancy, read the label.

Aunt Nancy was the youngest of her mother’s three sisters. Her father was also from a big family, with three brothers and one sister. Because there were so many of them and none had a house large enough to accommodate the whole family at once, they would try to meet up elsewhere in the summer holidays instead. Esme loved spending time with all her cousins. But that didn’t happen very often. Both sets of grandparents had passed away before Esme was born. She envied Lexi and her extended family, who all lived nearby.

Aunt Nancy always gave good presents and this year was no exception; she had given Esme The Mandy Annual. Mandy was Esme’s favourite comic, the one she spent her pocket money on each week.

‘Sophia, look – this one’s from your godfather, Bill,’ said Mrs Bee, handing her a beautifully wrapped parcel.

Esme knew it would be something elegant and perfectly chosen. Her father’s oldest friend from his school days at Eton was seriously rich and very generous because he had no children of his own.

Sophia squealed as she unwrapped an Afghan coat from its tissue. It was a thing of real beauty. Embroidered down the front, a bit like Esme’s Red Indian jacket, it had shaggy sheepskin cuffs and frog fastenings that gave it a Russian flare. Sophia hugged it and spun around the room, using the coat as her flamboyant dancing partner. Her face was alight with joy as she grinned and twirled around and around.

‘Oh Es, look at this! Isn’t it the most divinely wondrous thing you’ve ever seen? Feast your eyes! Darling Bill is the best! Daddy, are you furious? I know you think that only drug-taking hippies wear this sort of thing but I love it; you’ll have to blame your best friend for being so utterly, utterly adorable! He is the best and kindest fairy godfather in the world!’

Her father laughed. ‘You’ll get arrested wearing that around here. You might as well go and live on a commune and hug trees. I need to have words with Mr Bill Cartwright. He is incorrigible. Don’t wear it anywhere near me. People will think I have a commie as a daughter.’

‘Oh Daddy, you’re so square. I shall wear it day and night.’

‘You’ll soon tire of it. But you’ll never get bored of our present to you.’ With that, Colin handed her a large, heavy-looking square package. Sophia ripped off the paper.

‘Oh Daddy, I can’t believe it!’

It was a red record player with a lid that doubled up as a speaker. Esme knew her sister had wanted one of these forever, collecting all kinds of music for the time she could play the records on her own turntable. Esme hoped that her present from her parents would be just as exciting. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be a velvet hunting cap from Patey’s. Her mother had pointed out the rip in her old hat so knew she needed one. Esme was old enough now to wear one without a chinstrap. Knowing it was her turn next she sat expectantly, her tummy fluttering with excitement.

Her father rummaged through the dwindling pile of gifts.

‘Diana, where is Esme’s present?’

‘It should be there. Is it not?’

‘You said you wrapped it last night. Darling, Mummy bought your present. Diana, go and see if it’s upstairs.’

Dropping the bulging Harrods bag, Diana rose slowly and left the room.

‘Darling, Mummy will find it – don’t look so worried. She told me she had bought you something wonderful.’ Colin glanced up at Mrs Bee.

‘Open this one from me,’ said the housekeeper, hurriedly, to Esme.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bee.’ She looked down to hide the hot tears that welled in her eyes and started to fall on to the parcel with a tell-tale splash as she tore open the wrapping paper.

‘Mrs Bee, these are just what I need. Thank you so much! They’re even better than the ones I lost and will keep my hands cozy out hunting. Thank you.’

She got up and hugged Mrs Bee as though her life depended on it. The housekeeper hugged her back, Esme’s tears concealed in the crook of her neck.

‘Here we go, darling, here’s your mother,’ she said.

Esme peered over Mrs Bee’s shoulder to see her mother standing in the doorway, empty-handed and dry-eyed.