Chapter Twenty-four

On the Twenty-Third of December Amelia stood in the hall at Ashcombe for the first time since the house had been sold back in the spring. She had put her old key in the lock, turned it easily, and here she was inside, running her hand along the familiar ochre walls that were lit by milky winter sunlight. She wandered round the house, amazed at how little seemed to have changed. There was less dust around than in Selma’s latter days and the smell of cats had gone, allowing the pot-pourris that Doreen, like Selma, kept in bowls around the rooms, to exude their scent unchallenged. It was a blessing that Doreen had always admired what she called, the country house style. The rooms themselves: the study with its bookshelves and carved pine fire-place, the sitting room with its deep bay looking out over the garden, the sunny passages, they all had character of their own so that any change of furnishings altered them only slightly, like discreet makeup on a strong featured face. Only the dining room was really different, not golden yellow any more as if it had its own sun in residence, but dark green and hunting-print adorned.

Having toured the house, Amelia went outside again and, as she unloaded the hired van she had parked in front of the garage, she felt thankful for the tall yew hedges that shielded the house and drive from the lane, and the neighbouring gardens.

She worked hard, singing as she went, ‘The bells of hell go ding-a-ling-a-ling,’ returned for a second armchair, ‘for you but not for me.’ She dragged the chaise-longue along the gravel path and into the study. ‘Ding-a-ling-a-ling,’ put the tea-chests in the hall and dumped the pile of sheets and blankets on the old card table. When she stopped for a moment to wipe the damp hair from her forehead she decided that if she did go to hell as a result of what she was doing, she’d at least go there a better person.

By the time the light was going, she stood in the sitting room, a bunch of holly twigs in her arms, surveying her work. Unfamiliar tables had become Selma’s again because Amelia had draped them with the Christmas cloths Willoughby’s mother had embroidered. The two Swedish oils of Gothenburg and the west coast archipelago flanked the fire-place and Selma’s armchair was in its place by the bay window.

Once, long ago, Amelia had asked Selma if she wasn’t offending her Jewish faith by celebrating Christmas with such enthusiasm. Selma had been decorating the tall tree, standing on top of the library steps, a box of baubles in her hand. Amelia could see her now, looking down at her, smiling. ‘Jesus was a great Jewish man, why should I not join in the celebrations?’ and she had fixed the final decoration, a gold star Amelia had helped her make, at the top of the tree.

The last thing Amelia had brought from the van outside was a six-foot Christmas tree. She had decorated it with the contents of four cardboard boxes that she’d found amongst Selma’s stored belongings. The star, a simple shape cut in cardboard and covered with gold paper, caught the light from the electric candles and Amelia saw now that it was remarkably like a Star of David.

‘Tasteful Christmas trees are an aberration,’ Selma had always said. She would like Amelia’s tree. It stood in the bay so laden with tinsel, lights and baubles that it had become one solid glittering pyramid. Amelia took one final look around before slipping out of the front door and locking it behind her.

In the Residents’ Lounge at Cherryfield, a plastic tree twinkled in the gloom. The traffic-light colours of the fairy lights flashed, throwing their colour across the magnolia walls and the grey faces of the residents, and jazzed-up carols played from a cassette recorder on the coffee table.

‘You shouldn’t worry about your gran,’ Nurse Williams said. ‘We do a lovely Christmas here: turkey with all the trimmings, it has to be carved the day before of course on account of the kitchen staff but they always do us proud, Christmas pud, no charms because of our teeth, but everyone gets a pressie.’ She dazzled off a smile at Amelia.

‘You think of everything.’

‘Oh yes, I almost forgot, there’s the crackers: green and gold this year.’

‘With paper hats?’ Amelia asked in a voice as if a lead weight had been attached to her vocal chords.

‘Of course with hats.’ A wailing noise came from a small woman hunched in a chair by the French windows and, hurrying away, Nurse Williams said, ‘Your gran is having a little rest in bed today, so you’ll find her in her room.’

Amelia turned in the doorway. ‘What if they don’t like paper hats?’

Nurse Williams looked puzzled for a moment then her face cleared. ‘Everyone likes a hat for Christmas, don’t they?’

Amelia had not slept well. She had kept on waking with her mouth dry and her heart going so fast it seemed it was trying to run right out of her chest and she was sure she had acquired at least one extra arm expressly to get squashed under her body as she tried to ease herself into a comfortable position.

As she went to find Selma, she tried to calm herself. Nothing had been done yet that couldn’t easily be undone. When it came to it, maybe Selma didn’t really want to leave. After all, she was used to Cherryfield now. It was warm and quite comfortable and … there was always someone about.

I shall tell her that I’ll spend the whole of Christmas Day here with her, she decided. I can bring chocolates, dried fruit, cake, champagne even. She opened the door to Selma’s room.

‘There you are at last, Amelia. I’ve been waiting.’ Selma sat in bed, a shabby Gucci headscarf tied under her chin, an accusing look on her face. She seemed to be wearing the entire contents of her jewellery case; two gold chains hung round her neck and three sizeable brooches were pinned anyhow across the chest of her purple cardigan, the gem-stones twinkling amongst the spills and stains.

‘I’m all packed,’ she said, pointing.

Amelia looked at the small suitcase lying on the chair, bits of material sticking out from under the soft bulging lid, a stocking foot peeking out at one side, then she looked back at Selma. She took a deep breath and, moulding her voice into something cheerful, sensible sounding, she asked, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here where you are all snug and comfortable?’

Selma’s laugh was scathing. ‘Of course not. I want to go home.’

‘Ah.’ Amelia nodded emphatically as if the rhythmic movement could calm her. ‘Right.’ She picked up the suitcase and a bead necklace dropped out, falling rattling to the floor.

Amelia pushed the wheelchair out from Honeysuckle. She stopped outside the Residents’ Lounge. ‘Do you want to say goodbye to anyone. I can see Miss White and Mr Ambrose there.’

Sister Morris too was in the Lounge. She looked at the suitcase in Amelia’s hand and said, ‘Mrs Merryman is going off for the festivities then.’ She opened her eyes wide making them round and incensed looking and the loose flesh under her chin trembled.

Christmas time, Amelia thought, and even Sister Morris makes me think of turkey.

‘You’ll miss all the fun,’ chirruped Miss White. ‘We’ve been promised a party.’

Sister Morris’s expression softened as if she was hearing the words of a favourite child. ‘Indeed you have Miss White, and a very jolly party it will be too.’

Selma had been looking from one speaker to another, her fingers gripping tighter round the arm of her wheelchair. She opened her mouth and a shriek came out. ‘I’m not staying here, do you understand? I’m not staying!’ Her arms flayed about her as she tried to twist round to see Amelia behind her. ‘I’m going home.’

Apart from Miss White who looked up at Sister Morris as if to say, Now there’s a naughty girl for you, no-one took any notice but continued to stare at the walls or the turned off television. The carols played on from the tinny sounding tape recorder.

It’s like the New York subway here, Amelia thought as she moved in front of the wheelchair; nobody dares to care. She took Selma’s hands. ‘It’s you who decide,’ she said in a clear slow voice and, as she spoke, she felt those words were about as important as anything she’d ever said.

‘Would you be so good as to stop by my office on your way out.’ Sister Morris spoke in the dangerously perky voice of a teacher who has finally given up on a pupil.

‘Wait here,’ Amelia said unnecessarily to Selma before hurrying off.

Sister Morris handed Amelia a form. ‘Sign here please.’ She indicated a gap in the print towards the bottom of the page. ‘It’s to say you accept that Cherryfield carries no responsibility whatsoever for your grandmother whilst she is in your care. Have a nice Christmas, Miss Lindsay.’