Villy had always dreaded Christmas, except during those halcyon years when the brothers had taken it in turn to look after the children while some of the family went skiing. That had come to an end, of course, with the war. But the war years at Home Place hadn’t been so bad either when she looked back at them. Compared to now, they seemed much better than she had thought at the time. After the frightful blow of Edward leaving her, everything had fallen to pieces: she remembered telling Miss Milliment that she would gladly have put her head, in a gas oven if it weren’t for Roland. That had been the time when she had taken a bit too much gin, a habit she dropped as soon as she realised she had acquired it.
For years now she had been trying to make Christmas merry for Roland. He was now eighteen, and she had just learned from Zoë that no one was going to Home Place because of repairs, and when, unable to stop herself, she had retorted that it didn’t make any difference to her, Zoë had asked if she would like to come to Christmas lunch. ‘With Miss Milliment, of course, and Roland – we haven’t seen him for ages.’
Villy had accepted, very gratefully: it would be one nice holiday event for Roland, and, if she was having a good day, for Miss Milliment, too.
Miss Milliment. She was becoming a real anxiety. It was easy when she was in her right mind – a trifle forgetful sometimes, but that was natural at her age. She had a whole series of other minds, though, the consequences of which were wholly unpredictable. They nearly always involved action of some kind – getting up at three in the morning and trying to make her own breakfast, boiling milk all over the stove and the saucepan burned. ‘Oh, Viola, I wanted you to have a good lie-in this weekend.’ This had happened in varying forms more than once. Another time, when she seemed to have disappeared, Villy found her in Abbey Road, in pouring rain and in her nightgown. ‘Oh, Viola, I simply have to get somewhere but, do you know, I’m not quite sure where it is. I’m so afraid I’ll be late.’ And she had clung to Villy, her sparse grey plait streaming from the rain, her spectacles awry and her heavy flannel nightgown already dripping small rivulets at her feet. It had been early evening, and the road was empty except for a few people hurrying home to get out of the rain.
She had led her slowly home, sobbing, apologising, but beneath the confusion, Villy had sensed real fear – even terror – and she did her best to be gentle and reassuring.
When they got home, she changed Miss Milliment’s nightdress, adding a bed-jacket, the scrambled egg upon which had become distressingly crusty, got her into bed with two hot-water bottles and finally brought her a mug of cocoa, then sat with her while she drank it …
‘My dear Viola, I have a confession to make.’ She was regarding Villy intently. ‘I fear that I have recently become rather forgetful.’
‘Well, dear Miss Milliment, I think we all forget things when we get older. The great thing is not to worry about it.’
Miss Milliment was silent, and then she said, as though to herself, ‘That would be the great thing.’
But later, long after Miss Milliment had dropped off, Villy lay in bed worrying. When she had offered her a home, she had not envisaged looking after a demented person, and that was what she now realised Miss Milliment was likely to become. She would have to keep the front door locked at all times, conceal matches and cigarette lighters to prevent combustion in the kitchen – and what else? Soon it would be unwise to let her be alone at all. But the worst would be feeling guilty and anxious whenever she did leave the house. She had planned to take Roland to The Bridge on the River Kwai, the new film with Alec Guinness, and then to have supper in a Chinese restaurant in Soho as a Christmas treat. Zoë’s offer of a Christmas lunch was another event for him. But there were at least three weeks to be filled, and she passionately did not want him to be bored. He had always been remote, courteous, but earlier Christmases had clearly been dull for him: sitting at the table after roast chicken (a turkey impossible for three), a very small Christmas pudding and a mince pie, and then a box of crackers that never had anything interesting in them; listening to the Queen’s speech on the wireless and the prospect of playing cards with her until tea … It wasn’t as though his siblings helped at all. Teddy and Louise would pay duty visits; she knew they were that, although Teddy took more trouble than Louise to conceal it. They were awkward with Roland – didn’t really try to make friends with him – and Lydia was away acting in a pantomime. Perhaps we should go and see her, Villy thought, but then she realised that of course they couldn’t leave Miss Milliment for so long. Northampton and a show would take the whole day.
One of her periodic fits of rage came over her now. Why the hell couldn’t Jessica take her share of caring for Miss Milliment, who, after all, had been her governess as well? And while she had gone through the humiliation and impoverishment of a divorce, Jessica and Raymond had inherited property and a great deal of money from Raymond’s aunt. They had recently bought a villa on the Costa del Sol where they went for most of the winter and that let Jessica off doing anything for Villy at Christmas. But she was pretty good at evading any ‘governess duty’ at all, as she called it.
‘I have come to the conclusion that I’m really not very good with old people,’ she had said, on one of her rare visits, as though that settled the matter. ‘And you’re so marvellous with her – it’s much better if she stays with you.’
‘Shall we get a small tree this year?’ she’d asked Roland, on the way back from the station.
‘I don’t mind,’ he’d said politely.
All these years she had been choosing a small tree and decking it with the same old baubles and tiny candles (so much prettier than electric lights), arranging the presents under it, always making a small ceremony of it before lunch. And he hadn’t minded! No more trees, she thought now, before eventually she slept.