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Audra hugged me again. She whispered a quick “See you soon, love,” then went back to tip the carriage driver. In another moment, she was across the street and getting into my father’s sedan.
I had kept my jacket on my lap during the ride, but now I slipped it on. It was really too warm outside for a sport coat, but I would be underdressed without it.
I walked past the museum with its grand windows and towers of grey stone. By the ornate peacock fountain, I saw a few of my schoolmates. Ted, Bernard and Mindy were in the upper form. They had come to Christchurch with Rex to sing in the pageant chorus. (Back at home, they comprised almost one third of our very humble church choir.) All three of them hailed and helloed as soon as they saw me, then cheerfully ribbed my over-the-top recitation.
“You rattled me awake with that speech, Mannie,” said Bernard.
Mindy laughed and added, “You should take over the pulpit back home. You’re louder than Father Humboldt.”
“When you remember your lines,” Ted added. I waved as I continued on my way.
Beyond the fountain, several wireframe arches covered with red and green banners spanned the walkway. Dozens of elegantly dressed people sauntered toward the footbridge on the south side of the gardens that led to the rotunda.
On a well-kept lawn, a large canopy sat over a serving station. Even from a distance, I could see there would be no shortage of food and drink. Beneath the rotunda, a live orchestra played graceful music. A dance floor was set nearby. Already, half a dozen couples were waltzing, or standing near to each other, face to face and talking with drinks in hand.
Attendants walked along the path dressed in Victorian costume. They carried trays loaded with drinks in elegant glasses and crystal flutes. It was a well-to-do party. Cy Murney was paying the tab. Life at my family’s country vicarage could never approach this kind of opulence. I felt out of place within it, though glad to be near it for a while.
I often forgot to think of the Murney family as rich. To me, they were simply friends. I saw them at church events in the city or on holiday. Cyrus Murney was the founder and owner of Murney Wool and Textile. If it weren’t for the fact that he was an avid patron and supporter of the cathedral, my father would never have met him. I would have been nobody to the Murney family. It was hard to imagine.
Annabella found me and led me to a table where several of her family sat. Cy Murney wore a Santa hat. In a large basket next to him was a pile of small wrapped gifts.
“Mr. Candler!” he exclaimed. “A happy Christmas! Won’t you please take a gift. Each one is different, each a mystery. Take one for your mother as well. Don’t open ‘em ‘til Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. I picked up two small boxes. For a moment, I stood with one in each hand, wondering how I could best avoid carrying them around all evening without losing them. Then Joan Murney offered me a plate.
“Have you tried the pavlova?” She held it just in front of my nose. “It’s the best I’ve had yet.”
I set both the little boxes down on the table and took the plate. The pavlova was topped with thick cream, strawberries and slices of kiwi. I picked up a fork and took a bite, my first ever for that dessert.
“It’s fine,” I said. I bit into the crisp meringue and discovered the light-as-air texture inside. “Oh! I’ve never had anything like this.” Mr. Murney gave an approving laugh.
“Have all you like. There’s plenty.”
Clive approached the table, notebook in hand. “Look who’s hogging all the puddings already. Should have known.”
“You sang beautifully, Clive,” I said, hoping to strike the civil note. He wasn’t having any.
“You shouted like you were a sergeant giving orders to the Royal Dragoons.”
Joan Murney took the notebook from her son’s hand and replaced it with a plateful of pavlova. “Here, my rude little boy. This will keep your mouth busy.”
Clive squinted at the pavlova, then dug into it with his fingers. He scooped a chunk of it out with his right hand, and held it close to his eyes to examine it.
“It’s for eating, Clive, not for excavating,” said Mr. Murney.
“I don’t trust it,” he said. “How do I know it hasn’t got bugs in it?”
“Because your mother gave it to you, you little worm.” Joan laughed in disbelief at the endless challenge of interacting with her own son.
Clive crammed the meringue into his mouth and sucked on his fingers.
Joan Murney glanced at me. “Mannie, Clive is no son of mine.” In a flash, she collared the boy and marched him away.
Cyrus Murney stood, removed his Santa hat and placed it on my head. “Here, Mannie, I’d like you to be Santa for a while. If anyone stops by, just let ‘em take any presents they like.” He moved away, half dancing to the music, and hailed a merry-dressed attendant with a drink tray.
I sat in the chair Cyrus had vacated and finished my pavlova. I had a good view of the party. For now, just watching the swirl of people across the dance floor, hearing the music, was pleasure I could never hope to find in my own rural home. I only hoped that Olivia might find me soon. Instead, Annabella came to my side.
“Mannie, did my father leave you in charge?”
“Yes, I think so. He’ll be back.”
Annabella sighed. “He’s a little drunk already. This is kind of a farewell party, you know.”
“It is?”
“He’s selling the business. Murney Wool.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. He’s going to get lots of money for it. He’ll be staying on as an advisor, but the firm that’s buying is based in Wellington. He’ll be there as much as here.”
“Are you all going to be moving then?”
“Most likely. But, we’ll be back and forth. Here one week, away the next. Clive and Olivia, though, they begin in new schools at Wellington after the holiday. It’s a big change.”
It was unwelcome news. Already I saw the Murneys far less frequently than I would have liked.
“This may be our last annual Christmas party in Christchurch, though,” Annabella continued. “So make the most of it.”
“Maybe you’ll have parties like this in Wellington too.” Just saying it made that city seem far away indeed.
“We’ll know when the time arrives.” Annabella shooed me off the chair. “Now, don’t you sit here all night. Run along and enjoy yourself.” She plucked the Santa hat from my head. I got off the chair and joined the party, leaving behind the two packages I had picked from the basket. I never recovered them.
The paths of the Botanic Garden were lit with paper lanterns, and in a dozen tented pavilions, candles burned in the center of evergreen wreaths. By now, the sky had darkened enough that the gentle glow of the lights entranced my eye. Every stranger’s face was suffused with soft hues. Faces appeared and disappeared back into gentle shadow. Those in the distance were silhouettes against the shifting patterns of light and dark, the silhouettes of trees and the lights of the city street beyond them.
A welcome voice called my name. It was Olivia, at last. She was on the other side of the Avon River, but she ran to the footbridge and crossed in no time at all.
“Mannie!” she called, “Mannie, don’t you move!” Her step went from fast walking to flat out running. She crashed into me and her arms wrapped me in a forceful hug.
“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
She was in a white party dress, trimmed with light green, and she wore a crown of plastic holly leaves. She was still a little taller than me, but the difference wasn’t as great as it had been six months ago. She was prettier now than I could have imagined. I stammered out a hello. Like everyone else, she remarked on how I’d grown. Then I uttered the kind of stupid remark that young men with bad crushes so easily make.
“So, where’s Captain Magnificent?”
She inhaled so loudly she almost wheezed. “Captain Magnificent? Are you talking about Nathan?”
“Yeah, sorry, I meant Nathan.”
She was seized with a spectacular laughing fit. She walked off of the footpath and leaned on a nearby tree, bracing herself as she went on chortling. I followed her and stood by, waiting for the spell to pass. “Captain Magnificent!” she cried. “I’m going to tell him you called him that.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. And in a while, she had settled down. As we walked back into candlelight at one of the covered pavilions, I could see wet streaks running from her eyes. She was still grinning.
“Well, Mannie, that’s the best laugh I’ve had in some time,” she said.
“So, where is he?” I said, unable to come up with any other topic.
“He’s having a smoke with some of the older boys. I think it’s disgusting. You don’t smoke, do you?”
“Of course not,” I said. It was true. I had tried a cigarette from my friend Anaru not that long ago, and decided it wasn’t for me.
“Captain Magnificent.” She was still relishing it. “You know, that’s the sort of name only a jealous mind would think up,” she said quite accurately.
Her smile was so wide it must have hurt. That generous, big-toothed smile she got from her mother. (Clive and Annabella took much more after their father.) It crossed my mind, in the stupid way that young people’s minds go, that if I married Olivia, I would one day have a wife who looked a good deal like Joan, and I decided that was fine by me. Fine, but awfully unlikely.
“You mustn’t be jealous of Nathan,” Olivia said, sounding more serious. “He drags me around from place to place, and he’s very flattering. But if Clive told you we’re getting married, that’s not true. I’m not marrying anyone, not until I’ve finished my singing career.”
“Oh, you did sound great, by the way. And I had no idea Clive could sing like that.”
“He’s very good, but please don’t change the subject. Back to me. I’m also not getting married until I’ve been to India, Italy, France and Japan. And not until I’ve become a horse veterinarian.”
“You’re going to be very busy, then,” I said. We talked like that for another half hour, breezy and lighthearted, saying nothing of importance, responding as if every word was vital.
We made our way to the Bandsmen’s Memorial Rotunda. The orchestra had ceased playing formal waltzes. Now they played Christmas songs, with a light swing to them, jazzy enough that my mother would have squirmed. Olivia and I danced along to Winter Wonderland, not in a close embrace like some of the other couples, but politely touching hands. Nathan found us there.
“Hey, ‘Liv. This must be Mannie, eh?” He gave me a sportsman’s grin and put out a hand.
I broke away from Olivia and offered my hand in return. He gripped it and squeezed. It felt like an endurance test, or a challenge. I didn’t respond, except to say “Nice to meet you.”
“Heard a lot about you. More than I want to sometimes.” He smiled, and so did I, in spite of myself. There was something coercive about that confident smirk, and the cheerful blue eyes that accompanied it. He had a winning smile, if by winning one meant overpowering.
Nathan clapped me on the back, hard enough to jolt, and said, “Mannie, old friend, it would be nice if you’d go find something for Olivia. I bet she’s thirsty.”
“Nate, that’s horrible,” Olivia said. “You’re the one that’s just chiseled in on us. How about you find me something.”
“All right, but when I get back, it’s my turn to dance with you.” He looked at me and winked, then proudly ambled off.
“Come on,” Olivia said, and then she took my hand and started to run. I jogged along behind, struggling to keep pace with her long, rapid strides. She darted to the pavilion where Cyrus had sat, and where Joan and Clive were now passing out gifts. Olivia went digging through a sack behind a table, retrieved something and then beckoned me to follow her.
She led me back across the bridge, and to an out of the way pavilion not far from the peacock fountain. There was no one else in it.
“There’s something I’ve been so anxious to talk to you about. I couldn’t say anything with Nathan around.”
She pulled me further in, and closer to herself.
“Did Clive say anything to you about Father Christmas?”
It wasn’t what I was expecting her to say. “No,” I answered, but then I remembered my first run-in with Clive at the cathedral, near the table of trifles. “Oh, wait, he said he thinks you’re daft for believing in Santa Claus.”
“No, not Santa Claus. Father Christmas.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Of course not. Santa Claus is a nice story people tell their children. Father Christmas is quite real. So, do you think I’m daft?”
I didn’t answer that question, but asked on of my own. “If he isn’t Santa Claus, who is he?”
Olivia rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t believe she had to explain this to someone of my advanced years. “He’s the descendent of Nicholas. He’s the bishop of the strange magics.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, “but how do you know he’s real?”
“I’m not supposed to tell. I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“You’ve already told me this much. I’m curious, I really am.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“Of course I’m doubtful,” I admitted. “But that doesn’t stop me being curious.”
“I’ll just say that I’ve been in contact with him.”
“Got a letter, did you?” I said, and it sounded more sarcastic than I intended.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t. It was just a guess.”
“Well, yes, as matter of fact, I have got a letter,” she said, and she held up the envelope she had just retrieved. She handed it to me. It was made of a velvety paper, and carefully inscribed with dark green ink.
Confidential
To Be Delivered To
Olivia Murney
Seventh Moss Circle
Aotearoa
Father Christmas,
Very North
The wax seal bore a small crest with the letters VN. The seal had been broken already, and I started to unfold the flap, but Olivia grabbed the whole thing back.
“No, I really better not. I promised.” She looked genuinely worried. “You can’t say anything to anyone. Especially not my parents!”
“You’re sure your parents didn’t send it to you?”
Olivia’s expression showed some petulance. “You’re just as cynical as my little brother.”
“Surely not,” I said, for how could I be.
“Anyway, if you must know, it was delivered to me by a forest gnome.” She said this quietly, looking at her feet. I couldn’t blame her. It was a difficult thing to have to say looking someone straight in the eye.
“A forest gnome brought you a letter from Father Christmas.”
“Oh, it sounds so stupid when you just say it out loud like that.”
“I’m sorry?” I was getting a little anxious to know if this was a joke, or a lead-in to some kind of gift or surprise. “So, where is this Seventh Moss Circle?”
“It’s in a field. It’s not a proper address, but that’s where the gnome told me...” She sighed and drooped her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you think I’m stupid. If I just had a way, I could take you to it. It’s very strange. Like a fairy circle, or something.”
She sounded a bit desperate, and it was unsettling. This change in mood made it seem she wasn’t joking, and I didn’t know how to respond to that. She began to walk away. “Anyway, you won’t say a thing about it, will you?”
I followed after her. “Of course, I won’t say anything. But look, have you told Clive about this...”
“No! “She stopped in her tracks and turned to me. “No, I haven’t told him. Not about the letter, and not about the gnome. And you mustn’t either!”
“But, he said you talked to him about Santa...”
“About Father Christmas! I only told him that I know Father Christmas is real!” She stopped herself, having worked up more of a dither than she had wanted. “At least, I’m convinced he’s real” she said more quietly. “Though, I suppose until I see him, even I won’t know that for sure, will I?”
“Right. I mean, maybe the gnome is just having you on.”
Olivia gave me the withering stare I deserved.
“I’m sorry, Olivia,” I said. “I’m not trying to make a joke of it. Unless ... it’s a joke, right?”
She gave a resigned smile. “Yes, of course it is, you silly young man. Let’s say no more about it. Now, come over here.”
She pulled me beneath a paper lantern and put her face very close to mine. Her brow furrowed as she leaned in and studied my eyes. “Your face is a little thinner than it used to be. And you’ve got the most amazing little gold flecks in your eyes. Have they always been there?”
There was nothing flirtatious in the way she spoke. But there was the undeniable fact that a sprig of mistletoe hung from the bottom of the lantern, and that we were directly beneath it. There was never going to be a better time to put Audra’s advice into action.
I choked a little when I started to speak, then I got my voice. “Olivia, would it be all right if...”
And I heard my name shouted in the distance. A loud, booming voice, not familiar to me, was yelling “Mannie Candler! Has anyone seen Mannie Candler?!”
She heard it, too, and stepped away from the lantern, breaking the spell. “Someone’s looking for you,” she said. That much was obvious, of course.
We both started back down the walk in the direction of the voice, and soon two or three others joined it. By the time we were halfway to the bridge, another half dozen had joined in, and it was like my name had become the subject of an ominous chorus.
Cy Murney spotted us first, and ran to me. “Your father is here. He says you’ve got to go at once.
And with that, my idyllic Sunday was done, and a long night of grief lay ahead.