Chapter Twelve

Christmas was close at hand… it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness.

~Charles Dickens

Ben listened at the door to be sure. There it was again—the muffled yell that had awakened him two minutes before. He cracked the door to hear George spouting nonsense in the other room, punching important words: “I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future! The Spirits of all three shall strive within me!”

Ben shut the door, reached for his jeans, and pulled them on with a yawn. Mac had given him the day off. Ben and the others had worked tirelessly over the weekend to assemble the festival booths, seven in all, along the edges of Storey Road. Four of the booths had required minimal work. Because their walls were already connected with strong hinges, assembly had been a snap. But three of the booths had been used for many years over and had needed significant repairs. But the work was finished in time to give the vendors a couple of days to set up for the festivities.

Spying the clock on the dresser, Ben was surprised he’d slept so late—10:36. He usually woke at the crack of dawn.

He nudged open the bedroom door, deciding his growling stomach couldn’t wait. Creeping into the sitting room, he tried not to disturb George, who faced the window, his hand raised in the air. But George must’ve sensed someone and turned around with a start.

“Sorry,” Ben said.

George laughed his husky laugh. “I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“Mac gave us the day off,” Ben explained.

“Ah.”

George extended a rolled-up script in explanation. “I’m taking the morning off to rehearse. I must’ve sounded barmy, standing here all alone, yelling like a lunatic.”

Ben shook his head and stepped closer. “Not barmy—diligent. Sounds like you’ve got the lines down pretty well.”

“Can’t quite get this one page memorized.” George pointed to the opened script. “I’ve considered scribbling some dialogue on my arms. As a reference. But don’t tell Mary.”

“No, of course.”

“Think you could run some lines with me? I could do with the practice. Mary always interrupts and tells me how to ‘punctuate’ certain words. I can never do a full run-through with her.”

Ignoring his hunger, Ben caved. “Certainly. Be glad to.”

George found the right place in the script and handed it over to Ben. “Okay. I’ll start with ‘Step this way.’ Middle of the page.”

“Got it.” Ben held his finger on the line.

“Step this way, if you please,” said George as Scrooge, using a hand gesture for emphasis.

Ben as Bob Cratchit cleared his throat and said his lines: “It’s only once a year, sir.” The script asked him to “plead,” so he added a whine to his tone. “It shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir.”

They rehearsed the scene twice, as George faltered on a couple of lines, then they moved on to another scene. Then another. An hour and a half later, they’d been through the script once through, and Ben handed it back to George, who smacked it against his open palm with confidence.

“Excellent!” he said. “This has made all the difference. I think I’ve got it now. Might not even need to cheat, after all. Let me buy you a pub lunch to thank you, eh?”

“Only if I’m the one who pays. And I won’t take no for an answer, so don’t even try.”

“All right, then. If that’s the way it has to be.” George grinned. “I’m famished!”

Four lagers and two shepherd’s pies later, Ben and George reclined in their comfy chairs by the pub’s fire, their appetites filled to the brim. They’d used up most of their language for the script run-through, so little was said during lunch. Ben didn’t mind. He enjoyed George’s company partly because he never felt the pressure to fill the gaps in conversation. And when they did talk, it was usually about rugby scores or favorite novels.

Taking another swig, Ben noticed someone approaching the table: a woman in her sixties, wearing a long blue coat and a matching blue hat.

“Hello,” she said to Ben, extending her hand. He took it out of politeness and shook it gently, wondering if he should have known who she was. She looked a little familiar. “I’ve heard so much about you.” She offered a star-struck smile.

“Oh?”

“You’re the nephew. Ben Granger,” she told him.

“And you are?”

“Elda Pickering.” She finally let go of his hand but continued to smile.

“Nice to meet you.” The name finally registered, and Ben realized precisely who the woman was. Mary had told him all about Mrs. Pickering, the village gossip—snooping, unrelenting, and incorrigible. He wasn’t in the mood to dodge questions, so he fumbled for a way out.

“How long do you intend…” she started.

Beyond her, Ben saw his salvation—Joe lugging in a silver keg through the front door. Seizing the opportunity to escape, Ben began to rise as he told Mrs. Pickering, “Awfully sorry—Joe needs my help… nice meeting you.” He walked briskly past her and toward the bar.

“Could you use a hand?” he muttered as Joe set the keg down.

“Well, sure. But you’re eating, aren’t you?”

“Trust me, you’ll be doing me the favor.” He pointed discreetly toward the table.

Joe saw Mrs. Pickering. “Ahh…”

Ben followed him outside to the van, where the last two kegs sat, and reached for one of them.

“You wouldn’t be interested in helping, would you?” Joe asked, hoisting a keg with a soft grunt. “Setting up the booth tomorrow then working during the festival? That’s what these are for.” He waited until they’d lugged the kegs inside and set them down. “We’re serving a bit of ale and some wassail. You know, the Dickens theme and all.”

Ben stretched his back and thought about it. He hadn’t even considered what he would do once the festival began. Since all the booths had been constructed, he supposed he was out of a job.

“Sure. Count me in.” Working with Joe would give Ben a way to stay on the fringes of the festival, where he could observe things from the sidelines rather than participate fully, as he might have been expected to do.

“Great,” Joe said. “If you can be here early, around seven, we can get started with the preparations.”

“Right. Anything else I can do right now? I’ve got all day, if you could use me.”

“Those are dangerous words, my friend. I can always think of something.”

George approached the bar and whispered to Ben, “Smart thinking, your escape. She got the hint, looks like.” Mrs. Pickering had moved on to chat with someone at the next table.

“Oh. I hadn’t meant to leave you there alone.”

“No bother. I’m used to her.” George approached Joe. “Can I get a shepherd’s pie to go? It’s for the missus.”

“And it’s on me.” Ben reached for his wallet.

George opened his mouth in protest.

“Remember our deal?”

“That didn’t cover Mary, too.”

“Sure, it did, Uncle.” He slapped the pound notes on the bar.

“Comin’ right up.” Joe took the money and disappeared into the back room.

 

The darkness was an element of winter that Mary could easily have done without. She stepped out of the Book Shoppe at four thirty to a muted-gray sky, no trace of sun. She didn’t enjoy the messy, drizzly, bleak weather they’d been having the past few days. Her lovely Christmas snow had disappeared. And long winter nights tended to make her sluggish and sleepy, especially after busy days when she had lengthy rehearsal, a luncheon, then an extra shift at a busy bookshop. She was eager to get home and rest. As she walked toward Mistletoe Cottage, her feet throbbed.

She glanced to her right, at all the booths along Storey Road, each covered with enormous green tarps, making them look like alien pods that had landed during the day. Earlier, on her walk, she’d seen people hard at work decorating their booths with signs and Christmas décor. Mary hoped she would feel more like celebrating once the festivities commenced. Right at that moment, however, all she felt was overly tired and even a bit cranky.

Bah. Humbug.

Inside the cottage, she found George on the sofa, snoring. On his chest, rising and falling, was the script. She tried not to wake him, but Bootsie’s meows startled him, and he jumped, grabbing the script before it fell to the floor.

“I’m sorry, love.” Mary closed the door.

George rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “No, it’s fine. I can’t believe I fell asleep. I hadn’t intended on it.”

Mary removed her gloves and scarf then approached the sofa. “Why not? You work hard. You deserve a good nap.”

He tugged her hand and brought her over to sit with him then pulled her closer, squeezing her shoulders with a comforting hug. She snuggled up inside his strong embrace.

“You’ve had a long day,” he said. She could hear his voice resonate inside his chest.

“Too long,” she agreed. “I’m knackered.” Her eyes were drawn to the blazing fire. “Mmm, this is lovely.” Her eyelids began to droop under their own weight.

“You want your coat off?” he whispered.

“I’m still cold. I think I’ll keep it on for now. It’s positively bleak out there, George. Gray skies, drizzly weather. It makes me melancholy.”

“I know,” he said, and she wondered if he really did know.

“How was your day?” she asked, eyes still closed.

“Fine. Good. Spent the morning with Ben, actually. We had lunch at the pub.”

“Did you?”

“He stayed there, helping out Joe with some things. I suspect he’ll be here soon. I brought home some pie for you. Shall I get it now?”

“No, I want to sit right here with you, just like this. The pie can wait.” She nuzzled up closer, her face near his neck. They hadn’t cuddled for ages.

“About Ben…” George started. “I’ve meant to tell you something. A conversation we had a few days back.”

“Mmm…” she said to let him know she was listening.

“It was about Sheldon.”

She opened her eyes as though it would help her listen more accurately.

“Ben had noticed the picture of the three of us from that night. And he asked me about it. And I didn’t see any reason to lie, to cover things up.”

“No,” she agreed. “No, of course not.”

“So, I told him everything. About the boys’ trip to London, the accident…”

Mary remained quiet, uncertain how to respond.

George continued. “Ben was very kind about it. He seemed genuinely interested—and empathetic. I think it surprised him, that we’d lost a son.”

Mary shifted her body enough to look up at him without removing herself from his grasp. “Do you think that…”

“What?”

“Well, that Ben has experienced… a tragedy of his own? Ever since he’s arrived, I’ve seen this hollow look in his eyes—a sadness I recognize.”

“Yes.” George gazed into the fire. “I’ve seen it, too. But I’ve also seen some hope. There seem to be moments, unguarded, when the sadness goes away.”

“But they don’t last very long, those moments. I think he’s fighting it. George, do you think he’ll ever confide in us? About his loss?”

“I don’t know, dear. I hope so. A man shouldn’t carry that kind of burden alone.”

She laid her head back down on his chest. “George?”

“Yes, my love?”

“I’m glad we have each other.”

“I am, too.”

He kissed the top of her head, and her eyelids grew heavy again. This time, she let them have their way.