Chapter Four

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas.”

~Charles Dickens

Clearing away her husband’s porridge bowl and coffee mug, Mary examined the scribbling again. Gone out. Return soon. Ben.

The note was a perfect reflection of what little she knew of the man—concise, direct, a bit curt, and completely mysterious. All the things he didn’t say, things he didn’t do, had her prickling with curiosity. And even George was inquisitive, as they’d speculated about Ben over breakfast minutes ago, going over all the obvious questions—where he came from, what he was running from, and who he used to be. She wondered if they would ever have any answers.

Hearing a soft knock, Mary set down the saucer and stepped toward the front door, realizing she was still in her dressing gown. She pulled on the knob and saw Ben in her doorway, looking significantly less rumpled than he had before. Something about his face was different. He’d trimmed his beard. His hair was cleaner, perhaps? Hard to tell underneath that filthy cap…

“Good morning.” She stepped aside for him. “Come in and stand by the fire. Warm yourself,” she insisted.

He dipped his head through the doorway, removed his cap and gloves, and made his way toward the fire.

“Thank you for the note,” she continued. “I might’ve thought you’d left for good.” She tried to insert a teasing tone in her voice, but she suspected it was lost on him. She shut the door and watched Bootsie circle Ben’s shoes.

“That’s why I left it. The note. Didn’t want to concern you.” He watched Bootsie sniffing at his trouser leg to assess exactly where he’d been.

Mary wondered, too, but she didn’t dare ask.

Thoughtful and courteous, she thought, adding them to her growing list of traits that didn’t seem to mesh with his gruffer side. The man was a walking paradox.

“Are you hungry? I have porridge,” she offered, moving toward the kitchen.

“No, no. I’ve eaten. Thank you.”

She noticed the flakes on his shoulders. “It’s snowing again?”

“Only just. The cirrostratus clouds are hanging low…”

“Cirro…?”

“Snow clouds.”

“Oh. Yes, which means we’re in for a long, cold night.”

He searched the ground for something else to say. “I think I’ll retire for a bit.”

“All right.” She watched him leave in the direction of Sheldon’s room.

She resumed her cleaning as Bootsie followed, meowing loudly for a treat. “You’ve had enough this morning, little one,” she chided gently. “I’ll not have a fat cat in this house.”

He seemed to understand and changed his course. He leapt onto the sofa and kneaded the cushion with his paws.

Rinsing out the coffee cup with her hand, Mary hummed “O, Holy Night” and mused about how comforting it was to have another living, breathing human being in the cottage—even if that particular someone was an un-talkative, unkempt, utterly mysterious man who effortlessly used the word cirrostratus and slept most of the time. She didn’t realize how lonely she got or how empty the cottage felt when George went to work. Having someone else only a couple of rooms away was a nice change.

Before she could rinse out the other mug, she heard another knock at the door and wished she had changed out of her dressing gown before breakfast. Combing down her short gray hair with her fingers, she knew her task was futile and gave up. Whoever was at the door would have to accept her as she was.

“Mrs. Pickering!” Mary said as she opened the door, her voice punctuated with surprise. “Please, come in.”

Mary had only just seen Mrs. Pickering the day before. Odd that she should be at Mary’s door, especially at 10:00 a.m., opening time. Mrs. Pickering should have been at the shop, manning her post, collecting gossip, and eavesdropping on customers. What was so important that she had to make an out-of-the-way house call?

“Good morning!” said Mrs. Pickering, bundled up in a taupe overcoat and matching scarf.

Mary shut out the cold and shivered. “May I offer you some tea?” she asked, knowing full well she would have to go to the trouble of putting the kettle on.

“No, I haven’t time,” Mrs. Pickering assured. “I only popped round to talk about the Dickens Festival, and the choir.”

Something you could’ve done just as well by phone, Mary thought. Mrs. Pickering’s eyes roamed about, searching the sofa and the floor for something specific.

“Are there problems?” Mary asked.

“Pardon?” asked Mrs. Pickering, forcing her gaze back to Mary.

“With the festival. Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing of the sort. I was only wondering whether you’d be bringing the scones to this afternoon’s rehearsal.”

“Yes, of course.” She’d told Mrs. Pickering as much yesterday, upon leaving her shop. “If the blizzard still allows us to have a rehearsal…”

Mrs. Pickering’s eyes had taken to roaming again, and they stopped cold at Ben’s leather jacket, which he’d apparently laid on the sofa before going into Sheldon’s room. Mary panicked.

“Do you have a guest?” Mrs. Pickering stepped closer to the jacket. This wasn’t about scones or the festival. Mrs. Pickering was on a blatant fact-finding mission, seeking exclusive information about “the stranger.” Mary wondered how many other cottages she’d already inspected that morning, door-to-door.

“Uhm, no. I… that’s George’s jacket. Of course.” She cleared her throat, hoping Mrs. Pickering wouldn’t notice the enormous difference in size. George wore a small, while Ben probably wore an extra-large. But Ben’s jacket lay crumpled so that the size was impossible to determine unless Mrs. Pickering dared to pick it up.

Mrs. Pickering’s gaze lingered, as though considering the prospect, but suddenly, she turned and said, “Ahh. Well. Yes, the scones. All right, then. We’re all set. I’m glad I stopped by to make sure. One can never be too diligent about the small things. Must be on my way to the shop.” Moving toward the front door, she added, “Frightful weather predicted later today.”

“Yes. Frightful.” Mary let the cold in once again and wished Mrs. Pickering a good day. She wondered how long it would take before the entire village knew about Ben. The cat was surely out of the bag now.

 

Mary peeked out the window at the dreary sky. Thick snowfall threatened to create a challenging trek to the church hall. Snow was fine until she had to trudge out in it, get her ankles wet, and freeze her toes off. Still, the festival rehearsals were worth it, so she didn’t give a second thought to bundling up and heading out.

“There you are.” She saw Ben walking in from the bedroom, running a hand over his bearded chin with a yawn. “Did you sleep well?”

He nodded and rubbed his eyes. He resembled a little boy, vulnerable and disoriented from sleep. His hair seemed different to Mary. It was the same length—touching his shoulders—but it was cleaner and darker brown than she remembered from their first meeting.

“I was about to reheat some dumplings for you. I had a hunch you’d be up soon.”

“You didn’t need to do that.” He approached the table.

“Nonsense. No trouble at all.”

She moved to the kitchen and set the container in the microwave. As the airy hum started up, she peeked at Ben, saw him hunched at the table, and wondered what he was thinking. Is he tired of being inside the cottage, staring at the same four walls? Perhaps he needed a change of scenery.

“Ben, I have a proposition.” She inched closer, knowing the response would be an instant no, but not caring. She pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and threaded her fingers together on top of the table. “I’m going to a rehearsal. In fact, I’m nearly late for it. Anyway, I think you should come with me.”

“Where?”

“The church hall, to the rehearsal. We’re preparing for the annual Dickens Festival. I’m part of a group of twenty ladies who’ve formed a sort of caroling choir. On Christmas Eve, we’ll walk around and sing throughout the village and then end with a concert inside the church. It’s a lovely occasion. Don’t you want to hear our rehearsal?”

He cocked his head, as if considering her proposal. His deep-set blue eyes searched the table. “I don’t think I’d be very good company,” he decided. A strand of hair fell near his cheek, and he didn’t bother to brush it away. “Besides, look at me. I’m not exactly church ready.”

“Nonsense. You look fine. They’ll accept you as you are. Come along. Please? Honestly, I have a selfish motive—I’d love to have a bit of company on the walk. It’s been snowing for hours now, and it might be a challenge for an old woman on icy ground. I have a bad back and arthritis, and I’ll be carrying three boxes of scones from the bakery. I might fall and break a hip on the way! You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.” She thought she saw the corner of his lip curl up into an almost-smile. “You could sit at the back of the church,” she continued. “No one will disturb you. I promise. You could be… well, my escort. My guardian.”

The microwave beeped, and she supported her weight on the table to stand up slowly, her knees creaking and cracking. She went to stir the dumplings. The steamy vapors told her they were hot enough, so she found the thermos George sometimes took to work. After emptying the dumplings into it, careful to avoid splashes from the sauce, she reached for a spoon.

“Well,” Ben mumbled, “I suppose a walk might do me some good.”

“Perfect.” She screwed the thermos lid on as tightly as her arthritis would allow then handed it to him. “I was hoping you’d say that. Here’s your dinner. Transportable!”

She saw the quarter-smile grow, even heard the traces of a chuckle from his throat. It was a risk, but being presumptuous had paid off. She knew her own powers of persuasion. She tried not to use guilt trips often—only when they were absolutely necessary in twisting someone’s arm a bit. For their own good, of course.

 

Mary’s decision to invite Ben to join her had been so lightning quick that she’d forgotten his anonymity would be entirely exposed. People would see him walking with her in the street and immediately wonder who he was. The long hair and the beard would surely out him as “the vagabond.” But, she reminded herself, thanks to Mrs. Pickering’s earlier visit and astute powers of observation, most people will already know the truth by now, anyway.

People wouldn’t mock him or talk about him to his face. No, the villagers were good at keeping those sorts of things to themselves, chattering over tea the next day in each other’s parlors or sharing curious whispers while munching scones at the bakery:

“Did you see that scraggly man with Mrs. Cartwright?”

“Where did he come from?”

“He looks like a homeless person.”

“Wonder how long he’ll stay at the village. We’d best lock our doors.”

No matter. Let them speculate. Let them gossip and titter and wonder. By the time the villagers started actively seeking answers, Ben would probably be long gone, off to another town, in search of whatever it was he couldn’t find in Chilton Crosse.

 

Ben could have walked much faster than Mrs. Cartwright could, because of his much-longer legs and his youth. Still, he hovered slightly behind her, being patient as she plodded along on the pavement, shuffling through the snow at a snail’s pace. The snowflakes caught in his eyelashes and buried themselves inside the collar of his not-warm-enough jacket.

Seeing how much farther the church was, he regretted coming at all. But his presence seemed important to Mrs. Cartwright—and he owed her his life. She was apparently the one who’d found him, facedown in the snow that evening. Something had caught her attention, made her look outside her window, call frantically to her husband, and get Ben the help he needed. The least he could do was accompany her—even at a snail’s pace—to the other end of the village.

When they’d first set out, Ben had clutched the thermos, trying not to think about the dumplings inside. The omelet at the pub had satisfied him for a few brief hours, but when he’d awoken from his afternoon nap, he’d been famished again. He knew he could easily eat the thermos’s contents in a few short gulps.

Mrs. Cartwright made a languid detour at the bakery, during which Ben traded his thermos for her three boxes of scones. He could smell hints of blueberry and cinnamon coming from the boxes’ gaping seams. Ben continued following Mrs. Cartwright to the church at an even slower pace. Along the way, he noticed odd glances and lingering stares from passersby or people standing under shop awnings, probably wondering who the stranger was with one of their townsfolk. But what did he care? The people were strangers to him, too. Let them stare. He would be gone the next morning, anyway.

They finally reached the church, a modest, traditional old building with stained glass, thick-stoned arches, and a steeple. But Mrs. Cartwright bypassed the building and took a right, heading to the structure beside it. Ben juggled the boxes and reached his free arm out to open the door before she could get to it.

“Thank you, dear,” she said as they stepped into a church hall, where a wall of warm air greeted them. Ben closed the door then followed Mrs. Cartwright inside the long room. At the far end stood a group of chattering ladies, and at the other, nearest Ben, stood a collection of tables and chairs pushed to the side.

Mrs. Cartwright removed her scarf and shook off the snow. “You can set the boxes here.” She motioned to a table already filled with napkins, plasticware, a few covered dishes, and a couple of portable kettles.

“That might be a good spot for you,” she whispered, pointing to a table in a dim area in the far corner, where the lights in the second portion of the hall weren’t in use. She handed him the thermos, his reward.

Perhaps he could manage a bit of privacy, after all. She drifted off to meet up with the other ladies while he made his way to his temporary cave, eager to start on his dinner.

Ben removed his cap then his gloves, in order to unscrew the thermos lid. He took the first bite of dumplings. Heaven. A woman at the other end of the hall tapped a stick on the music stand in a futile attempt to attract the ladies’ attention. Ben wondered how they got anything done. It seemed more like a social club gathering than choir practice. Mrs. Cartwright had joined them and stood in the center of the group, holding her music folder, ready to sing.

His second bite was as delicious as the first. Creamy goodness and tender chicken melted in his mouth. His mother used to make dumplings for him, ages and ages ago—always when he was ailing or sad. Food for the soul, she’d called it. On his third bite, he saw a figure approaching.

“Good evening,” the man said, extending a shadowy hand. Ben caught the gleam of a white vicar’s collar and swallowed that last bite the wrong way, which started him choking.

“Oh, I’m awfully sorry! I startled you.” The vicar reached behind him for something as Ben tried his best to catch his breath. He coughed and cleared his throat, hoping to avoid making a scene and distracting the ladies in the choir. But their first song was well underway, and they were oblivious to him.

After a moment, Ben was able to swallow without coughing. The vicar handed him a paper cone filled with water, which he accepted. The cold water rushed down the back of his throat and made everything better.

“Cheers,” Ben said, coughing a final time.

“No trouble at all.” The vicar found a nearby chair and sat down.

Ben regretted taking the water, which had obligated him to enter into conversation. He had nowhere to hide.

“I’m Michael,” the vicar said, extending his hand a second time.

Ben shook it, feeling the weight of social responsibility override his desire to flee the building.

Releasing the vicar’s hand, Ben swallowed the rest of his water in one gulp, hoping his refusal to give his name would end the conversation before it began.

“Lots of snow out there.” The vicar had begun the standard chitchat. Weather. How original. “We could get as much as eight inches, I’m told.”

Ben studied him. Younger than any vicar he’d ever seen, Michael was in his mid-thirties, at best. With his boyish features, the man looked as if he were playing the role of a vicar, rather than actually performing the duties of one. Ben felt a little sorry for him. He was probably a genuinely nice person who meant well—he’d seen a stranger in a corner then attempted to be congenial, perhaps even win a soul. But Ben’s was a soul not worth saving. And he wasn’t in the mood to be patronized. The vicar wiped his hands on his thighs, brushing away imaginary lint, and tried again.

“So. Have you been in our fair village for long?”

“Not long.” Ben returned to his dumplings.

“Ah. Well, you’ll soon see how lovely the people are here.” His voice, low and comforting, resonated the way a vicar’s should. Ben wondered if the seminary offered special courses: “How to Speak Like a Vicar 101.” He imagined a roomful of future vicars, repeating standard phrases and practicing their diction, their volume, and their tone.

“We’re quite a welcoming place,” Michael continued. “Lots of activities to offer. That is, if the snow doesn’t engulf the whole village before nightfall.” Chuckling at his own attempt at a joke, he folded his arms. “Will you be staying through the holidays with us?”

“No.” Ben took another bite.

“I see. Well, I hope the time you are here will be restful for you. And that you find what you’re looking for.”

The vicar rose from his chair, and Ben peered at him again. What would make him say such a thing to a stranger? Why would he assume I’m in search of anything? How incredibly presumptuous.

“God bless you in your travels,” the vicar said before leaving.

God. Ben had once been familiar with the concept. As a child, he’d stood sandwiched between his parents at a London cathedral, reading prayers in Latin. And during communion, he would dutifully accept a dry, tasteless wafer from a priest. What did a wafer have to do with anything else? he’d always wondered. What mystery or world crisis did a wafer ever solve?

Later, as a young adult released from the shackles of his parents’ religion, he finally had the freedom, the choice to have God in his life. And he’d chosen not to. Sure, at first, Ben had told himself that he wasn’t abandoning the Church—merely that other things were crowding out the need for it. Those things seemed far more important than Latin prayers, hymns, and empty symbols like crosses or wafers. Real-life, tangible things—such as education, girls, and creating a life that would even halfway live up to his father’s standards—were the only things that mattered or made any sense to him.

But six months ago, the concept of God had turned from lukewarm to ugly. God had suddenly become a taker, a monster that removed any trace of good and stole it all away. God was the puppet master, watching His marionettes dance on a string at His will. At first, Ben had shaken his fist at Him, but after a while, his fist had grown tired. His anger was futile, anyway. God would do whatever God wanted to do. So why waste the energy?

Before long, Ben’s anger had shifted to indifference, which had finally turned to atheism. Deciding not to believe at all made things easier. He had one less person to be angry with—one less thing in his life to distrust.

Ben finished his dumplings when the choir began the opening chords of “The First Noel.” Feeling moody and restless, he reached for his gloves and hat again. But he had nowhere to go, and he couldn’t abandon Mrs. Cartwright.

Puffing out an aggravated sigh, he sat back with a grunt, capped the empty thermos, and crossed his arms. Why had he agreed to come in the first place? He didn’t belong there, amongst sweet little old ladies, vicars, and Christmas hymns that didn’t move him. He belonged out there, in the cold, wandering and drifting like a snowflake.

Soon enough. He could certainly bide his time for a few more hours.

 

At 1:15 a.m., Ben heard Mrs. Cartwright click off her light and trudge down the hallway. After accompanying her back to the cottage hours earlier, Ben had claimed exhaustion and returned to Sheldon’s room to sleep. But all he had done was wait—through Mr. Cartwright’s late arrival home from work, through dinner and the muffled chitchat he could hear between them, through her knitting and his lingering at the fire until he finally turned in. But Mrs. Cartwright was a night owl and had lingered a little longer. Ben had quietly packed his bag then paced the bedroom floor. Finally, he’d given in and opened the book Mrs. Cartwright had given him—a submarine novel he’d read before. He was halfway through it when he heard her light click off.

Sure, it would’ve been easier—and faster—to simply explain, say good-bye, then leave after the rehearsal. He could’ve gotten a nice head start with some daylight left in front of him. And he would have had to contend with a lot less snow. But something wouldn’t let him face Mrs. Cartwright. He’d preferred to take the coward’s way out and disappear in the middle of the night.

He waited beside the bedroom door, bag in hand, like a convict ready to escape. He could hear his own breathing, followed by the sound of Mrs. Cartwright’s door closing. The coast was officially clear. He didn’t feel the need to leave a note this time. They would see the empty room, his missing bag, the made bed. They would know he had moved on.

The hallway was dark, but fortunately, the fire in the sitting room cast a strong glow on the walls. Plus, the outside Christmas lights apparently winked all night long—he remembered them distinctly from the night he’d collapsed. They made colorful kaleidoscopes on the floor through the windows, cheerfully begging him to stay.

He reached for the front doorknob—nearly there!—then he heard something behind him.

“Leaving us?” Mr. Cartwright asked.

He’d been caught, royally. Ben swiveled to face Mr. Cartwright. He felt the need to explain, but all he could do was shrug.

Mr. Cartwright came closer, thrusting his hands into his pajama pockets. The fire’s glow made his silver-peppered beard even more silver.

“Take care of yourself, son. I wish you the best.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of it?” Ben asked.

“I don’t think I could.”

Ben hadn’t expected that. When he heard Mr. Cartwright’s voice, he’d braced himself for a difficult good-bye, struggling to justify his getaway as if he were a thief in the night.

Sensing a sudden stab of gratitude and knowing it was his last chance to express it, he told Mr. Cartwright, “I can’t thank you enough. For all you and your wife have done. Your kindness, your generosity…” Strong emotion bubbled up from his chest. He hadn’t expected that, either.

“You’re more than welcome, son. I’m only glad Mary was there to hear you fall. You would’ve died out there in the snow, otherwise.”

Ben nodded and stared at the floor.

“Where will you go?” Mr. Cartwright asked.

“Not sure.”

“I won’t talk you out of leaving. But I will say this. You’re welcome to stay through the holidays. I haven’t heard you speak of any family, and this is the Christmas season. I know it would thrill Mary to bits, having you around. We’d both be glad to have you stay.”

Ben glanced up to see the sincerity in Mr. Cartwright’s eyes. He wasn’t being a do-gooder, offering a handout to a weary traveler out of pity. He seemed to mean it.

“It’s much too generous. I couldn’t. I don’t deserve that sort of… benevolence. You’re better off letting me go.”

“Nonsense. We’d love to have you stick around. No one should be alone on Christmas.”

Ben saw the tree, lovingly decorated, beside the cozy fireplace. He thought of the dumplings, the warm bed, and the genuine hospitality. Then he thought of the alternative—wandering aimlessly in a snowstorm, shivering and hungry again. He had no idea how far the next village was or whether he would die before he even made it there. It was foolish not to at least consider the offer.

“I’d have to earn my keep,” Ben insisted.

“I would expect nothing less. We could sort something out.”

Ben paused, still not sure he was ready to commit to putting down roots, even shallow ones for a few weeks. “Only if you’re certain…”

“I am,” Mr. Cartwright said. “More than certain. And let’s keep this little conversation to ourselves. Don’t want the missus thinking you were trying to steal away without a good-bye. Wouldn’t sit too well with her.”

“Right.”

“Now, I snuck out of bed for another helping of that plum pudding. Mary would disapprove, pat my stomach, and tell me a few extra pounds weren’t worth the extra bites. So, I waited until she went to sleep. Silly woman, stays up all hours of the night. She’s like a vampire.”

Ben couldn’t stop the grin.

“Care to join me?” Mr. Cartwright asked, already heading for the kitchen.

Realizing he hadn’t eaten since the dumplings during the rehearsal, Ben said, “I’ll be right there.” He walked toward the bedroom to put his bag back where it belonged.