Chapter Six

Figures passed and repassed there; and the hum and murmur of voices greeted his ear sweetly.

~Charles Dickens

Ben, in his former life, had always been enslaved to time. He would set three alarm clocks each evening and consult two day planners each day, and he never, ever left home without a watch precisely synchronized to the clock in his car.

But the past few weeks had been a colorless blur. Days ran together, one after the next. In fact, Ben had taken off his timepiece the night before and tucked it into a pocket inside his bag. Somewhere along his journey, the watch had stopped ticking, anyway. During his wandering, before he’d collapsed outside Mary’s cottage, his hours had held no shape or form. Time had become irrelevant. But lately, he experienced that pull again for a bit of structure, the desire for a point of reference, at least, at which hours actually meant something.

That desire was further strengthened by the nightmare that had rattled him out of sleep an hour ago. He’d awoken with an erratic jerk, his heart thumping and palms sweating. The nightmare always held the same vivid images—black umbrellas glossy with rain, a red handkerchief, and a steady beep gone silent. The suffocating cloud of the dream had settled over him and remained long after he’d forced himself out of bed, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair.

Restless, Ben walked into the sitting room and felt the stabbing in his abdomen. He hadn’t had pain for a couple of days, leading him to hope that healing was already taking place. But maybe it wasn’t.

He went in search of antacids, and on the way, he read the note Mary had placed on the table: Gone to choir rehearsal. Be back around noon. Make yourself breakfast. Ben glanced at the to-do notepad beside it, hoping George had added something before leaving for work. But the pad was entirely blank. Ben was on his own for the day.

He found the tablets and struggled to swallow them without any water. Then the wooden advent calendar caught his eye. Walking toward it, near the front window, he saw the date of the last opened door—the eighth day of December. He’d been in Chilton Crosse for eight days. Was that possible? Certainly, that was the longest he’d spent time in one place since he’d quit his job four—no, five—weeks ago. Even now, after finding a comfortable rhythm—keeping up with regular hygiene, reading nearly all the books Mary got him, feeling useful by helping out around the cottage—he still had the consistent urge to chuck his things into his bag, scrawl out a quick note, and walk out the door forever. But a voice inside told him to fight it.

Maybe it was that same voice reminding him about Mac’s card. Ben needed something to fill the time, a bigger distraction than small tasks inside the cottage. He went to his jacket on the coat rack and reached inside the pocket then walked toward the kitchen phone, card in hand. He dialed, having no idea what he would actually say once Mac answered.

“Hello?” he heard on the other end.

“Err… hi. Hello. Mac? This is Ben. Ben Granger.”

“Oh, aye. The Cartwrights’ nephew.”

“Yes. I, uhm, I was wondering if you needed… if you had extra work for me? I’m free this morning. Actually, I can give you the entire day. If you need me, that is.”

“I can always use an extra hand, aye.”

“You should know,” Ben confessed, “I’m not very good. At handyman things. I’m not a carpenter or repairman. But I am a quick study.”

“That’s all you need, a sharp mind. The hands will follow. ’Tis what my grandfather always told me.”

Some of Ben’s confidence returned. “Well, if you’re willing, I’m available.”

“Can you meet me at Elton’s farm? About a half mile north of the village, off the main road. Can’t miss it.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Oddly, suddenly, the dread shifted into a small rush of excitement. New work was an escape, of sorts, venturing into the unknown. He had no idea what to expect from the day. He was in Mac’s hands. And for whatever reason, he knew he could trust that.

 

Chopping wood in chilly weather left Ben with the odd sensation of being hot and cold at the same time. The sweat on his brow turned cold, and icy air brushed his skin each time he swung his ax, finally forcing him to remove his jacket. He’d become quite good at chopping wood and soon picked up the pace. He’d never swung an ax before in his life. He’d never had reason to, city boy that he was. But he could see the satisfying appeal of hard labor, of channeling one’s emotions and energies into striking something as hard as one could. It also required little logic and brainpower. He could switch over to autopilot: grab the wood, place it steady on the block, swing the ax at an angle, split the wood, toss it aside, then reach for another piece.

While Ben chopped, Mac had gone to do repairs on a barn at the opposite end of the farm. Mr. Elton was getting too old to do the necessary work, and so Mac lent a hand now and again, to lighten the load.

“I see you’ve made progress,” Mac said when he returned. His work boots made zigzag patterns in the few bits of snow the sun hadn’t melted.

Ben was mid-swing and out of breath, and after he chopped the piece, he set the ax aside, grateful for a break. He could already feel the stiffness in his back and shoulders. Tomorrow’s soreness would be hellish.

“Nearly finished with the load,” Ben assured.

“Good timing. We’re due at the church in an hour. I’ll treat you to a pub lunch beforehand.”

“The church, eh?” Ben squinted in the sunlight. He had a quick choice to make: risk seeing the vicar, which meant he might be interrogated or preached at, or make up a solid excuse to return to the cottage, where he could skulk about, feeling like a useless coward.

“Aye, Michael wants decorations put up. ’Tis usually my job to do it. And perhaps some minor repairs done, as well.” Mac waited patiently for Ben’s answer.

Integrity won out. Ben needed to live up to his offer of a full day’s work. Plus, he remembered his ulcer and knew a meal would help. An empty stomach would only make his condition worse. “Sounds fine. Let me finish these last pieces. Won’t take a minute.”

 

At the pub, Mac introduced Ben to the man behind the bar. “This is Joe, himself. Owner of this fine establishment.”

Joe chuckled and gave a sort of eye roll.

Mac ignored him and continued. “Joe, this is Ben Granger. He’s nephew to Mary Cartwright.”

Guilt pricked Ben’s conscience over letting the lie continue. But it wasn’t his lie. What else could he do but go along? Correcting the lie would expose Mary and taint her reputation. Surely, the ruse was harmless enough, in the end.

“Nice to meet you!” Joe said, offering a hearty handshake across the bar. “Mary’s nephew, eh? Whereabouts are you from?”

“London. Well, originally. Been moving around a lot lately, though.”

“Sounds like an exciting life. You two have a seat, and I’ll get you started. Everything on the house. A proper welcome-to-the-village lunch!”

Later, at the corner table, Mac munched on his fish and chips in silence while Ben sipped his potato soup. He’d wanted to order something hearty, ribs or cottage pie, as Mac had. But the soup would be better for his ulcer, so Ben had caved.

He sat back and stretched his long legs under the table, reaching for a sip of water. “I wanted to thank you,” he told Mac, who had tipped another chip to his mouth.

“For what, son?” He popped it in and munched.

“For taking me on such short notice. Without even knowing me. Not asking for references or past experience.”

Mac gave a nod and focused on his food. His voice raspy and weathered, he said, “’Tis not my business to pry into other folks’ affairs. I figure if they wish to tell me about themselves, they will. In time.”

He looked up into Ben’s eyes without blinking, still chewing, then looked down again.

 

All of Ben’s concerns had been moot—the vicar was nowhere to be seen when Ben and Mac arrived at the church. Mac mentioned something about him visiting an ailing parishioner. Mac and Ben spent the whole of the afternoon stringing white lights and decorating trees inside the church hall. Then later, they added poinsettias and white candles to the sanctuary.

At the end of the workday, Mac tried to pay him, but Ben refused. He might be able to perpetuate the lie of being someone’s nephew, but he wasn’t about to take Mac’s money when he had more than enough sitting in the bank. So, rather than say he didn’t “need” the money, Ben made up some excuse about the hard work being payment enough. Mac didn’t question him further.

By the time Ben reached Mistletoe Cottage, night had fallen. He got a whiff of himself before he reached the door. He cringed at the odor—sweat mixed with a faint scent of fried fish, leftover from the pub. He was in dire need of a bath.

He knocked softly then reached for the knob, figuring Mrs. Cartwright—Mary, he remembered—wouldn’t mind if he walked on in.

“There you are,” she exclaimed, taking off her glasses. She was sitting in her rocking chair near the fire, a long stretch of navy-blue fabric across her lap. “I was about to call out the search party!”

“Blast. I forgot to leave a note.” He grimaced. “Sorry about the language.” He closed the door. Every movement took effort. His body, head to toe, ached with the efforts of hard labor. But it was a good ache. A worthy ache. “I should’ve rung you, but we got so busy—”

“We?”

“Oh. Mac MacDonald. Since Mr. Cartwright—”

“George,” she corrected.

“Right. Since George didn’t have any work for me today, I rang Mac. He’d said he needed an extra pair of hands for the holidays.”

Mary put aside her sewing. “You don’t have to explain. I was only teasing about the search party. You know you’re welcome to come and go as you please. I’m glad you had such a nice, long day out. Fresh air. Good for the lungs.” She stood and smoothed out her beige skirt. “Are you hungry?”

“A bit,” he confessed. “But I’m in greater need of a good bath. Don’t come near—I’m afraid you’d pass out from the stench.”

She chuckled. “I doubt that. But you go ahead with your bath, and I’ll make you a snack.”

“Where’s Mister… where’s George?” he asked.

“Went to bed early. He claims the flu, but I think it’s only allergies.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s a bit of a hypochondriac, you know.”

“Ah.” Ben headed down the hall, so tired that he nearly forgot to dip his head under the doorframe and came within two centimeters of giving himself a horrible headache.

Half an hour later, after a bath, nothing sounded better than a lie-down by the fire. His mind was too revved up to sleep, but his muscles begged to recline. He entered the sitting room, dressed in a freshly laundered flannel shirt and jeans, his hair still damp. Mary had bought him sleepwear—“proper pajamas,” she’d called them—but he didn’t feel comfortable wearing them about the cottage. He would change into them later.

The moment his body dropped onto the sofa beneath him, his every muscle relaxed. For the first time in ten hours, he closed his eyes and felt the tension drain away. He didn’t think he could ever move again.

“Here you are,” Mary said, approaching his side.

It took everything in him to move to a sitting position, to command his torso and limbs to cooperate.

“Thank you,” he said, as she handed him a big steaming bowl of… potato soup.

“I made it this afternoon. Thought it would make for a nice evening meal. Comfort food.”

“It’s perfect.” He ate quietly as she returned to her rocking chair and picked up the blue fabric.

“This is for the Dickens Festival,” she told him. “Twenty costumes, all to be hemmed. Of course, I’m not hemming all twenty.” Her fingers moved nimbly, knowingly. The needle popped in and out of the fabric so quickly that it barely registered to the eye, past a thin flash of metal. “I’m only responsible for seven. But seven is enough, with a petticoat this wide.” She lifted the fabric and showed him the enormous circle that cascaded onto the floor.

“Blimey,” he said through a sip of soup.

“I love it, I admit. Even with all the hard work involved. Nothing like a festival to make things seem Christmassy…”

“Does it happen every year? The festival?” he asked, finishing off the last spoonful.

“Every couple of years or so,” she said, gently rocking. “It’s such a big production, we have to give ourselves a break. Of course, one Christmas tradition that doesn’t take a break is our Mystery Claus. We see him every year. Well, not really ‘see’ him. Nobody’s ever seen him.”

“Mystery Claus?” Ben asked.

“Yes. Well, I assume it’s a ‘him.’” She placed her hands in her lap, still holding the needle, and removed her glasses. She leaned in, as if the walls had ears. “It’s like having our own Father Christmas. For the past twenty years, at least, someone—a person from the village, I assume—has left presents on certain folks’ doorsteps. Not random doorsteps, mind you. It’s very deliberate. Only those in need. Folks who have just lost a job or someone who’s had a tragedy the year before. Usually people with broken spirits, broken lives.”

“Interesting.”

“And eerie. This person knows details about the village. He’s very specific with the gift-giving—only gives people exactly what they need. Age-appropriate toys for children—the exact number inside the household, in fact! Or maybe an expensive wheelchair for an elderly person. One year, he even placed a new dishwasher on the porch of someone whose washer had broken the month before. Imagine that!”

“Amazing.”

“And the money it would take for that each year? Goodness, it’s staggering. Thousands of pounds, over the years. We all have our own theories, mind you. I tend to think that Mrs. Pickering might be involved. She owns the grocer’s, and she knows everyone in the village, all our personal details. It would make sense. But then, she would need help, wouldn’t she? Moving the items, especially the heavy ones, transporting them to the cottages, then placing them on doorsteps. Another possibility is Dr. Andrews. He has the financial means. And a heart of gold. Or Duncan Newbury, richest man in town.” She paused and shook her head. “Imagine this. Once upon a time, I even suspected my own husband! George is acquainted with everyone in the village. He’s aware of their problems and difficulties. But it would be impossible for him to hide it from me all these years. And, of course, we’re not wealthy enough. Unless he has a secret stash somewhere he’s been keeping from me…”

Though genuinely interested in the mystery person, Ben craved relief—his sore body needed a soft place to fall. His hands had even started to shake during the last couple of minutes as he’d held the bowl. Rather than let it fall and break, he set it on the floor and carefully lay back on the sofa with a grunt, closing his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You must be knackered,” Mary said. “I’ll stay quiet. Let you rest.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m only shutting my eyes. Go on.”

Somewhere between talk of the Father Christmas mystery and the next day’s weather, Ben’s mind fell into an abyss of beautiful, airy unconsciousness as he gave in to luscious sleep.