Ariadne prowled around the retreat’s guestroom, unable to settle to anything. What with the fire, and Hebe’s possible dementia, she felt the walls were closing in on their life together. Is this what’s in store for us? she wondered. She trembled at the thought of Hebe disappearing into the twilight zone while she tried to care for her.
Hebe was fit, had never smoked, did the crossword and was an avid reader. It was a terrible blow to hear Dr Makaris confirm her deepest fears: a body could go on living while the mind was disintegrating. She had seen its effects during her aunt May’s last years. She had become wizened, angry, unpredictable, and latterly so violent that, at times, she’d had to be restrained. The sooner the appointment in Athens came, the better, but it would have to be after Christmas.
Christmas. How could she bear to celebrate with all this hanging over their heads? The choir music was destroyed, as was her digital music centre. She wanted to scream in frustration. Not to be in their own home, with no chance of repairs, was unbearable. She did not venture near the villa, and their poor olive garden now was little more than a tip.
The retreat was warm, dry and comfortable enough. She thought of all the famous authors who had been entertained there. Dear Elodie had been a generous hostess. If only she could sit down and share all her troubles with her. Ariadne found herself returning time and time again to the little study where the author had worked. It was a summerhouse overlooking the bay, the perfect writing room away from the bustle of the villa.
Now it felt damp after all the rain. Perhaps it was time to clear out the precious books and manuscripts, in case they were damaged. She was also sure Peter and Alison wouldn’t mind her retrieving them. It would be something useful to do.
Elodie’s Christmases were always wild, with parties and feasting. She’d had such joie de vivre. There was usually a handsome beau, who would toast Elodie and her guests. The champagne flowed, and they’d had such jolly times until ill-health had diminished her appetite, her mobility and her high spirits.
‘A writer never dies,’ she would say. ‘It’s a lifetime occupation. Like old soldiers, we simply fade away.’ True to her word, Elodie had taken to her bed one day, refused to eat or drink and done just that. Yet here her spirit seemed to linger.
Later on that afternoon, Ariadne began to shuffle books into boxes and collect files of manuscripts and notebooks from the shelves. She couldn’t help glancing through the papers, snooping, in fact. The mind of an author must be like a jigsaw puzzle, full of snippets and images, quotes and half-finished sentences. But then she saw a short story, one she’d never read. It was entitled: ‘A Memory: Santa Claus and the Chimney’.
I was quite a nervy kid, with fanciful notions and nightmares. Christmas was a time of year when the mills closed and the mucky snow was piled up, covered with sooty bits. We had us all a party of sorts in the school, orange squash, jelly, blancmange, which I hated, and yesterday’s iced buns, which were chewy and thick. I loved the idea of Father Christmas bringing presents at midnight.
‘Don’t expect him to bring much this year,’ my mother said. ‘He has a lot of hungry kiddies to feed and clothe before coming to our street. Think on, he can’t always work miracles.’ Nevertheless we went to see Father Christmas, in Whitaker’s store. He was a scary man with whiskers and beery breath. I didn’t like sitting on his knee, because his hands went up my skirt to tickle me. I didn’t like him wiggling his thing at me. The thought of him coming down my bedroom chimney or anywhere else in the house terrified me.
The front room was only used on a Sunday. It was where it all happened at Christmas, with a coal fire, so I decided to make sure Father Christmas didn’t use that chimney. I blocked it up as high as I could. He would have to put stuff through the letterbox instead. I went to bed that night, certain that no creepy old man would get into the parlour.
In the morning there was all hell to pay. Mum had left the fire banked up in there so the front room would be warm enough to open presents and receive visitors in. We had paper chains strung across the ceiling, with concertina paper lanterns and a little tree covered with lights, cotton wool on its wiry branches. The card table was spread with Mum’s best embroidered cloth, with ladies in crinolines on the corners. Christmas Day was the best day of the year, but not this one.
‘Who’s the bloody idiot who blocked up the chimney? The smoke’s backed up and it’s choking in there. Tom, did you do it?’ Mum yelled. Smoke had seeped everywhere in the house, stinking out the whole place. The window was sooted up, the cloth covered with smuts, and we could hardly breathe.
‘It were me,’ I cried. ‘I blocked it up, so that old man couldn’t come down and steal from us.’ That was my excuse and I was sticking to it.
‘Well, our Gladys, you’ve certainly done a good job. Just look at the mess, my lady. How can we have next-door round for a tipple in this stinking mess? Did you not think?’
I knew she wanted to tan my backside, but Dad stepped in. ‘The kid was scared. She doesn’t realise Santa’s the spirit of Christmas who brings Christmas joy. There’s no need to be afraid of him, lass.’
‘He weren’t that nice in Whitaker’s. He put his fingers in my knickers,’ I said, blushing.
‘He did what?’ Dad shouted. ‘The dirty bugger. Wait till I tell them in the store.’
‘It’s too late. He’s gone back to the North Pole,’ I said, in all innocence.
Everyone went quiet after that. They opened windows and the front door to get rid of the smoke.
‘We could have choked to death in our beds,’ Mam said, calming down. ‘Come on, you lot, get stuck in. It’s still Christmas morning. We’ve time to get the worst of it outside and open our presents.’
‘How did he get in, then?’ I said.
‘Never you mind. Happen he left them on the front doorstep.’
That was all I was going to get from her.
Ariadne smiled at the story. There was a pile of others to read. Why had they never been published? She realised this must be a file of personal jottings about the real Gladys Pickvance, not the fictional Elodie Durrante, the romantic novelist. How had they been overlooked? The clue lay within the shabby yellow file marked: CONFIDENTIAL.
Ariadne clutched it to her chest with excitement. Peter and Alison must see this. There was still interest in Elodie. Her fans would love to read about the real woman. There was gold to be mined here. She felt almost as if Elodie was still alive. Had she pointed Ariadne in the right direction?
Don’t be fanciful, old girl. These memoirs were waiting to be discovered and you were just lucky. Yet it felt more than that, like a gift to lighten her days here. She would read the stories to Hebe after supper. It would help them share their own Christmas memories. She had once read that looking into the past for dementia sufferers could awaken a lot of pleasure: perhaps not all memory was lost for ever.