Page 16 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘Right, where shall we start?’ I ask, setting the voice recorder on my phone running. I lift my tea and take a sip.
‘I always find it’s best to start at the beginning,’ Estelle says. ‘Now, if you’ll make sure the first decoration is in exactly the right place, please, Angela.’
Angela goes over to the tree and lifts a bauble shaped like a newborn baby in a pale blue crib. She moves it across to the side of the tree.
‘Now, we wait,’ Estelle says, lifting her tea from the little table next to her chair, and I wonder what we’re waiting for.
Estelle glances at the clock on the mantelpiece while she sips her tea, and as she does I notice the moon through the window outside. Slowly it begins to peek out from behind the bank of cloud it’s been caught behind. At exactly the same time as the clock strikes eight, the moon shines through the window, its luminescent glow landing directly on the baby in the crib.
‘Now we are ready,’ Estelle announces. ‘For our first story I’d like to take you all the way back to the London of Georgian times.’ She puts her tea back down on the table and happily settles into recalling the first of her stories, but as she does something odd begins to happen. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, Elle,’ she says as the furniture in the room suddenly begins to fade away. ‘But this house, along with all the other houses on Mistletoe Square, was built in 1750 by a renowned architect of the time called Joseph Christmas. He designed buildings all over London, but Mistletoe Square was his pride and joy.’
I glance across at Angela to see if Estelle’s words are having the same effect on her and she’s seeing what I am. But Angela just appears to be listening calmly alongside me. She doesn’t seem to notice that as Estelle speaks the room is changing all around us.
‘Joseph,’ Estelle continues, while the dining table begins to slide through some newly formed double doors into the room that was Estelle’s bedroom, but now is transforming into a formal dining room, ‘not only put his time and energy into this square, but his heart too. He built Number Five to live in with his wife, Celeste, and their only child, Nora.’
The chairs that were around the disappearing table slide seamlessly into a new position with their backs firmly against the walls, their upholstery changing from a light chintz pattern to a heavy velvet, and they now rest in between a couple of small card tables.
‘Joseph was not only a successful man in his own right,’ Estelle says calmly, seemingly unaware of the changes taking place in her own house, ‘he was a philanthropist too. He supported many good causes and charities of the time.’ Much of Estelle’s furniture has now faded away, only a few pieces made from dark mahogany remain. In its place, different pieces of furniture, again much of it crafted from shiny, dark wood, fill the room – it’s very clearly antique in style, but somehow it manages to look brand new.
‘But, sadly, Joseph passed away suddenly in 1753, and, in 1754, Celeste remarried, to a man who was not as kind-hearted as Joseph. We join their story on Christmas Eve 1755 … ’
The room becomes colder, even though a fire still burns merrily away in the hearth. The Christmas tree that Angela and I spent so long decorating earlier has now vanished, and in its place, fresh winter greenery mixed with the sharp spikes and red berries of holly is positioned on top of a large sideboard and an expensive-looking chest of drawers. More greenery is also hung over the frames of oil paintings and watercolours, which hang from a new picture rail running the length of the dark red walls.
I shiver and blink a few times, then I rub my eyes, but nothing changes.
Except everything has. Everything is different.
‘Watch,’ I hear Estelle say next to me as I open my mouth to question what I’m seeing. ‘This is where our story begins … ’
Five
MistletoeSquare,London
24 December 1755
A Child is Born …
‘Ooh, it’s criminal,’ a stout, red-faced woman says, bustling into the room. She’s followed by a slim young girl. Both of them wear long dark dresses, white aprons and white mob caps. ‘That poor girl up there in all that pain, and for what? I’ll tell you for what?’ the older woman continues when the younger one doesn’t speak. ‘For them to give the child away as soon as it arrives in this world.’ She looks up and crosses herself. ‘Heaven help us.’
The younger woman simply nods in agreement.
‘Now, Beth, you make sure that fire is well stoked,’ the older woman instructs. ‘You know the master likes a roaring fire to sit beside after dinner.’
The young woman comes over to where we’re sitting, walks directly between us and begins tending to the fire.
Estelle and Angela don’t even flinch. They simply watch her.
Okay, this is just getting really weird now.
I’m about to try and find out what on earth is going on when another woman comes into the room. This one is wearing much smarter clothes than the other two – a long dress again, but in a much more expensive-looking fabric – a blue-and-green striped silk. It has a long full skirt, fitted bodice and three-quarter length sleeves. Her hair is pinned up artistically on her head in a style reminiscent of a very ornate sixties beehive. I recognise her immediately from the painting in the hall.
‘This is Celeste,’ Estelle says, as though there is nothing unusual in any of this.
‘Are you finished in here, Edith?’ Celeste asks.
‘Not quite, m’lady.’ Edith, the older maid, bobs a little curtsey. ‘We’re just getting the fire ready for the master – we knows how he likes to add the yule log himself.’
‘Thank you.’ Celeste sighs wearily. ‘Do forgive me, it has been a trying day for all of us.’ She goes over to the window and gazes out into the square. ‘It’s starting to snow. Usually that would bring me so much joy. Especially at this time of year.’
