Page 37 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘Will someone please explain to me exactly what just happened here?’ he asks with a bewildered expression. He stares at the Christmas tree, where just moments ago there were candles illuminating the branches, but now there are small electric lights again twinkling in the light from the fire.
‘I simply told you the story of the inhabitants of this house in 1842,’ Estelle says calmly, lifting her glass and finishing off her whisky.
‘Yes, but that wasn’t just storytelling.’ Ben’s voice sounds part disbelieving, part accusatory. ‘It was like we travelled in time back to Victorian London.’
‘I can assure you we are not time-travellers,’ Estelle says, smiling. ‘Simply storytellers.’
‘But it was so real.’ Ben starts pacing around the room again. ‘The candles on the tree for instance,’ he says, pausing by the Christmas tree once more. ‘You could feel the warmth of the flames when you stood next to them. And what about when we went down to the kitchen. You can’t conjure up a smell as awful as that in a story. It’s just not possible. It’s … magic … no, it’s not, it’s witchcraft! Yes, that’s a much better name for it.’
‘I can assure you, neither Angela nor I are witches, Ben.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ I shrug when Ben turns towards me. ‘I’m not a witch, either. The only reason I seem calm is because I went through all this last night with Estelle’s first story. I can assure you I’m just as amazed and mystified by this as you are.’
Ben nods. ‘Sorry. I forgot that, and it was just like this last night?’
‘Pretty much, except we went back even earlier, to 1755.’
‘Blimey.’
Oddly, it was strangely reassuring to see Ben’s reaction to the story, because it completely mirrored my own reaction from yesterday.
‘Angela?’ I ask while Ben is still thinking. ‘Can I ask if it was you who put the clock on the mantelpiece back a few minutes? So the children were still in the parlour when Charles Dickens arrived?’
Angela smiles secretively. ‘Perhaps.’
‘So you can touch things too, like Estelle can?’ But my question goes unanswered as Ben stirs from his silent contemplation.
‘I knew there was something else,’ he says, turning to Estelle again. ‘Am I supposed to believe that was the real Charles Dickens we saw just now?’
‘What you choose to believe is up to you, Ben,’ Estelle replies calmly. ‘I can assure you, though, that Charles Dickens did visit this house a number of times. Robin worked for the company that published Mr Dickens’s books.’
‘Was that really how he got the idea forA Christmas Carol?’ I ask, ‘Or is that just a bit of embellishment on your part?’
‘What do you think?’ Estelle smiles serenely.
‘Well, I certainly didn’t give him the idea for the name Ebenezer,’ Ben says. ‘No way would I do that.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Estelle asks innocently.
‘I just wouldn’t, that’s all,’ Ben says, folding his arms. ‘Not in a million years.’
We all look questioningly at him.
‘And why is that, Ben?’ Estelle continues to probe. ‘Do tell us.’
Ben stares hard at her, then, like we all do, quickly folds under Estelle’s watchful gaze. She certainly has a way of getting secrets from people. ‘Because it’s my name, isn’t it?’ he mumbles uncomfortably.
‘Sorry, Ben.’ Estelle cups her ear. ‘I’m a little hard of hearing. What did you say?’
‘I said, it’smyname,’ Ben repeats in a much louder voice. ‘Ebenezer Frederick Harris. I can only assume my parents thought it a tremendous lark calling their son that.’
‘Were you born near Christmas?’ I ask. Was this another thing we were going to have in common? Surely not?
Ben nods. ‘Yup. Christmas Eve, unfortunately.’
‘Gosh, same here,’ I reply, pointing at myself.
‘Really?’ Ben says. ‘That’s pretty amazing – another thing we both share. At least you didn’t get called after a miser in a Christmas book, though.’
