Page 72 of It Always Snows on Mistletoe Square
‘Careful, Dylan!’ Estelle says, sitting up and stretching. ‘You’ll have the tree over if you’re not careful.’ She gets up and switches off the television. ‘Gosh, I must have dozed off. It’s nearly midnight.’
In his quest to find out exactly what Alvie is, Dylan disturbs the heavy velvet curtains that hang behind the tree in the window, so a narrow gap appears.
‘How exciting,’ Estelle says as she walks over to close them again and peeks through the gap. ‘I think it might be snowing! Golly, it really is!’ she exclaims, pulling the curtains back a little more. ‘Look at those huge snowflakes. It looks like it could be settling in for quite some time.’
While Estelle stands watching the snow fall outside, Dylan continues in his quest to explain the mystery of Alvie.
‘I feel like I should tell someone when it’s snowing,’ Estelle says, still facing the window. ‘When I was a child, I’d tell Mother and we’d watch it fall together from her window. Then when Teddy was here, we’d do the same – he was a big kid at heart. But now … ’ Her voice falters. ‘Now I can only tell you, my faithful friend. What are you doing, Dylan?’ she says, looking round for a moment. ‘Chasing your own tail again?’
She turns back to the window again to watch the snow fall. Our Estelle goes over and stands beside her younger self so she doesn’t have to be alone.
It’s such a poignant moment seeing the two of them together, I find myself getting quite emotional, and I have to blink away the tears I feel forming in the corners of my eyes.
I look over at the other two; they both look equally moved.
‘It’s true,’ I say quietly. ‘You do always feel the need to tell someone else when it’s snowing. How sad if you have no one else to tell.’
Ben comes over, puts his arm around me and we all walk forwards to stand beside the two Estelles. For a few blissful moments we all stand silently watching the snow fall outside, turning Mistletoe Square into a magical winter wonderland under the glowing light of the gas lamps.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Angela sighs. ‘We could be in any decade. It’s timeless.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘The last time we saw the square in a story there were only horses and carriages outside. Now the carriages have four wheels and an engine instead of four legs and a pair of reins.’
‘Brace yourselves,’ Angela says now in her normal voice. ‘I’m afraid I’m about to break both the magic and the silence.’
Angela continues to look out of the window, so Ben and I do, too.
‘I’m dreamin’ of a snowy white Christmas!’ A male voice sings outside. ‘Just like the ones I’ve never ever known!’
‘Nah, it’s not Christmas any more, is it?’ A second voice, female this time, says loudly sounding quite drunk. ‘It’s Boxing Day, innit! And it won’t be that for much longer. I think I just heard Big Ben strike midnight.’
‘Don’t be daft, you silly sausage! You can’t hear Big Ben from here.’
‘Yes, I can, cos it’s quiet tonight.’
‘Well, it was until we arrived!’
There’s much raucous laughter, before we see the two figures properly for the first time. They emerge under the light from one of the lamps, arms around each other as they make their way very slowly across the grass in the middle of the square, leaving two sets of wobbly footprints behind them in the freshly laid white blanket.
‘We really should be quiet, you know?’ the female voice says, slurring her words. ‘It’s vey, vey, vey late.’
The woman is wearing a big, red, floppy baker-boy hat so we can’t quite see her face, and the man is wearing a smart black bowler, even though the rest of his clothes are more casual. Neither of them have coats on, but their chosen outfits – a tight floral dress for the woman, and a black knitted cardigan with black trousers and a white polo-neck shirt for the man, epitomise the fashion of the decade.
They both stop walking for a moment, look at each other, put their fingers to their lips and say ‘shush’ together before they both erupt into even more laughter.
‘What about “Let it Snow!” next?’ the man suggests.
‘But it is snowing, innit?’ the woman says, lifting her hand to the sky. ‘Look?’
As she tilts her head to look up at the night sky, we see her face for the first time.
‘Angela, is that you?’ I ask, glancing over at her.
Angela nods. ‘It is. I’m twenty-six there. Not aged well, have I?’
‘Nonsense,’ our Estelle says now. ‘You were very drunk that night. You look much better now as an older, but eminently more sober woman. Even if your dress sense hasn’t improved an awful lot!’
Angela begins by smiling gratefully at Estelle, and then pulls a face as Estelle finishes her sentence.
