The Path From Tree Hill (3/5)

   Continued from Part 2:  The Path From Tree Hill (2/5) | ABCtales      

I heard Lena go into her bedroom, at the other end of the landing, then into the first bathroom, opposite her room, then back.  Then it was quiet.

          I slipped back out to the landing.  Moonlight was coming in through the stained glass window, throwing the grotesqueries into life.  It was a little more difficult than it used to be, sitting down on the floor and sliding my legs between the newel posts, but I managed it, occasionally biting my lip to avoid letting out an involuntary ‘oof’.  I sat, my fingers grasping the posts, my eyes staring at the glass.  Eventually, the butterflies moved and the bees buzzed, and I watched the window dance.  When it stilled, in the sunrise, I got up stiffly and went back to bed.

          Lena brought me a morning cup of tea.  ‘Merry Christmas!’

          ‘Oh…’ I pushed my hair out of my eyes.  ‘Merry Christmas.’

          She put the cup and saucer on the bedside table, and sat down by my feet.  ‘Come on, sleepyhead, let’s do it properly.  Tea and toast downstairs – or coffee if you prefer that now – then we can open one present each before baths and dressing.’

          I looked at her, slightly alarmed.  ‘You’ve only got two presents.  You won’t have much for later.’

          She laughed.  ‘You’ve got three, but they’re all a bit silly.  It doesn’t matter.  Do you remember how cross you used to get when you weren’t allowed to open all your presents in one go, first thing in the morning?  You had a right tantrum, one year.  But those were the rules.  One present, then baths and dressing, then a few more, so we had something to play with while the adults got tiddled on the sherry, and then the final one, the main present, after lunch.  Then they didn’t care what we did until Charades time.’  She smoothed the duvet with her fingers.  ‘Kit was so brilliant at Charades.  Do you remember?  So funny.  Your father laughed so much one year he spilt whatever he was drinking all over himself and your mother made him go and change.  Do you remember?’

          ‘No,’ I said.  ‘I don’t remember that.’

          ‘Really?  I think that was the last Christmas we were all together.’   She went over to the window and pulled up the blind.  ‘It’s a lovely day, so we can do the walk.  Work up an appetite, because I’ve got enough to feed an army.  Once the turkey’s in, we could take a turn up the hill.’

          I picked up the cup.  ‘If you like.’

          She was still looking out of the window.  ‘We had so many good times up there on the hill, when we were children.  Do you remember?  That last Christmas, it snowed on the night of the 23rd, it was really heavy, and on Christmas Eve morning we trudged up there, you, me and Kit. He insisted we kept in a line and trod in each other’s footsteps.  We had to put one foot precisely in front of the other as if whoever was walking only had one leg or something.  He made us tread in the same footsteps on the way back, so it would look as though someone had just walked or hopped to the tree and disappeared.’  She clasped her hands together, laughing.  ‘You moaned the whole time, but he thought it would puzzle the grown-ups, and maybe they’d think it was something really mysterious.  And then it snowed again just when we got back inside and covered it all up, so no-one saw anything.  You couldn’t stop laughing, and he was furious.  Do you remember?  You must remember that.’

          ‘Maybe,’ I said.  ‘All the Christmases sort of blur together, to be honest.’

          ‘But that was the only one when it actually snowed the night before Christmas Eve,’ said Lena, ‘and it was the last Christmas.  The very last one.’

          ‘Yes,’ I said.

          Lena beamed.  ‘There.  I knew you’d remember.  Now, I’ll let you go and splash your face.  There’s a dressing gown in the wardrobe, if you need.’

          After she’d gone, I went to the window and stood looking out at the hill, and the tree.

          On night of the 27^th December, that last Christmas, Lena’s brother Kit, older than her by two years and younger than me by one, walked up the hill in the snow and never walked down again.  His mother was first up in the morning, the first one to look through her window and see the bundled heap by the tree.  We’d all seen it, from our windows, by the time it was established Kit was not in his bedroom.  Then his mother made a noise like something hitting the bottom of a deep chasm, and ran out into the snow.

          Kit was fourteen.  He cut his wrists with razor blades taken from the cabinet in the first bathroom.  He left no note.  Neither his parents nor Lena ever knew why. 

          I looked at the cream walls, the grey carpet, the plasterboard, and the patterns and shapes lying beneath.

          We had our tea and toast in the kitchen.  Lena had already put the turkey in.  ‘After all,’ she said, ‘it can sit for ages once it’s done.  The longer the better, they say.  The butcher in the village prepared it all for me, did the stuffing and everything.  We’re so lucky to still have a local butcher.  I don’t suppose they have them in the part of London you’re in now.’

          ‘Not in that part, no,’ I said.

          We opened our one present each.  Lena’s to me was a woollen scarf decorated with indignant looking sheep wearing Santa hats.  Mine to her was a large lavender-scented candle with a holder.  I knew the moment she opened it that it was a mistake, but she covered very well.  I wondered what failure of memory had made me think Lena was the type for scented candles. 

          I showered and dressed, hoping it would rain, but it stayed dry and bright.  I wondered if I could say I didn’t think I was up to climbing the hill, she could go if she wanted to, I’d stay and keep an eye on the turkey.  But I knew she’d feel it was impolite to leave me, and then we’d be stuck inside not knowing what to do with ourselves until the turkey was cooked.                   

          Lena led the way through the walled garden, which looked very much as it had when we were children.  A beautiful lawn, well-tended fruit trees, neat shrubs and currently empty flowerbeds.

          ‘Do you do all this yourself?’  I asked.

          ‘Good Lord, no.  The cleaning lady’s husband does it for me.  He does my windows as well, and any odd jobs.’  She opened the door in the high back wall.  ‘Do you miss having a garden?’

          ‘Not really,’ I said. 

          She laughed.  ‘You never were the horticultural type. You never had the patience.’

          The door opened on to a path round a small copse, which belonged to the Manor.  This in turn led, via a wooden gate, to the public footpath up the hill.

          ‘It doesn’t feel cold enough for Christmas,’ Lena said, as the ground began to slope upwards.  ‘Even if we can’t have snow, it should be cold.  Back then there could be snow on the ground from January until March. There would be one lot, and it would freeze, and then another, and that would freeze, and then another, and by the end of it you risked breaking your neck every time you put your foot on the ground.  Do you remember?’

          ‘Never quite like that in London,’ I said.  ‘The traffic just turned it all to slush.’

          ‘No, but when you were here,’ she insisted.  ‘Especially that last Christmas.  It was really deep that last Christmas.  Do you remember?’

          ‘Yes,’ I said.  ‘I remember.’

Part 4:  The Path From Tree Hill (4/5) | ABCtales