After the Snow. Susannah Constantine
help me get the lunch in. Esme, will you get the bread sauce and the sprouts?’
Out they trooped, all pomp-and-ceremony, Esme leading the way into the dining room, where her father had already taken his position at the head of the table. He stood up and relieved Mrs Bee of her fowl, now garnished with glossy sausages and rolled bacon rashers. Esme was relieved to see her father smiling.
‘This looks wonderful, Mrs Bee. You are a marvel. Shall I sharpen the knife?’
With that, he took up his weapons, the sharpener in one hand and the long thin carving knife in the other. Using theatrical sweeps he ran the blade back and forth against the file before replacing the sharpener with the fork, with which he stabbed the turkey while allowing his foil to glide through the plump breast on the other side. Thin slices of meat fanned out symmetrically as they fell away from the bird, each piece of moist white flesh edged with a half-moon of brown skin. Little puffs of steam rose up, filling the dining room with a smell exclusive to Christmas Day.
Esme was starving. She piled her plate high and poured over so much gravy that it slopped onto the table.
‘Oi, Esme!’ shouted Sophia. ‘Don’t take all the gravy – it’s not soup.’ She snatched the sauce boat from her sister and tipped the rest onto her own plate.
‘You’ve finished it now, Sophs. What about Mummy and Daddy?’
‘There’s more on the side, stupid.’
‘Then don’t get cross with me for taking it all!’ Then, in a fit of defiance, Esme picked up her plate and tilted it towards her, slurping up some of the thick meat juice. ‘There,’ she said. ‘It won’t spill now.’ She looked over to her mother, who had returned to her breakfast self.
‘Esme! Manners, please,’ said Mrs Bee. ‘Now eat up.’
Christmas Day was the one and only day that the housekeeper ate with the family and she did so reluctantly. Esme thought it was because she felt embarrassed by not having any smart clothes to wear apart from the cardigans her parents gave her every year.
‘Quite right, Mrs Bumble. Especially as you’ve been up since the crack of dawn preparing it. Would you like a small glass of champagne?’
‘Well, maybe just a wee one.’ She held up a crystal port glass for Esme’s father to fill. It only took one sip for her face to take on a deep, purple blotchiness.
Esme raised her glass. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’
‘Merry Christmas!’ chimed her father, Mrs Bee and Sophia.
‘This is delicious, Mrs Bee,’ said Sophia, scooping up a forkful of peas. ‘Mummy, aren’t you going to eat your food? Mrs Bee has spent hours cooking it.’
This was a deliberate dig. Sophia knew full well that their mother hardly ate a thing when her mind went elsewhere. At least she would never starve because she made up for it on her good days. Esme had never seen one person able to eat so much at a single sitting. Mrs Bee sometimes had to cook her extra food.
When everyone had finished, Mrs Bee got up and cleared the plates, scraping the leftovers on top of the pile.
‘Digger can have these,’ she said, putting the plate of scraps onto the floor.
Esme called for her dog, who scurried into the dining room and wolfed the lot down in time for Mrs Bee to pick up the clean plate and take it with the others into the kitchen.
Moments later, she returned with a platter of fire: the Christmas pudding made in November for maximum flavour. Esme had stirred the batter and made a wish. The flames died down as the alcohol burned away, leaving behind a mound of glistening sweetmeat.
Helping herself to the first slice, Esme picked out a tiny parcel of tin foil from her pudding and unwrapped it. ‘A shilling!’ she squealed, holding up the hot coin.
‘Well done, darling,’ said her father.
‘Look, Mummy!’ Esme’s shoulders sank as her mother remained silent, not even looking up at the coin.
‘How wonderful!’ said Mrs Bee.
Esme felt silly for expecting her mother to react to her lucky shilling. She licked the coin clean, popped it into her pocket and shook off her disappointment.
‘Daddy, we haven’t pulled the crackers!’ she exclaimed, rising from her seat in anticipation.
‘Goodness, so we haven’t. Sit back down and we’ll do it now.’
‘We can’t watch Her Majesty without our paper crowns on,’ she said, smiling.
The small group crossed arms, a cracker in each hand to form a chain, and pulled. Her mother’s hand in hers held no resistance, so Esme leant across and she and Sophia pulled each other’s.
Sophia groaned and then read out her joke. ‘Why did the lobster blush?’
‘Because it saw The Queen Mary’s bottom. That’s so old,’ groaned Esme, copying her sister, although she actually thought that the picture of Queen Mary in her frilly underpants was very funny.
They all put on their paper crowns, Esme carefully placing one on her mother’s head. It sat lopsided and made her look like a forgotten toy.
‘All right, plates down. Time for presents!’ announced Esme’s father, as they finished their puddings.
Normally, presents were opened before the Queen’s Speech, but the Queen had given a written address instead this year, following a documentary that had aired about the Royal Family a few months previously. Esme was disappointed that they didn’t get to see Her Majesty, although she supposed she always looked the same. An embroidered dress and pearls, a stiff hairstyle and a small smile. Without the Queen, the world would stop turning, Esme thought. She wondered why she never wore her crown in public. If she were the Queen, she’d make sure she put it on every day. Her father always said that Queen Elizabeth was a handsome woman but not nearly as attractive as her sister, Princess Margaret. Maybe people said the same thing about her and Sophia, but Esme didn’t think that either of them was particularly handsome. That was for boys. Lexi had mentioned that the Princess was coming to stay at Culcairn Castle in a few days’ time, so she could decide who was the more attractive sister then.
Mrs Bee ushered everyone into the drawing room, where Esme dropped down next to the gigantic Christmas tree. Every year, her father would go about the dressing of the tree in the same meticulous fashion, while she and Sophia passed him the decorations. First the lights, which were small and white, had to be wound from the top down, ensuring that each layer of branches was equally illuminated. Then came the tinsel; finely woven pieces of silver had to camouflage every inch of the ugly white wire to which the lights were attached. Once this had been achieved – which took a good two hours to ensure perfection – glass baubles collected from all corners of the globe or handed down to them from past generations were hung equidistant from each other in order of size and colour. Holding the tree steady was the sand-filled bucket in which it stood, which was wrapped in golden paper that splayed out around the base in a skirt. An assortment of mismatched gifts lay in the pool of shimmering paper. There was nothing haphazard about the Munroes’ Christmas tree; it had to be visually faultless and decorated in the best possible taste.
Esme’s father was very artistic and loved to paint. Many of his paintings adorned the walls of The Lodge and their house in London. Esme thought that if he spent all his time painting rather than organizing the transport of important paintings all around the world he would be much happier. He loved to talk about art and knew so much about it. Esme loved to sit alongside him whilst he painted, drawing her own pictures and listening to him recounting tales of great artists.
As her father began to hand out the presents, Esme felt a familiar embarrassment that they had so much and Mrs Bee had so little. Even though