Charlotte Phillips - The Present - The must-read Christmas romance of the year!

To distract her, he picked the wooden box up from the corner of the worktop where he’d dumped it on the way into the room. It was covered in dust, rectangular, and fairly shallow, with a curved wooden lid that hinged at the back. It looked like the kind of wooden box that might contain an engraved plate, or perhaps a set of cutlery, or crystal glasses.

‘Want to check this out then, before you rush off and crash back through the attic?’ he said, setting it down in front of her. ‘Since it nearly cost you your leg.’

The box! She had almost forgotten it. She sat up. A chat to Jack, and now the stress of the clear-out felt vaguely more manageable. At least she knew she had some muscle she could call on if push came to shove and she ran out of time hefting stuff down from the attic. She blew the dust off the lid in a sneeze-worthy cloud, then followed it with a swipe of her hand, revealing highly polished wood, the colour and mellow glow of a conker. A carved border of holly sprigs edged the lid. Her stomach gave a tiny twist of excitement, and she automatically took a deep breath as she opened it, not having the faintest idea what might be inside. This must be a taste (though on a much more minor scale, obviously ) of how it felt when someone gave you a box that could only contain a ring. She could only guess at that feeling, not having received a proposal from Rod yet. That particular event was earmarked in their general life plan to take place after and not before he achieved partnership at his accountancy firm. Partnership itself was targeted at thirty-five, so she probably had a couple more years to wait, although there was always the possibility of it being moved forward if events happened earlier than expected. The wait didn’t matter. The certainty was enough.

The inside of the box was divided up into twelve squares, and in each square nestled a paper- wrapped package. All except for one square in the middle, that one was empty. Tucked inside the lid was a blank envelope, cream coloured, the edges dog-eared and creased as if it had been opened many times. She carefully extracted a thin sheet of paper, smoothed it out.

‘It’s a letter,’ she said, frowning. It was handwritten in faded black ink, a sloping script. She read aloud:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me …

That’s how the song goes, and you, Olive, are my true love. Words can’t describe how much it pains me to be called away now, when all I want is to spend every minute of every day with you, my darling.

I am not leaving you though, not really, and to prove to you that even though the world we are in today is full of uncertainties and horrors, I am yours.

For every day of these twelve days of Christmas, I am sending you a present, a part of me, to keep with you for ever, whatever may happen. Look out for their arrival, and know how loved you are. How I am thinking of you this Christmas and for all the days of my life.

J

Curiosity flying now, she scooped one of the packages out with her fingertips. The paper wrapping was tissue thin, perhaps ivory at one point, but now a little yellowed with age. She unpeeled the layers carefully and stared. Lying in her palm was a tiny, elaborately decorated pale green glass ball with two tiny painted birds perched on the top. She could tell just from the smoky opaqueness of the glass and the muted tones of the paint that it was old. A loop of thin, faded gold ribbon was attached to the top. The holly inlay on the lid made sudden sense.

‘It’s a Christmas decoration,’ she said, glancing up at Jack. ‘For the tree. At least I think that’s what it is. I’ve never seen this box before. I mean, I’ve spent probably twenty out of thirty Christmases in this house, and I’ve never once seen it. It’s beautiful. Why on earth was it shoved away up in the attic?’

She turned the box around to show him.

‘What’s this?’ He pulled a slip of paper from the pile of tissue wrapping. It had the same faded black slanted handwriting. He gave it to her.

‘It’s a note,’ she said, putting the glass ball down very carefully on the table and smoothing the piece of paper out flat. ‘“ Olive. Remember that sunrise when the new day was ours, how we listened to the birdsong. We are stronger than any time or distance .” That’s gorgeous . What do you think it means?’

‘There’s a date there,’ he said, pointing to the corner of the paper.

She followed his gaze. ‘Twenty-fourth December 1944,’ she read, and looked up at Jack, her mind working. ‘During the war.’ She flapped a hand at him and kicked the chair out opposite her. ‘Come and help me. Unwrap another.’ House clearance and cut leg were completely forgotten in her curiosity. That all-encompassing determination to investigate the living daylights out of this that she rarely felt these days, because working on a local paper meant she didn’t often get to cover anything more interesting than duck races and local fetes.

She lifted another package from the box, and peeled back the paper layers. Jack sat down at the table and did the same. This time a tiny wooden drum sat in the palm of her hand, its faded paint red, gold, and green.

‘This one’s from December the thirteenth, 1944,’ she said, checking the date. She could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘Listen to this, “ On this first day of Christmas, do not settle for what is within reach, my Olive. I carry you with me in my heart on this day and every day, no matter how far away I am . I will return . Believe in me .”’

Her heart twisted in her chest. Oh, the bloody delicious romance of it.

‘Look at this one.’

Jack held up a delicate green glass pear, perfect in every way, right down to the tiny painted leaf and stalk on the top. She took it from him and held it up to the light. It twisted this way and that, suspended from the ribbon. The glass was thin and flawless.

He picked up the drum and turned it in his fingers.

‘The carving on this is really perfect,’ he said, frowning. ‘“ This first day of Christmas ”. These are based on the song, aren’t they? That’s what the letter is talking about. That song where you count down to the pear tree at the end. That must be the pear. And there was some line or other about drummers drumming, right?’

She searched her mind and realised she could only remember bits and pieces of the song, although she definitely had memories of Gran playing it on the piano. The rickety old piano at the side of the sitting room just down the hall. She was all thumbs in her eagerness to unwrap the rest. There was a gold painted glass egg, an ornate swan. A black-and-white painted cow, perfect in every detail right down to its tiny horns. Each decoration came with its own love note, each one more heart-melting than the last.

‘I need to do a web search on the song,’ she said, picking up her smartphone. ‘Maybe the egg is for the geese-a-laying, and I definitely remember there being swans in there somewhere. Not sure about the cow, to be perfectly honest …’ She waved the phone high above her head. ‘No bloody Wi-Fi, is there,’ she said, to his questioning expression. ‘And the signal’s really patchy around here … right, here we go. Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping …’ He held up tiny carved panpipes. ‘ Maids a-milking !’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s the cow. Thank goodness, it was going to drive me mad.’

‘So some of them are a bit cryptic …’ He held up four entwined carved feathers ‘… I mean, I’m guessing this is four calling birds , right? But it definitely fits. It’s a set of Christmas decorations, based on the song. The twelve days of Christmas. They must be very old, and I’d say pre-1939, because it would have been impossible to pick up something like this during the war.’