Susannah Constantine - After the Snow - A gorgeous Christmas story to curl up with this winter 2018!

Esme started to count in her head. She and Lexi had an agreement that if the person who you were meeting hadn’t come by 500, then you could leave. Sometimes she would get to 500 and be about to leave and then see Lexi come running towards her, her long hair in her eyes and her clothes in a tangle, laughing with pleasure that Esme was still there. Sometimes it was almost like there was an invisible thread that bound them together, each knowing what the other was doing.

But today there was no sign of her. 498… 499… 500. Esme finished counting, imagining her friend opening her stocking, her smile even bigger as she discovered what was in each package.

It really was very cold. Cold enough to freeze the breath from her nostrils as well as her mouth. Pangs of hunger gnawed at her stomach. She waited a few seconds more. Perhaps Lexi was snowed in? And anyway, she would see her at the Christmas service with the rest of her family. It was time to head back to the house. As she turned, she saw a rusty ball of fur streak across the snow. Most people would have mistaken it for a fox, albeit a pale version with white socks.

‘Digger! Happy Christmas. I can’t wait to give you your present!’

Ignoring her, Digger dashed round the snow in demented circles.

‘Stop showing off,’ laughed Esme.

Digger’s arrival meant that Mrs Bee was up and breakfast was probably waiting. Today was not a day to be late.

Esme went straight into the kitchen to find Mrs Bee. The housekeeper’s name was actually Mrs Bumble but ever since she could remember Esme and her sister had called her Mrs Bee. She could hear the clink of cutlery coming from the dining room but the housekeeper was nowhere to be seen. A delicious smell of roasting turkey filled the room and an orderly line of Pyrex bowls, overflowing with potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts, sat on the Formica tabletop, while baking trays brimmed with chipolata sausages, bacon rashers and round patties of stuffing. Esme stared in delight. It was hard to imagine how just half an hour in the oven could crisp the patties into Esme’s favourite part of Christmas lunch, drenched in steaming satin-smooth gravy poured from the silver sauce boat.

In the middle of the table stood Mrs Bee’s majestic Christmas cake. Freshly iced, it bore a remarkable resemblance to the snow-covered world outside, its thick, white frosting smothering what lay beneath. As a final touch, a miniature Father Christmas in his sleigh had been positioned in the centre. After snapping off a sugared icicle, Esme skipped out of the kitchen and ran upstairs to get dressed.

Pushing open her bedroom door she saw Mrs Bee staring at the dirty china plate from her stocking. Startled by Esme’s arrival, she looked up.

‘Esme!’ she said. ‘Where on earth have you been? Your mother and father are already having their breakfast. Och and look at you! That snow is melting all over the carpet. How could you have gone out in this weather? And in your wee nightie. Come on, your father will want to leave for church soon. You know perfectly well he hates to be late.’

‘Don’t be angry, Mrs Bee, it’s Christmas! And look at all my presents. How lucky am I? Look, this little dog is just like Mummy’s.’

‘Is this a dandy brush I see?’ said Mrs Bee, her tone softening as Esme ran towards her.

‘Yes! Homer will be so pleased. Although I don’t think I’ll be able to visit him today, will I, with the snow? Oh, Mrs Bee, happy Christmas! I can’t wait to show Mummy my presents.’ She was about to ask her what she had found in her stocking when she remembered again that poor Mrs Bee had no family of her own to give her presents; thoughtfully, Esme had decorated an old cake tin with pictures of pretty flowers cut out from a discarded copy of Country Life .

‘Your present from me is under the tree, Mrs Bee,’ she reassured the housekeeper.

‘Och, how lovely!’

‘I can’t believe it’s a proper white Christmas. It’s made everything just perfect.’

Mrs Bee swept Esme’s hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ll be staying nice and warm indoors today, Esme. The snow gives me chilblains. Now, what’re you going to wear for church?’

‘I want to wear a dress. The cream-and-white one. It’s my favourite,’ Esme said, dropping onto the bed. She stroked the sparkling silver tinsel adorning her headrest. Suddenly, an idea popped into her mind that made the prospect of wearing a dress even more enjoyable. ‘I know, Mrs Bee – I’ll make this tinsel into a halo! Just like a Christmas angel. Daddy will love it!’

‘Oh, he will, darling. I can just imagine his face when he sees you dressed up all pretty.’

Esme pulled on her dress and stood still as Mrs Bee coiled the scratchy foil around her head. Peering at her reflection in the mirror she clapped her hands together. ‘Just like an angel!’ she said. Her clear blue eyes shone with excitement. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, the tinsel covering a jagged fringe she had cut with the kitchen scissors in a bid to hide a chickenpox scar above her left brow. A rosy bloom from the cold flushed her cheek.

Mrs Bee smiled back at her. ‘Now, off to breakfast with you. That’s enough dilly-dallying for one morning.’

‘Thanks Mrs Bee!’ Esme said. She couldn’t wait to show her new outfit to her family.

Her parents and sister were eating breakfast at the large oak dining table, silent, just like any other day. The only noise was the muffled sound of Christmas carols coming from Mrs Bee’s radio in the kitchen.

‘Happy Christmas, everyone!’ said Esme, giving her mother a big hug.

‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ her mother said softly, returning her daughter’s embrace with one that felt as light as air. She gave a listless smile.

Esme’s heart sank. This morning was a bad morning. Couldn’t her mother just try to be happy on Christmas Day? She decided to help her along.

‘Have you seen the snow, Mummy? It’s so beautiful and all ready and waiting for you, like a big white carpet with crystals everywhere. You’ll love it and I can’t wait to show you. I’ve already been outside to test it out for you and it’s all soft and welcoming…’ She broke off as she caught Sophia’s look and her father’s clenched jaw. It was no good.

‘Happy Christmas, Daddy,’ she said, trying to make him feel better. ‘Do you like my halo?’

‘It’s lovely, darling,’ said her father, his voice spiky, ‘but you aren’t an extra in a pantomime. You’ve nearly missed breakfast. Quickly now, sit down and have something to eat. And before we leave, I want you to take that silly tinsel off.’

Esme looked over at her sister, praying at least she would tune into their unspoken pact of trying to make their mother feel better. It could be exhausting but sometimes, between them, they could make her smile and join in, if only for a few moments. Occasionally, there were whole stretches when their mother was very, very happy, excited about the smallest thing, but even then she could suddenly stop mid-sentence and drift away again.

But Sophia looked gloomy, as though she had already given up, and her tone was spiteful.

‘You can’t wear that, Es,’ agreed Sophia. ‘It looks silly. We’re going to church not a fancy-dress party.’

Sophia, also blonde and blue-eyed, was dressed almost entirely in navy blue, the wall of colour only broken up by a white frilled collar.

‘Well you just look like an old maid,’ said Esme, rapidly blinking to stop tears from falling. She looked forlornly at her plate: half a grapefruit, a boiled egg and one piece of toast. Mrs Bee always made sure that breakfast on Christmas Day was disappointingly small so as not to ruin the family’s appetite for her Christmas feast.