Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity's Christmas

“Dimity?” I sat in one of the pair of tall leather armchairs that flanked the hearth, with the journal open in my lap. I glanced at the closed door and kept my voice low, understandably reluctant to have my guests hear me addressing a dead woman. “Dimity?” I repeated, and felt a thrill course though me as the familiar, gracefully curving lines of royal-blue ink began to loop and curl across the page.

Good morning, my dear, and what a beautiful morning it is. You must be so very pleased. The snow came, just as you hoped it would.

“Let’s not talk about snow right now,” I said shortly. “We have something else to discuss.”

And what might that be?

“An old guy nearly froze to death in the drive last night,” I said.

How dreadful.

“Apparently, he was coming here to see you,” I told her. “The Pym sisters spoke with him as he passed their house. He told them he was going to Dimity Westwood’s cottage. I thought you might know him, because of your work with the trust.”

Dimity Westwood had been filthy rich, but she hadn’t left her capital to gather dust. She’d used a good-sized chunk of it to found the Westwood Trust, an umbrella organization for a number of different charities, of which I was now the titular head.

“You met all sorts of people back then, didn’t you?” I asked. “Poor people, I mean.”

My work with the trust introduced me to a great number of people I wouldn’t otherwise have had the privilege to meet. It certainly broadened my horizons.

Dimity’s unspoken reprimand stung, but only slightly. I didn’t want to see homeless people on my horizons. When panhandlers came toward me, I ran the other way. And since this particular vagrant had intruded on the first day of my Christmas celebration, I was feeling even less charitable than usual.

“Is it possible that the tramp’s a friend of yours?” I asked patiently.

It’s more than possible. It’s highly probable.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

He used the bridle path, Lori.

“So?”

The bridle path shaves a quarter-mile from the distance between Finch and my cottage.

The bridle path ran along the edge of the river in Finch, out of sight of most of the houses, then followed a course that crossed behind the Pym sisters’ house, wound past the Harrises’ stables, and cut through the oak grove that separated my property from theirs.

A stranger wouldn’t know about the bridle path. The gentleman must have visited me on previous occasions, and he must have been a regular visitor, to know about such a shortcut.

“He hasn’t come here recently, though,” I pointed out, “or he would’ve known that you’re… no longer at home to visitors.”

An old friend, then, out of touch for some years…. What would compel a sick and starving man to venture down a lonely bridle path in the midst of a blizzard?

“Does it really matter?” I asked, preoccupied with thoughts of Christmas pudding.

Of course it does. We must do something, Lori.

“He’s already in the Radcliffe, getting the best medical care money can buy,” I asserted.

But what will happen to him after he’s released from hospital? We must find someone to look after him—his family, his friends…. He must not, under any circumstances, be thrown back onto the streets.

“But we don’t know who he is,” I said.

Then we must find out. Describe him to me.

I shrugged. “Tall, thin. Long hair, long beard, both gray.”

And his face?

“His face?” I tried to focus on the man’s features, but all I could remember was the beard, the hair, and, oddly enough, his long, almost delicate fingers. “He has beautiful hands,” I offered. “That’s the best I can do. For Pete’s sake, Dimity, I was saving a man’s life, not painting his portrait.”

Then you must go to the Radcliffe and have another look at him.

“Today?” I asked nervously. Hospital visits were not high on my list of favorite activities.

The sooner the better.

“But today’s my mother’s birthday,” I protested. “Bill and I were going to get our family Christmas under way.”

Your family Christmas will have to wait, Lori. I’m sure your mother would understand. You must go to the Radcliffe as soon as possible.

“The guy’s in a coma,” I said.

Then he won’t mind being stared at, will he? The handwriting continued more swiftly. It’s no time to be squeamish, Lori. I know how hospitals upset you, but you must go. I cannot bear to think of an old friend lying anonymous and alone in a casualty ward. We must find out who he is.

“I’ll go,” I promised grudgingly.

Just remember to breathe through your mouth, dear. A soft breeze wafted through the study, the ghost of a sigh. It’s a dreadful time of year for the homeless. Winter is not kind to the poor.

I waited until Aunt Dimity’s handwriting had faded from the page, then closed the blue journal and sat for a moment, contemplating the futility of advance planning. I’d planned to spend the day at home with my family, baking angel cookies, hanging ornaments, and belting out my favorite carols, but the tramp’s arrival had turned my plans to dust. Thanks to Dimity’s disreputable old pal, I’d spend the day in Oxford, trying not to lose my lunch in the Radcliffe’s antiseptic corridors.

“Ho. Ho. Ho,” I muttered irritably, putting the journal back on the shelf.

Feeling aggrieved, and feeling guilty for feeling aggrieved, I returned to the living room. The Pyms were playing peekaboo with Rob, Bill was giving Will a horsey ride on his knee, and Nell was discussing the Nativity play with Willis, Sr., who was transparently delighted to learn that Nell would be playing Mary to his Joseph.

“Peggy Kitchen coveted the part,” Nell was saying as I entered the room, “but even she had to agree that I was more suitable.”

I paused midstride, momentarily distracted by the notion of an oversized, bossy widow like Peggy Kitchen playing the role of a round young virgin, then continued across the room to stand in front of the fireplace, where I could speak to everyone at once.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said, “but Bill and I have to go to Oxford.”

“Oxford?” Bill groaned. “I thought we agreed to spend the next two weeks at home.”

“I’ve had a sudden change of heart,” I said, giving him an I’ll-explain-everything-later glare. “I’m worried about the tramp. I want to see for myself that he’s being looked after properly.”

The telephone rang and Bill picked it up.

Ruth firmly endorsed my plan. “One can never be too careful…”

“…when pneumonia sets in,” Louise continued. “You might bring him a thermos of strengthening broth or…”

“…a pot of calf’s-foot jelly,” suggested Ruth.

“How are you going to get to Oxford?” asked Nell. “The lane’s drifted in all the way to Finch. I’d offer my sleigh, but—” She broke off, interrupted by a cottage-shaking rumble.

Startled, Willis, Sr., turned to look out of the bow window, but I already knew what he would see. Mr. Barlow’s snowplow was a local institution, a home-built monstrosity consisting of a wide blade welded slantwise to the front of a garbage truck. Clouds of dark smoke puffed from its exhaust pipe and its engine roared like a demented dinosaur, but Mr. Barlow, a retired mechanic, had reason to be proud of his creation. Noisy and unsightly though it was, it cleared the country lanes surrounding Finch with an efficiency that put the county to shame.

“There,” I said, when the snowplow had passed. “Now we can drive to Oxford.”