Engaging Father Christmas: A Novella Page 6

  The lights inside the theater flickered on and off, indicating the performance was about to begin. The audience hushed. The lights dimmed. The blue velvet curtains parted.

  There stood Ian — my Ian — strong and bold and stunning in his flowing white hair, beard, and fur-lined Father Christmas robe. A wreath of holly now circled his head.

  In his left hand he held a staff. He raised his right hand to the audience, allowing the wide velvet sleeve to slide down his brawny forearm. Ian’s commanding presence was magnificent.

  Andrew would have loved seeing this. I wish he and Katharine were here.

  “He’s so like Sir James!” Ellie whispered to me.

  A tender sweetness came over my heart as I realized that my father wore that same robe and stood on this same stage only a few years ago. I had missed seeing him in this role just as Andrew and Katharine were missing Ian now.

  Time and distance seemed to fade. I smiled at Ian the way I used to sit in the front row and smile at my mother.

  With a quick glance at Margaret, I wondered if she had a special smile she pulled out for my father every time it was opening night for him. Or did she harbor her own unremitting grudge against the theater?

  Oh, Margaret, if only you knew how similar we are. If only you would give me a chance.

  Chapter Eleven

  I an’s booming voice rode over the audience like a tidal wave as he delivered the opening line. “Marley was dead. As dead as a doornail.”

  Ellie reached over and gave my hand a happy squeeze. I squeezed hers back. The play was afoot, and all my attention was center stage. Ian completed his short monologue, stepped to the side, and gave a sweeping gesture to mark the commencement of the first scene. The cast of characters filed on stage beginning with Mark in his Scrooge business suit costume. He launched his first line by yelling at two of the bookkeepers, telling them to work faster.

  “You are sorely mistaken if you think I will be giving you the day off for Christmas!” Poor Mark, his preadolescent voice cracked on “sorely mistaken” and “Christmas.”

  The audience muffled a collective chuckle. I turned to Ellie and saw that she was making a motherly wince. “Keep going, Markie,” she whispered.

  Mark went right on, undaunted by the wobbly opening. Within minutes he had the audience in the palm of his hand and showed no signs of stage fright. I felt so proud of him. His sense of timing and deadpan expressions proved quickly that he wasn’t just the stand-in understudy. He was a natural. He was unmistakably the grandson of Sir James Whitcombe.

  By the time the intermission lights came on, it was clear I wasn’t the only one bursting with excitement and pride over Mark’s performance.

  “Your son is brilliant,” the woman behind us said, patting Ellie on the shoulder.

  “He’s doing quite well, isn’t he?” Ellie was all smiles. “A bit of vocal range lurch there at the beginning, but he pulled it off, wouldn’t you say?”

  Edward adjusted his glasses and nodded. I wondered how he really felt about his son’s success.

  A woman behind Margaret said, “It takes only one such performance to set a course for a lifetime. I dare say your grandson has revived the talent of our own Sir James this evening. Why has the young man not performed before?”

  “It was his choice,” Edward said firmly.

  I had a feeling it might have been a choice strongly influenced by Edward. His affection for the theater and all that came with the life of an actor was as low as mine had been last year.

  “Shall we go to the lobby for a bit of a sweet?” Ellie rose from her seat.

  Edward and I both went to the lobby with Ellie while Margaret stayed behind. We were soon caught up in the crush of people gathered around the refreshment table. It was fun hearing all the comments about young Mark and his performance.

  The good people of Carlton Heath had all come to the same conclusion. Mark was destined to follow in his grandfather’s footsteps across the golden stage. Each of them seemed to enjoy announcing that acting was “in his blood,” as if they were the first one to arrive at that conclusion.

  One woman even had the boldness to say, “The talent obviously didn’t fall to you, Edward — no offense meant.”

  “None taken,” he said.

  “The talent skipped a generation and has fallen on Mark, wouldn’t you say?”

  With the audience high on the speculations of young Mark’s future on the stage, we returned to our seats and settled in for act two.

  The curtains parted and six extras, including Julia, entered dressed as waifs, all wearing nightgowns and sleeping caps that looked like puffed-up muffin tops.

  Instead of staying with the pack while Scrooge and the Spirit of Christmas Present visited the workhouse, Julia stepped to the side of the stage and gave a little wave to her mum and dad. Ellie waved back.

  Pleased with the ruffle of giggles her antics produced, Miss Julia favored us with a six- year-old, ballerina-style spin around. Her costume filled with air and puffed out. She spun a second time, and Ellie whispered, “Oh dear, she knows better than to be showing off like that.”

  Pointing her finger at Julia and inching it in the air like a little worm, Ellie silently directed the free-spirited waif back to where she belonged on stage.

  Clever Mark ad-libbed the obvious interruption with a quick quip. He glared at his sister with his hand on his hip and said, “Oh, Spirit of Christmas Present, it seems you’re not the only spirit sent to torment me this night.”

  The crowd laughed. Mark broke character just long enough to turn to his mum and dad and offer a shrug. He squared his shoulders and went on with his next line without missing a beat.

  Julia, not having caught the implication, looked at the audience with a grand smile, as if she were the source of all the merriment. As soon as she was offstage, she found her way through the back of the hall and came to our aisle. Margaret held out her arms for Julia to sit on her lap.

  Julia demurely slid past her grandmother. I was surprised since Julia and her grandmother shared a close and sweet relationship. But Julia was definitely “mummy’s girl,” so when she edged her way past her grandmother, I thought she was going to cuddle up with Ellie.

  Instead, Julia headed straight for me. She invited herself up into my lap and settled in as if this were the only place in the world she wanted to be.

  Julia whispered to her mother and me, asking if we saw her spinning on stage.

  “Yes, darling,” Elli whispered to her overeager thespian. “Now hush. We mustn’t talk until the play is over.”

  I glanced at Margaret. If she was miffed that Julia had come to me instead of her, she didn’t show it in her expression. The rest of the play I tried not to think of Margaret but instead concentrated on enjoying the delight of having my cuddly niece on my lap and my clever nephew on the stage.

  Before the fall of the curtain, Ian returned to his mark, center stage. With grand, Father Christmas hand motions, he had a final word for the merry audience.

  “I charge you, gentlefolk, far and wide,

  Heed this tale as told you this night.

  Whenever you happen upon those in need,

  Look to your heart and do a good deed.

  Gather close this Christmastide,

  All your loved ones by your side.

  Mother, father, daughter, son,

  May God bless us, everyone!”

  The crowd erupted in applause. A standing ovation followed as the entire cast assembled onstage. Julia apparently had forgotten she would be given this additional chance to be in the spotlight.

  She couldn’t scamper off my lap quickly enough and charged up the narrow side steps in her flowing waif nightclothes. She joined her brother in the lineup. Mark did an admirable job of sharing his big moment with his little sister.

  The houselights went up, and Ian fixed his gentle gaze on me. I blew him a kiss. He stayed in character and simply gave me a nod of his snowy head. I couldn’t wait to see the
magic that I knew would happen in the lobby when the little children would have a chance to sit on his lap and have their photos taken.

  As we filed out of the row, I sidled up to Edward. “Was it here that you had the photo taken on your father’s lap when he was dressed as Father Christmas?”

  “I don’t recall where the infamous Christmas photo was taken. It was quite some time ago. Do you remember, Mother?”

  Margaret needed for Edward to repeat the question to her. She thought a moment and then shook her head. “No, the doors to my memory on such details seem to have lost a few of their keys.”

  I smiled at Margaret in response to her comment and gave her a warm and open gaze. I wanted her to see that my hope for the door that had been unlocked between us earlier at the Tea Cosy would remain unlocked.

  She didn’t smile back. She looked the other way, and when we arrived in the lobby, Edward arranged for the driver to take her home.

  The rest of the lobby was humming with activity. Parents on all sides were congratulating each other for their children’s performances. Buoyant cast members were taking advantage of the table spread.

  I watched Mark as he stood tall and straight, receiving a steady stream of handshakes and accolades.

  Making my way to the other side of the lobby, I joined the parents and children who had stepped into a line, instinctively forming a queue to have a chat or a photo with Father Christmas. Ian was seated on a high-backed chair that was trimmed with evergreen and red ribbons.

  I stood to the side, trying to suppress my grin as I watched Ian with the children. He poured on the charm, holding babies, letting them pull on his beard, or leaning over to listen to toddlers as they whispered in his ear.

  He was Father Christmas.

  For fun, I got in line too. Ian looked up and noticed where I was standing. He winked at me, and I understood I didn’t have to wait in line. Ian already knew what I wanted for Christmas. As a matter of fact, I had a pretty good feeling my wish was at the top of his list.

  Chapter Twelve

  We’re thinking of going to hospital,” Ellie said, coming up beside me after most of the hubbub in the lobby had calmed down. “Edward hasn’t paid a visit to Andrew yet. We thought we might all pop over instead of going directly home. Do you and Ian have plans for a trip to hospital as well?”

  “I’m not sure what we’re going to do. Should I call you after Ian is finished here?”

  “No need. We’re not ready to leave just yet. The children are enjoying their moment of glory. A bit too much, Edward thinks, but how often will such an event occur?”

  Ellie flitted off to finish her obligations in the coat room while I strolled over to the refreshment table to see if I could do anything to help clean up.

  A woman dressed in a hilarious penguin costume, complete with a long beak, said, “Oh, no, we have it all covered, dear, but thanks ever so for offering. You’re the friend of the Whitcombes, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m Miranda.”

  “We think your beau did a lovely job as Father Christmas.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so. Your costume is . . .” I hadn’t selected my descriptive word ahead of time and nearly couldn’t find the right one. “ . . . charming.”

  “I’m the Christmas penguin, you see.”

  I didn’t know any stories about Christmas penguins, so I apologized for my lack of familiarity with British Christmas tales and asked her to explain.

  “Oh, there’s no explanation, really. This was the only costume I had!”

  I laughed with her, and we joked about how she could start a new tradition.

  Flora from the Tea Cosy stepped close and entered into the conversation as if she had been with us from the beginning and, having stepped away for a moment, she now had returned. She had quite a talent for slicing into conversations that way.

  “My, that was an interesting young man at the Cosy this afternoon, wasn’t he?” Flora looked at me through her large, round glasses.

  I gave her a noncommittal nod.

  “The bag he carried was altogether ominous, though, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I nodded again.

  “I understand he carried it with him to the train station, got on the 3:22 for London, and who knows what he’s up to now. Good riddance, I say.”

  Clearly Flora’s sources were on the job that afternoon, all the way to the train station, to give her a full report.

  “We don’t need his sort around here, do we? No one quite seems to know why he came here. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you?”

  My wonderful knight in shining velvet robes came to my rescue at just the right moment. He greeted the women, received their compliments, and politely asked if he might steal me from their company.

  The Christmas penguin was agreeable, but Flora made it clear she had hoped for a longer visit.

  As Ian and I stepped away from the ladies, I said, “You came at just the right time.”

  “Did I now? You weren’t getting uncomfortable talking about Josh, were you?”

  I looked up at him. “You heard.”

  “Of course I heard.” With a twinkle in his eye, he added, “Christmas wishes weren’t the only secrets whispered in my ear once I put on these robes.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Only that the menacing, ski-cap stalker followed you here, engaged you in a brief conversation, had some tea and scones — with jam and cream, by the way — and left on the next train to London.”

  I laughed at his rundown. “You got it all straight then. Except for one addition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Josh wanted to know if I was taken.”

  Ian raised one of his stage-makeup, white, bushy eyebrows. “And what did you tell him?”

  “I told him I was practically engaged to Father Christmas, and if he didn’t get out of town, you would run him over with your reindeer.”

  “Did you, now?”

  Nudging Ian to the side of the lobby, as far away from any possible eavesdroppers as possible, I said, “I told Josh something else, and I need you to know about it.”

  Ian’s bushy eyebrows dipped, expressing his concentration in what I was about to say but exaggerating the expression in such a way that made the moment seem more dramatic than I thought it should be.

  In a whisper, I said, “I told Josh who my father was.”

  Now Ian’s eyebrows lifted in an equally exaggerated fashion, almost causing me to laugh. I knew what I was telling him wasn’t a laughing matter.

  “I felt I could tell him since he was the one who first urged me to come to Carlton Heath after seeing the photo of my dad dressed as Father Christmas. I trust Josh to keep the confidence.”

  “Are you sure you can trust him?”

  “Yes. He’s a psychologist. He keeps confidences for a living. I just wanted you to know. And as far as his visit to the Tea Cosy, I’m convinced it was more about satisfying his curiosity concerning Carlton Heath and the chance to add a few more hours of adventure to his ski trip than it was about me. That’s how he is.”

  “You’re sure, then, that I don’t need to hunt him down and make it clear he doesn’t have a chance to reconcile with you?”

  “You don’t need to hunt him down. We don’t have any reconciling to do. All is settled.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded. “I’m sure.”

  I never had a brave defender like Ian in my life before. I kind of liked his expressions of eagerness to protect me. His valor seemed a little more believable, though, when he wasn’t looking at me with two snow-white caterpillars appearing as if they were doing push-ups on his eyebrows.

  Mark dashed up to us at that moment, his face flushed with the rush of the sudden glory. “Are we leaving soon?”

  “We’re ready if you are,” Ian said.

  “Mark, you did such a fantastic job. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Miranda.” He seemed to emphasize the
“Aunt” just enough for me to catch his meaning.

  I smiled, and he smiled back. The lump in my throat didn’t go down easily.

  “Mark and I will bring the car round to the front,” Ian said.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes.” I returned to pick up my coat from among the few left hanging in the coatroom and then stepped out into the chilly night air.

  A jolly sight greeted me. Father Christmas was behind the wheel of his convertible sports car with the top down. Mark was perched on the top like a celebrity in a parade, ready to wave to loyal fans as he passed by at two miles per hour. Both men were once again receiving the accolades due after such memorable debuts.

  I slipped in on the passenger’s side only after excusing my way through the final circle of adoring fans. This gathering of merry-eyed girls in the preteen bracket gazed at Mark with unalterable admiration. His life in this small village would never be the same.

  “Will you sign my program?” one of the girls asked.

  I pulled a pen from my purse and watched Mark enjoy his moment in the moonlight.

  Once the giggling flock scattered, Ian started the engine. As soon as it began to rumble, Ian waved his hand so that the wide sleeve of his brocaded robe flapped like a great bird.

  “Good night, Father Christmas!” one of the preteens called out, igniting another round of giggles from her chums.

  “Happy Christmas to you all,” he called, as we drove out of sight.

  The cool, rushing breeze chilled me instantly even though Ian had the car’s heater going. Mark was full of glee over his newly acquired fame and found happiness in scrunching into the narrow storage space behind the seats, lifting both hands in the air, and shouting, “Whoo-hoo!” for the first two blocks.

  Ian and I exchanged smiles. Watching Mark was too fun to tell him to stop. Every child should feel that happy, that free.

  Ian leaned over. “I’ll take a dozen. Just like him.”

  With a cunning grin I replied, “I think you’ll need a bigger car.”

  Ian laughed his deep-hearted laugh, and our merry mobile headed over a ridge. We turned on the cutoff road that led toward the old church.