A Snowy Ball, page 1
A Snowy Ball
When Skies Have Fallen
December, 1981
Debbie McGowan
Beaten Track
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
A Snowy Ball
SMASHWORDS EDITION
First published 2017 by Beaten Track Publishing
Copyright © 2017 Debbie McGowan at Smashwords
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/debbiemcgowan
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All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN: 978 1 78645 196 5
Cover Design by Debbie McGowan
Images used in cover:
Bosmanerwin: Dancing Children
https://pixabay.com/en/dancing-children-love-cute-light-2972960
Jill111: Snowflake Background
https://pixabay.com/en/snowflake-snow-snowing-winter-cold-554635/
(Pixabay – Creative Commons Licence)
Beaten Track Publishing,
Burscough. Lancashire.
www.beatentrackpublishing.com
London: December, 1981. A White Christmas is on the cards, but as the temperature drops, the pressure on Arty mounts. He's got far too much planned in the coming days to have it all buried under a mountain of snow.
Between his retirement surprise for Jim and the Christmas party at the dance school, Arty might need to curtail his daydreaming a little to ensure everything comes together. Still, if all else fails, at least he and Jim have each other to keep them warm through the impending blizzard.
Note: this story follows on from When Skies Have Fallen and as such contains spoilers for anyone who has not read the novel.
Table of Contents
Thursday, 10th December
Friday, 11th December
Saturday, 12th December 0800 hours
Saturday, 12th December 1000 hours
Saturday, 12th December 1400 hours
Saturday, 12th December 1600 hours
Recipes
Mincemeat
Shortcrust Pastry
Sweet Rich Shortcrust Pastry
Mince Pies
Brandy Butter
About Debbie McGowan
By Debbie McGowan
Beaten Track Publishing
Thursday, 10th December
“Looking ahead to the weekend, the cold spell continues, with severe frost throughout London and the southeast, and up to twelve inches of snow expected in the next twenty-four hours.
“All in all, we’re in for a fairly settled few days due to high pressure over most of the British Isles, with occasional depressions over the English Channel bringing further flurries of snow. Will we see a White Christmas? That’s a strong possibility. This is London’s snowiest December in over a hundred years…”
“Dickens has a lot to answer for,” Arty muttered. He poked the darning needle through the sock’s heel and tugged it through the other side, and again, before he snapped off the yarn with his teeth. The meteorologist’s joyous forecast had irked him as if the man himself were responsible for the imminent blizzard. Alas, the view through the sitting room window only served as confirmation; it had been snowing for several hours—large, dry flakes that had stuck and blanketed everything in minutes—and it showed no signs of stopping. Perish the thought it might continue for the next forty-eight hours, let alone the next two weeks.
Still, White Christmases were rarer than hens’ teeth; in Arty’s sixty-two years, he had witnessed three at most, only one of which he’d considered remotely joyous. It was in the late twenties, and he’d have been eight or nine years old—young enough to be thoroughly invested in the winter wonderlands of Dickens’ imagination. To an able-bodied child, there was nothing quite so magical as waking to snow on Christmas morning, when there were no chores to be done nor school to attend; the day was theirs to spend as they would—snowball fights, building snowmen, sledding…
“It was a death trap.” Arty shook his head and chuckled to himself, recalling the terribly rickety contraption Uncle Bill had constructed that year from a couple of lengths of woodworm-riddled skirting board held together by a prayer. He’d attached a rope to it, with the dog on the other end, and shouted ‘mush!’, naively expecting their rather clever though profoundly stubborn collie to move. Instead, Shep had wandered around to the side of the sled and cocked his leg over it.
Undaunted, Bill had untethered the dog, and the four of them—Bill, Arty, his sister Sissy, who had been given Christmas Day off work, and the dog—had set off in search of a decent slope to descend. It had been no easy feat, either, in the largely flat local terrain, and in the end, they’d joined at least two dozen others in repeatedly sliding down the railway embankment until dark clouds and a fresh downpour sent them home, rosy-cheeked and numb-fingered, for their Christmas dinner.
By Boxing Day, they’d been completely snowed in—it had been relentless—and Bill had brought out the playing cards, systematically winning all of Arty’s festive treats, only giving them back when Sissy threatened to blacken his eye—all in jest, Arty liked to think. That was also the year Bill had fallen through the thin ice covering the fishing pond in a somewhat fortunate failed attempt to persuade Arty and Sissy they could safely use it as a shortcut to the church.
He’d been a sod for it, had Bill, goading Arty into all kinds of dangerous pursuits which had terrified him—more so in hindsight—though he’d never been brave enough to say so. That his mother had entrusted her young brother with the care of her offspring—when Sissy was barely a year younger than Bill and far more responsible—had made little sense to Arty at the time, though he understood now.
At the sound of the front door opening, Arty abandoned both his daydreaming and darning and swiftly rose, switching off the TV on his way out of the room. He stopped in the doorway to watch Jim, bent double just inside the front door and fighting to get out of his boots. “Hello.”
Jim glanced up and offered Arty a weary smile. “Hey.”
“You’re early.”
“Yeah. We had to stop work. Too damn cold.” Jim straightened and began unbuttoning his coat, or tried. He was making very slow progress. “What’s the weatherman have to say?”
“More to come, I’m afraid. Here, let me.” Arty moved in and took over, hoping only he was conscious of his racing heart. The way Jim was watching him at close quarters, it was impossible to say, and Jim had asked more than once if there was something Arty wasn’t telling him. Thank goodness he only had to keep the secret for one more day. He’d never done well at hiding things from Jim. “No wonder you’re struggling. Your hands are freezing.”
“Care to warm ’em for me?” Grinning mischievously, Jim sneaked one hand under Arty’s pullover. Arty gasped in shock, instinctively trapping Jim’s hand with his elbow and keeping it there while he unfastened the rest of the buttons.
“There,” he said sternly, taking a step back and rubbing at the palm-sized cold spot Jim had left on his side. “Do you want to eat first or go for your bath?”
“Bath, I think. Warm up a little. Hey!” Jim called; Arty was already moving towards the bathroom. “I can deal with it myself. You go rest.”
Arty laughed. “That’s what I’ve been doing all day, love.” That wasn’t strictly true; he’d baked, prepared dinner, finished the ironing and most of the sewing, but it was all very sedentary and for no reason beyond those being the more pressing of the household tasks. In spite of Arty being registered disabled, of the two of them, he was in better physical shape, and it was telling on the eve of Jim’s retirement.
Jim should have retired two months ago, when he’d turned sixty-five, but who was going to enforce it when he was his own boss? He’d only relented now because his knees had had it; Charlie’s back was in much the same state but he had a few years to go yet. Their doctor was trying to bump Jim up the waiting list—Arty could only hope he didn’t succeed in the next fortnight.
For all of that, and ignoring Jim’s pained expression, Arty took his word for it that he could run his own bath. “I’ll turn the oven down and make some tea.”
“Great.” As they passed each other, Jim reached for Arty again, but he dodged out of the way, laughing at Jim’s disappointed scowl. Excellent as the heating was in Dalton Place, he found it difficult enough to stay warm without Jim’s icy hands to contend with.
In the kitchen, he filled the kettle, checked on the casserole and turned the oven down as low as it would go before returning to the sitting room to tidy away his darning kit. The next time Jim put his heels through this particular pair of socks, they’d be heading for the dustbin, however difficult pure wool socks were to come by. There were only so many times Arty could darn his prior darning, even if it did mean having to forgo teasing Jim for being a skinflint and refusing to part with his demob socks. Not that these were his demob socks; those were long gone, and Arty was still getting around to breaking the news to Jim, though he suspected Jim was already aware, for nor had he asked.
He returned to the kitchen and made the tea, in his head going through the schedule for the next two days. There were things he needed t o do and he couldn’t do any of them until Jim had left for work in the morning or else it would ruin the surprise—a surprise which had been a year in the making. Arty put the cosy on the teapot and listened for the sound of water sloshing to gauge whether Jim had closed the bathroom door. He couldn’t be sure and decided not to risk contacting Joshua to warn him of the impending blizzard. The telex machine made a hell of a racket and going through the operator took far too long. Besides, the snow would fall regardless of whether Joshua knew in advance.
It turned out to be a wise decision as Jim emerged from the bathroom less than five minutes later, his enduring mop of hair, these days as white as the heavy flakes drifting past the window, shown off to startling effect against his lobster-red complexion. Briefly, he entered their bedroom; drawers opened and closed; Jim whistled some ditty or other and arrived soon after in pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers.
Arty fetched the clean ashtray, accepting Jim’s nod of thanks, and poured the tea. “To think, after tomorrow, you can do this as much as you like.”
“Yeah,” Jim agreed though his frown indicated he had more to say. He packed the bowl of his pipe, lit it and inhaled, momentarily disappearing behind the chuffs of aromatic smoke, speaking once they’d cleared. “I said I’d go in next week if the snow causes problems.”
“You can’t.” The words were out before Arty could stop them. “I mean…” He cleared his throat, delaying.
“You already got my days planned out, huh?” Jim joked.
“Well…there’s the bedroom wallpaper that I’d hoped to get up before Christmas.” Arty had bought the paper a few weeks ago because it had been on sale for half price, but he had no intention of redecorating this side of the New Year and could manage it perfectly well on his own, though it would be a more pleasant task if they did it together.
Jim watched out of the window—snow-covered roofs as far as the eye could see—and crooned the first two lines of Irving Berlin’s ‘White Christmas’, segue-ing into, “All these years and I’ve seen only one English white Christmas.”
Arty chuckled. “Funny you should mention it. I was trying to think earlier when the last one was.”
“Wasn’t it the year Joshua and Susan got married?”
“Was it?” Arty searched his memories of Joshua’s wedding. “Yes, I remember now. It was piled high either side of the church path, so it would’ve been the year before.” The wedding had been in January 1971, but the December snow had taken a while to melt.
“Almost eleven years ago…” Jim mused. He relit his pipe and returned to gazing out of the window, his thoughts elsewhere. Joshua’s wedding was when Jim and Joshua had last seen their mother and when Arty had met her for the first time. Seventy-five years old and completely undaunted, she’d travelled alone, all the way from West Virginia, and she was as wonderful as Arty had imagined—hardy, funny and full of beans—Jim was very much like her. Of course, both sons had tried to convince her to stay in England, but she wouldn’t have it.
“We should go visit,” Jim said. “Once my knees are fixed.”
“Yes, we should,” Arty agreed steadily—no easy feat when his heart seemed to want out through his ribcage. Jim turned from the window with a smile, which Arty somehow reciprocated.
“Awesome.” Jim set his pipe in the ashtray and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “All right, what’s cooking, good-looking?”
Holding back his sigh of relief, Arty seized both the oven gloves and the opportunity to escape Jim’s attention. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
Friday, 11th December
“Arty? Are you there?” Icy air blasted through the letterbox along with Jean’s call. Quite why she was shouting through it, Arty didn’t know; Jean and Charlie lived in the apartment upstairs.
“It’s open,” he said on his way down the hall. He turned the knob and pulled; the door didn’t budge.
“I think it’s stuck,” Jean said.
“Apparently so.” Yet Jim had left for work barely half an hour before, and the door had opened no trouble at all. “Give it a push,” he instructed.
“I am!” It put up a fight, and when it finally gave, it sprang wide open, sending Arty staggering backwards. Jean stumbled sideways into the hall, bringing half a snowstorm with her.
“Don’t wait for an invite, Jean,” Arty joked. Jean’s eyebrows rose. “Where have you been this early in the day?”
“I stayed at Eddie’s. I didn’t much fancy driving home in the snow.”
“Come on through to the kitchen—the stove’s been on all night.” Too cold to wait, he dashed off before she’d removed her coat. He filled the kettle, calling back, “I wish we’d done the cash-and-carry trip on Monday, like we planned.” The weather had been brutal all week—rain, gale-force winds—and they’d put off the trip as long as they could, but tomorrow was their dance school’s Christmas party, and it would happen, snow or no snow.
“Yes, well, we weren’t to know, were we?” Jean arrived, minus her coat, simultaneously unwinding her scarf and massaging her shoulder. The pain showed on her face.
“What have you done?” Arty asked.
She gave him a look. “Charged a door?”
“Ah.” Arty chuckled and shooed the cats from the top of the stove so he could put the kettle on. It earned him a mean glare from Suky, who immediately leapt to the table and made a bed out of Jean’s newly removed, therefore still warm scarf. Meanwhile, Sam jumped straight back onto the stove and Arty caught a whiff of singed cat hair. He hoisted the animal to safety, keeping hold of him and one-handedly preparing the teapot.
Of the dozen or more cats they’d shared their home with over the years, Sam was, beyond doubt, the one with the least common sense. If he wasn’t on the stove, he was trying to climb on top of the gas fire or getting himself locked in the airing cupboard. At least twice Arty had almost tumbled him with the laundry, which made it all the more surprising that at seventeen, Sam was the most long-lived of their cats. Jim insisted kindly the old chap felt the cold, hence he was also a house cat; more likely, Arty thought, he didn’t know how to operate the cat flap.
When the kettle began to whistle, Arty put Sam on the floor and quickly turned off the flame, but for once the cat seemed to have understood and went off in search of somewhere else warm—and hopefully safer—to sleep.
“Mince pie with your tea, Jean?”
“At this time of day?” She made a point of examining the clock; it was a little after eight in the morning.
“Baked yesterday afternoon,” Arty tempted.
“Oh…why not?”
“That’s the spirit.”
“One can only imagine,” Jean murmured knowingly. Arty’s mincemeat was infamous for both its decadence and its potency. The recipe, which had come from a fondly remembered elderly neighbour who had passed away some years ago, was a glorious concoction of dried fruits and diced baking apples, steeped overnight in two tablespoons of rum, sherry or brandy, or so the recipe said. Arty chose to interpret the ‘or’ as an ‘and’—the more the merrier was his Christmas motto and a reason to celebrate of which he would never tire.
The pies were all more or less the same shape and size; even so, Jean picked carefully from the box Arty held in front of her, her eyes widening as she sniffed the spirit-laced air. “I’d best have just the one,” she said.
“The pastry might be a bit on the short side.”
“Jolly good.” She bit into it, cupping her hand to catch the crumbs, and groaned.
“Up to par?” Arty needn’t have asked; her reaction said it all, and he was both relieved and delighted. Every year, he baked this first batch of pies for the Christmas dance, and every year he worried they wouldn’t meet his usual standard. He’d have asked Jim to test them, but they’d have been half gone already.
“Mmm. I’d say so.” Jean placed the pie on the plate Arty had left for her and swallowed what was in her mouth. “Has Joshua been in touch?”
“Not yet. I expect he has everything under control.”
“Other than the weather.” Jean’s remark prompted them both to look out of the window. The ridge of snow on top of the garden wall was easily six inches deep.
