Part 16 (1/2)

”I'm going to have a good time in Surrey,” she had said, her voice trailing off, and I could finish that sentence, too. ”In spite of everything.”

Not a hope, but a determination to try to be happy in spite of circ.u.mstance, as the little princess had tried to be happy in her chilly garret. ”I'm going to have a good time,” she'd said again, turning at the last minute, and it was rebuke and reminder and instruction, all at once.

And comfort.

I stood a moment, looking at the book, and then closed it and put it carefully back on the shelf, the way Gemma had.

I went over to the order desk and picked up the plum pudding. The book the girl had left for Sir Spencer to finish signing was under it. I opened it and took out the paper with her name and address on it.

Martha. I found the fountain pen, with its viridian ink, uncapped it and drew a scrawl that looked a little like Sir Spencer's. ”To Martha's father,” I wrote above it. ”Money isn't everything!” And I went to find the spirits.

If they could be found. If they had not, after all, found other employment with the barrister or the banker, or taken a plane to Majorca, or gone up to Surrey.

Mama Montoni's had a large Closed sign hanging inside the door, and the light above the counter was switched off, but when I tried the door it wasn't locked. I opened it, carefully, so the buzzer wouldn't sound, and leaned in. Mama Montoni must have switched off the heat as well. It was icy inside.

They were sitting at the table in the corner, hunched forward over it as if they were cold.

Yet to Come had his hands up inside his sleeves, and Present kept tugging at his b.u.t.ton as if to pull the green robe closer. He was reading to them from A Christmas Carol.

”You will be haunted,” resumed the Ghost of Marley, ”by three spirits,” '” Present read. ”' ”Is this the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?” he demanded in a faltering voice. ”It is.” ”I-I think I'd rather not,” said Scrooge. ”Without their visits,” said the Ghost, ”you cannot hope to shun the path I tread.”

I banged the door open and strode in. ” 'Come, dine with me, uncle,'” I said.They all turned to look at me.

”We are past that place,” Marley said. ”Scrooge's nephew has already gone home, and so has Scrooge.”

”We are at the place where Scrooge is being visited by Mar-ley,” Present said, pulling out a chair. ”Will you join us?”

”No,” I said. ”You are at the place where you must visit me.”

Mama Montoni came rus.h.i.+ng out from the back. ”I'm closed!” she growled. ”It's Christmas Eve.”

”It's Christmas Eve,” I said, ”and Mama Montoni's is closed, so you must dine with me.”

They looked at each other. Mama Montoni s.n.a.t.c.hed the Closed sign from the door and brandished it in my face. ”I'm closedl”

”I can't offer much. Figs. I have figs. And frosted cakes. And Sir Walter Scott. ' 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale, 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale.' ”

” 'A Christmas gambol oft could cheer the poor man's heart through half the year,' ”

Present murmured, but none of them moved. Mama Montoni started for the phone, to dial 999, no doubt.

”No one should be alone on Christmas Eve,” I said.

They looked at each other again, and then Yet to Come stood up and glided over to me.

”The time grows short,” I said, and Yet to Come extended his finger and pointed at them.

Marley stood up, and then Present, closing his book gently.

Mama Montoni herded us out the door, looking daggers. I pulled A Christmas Carol out of my pocket and handed it to her. ”Excellent book,” I said. ”Instructive.”

She banged the door shut behind us and locked it. ”Merry Christmas,” I said to her through the door, and led the way home, though before we had reached the tube station, Yet to Come was ahead, his finger pointing the way to the train, and my street, and my flat.

”We've black-currant tea,” I said, going into the kitchen to put on the kettle. ”And figs.

Please, make yourselves at home. Present, the d.i.c.kens is in that bookcase, top shelf, and the Scott's just under it.”

I set out sugar and milk and the frosted cakes I'd bought for Gemma. I took the foil off the plum pudding. ”Courtesy of Sir Spencer Siddon, who, unfortunately, remains a miser,” I said, setting it on the table. ”I'm sorry you failed to find someone to reform.”

”We have had some small success,” Present said from the bookcase, and Marley smiled slyly.

”Who?” I said. ”Not Mama Montoni?”

The kettle whistled. I poured the boiling water over the tea and brought the teapot in.

”Come, come, sit down. Present, bring your book with you. You can read to us while the tea steeps.” I pulled out a chair for him. ”But first you must tell me about this person you reformed.”

Marley and Yet to Come looked at each other as if they shared a secret, and both of them looked at Christmas Present.

”You have read Scott's 'Marmion,' have you not?” he said, and I knew that, whoever it was, they weren't going to tell me. One of the people in the queue, perhaps? Or Harridge?

”I always think 'Marmion' an excellent poem for Christmas,” Present said, and opened the book.

” 'And well our Christian sires of old,' ” he read,” 'loved when the year its course had roll'd, and brought blithe Christmas back again, with all his hospitable train.'”

I poured out the tea.

” The wa.s.sail round, in good brown bowls,' ” he read, ” 'garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.'” He put down the book and raised his teacup in a toast. ”To Sir Walter Scott, who knew how to keep Christmas!””And to Mr. d.i.c.kens,” Marley said, ”the founder of the feast.”

”To books!” I said, thinking of Gemma and A Little Princess, ”which instruct and sustain us through hard times,”

” 'Heap on more wood!'” Present said, taking up his book again, ” 'The wind is chill; but let it whistle as it will, we'll keep our Christmas merry still.' ”

I poured out more tea, and we ate the frosted cakes and Gemma's figs and half a meat pie I found in the back of the refrigerator, and Present read us ”Lochinvar,” with sound effects.

As I was bringing in the second pot of tea, the clock began to strike, and outside, church bells began to ring. I looked at the clock. It was, impossibly, midnight.

”Christmas already!” Present said jovially. ”Here's to evenings with friends that fly too fast.”

”And the friends who make it fly,” I said.

”To small successes,” Marley said, and raised his cup to me.

I looked at Christmas Present, and then at Yet to Come, whose face I still could not see, and then back at Marley. He smiled slyly.

”Come, come,” Present said into the silence. ”We have not had a toast from Christmas Yet to Come.”