What happens is Patrick takes my hand and doesn’t let it go the whole time we’re wandering through the land of illuminated toadstools, then a world of giant flower structures that droop high over our heads and press up against the path so we feel like tiny things.
‘It’s like we’ve fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole,’ I say, and he greets that with a starry-eyed nod.
‘Me too, though we haven’t had anything to eat or drink yet.’
‘No magic potions,’ I say.
‘Let’s fix that.’
I don’t pry into his plans. It’s enough to have my hand held and to see him looking so proud and happy. I’d hate to spoil it for him by trying to take control, but I’m curious as we break away from the wide path entirely, striding onto the lawns, past signs warning us,Do not walk on the grass.
‘Ignore those,’ he says.
He’s leading us up a steep bank. It gets so steep, in fact, my boots are slipping.
‘Little help here?’ I squeak, just as I’m about to slide all the way back down.
With a sure arm, he pulls me with him, up and over the peak, away from the slippery, frosted lawns and onto a dark wooded plateau and a path that’s chained over.
‘That sign says no entry,’ I say as we step over the chain.
‘Except for staff. Probably,’ he says casually, his arms still around me, bundling me along. I can feel his excitement.
‘Where are we going?’
His eyes are fixed on a point in the distance a little way along the path, and he reaches into his pocket for his torch, flashes it up ahead once, then twice, only for our light to be greeted by two flashes in reply. Shadows shift, leaves rustle, and then all sense that someone else was up here before us dies away.
We’re quite alone as we make the slightest turn in the path, revealing a rounded arbour with a conical roof, wide enough for a bench to sit on and two fat tree stumps for tables. The little hideaway is wide open at the front, and when we sit down, we can see the entire Dunham Gravey estate stretched out down below us.
Patrick’s opening a wicker basket, saying, ‘Well, look what we have here.’ Inside are glass lanterns and matches to light the candles.
I’ve no words in me, it seems. Then he produces two rolled blankets. One he folds and, motioning for me to lift my bottom again, he lies it along the bench under us. Once seated again, he places the second blanket across our legs. I notice the price tag still attached. They’re from the Dunham Gravey gift shop.
‘Did you buy these specially?’
‘More like… liberated?’ he says with a laugh, and I don’t know if he’s joking. I don’t really care at this point. I’m loving this side of Patrick.
‘I’ve never seen you quite like this,’ I tell him.
‘Hmm?’
He’s busy opening a bottle so I reach inside the basket for the two tall glasses nestled beside neatly wrapped packages of food.
‘Happy, like this,’ I say, as the cork escapes the bottle and flies down over the slope below us.
‘Argh!’ Patrick ventriloquises an injured man down below, and I blurt a laugh.
‘You’ve gone all giddy,’ I tell him.
I hold the glasses for him to fill. He takes his time so the fizz doesn’t spill over.
‘I reckon you’re right,’ he says eventually, his eyes sparkling in the lantern light. He clinks his bubbling glass to mine. ‘Merry Christmas, Margi. I’m sorry it isn’t quite the holiday you planned. I really am.’
‘It’s OK,’ I tell him, but my mind’s already reliving that first awful glimpse through the doors of the village hall and the collapsed tables, running water and piled rubble and broken beams. I throw back the first gulp from my glass to chase the memory away, swallowing hard.
Wordlessly, we look out at the view below, where the dark lawns lead off to the series of wondrously lit gardens, all melding into a blur of shifting colours. The high walls of Dunham House itself are illuminated by some kind of giant projector. Across its stonework, snowflakes dance to the piped festive music. The snowflakes melt into a scene of trooping nutcrackers before they fade out, and in their place, a fairy flies to the top of a Christmas tree, waving a wand in a sparkling swirl.
The monster oaks and ash trees which mark the perimeter of the estate are also lit from below so they tower like red, purple and blue giants, beautiful in their winter nakedness.
