‘That’s right. He was a conchie in the war.’
‘A conscientious objector? Oh, of course … Quakers are pacifists. Did they put him in prison?’
‘Gracious, no. Robert got a medal for bravery. Battlefieldambulance driver. He and Demelza shipped out to France together after they were married,’ she added in a low voice, ‘and both drove ambulances under fire, even crossing into Germany with the front line. They only came back when they discovered that Demelza was expecting Teresa.’ Caroline smiled at the memory of their triumphant return from war, pitching up at the farm late one winter’s night. ‘Robert drove his battered old ambulance all the way home from Germany to Cornwall. Can you imagine?’
‘No,’ Grace admitted frankly.
‘My big brave Viking,’ Demelza called through from the kitchen, clearly having ears like a bat. ‘He’s a man in a million.’
‘Sounds like it, love,’ Grace called back, and winked at Caroline. ‘This is fun, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I hope we’re not putting them out. You know how short food is at the moment. If we stay longer than Boxing Day, I’ll give Lily my ration book, in case she can use it for extra food.’ Caroline sipped her brandy and shuddered. ‘Goodness, that’s strong.’
‘Get it down your neck, girl.’ Grace nudged her in the ribs, grinning. ‘It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
The two men came back in from the fields eventually, stamping their feet and clapping their hands, declaring it to be ‘perishing’ out there. Tristan’s aunt Sarah emerged from a side room, leaning on a stick, and was helped to the dinner table. A hot meal was served for the grown-ups, the two children having gone to bed, and they tucked in, the conversation a rapid, constant back and forth. The men largely talked politics, while their wives discussed what theywould be serving for Christmas lunch, and how to make it stretch for two unexpected guests, which embarrassed Caroline. Aunt Sarah, whose mouth was drawn down after a stroke, fell into conversation with Grace about Liverpool, a city she’d apparently visited in her youth.
After the meal, Aunt Sarah retired to bed early. Demelza fetched down a wailing Teresa and put her to the breast. Lily served everyone a cup of tea, and sat knitting by the hearth, more like Violet Postbridge than ever, her needles clacking as the fire burned steadily, the room growing so warm that Caroline soon felt drowsy and ready for bed.
At last, the mantel clock chimed eleven.
‘Gosh, it’s almost Christmas Day.’ Yawning, Caroline caught Grace’s eye. ‘I wonder what they’re up to at Postbridge Farm right now.’
‘Sloe gin,’ Tristan muttered.
Robert grinned. ‘Mince pies with brandy.’
‘Sarah Jane will be so excited … Her first proper Christmas Eve.’ Demelza smiled indulgently as she shifted her sleeping baby into the crook of her arm. She glanced towards the hearth where young Morris had hung up his stocking earlier with his father’s help. ‘I can’t wait for Teresa to be old enough to hang up a stocking.’
‘I remember one Christmas Eve,’ Lily said contemplatively, unpicking an errant stitch in her knitting, ‘tiptoeing downstairs after midnight to see if I could spot Santa coming down the chimney. Only, I met Gran on the stairs instead, still supping from a bottle of stout, three sheets to the wind.’
Demelza bit her lip, while her husband roared with laughter.
‘I’d have paid good money to see that,’ Tristan said, lifting a glass of brandy to his lips.
Brow wrinkling, Caroline turned a mystified face to Grace, repeating, ‘Three sheets to the wind?’
‘Drunk,’ Grace supplied.
Caroline snorted.
Robert drained his cup of tea and got wearily to his feet. ‘Time for bed. I’ll carry Teresa. You on your way up too, love?’ he asked his wife.
‘Right behind you,’ Demelza agreed, handing him the baby. ‘I’ll help Lily clear the tea things away first.’
‘No, let us do that,’ Grace said promptly, jumping to her feet. ‘We owe you.’ Winking, she plucked the tray from Demelza’s unresisting hands and headed out to the kitchen with it. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ Demelza called after her, surprised, but followed her husband and child, also yawning extravagantly. ‘Busy day tomorrow.’
‘Every day’s busy,’ Lily muttered, but had put away her knitting. As Grace came back into the room, Lily glanced at Tristan. ‘Bed?’
‘Bed,’ her husband agreed. ‘Though I’ll need to pop an orange and a tin whistle into Morris’s stocking before locking up. You’d best show our guests to their room.’
The tiny spare room was cluttered with old packing crates and various odds and ends, but it had a corner sink with a mirror and the bed looked comfortable.
Lily checked they had enough pillows, and apologised that it was only a single bed. ‘One of you can sleep on the floor with blankets and cushions if it’s too much of a squeeze,’ she said, grimacing on her way out. ‘And you’ll be pleased tohear we have an indoor lavatory, just along the landing. Saves a cold bottom in this weather!’
