1
The Green Man
Stephen Levenson stood for some time looking at the house at the end of the long, tree-lined drive. It was the view he always pictured when he was at school, thinking of the Christmas holidays. But since his father’s death three years before, it was tinged with sadness.
Woodehouse End was as lovely as ever, with its high gables and ornate brick chimneys, from which tall columns of smoke rose into the cold, grey sky. It had always been more his father’s house than his mother’s, and it even seemed to have something of his father’s combination of quietude and confidence.
Stephen took a moment to remember how life used to be before his father died – and before his mother had remarried. He thought of these times fondly and without bitterness. He had adjusted to the new state of things with the good grace he knew his father would have expected of him. Besides, he was away at school most of the time.
Stephen took a deep breath of chill air and set off up the gravel drive.
‘Why, Master Stephen!’ cried Elspeth, the parlourmaid, when she opened the front door. ‘We wasn’t expecting you till three.’
‘I caught an earlier train,’ said Stephen.
‘You should have called. Mr James would have fetched you from the station.’
‘It’s all right. I like the walk.’
‘Madam will be pleased,’ Elspeth went on. ‘’T ain’t Christmas till you come, sir.’
Stephen smiled. It was good to be home.
‘Well, are you going to let me in, Elspeth?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Is Mother about?’
Elspeth took his coat and bag.
‘She’s in the hall, Master Stephen, decorating the tree. You should see it, sir. It’s a giant!’
‘You say that every year, Elspeth,’ said Stephen.
‘Well, this year it’s truer than ever,’ she replied, as she walked away with his bag.
Stephen had to admit that the tree was indeed enormous. His mother was looking up at Hills, the butler, who was teetering precariously atop a tall stepladder.
‘No, no,’ Stephen’s mother was saying. ‘A little to the left.’
‘If he goes any further to the left, Mother,’ said Stephen, ‘poor Hills will fall and break his neck.’
‘Stephen!’ said his mother loudly, making Hills wobble even more and drop the bauble he had been trying to hang. It shattered into a thousand glittering fragments.
‘Sorry, madam,’ said Hills.
‘Never mind,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Come down, come down. I think that will probably do in any case.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Hills, the relief evident in his voice. ‘I’ll get Elspeth to clear this up.’
Mrs Levenson turned to her son and put her hands to either side of his face.
‘It’s so lovely to have you home,’ she said. ‘You’re freezing, Stephen. Get yourself by the fire.’
‘I’m fine, Mother,’ he said. ‘Please don’t fuss.’
‘Your father will be so pleased to see you.’
Stephen did not respond. He was not willing to join in with his mother’s new conceit of calling his stepfather his father, but neither did he want to argue with her or upset her unnecessarily. It was Christmas.
‘You’ve gone rather overboard with the greenery,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ his mother replied, clasping her hands together. ‘Lady Fairlove’s house was full of green leaves last Christmas and it looked marvellous. I can’t think why we’ve never done it before.’
Stephen shook his head in amazement. Swathes of ivy coiled up the banisters of the stairs and round the frames of the paintings on the walls. It wound round lamps and chairs and table legs and was pinned to architraves.
Wreaths of holly hung from every door and bunches of it had been strewn on shelves and ledges and gathered together with yew branches in vases and jugs. Every windowsill was decked with great clumps of leaves and berries.
‘Your father gathered it all,’ his mother added. ‘It took him an age, but you know how
The Green Man
Stephen Levenson stood for some time looking at the house at the end of the long, tree-lined drive. It was the view he always pictured when he was at school, thinking of the Christmas holidays. But since his father’s death three years before, it was tinged with sadness.
Woodehouse End was as lovely as ever, with its high gables and ornate brick chimneys, from which tall columns of smoke rose into the cold, grey sky. It had always been more his father’s house than his mother’s, and it even seemed to have something of his father’s combination of quietude and confidence.
Stephen took a moment to remember how life used to be before his father died – and before his mother had remarried. He thought of these times fondly and without bitterness. He had adjusted to the new state of things with the good grace he knew his father would have expected of him. Besides, he was away at school most of the time.
Stephen took a deep breath of chill air and set off up the gravel drive.
‘Why, Master Stephen!’ cried Elspeth, the parlourmaid, when she opened the front door. ‘We wasn’t expecting you till three.’
‘I caught an earlier train,’ said Stephen.
‘You should have called. Mr James would have fetched you from the station.’
‘It’s all right. I like the walk.’
‘Madam will be pleased,’ Elspeth went on. ‘’T ain’t Christmas till you come, sir.’
Stephen smiled. It was good to be home.
‘Well, are you going to let me in, Elspeth?’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Is Mother about?’
Elspeth took his coat and bag.
‘She’s in the hall, Master Stephen, decorating the tree. You should see it, sir. It’s a giant!’
‘You say that every year, Elspeth,’ said Stephen.
‘Well, this year it’s truer than ever,’ she replied, as she walked away with his bag.
Stephen had to admit that the tree was indeed enormous. His mother was looking up at Hills, the butler, who was teetering precariously atop a tall stepladder.
‘No, no,’ Stephen’s mother was saying. ‘A little to the left.’
‘If he goes any further to the left, Mother,’ said Stephen, ‘poor Hills will fall and break his neck.’
‘Stephen!’ said his mother loudly, making Hills wobble even more and drop the bauble he had been trying to hang. It shattered into a thousand glittering fragments.
‘Sorry, madam,’ said Hills.
‘Never mind,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Come down, come down. I think that will probably do in any case.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ said Hills, the relief evident in his voice. ‘I’ll get Elspeth to clear this up.’
Mrs Levenson turned to her son and put her hands to either side of his face.
‘It’s so lovely to have you home,’ she said. ‘You’re freezing, Stephen. Get yourself by the fire.’
‘I’m fine, Mother,’ he said. ‘Please don’t fuss.’
‘Your father will be so pleased to see you.’
Stephen did not respond. He was not willing to join in with his mother’s new conceit of calling his stepfather his father, but neither did he want to argue with her or upset her unnecessarily. It was Christmas.
‘You’ve gone rather overboard with the greenery,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ his mother replied, clasping her hands together. ‘Lady Fairlove’s house was full of green leaves last Christmas and it looked marvellous. I can’t think why we’ve never done it before.’
Stephen shook his head in amazement. Swathes of ivy coiled up the banisters of the stairs and round the frames of the paintings on the walls. It wound round lamps and chairs and table legs and was pinned to architraves.
Wreaths of holly hung from every door and bunches of it had been strewn on shelves and ledges and gathered together with yew branches in vases and jugs. Every windowsill was decked with great clumps of leaves and berries.
‘Your father gathered it all,’ his mother added. ‘It took him an age, but you know how
Similar Books
