Christmas Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley Page A

persistent he is.’
    Stephen smiled. His stepfather was not such a bad sort, but persistence could not be counted among his most obvious characteristics. His main goal in life seemed to be to avoid any kind of confrontation with his wife, so Stephen was convinced that most of this alleged ‘persistence’ came from her. He was positive that, left to his own devices, his stepfather would have happily made do with a few sprigs here and there.
    ‘But where did it all come from?’ asked Stephen. ‘I can’t think there is a corner of our land that’s untidy enough to supply such a crop.’
    Stephen noticed that his mother suddenly seemed a little nervous.
    ‘From Freya’s Hill,’ she said airily.
    Stephen stared at her and she looked away, adjusting one of the vases of holly.
    ‘Freya’s Hill?’ said Stephen. ‘But you know that Father forbade anyone from –’
    ‘You have a new father now, Stephen,’ said his mother. ‘And he isn’t quite so superstitious.’
    ‘Father respected the –’
    ‘Respect?’ his mother said crossly. ‘Do not use that word in relation to such heathen practices.’
    Stephen’s mother had taken solace in the Church after his father had died and Stephen had the distinct impression that she had begun to believe that her late husband’s interest in folklore and magic might have contributed to his early death. She would never have voiced this opinion to Stephen, but he felt it was there in the background, always. Stephen’s goodwill began to ebb.
    ‘If you think them heathen, Mother,’ he said, ‘why bring green leaves into the house at all? Surely that is heathen. It has nothing to do with Christianity, after all.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ she said.
    ‘How is it nonsense?’ said Stephen.
    ‘Well, the wreaths of holly represent the crown of thorns and the berries the drops of blood.’
    ‘Mother,’ Stephen said, shaking his head. ‘You know full well that –’
    ‘I won’t debate with you, Stephen,’ she said, waving him away as though he were a wasp. ‘You and your father were always too clever for me.’
    Yes, thought Stephen. Father was always too clever for you. That’s why you chose such an amiable fool for your new husband.
    And just as he thought that, Stephen’s stepfather walked into the hall.
    ‘Stephen!’ he cried with a grin. ‘Good to have you home, my boy.’
    ‘Hello, sir,’ said Stephen. ‘Mother was just telling me how you collected all this holly and ivy.’
    ‘No “sir”, boy,’ said his stepfather. ‘No need for all that. Yes – the greenery. Scratched myself to ribbons on brambles, don’t you know, but wouldn’t let that stop me. Once I get started on something . . .’
    Stephen bit his lip. It’s Christmas, he told himself again. He smiled and said that he really ought to go up to his room and unpack. As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked back down, past the tree and the swathes of ivy, at his mother and stepfather standing talking below. It was almost like looking down into a forest glade.
    Stephen wondered what his father would have made of it all. He suspected that he would have found it ridiculous rather than annoying, and so Stephen tried to embrace that idea himself, as he closed the door to his room and wallowed in the peaceful embrace of the familiar, of the unchanged.
     
    The following day was Christmas Eve, when Stephen’s parents had always held a festive lunch, and the tradition continued – although the make-up of those attending had changed somewhat since his father’s death.
    For one thing, far more of the guests were female. Stephen’s mother invited several ladies from the watercolour society she had founded years before, as well as members of the committee of the amateur dramatic and operatic clubs she was part of. Looking round the table, Stephen could see that the only men, in fact, were Reverend Ashcroft, Stephen’s stepfather and Doctor Meadows.
    Doctor Meadows was the one person who could be counted