Page 2 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

Fred Hallow-Hart shivered as she swiped the key card and pushed open the door to her room for the night.

The Forest Inn was situated halfway up the high street.

On the ground-floor level was a quaint old bar, which served real ale and pub grub and held open mic nights on Tuesdays, or at least it did when Fred had lived in Pine Bluff.

The upstairs—which once had served as a dingy pool hall and boasted questionable function rooms—had undergone a full renovation and now offered the kind of boutique bedrooms found in the pages of Country Living magazine.

It was in room number twelve that Fred put down her overnight bag before throwing herself heavily onto the generous sleigh bed and closing her eyes.

She’d already been recognized on her way from the busy bar to her room.

She should have known it would be impossible to sneak back into her hometown; the Hallow-Harts were as much a part of Pine Bluff as the forests of firs and the wild ocean that surrounded it, and her resemblance to her ancestors was striking.

Maybe she should have worn a disguise. Her eyes—like all the women in her family—were the color of forget-me-nots and her long black hair kinked in lazy “S” shapes down her back, past her shoulder blades.

She’d never seen a picture of her father, but judging by how similar she was to her mum and Aunt Aggie, she doubted he’d influenced her looks very much.

They all three had the same button nose and high cheekbones, but Fred had the most freckles.

Hallow House was only half a mile up the hill and yet despite having driven for ten hours from London to get here, she couldn’t quite bring herself to close that final distance.

She needed to acclimatize, to brace herself; she needed one more night where she could kid herself that she hadn’t officially failed at adulting.

Tomorrow she would admit defeat and go home.

She sat up and checked her phone. It was only half past eight.

She’d grabbed a bowl of noodles for dinner at the last motorway services, and now she fancied a glass of wine.

She rang for room service but no one picked up, which was not surprising; she could hear the muffled din from the bar through the floor, the place was heaving tonight.

There was nothing for it, she’d have to go back down to the bar and hope nobody tried to engage her in conversation.

She wasn’t quite ready to admit out loud that a run of bad luck—both financial and romantic—had brought her scurrying home with her tail between her legs.

Though let’s face it, half the town probably already knew.

Her great-aunts’ community WhatsApp group—the Pine Bluff Jezebels—was the modern equivalent of a town crier.

The bar was even busier now than when she’d arrived, and by the time she’d fought her way through the noisy crowd and put a large glass of red on her room tab, she was feeling stifled and in need of some air.

She sidled around a particularly boisterous group of tankard-clanking drinkers and inched past the huddle near the piano singing “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day” badly, and finally made it to the door that led out onto the high street.

She welcomed the burst of cold air that washed over her as she stepped outside.

Quiet . Fred sighed contentedly and took a grateful sip of her wine.

She wouldn’t stay out here long, already the chill was eating through her jumper and jeans.

Empty pint glasses stood abandoned on the picnic tables, ice crystals forming over the frothy dregs, half-smoked cigarettes hastily stubbed out in the terra-cotta ashtrays.

Clearly, the bonhomie of the wood fire and the enthusiastic piano player inside was a greater enticement than any nicotine addiction.

There wasn’t a soul around. She took another sip of wine and placed her glass on one of the tables.

Then she stepped out onto the long cobbled high street.

It was laid out in a rough “U” shape, winding downhill and up again at odd angles.

To shop the length of it was a workout for the thighs.

Here and there, covered passageways led to hidden arcades of cafés and boutiques.

Smaller streets acted as tributaries, linking the bends in the long high street, and creating cut-throughs to those in the know.

If it wasn’t for the din coming from the pub, she might have thought she was alone in the town. The streetlamps highlighted her clouded breath as she stood in the middle of the road, taking in the place that had once been so familiar to her.

Some of the shops from her childhood remained: Frost’s hardware store looked unchanged, and she was pleased to see Eadie’s bakery was still going after all these years.

But there were many more she didn’t recognize: several artisan coffee shops and delis, a whole foods store, a tanning salon and a beauty parlor that claimed to offer permanent makeup.

All the shops were Christmas ready, the windows twinkling with fairy lights as far as the eye could see.

Even the bright lights of Islington couldn’t hold a candle to Pine Bluff at Christmas—and when the Christmas market arrived, the town would really come into its own.

She used to love living in London, being a part of its constant rush and bustle.

But two years spent in an exile of her own making had rendered her a spectator rather than a participant in the vibrant metropolis, and it had been a lonely existence.

Here in Pine Bluff, her long Hallow-Hart roots ensured she belonged, whether she liked it or not.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the sound of running feet until it was too late. She spun around in time for a six-foot Christmas elf to slam into her, knocking them both to the ground.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry!” the elf puffed breathlessly as Fred—shocked and acting on adrenaline—struggled to get out from underneath him.

“Get off me!” she shouted, flailing and slapping at him.

“I’m trying! My scarf is trapped under you. Will you just stop hitting me for a moment? You’re strangling me,” he muttered in a gargled protest.

The elf tore at his throat, choking, and finally freed the scarf from around his neck.

Gasping for air, he flopped gratefully to one side of her.

Fred tried to scramble to her feet, but the cobbles were slippery and she promptly crashed back down on top of him, one knee connecting with his stomach as she tried to save herself.

“Oof! Shit . Sorry. Sorry!” she gasped, landing in a heap beside him.

The elf made a pained sound like a wounded wolfhound and rolled into a fetal position on the cobbles. The zigzag edges of his green velvet tunic lifted in the cool breeze to reveal thick emerald-green-and-red striped tights.

“Hi, Fred,” the elf groaned.

Breathing hard, she turned to face the elf; he was still cutting the frightened armadillo pose.

“Ryan Frost?” she asked, incredulous. She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since she’d left for university.

He nodded, eyes still squinting in pain.

“Bella said you were moving back home,” he croaked.

“I’m not moving back,” she snapped. “I’m…” She fumbled for the words. “Perching. Like a swallow taking a breather during its journey south for the winter.” She huffed. Yes, that was exactly it; she was perching. She was not back. Categorically not back.

“I think you ruptured my spleen,” Ryan moaned.

She huffed again as she helped him up to a sitting position.

“I did not rupture your spleen. Why weren’t you looking where you were going? And why are you dressed like an elf?”

Together they staggered to their feet.

“I borrowed the costume from the grotto for Krampus Night. I’m doing the run,” he said, straightening his elf ears beneath his hat.

Ryan’s dad, Diggory, was Pine Bluff’s Father Christmas.

And his mum, Martha—best friend of Fred’s mum, Bella—played Mrs. Christmas.

Each year the Frost family ran the grotto to raise money for local charities.

“Why were you standing in the middle of the road?”

Fred opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by the vibrations rumbling up from the cobblestones and into her boots.

“Oh, no. It can’t be! It’s too early. It isn’t even December!” Fred rounded on Ryan.

“Tell that to Krampus!”

“Nope!” Fred turned and ran toward the inn.

“It’s too late,” Ryan protested, running after her.

The legend of Krampus—Krampus being the “naughty” to Saint Nicholas’s “nice”—and the ensuing celebrations hailed from the Austrian Alps but had somehow been enthusiastically adopted by the small Scottish town of Pine Bluff.

Fred reached the door in time to hear the clank of heavy bolts being drawn across from the inside, along with much laughter.

“Let me in!” she yelled, banging her fists on the door.

More laughter.

“Sorry, Freddie Hallow-Hart, you know the rules!” came a disembodied voice from behind the door.

“I am a paying guest at this hotel.” She almost stamped her foot in frustration.

Whistles and guffaws from inside met her protestations.

“I don’t care how much you’ve paid, missy, this is Krampus Night, so you’d better get running!” returned the voice through the locked door.

According to the folklore, by showing due respect to Krampus—and proving to the demon that you were no bah-humbug—he would leave you alone for the season, and thus ensure the townspeople enjoyed a merry and prosperous Christmas market.

Each year, on Krampus Night, a resident of the town volunteered to play the demon while others opted to be part of the grisly goblin army.

Garbed in rags and gruesome masks, they banded together and paraded up and down the high street, singing and carousing and hunting for victims. For the rest of the participants—called “runners,” which now included Fred—the object was simple: don’t get caught.