Page 16 of So This is Christmas

She carried the first of the boxes into the lounge and opened it up. She pulled out the sunrise succulent and immediately went to put it on the kitchen windowsill. Then, no matter how dreary the day, she’d smile every time she saw the pink and yellow colours, warm just like her friend Bea.

She took out the comfort teddy she’d knitted. She hadn’t wanted to leave it at the lodge; she didn’t trust Amber not to pull it apart or stab it as though it were a voodoo doll.

She brought the other boxes into the room and sifted through those next and she carefully scoured each corner of every empty box to make sure the puzzle-piece necklace wasn’t caught up in any of them.

She brought in the bags of clothes and one by one, emptied them out, each time examining the garments carefully for the necklace, lest it be accidentally donated to a charity shop for some very lucky customer to find.

She held Bea’s blanket to her nose but it didn’t smell of anything much.

She took it to the washing machine and put it on straight away on a gentle wash that would care for it in the way it deserved.

She’d put it on the airer for the rest of the day, given she didn’t have a heap of laundry to do.

That was another thing about having no job – she was already up to date on the washing given she’d stayed inside all yesterday and there hadn’t been much else to occupy her time.

She refilled the bags and put them beside the front door when she was done with those – they’d go back in the car when the rain stopped and she’d take them to the nearest charity shop in the morning.

She flicked on a light. Was she imagining it or was the day already beginning to draw in? It was only 2p.m. but it felt much later. She went to pull out a fresh box of teabags and spotted a still-sealed bottle of mulled wine in the cupboard.

Was it too early?

Of course it was. But then again, she’d been fired, she’d lost a good friend, her son was away, she was going to be completely alone for Christmas, and there was no Christmas cheer in the room.

Sod it. She deserved the treat. If you couldn’t have a daytime mulled wine when you had all that on your plate, then when could you?

She found an orange in the fridge that might be past its best but would do, and with the glass, one of the pair remaining from the set of six with snowflakes etched on the outsides that she and Martin had been given as a wedding present – the others had met their maker a long time ago – she warmed the mulled wine in the microwave, dropped a slice of orange inside and took it with her over to the patio doors that looked out onto the back garden.

She’d hoped she would find the necklace in amongst Bea’s belongings but there was no sign of it.

The conversation with Amber went over and over in her mind.

If Sophie hadn’t confronted her about the necklace she’d probably still have a job, and now Amber knew she was on to her.

Did that mean she would stop stealing? Did that mean residents were better off without Sophie in the picture?

It was the only thing that would make sense out of all of this mess.

The way Amber had looked at her and spoken to her made her shudder.

She knew Sophie’s secrets and Sophie hated it.

But Sophie still needed her. Any employer or agency would want a reference from her previous job, there was no getting around that.

Amber could really ruin things for her if she tried to speak up again.

She was going to have to keep her mouth shut or otherwise, instead of writing a decent reference, Amber could write one that saw to it that Sophie never worked again.

The rain hammered against the windowpanes and with a sudden urge to feel the freshness of it, she opened the patio door on one side, just a crack, and let the smell flood inside.

When she and Martin had moved in, the weeds out there had been up to her armpits.

Martin had taken a photograph of her walking amongst them, laughing her head off.

They’d had a ball that summer, chopping them down, finding some sort of surface that resembled a garden.

The garden had become a mini oasis after that – small but an escape with a rockery in one corner, a trellis with honeysuckle against the fence that come summer would bloom and carry a scent on the breeze.

The garden space had seen a swing, a cubby and a guinea pig hutch, and even though it was mostly a neatly kept lawn in the centre, Sophie added colour every spring by updating the contents of the terracotta pots against the far fence.

She went back to the boxes. The television was still covering the Christmas markets and now the presenter was in Bruges, a place Sophie thought she might well go and see one day just for the chocolate, given some of the talk about the local area.

She pulled out a half-full box of pink tissues from Bea’s belongings.

There was a small wooden alarm clock which ticked reliably on, a set of hand creams Bea might have received for Christmas one year and had never used, and Bea’s old-fashioned radio with its little aerial that refused to stay extended and yet didn’t seem to compromise the reception.

She opened up the next box and she almost knocked over her wine when she saw the letter from Greta.

Where had her head been at, these last couple of days?

She’d forgotten to bring these things inside, but not only that, she’d forgotten all about the Christmas letter. She’d put it in the pocket of her uniform, and her uniform had gone through the wash already!

She raced into the utility room and picked up the dry tunic that had been washed and tumble-dried. And sure enough the pieces were there, in the pocket. She’d never put it in her locker as she’d intended, and now it was ripped to shreds.

She felt destroyed all over again until she remembered that they’d written the letter on her laptop.

Thank goodness for technology. And Bea’s address book, which she found in the same box as Greta’s letter.

Within five minutes she had another Christmas letter printed, inside an addressed envelope, and she’d found the stamp to mark the seal at the back.

It was 6 December. Plenty of time to get it to the Wynters just like she’d promised.

But then she slumped down on the sofa with the letter in her hand.

How could she send this when Bea was gone? How could she do that to Greta? It would feel like lying, sending correspondence that made it sound like Bea was the same as ever, comfortable and content in the Tapestry Lodge.

Sophie’s tears flowed yet again. She’d been close to Bea but it wasn’t just that, it was everything – Bea, losing her job, the necklace going missing, Amber in charge of so many people who depended on her when she was entirely dishonest, her first Christmas without Hayden.

The orange slice in the bottom of her glass was stained and limp.

Should she write to Greta herself and explain what had happened?

Should she send her letter with Bea’s letter, or send the letter first and the terrible update later?

She could explain that she and Bea had been talking the morning she passed away and that she wasn’t in any pain, and maybe Greta would be able to draw comfort from that.

She found a pen from the drawer in the kitchen and back in the lounge took out the pad of writing paper Bea had kept even though she hadn’t used it in a long time. She had to write this letter. Typing it wouldn’t be right, this was far too personal.

But ten minutes later she was still staring at a blank sheet.

How did you write a letter with this sort of news?

‘I hope someone cares about me that much when I’m in my eighties,’ Jessica had said one day a few weeks ago as they took down three sets of bedsheets to dump in the laundry bags, ready for collection.

Sophie had been in Bea’s room and Bea had been talking non-stop about Greta and the things they used to do as girls in Vienna.

‘Me too.’ Sophie had shoved the last of the sheets into the bag and led the way back along the corridor.

‘Bea was telling me all about the Wynter Hotel,’ said Jessica.

‘It sounds beautiful, doesn’t it?’

‘Not tempted to go stay there?’

Sophie had laughed. ‘Sounds a little bit out of my price range.’

‘Bea seems convinced you should at least go to Vienna.’

‘I’m well aware, I just didn’t realise she was telling everyone else her plan.’

‘She really likes you, Sophie, anyone can see that. You’re special to her and her friend Greta seems to think a lot of you too.’

Sophie smiled. ‘They’re lovely ladies, the pair of them. I’d love to meet Greta again someday.’

‘Imagine, Vienna at any time of the year, but at Christmas?’ Jessica had raised her eyebrows. ‘I bet you’d love it.’

‘I’m sure I would, and I guess we can all dream,’ Sophie had answered.

With Dear Greta the only words on the pad of writing paper, Sophie gave up and instead pulled out the folder of past letters from Bea’s boxes.

Rather than trying to find the words for Greta she lost herself in the correspondence she’d read a thousand times before.

Vienna at Easter, in the summer, traditions and foods that Bea and Greta had shared, the lead-up to Christmas, the bosom of the Wynter family. It sounded like another world.

Vienna. If only.