Page 18 of The Secret Christmas Library

Oh, she didn’t know. She didn’t understand the world, not really.

Maybe the old laird had given loads of his money away.

Maybe he’d fed all the hungry kids in the villages all round, found good jobs for people to do.

Or maybe she was na?ve and studenty and didn’t understand the world and all of that.

But looking round at this dusty, forgotten, overflowing room, belonging to a man who seemingly, from the way Jamie told it, had died completely alone, his estranged daughter in a foreign land, his grandchildren passing the buck on the inheritance .

. . well, she wouldn’t say he’d been on top of it either.

‘What was he like?’ she called to Jamie, as she leafed desultorily through a selection of hardback guides to O-level mathematics in 1956.

She could not deny, it looked a lot harder than her GCSEs.

That was an entire puzzle on its own. Still, though, it was a treasure trove, and she remembered, looking round, how, when she was young, she’d thought, once, that she might read every book in the world, she loved them so.

As she’d outgrown the tiny children’s section in her branch library, she’d realised this was futile, but there was still something in her that wanted to sit down and not get up again till she’d read every single one; travelled to every single land within their pages; met their kings, learned about their strange ways; fallen in love.

Perhaps the old man, too, really had thought he could possess every single book in the world. ‘Your grandfather. What was he like?’

Jamie frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I mean . . . was he warm? Fun? You spent all your holidays here.’

Jamie looked uncomfortable. ‘Well . . . he was head of the family, you know.’

‘I don’t,’ said Mirren. ‘My parents are divorced, and I don’t really see my dad’s parents at all. I lost an entire set of grandparents.’

‘Oh, me too,’ said Jamie. He looked sad for a moment. ‘Well. He was . . . crusty, I suppose? Had his head in a book a lot of the time. Eccentric? You had to be quite quiet around him . . . ’

‘Was he fun?’

‘The laird?’ The way Jamie spoke his title said everything. ‘No,’ he said, heavily. ‘No. He was not fun. No.’

‘But he liked games and puzzles and things . . . ’ Mirren gestured at the poem.

‘Yes, he’d set us really hard puzzles then get annoyed when we couldn’t solve them,’ said Jamie, wincing a little at the memory.

‘I was never exactly a Mensa candidate. He made it very clear what he thought about that. I like reading but I’m not really into word games.

He was a difficult man. I never understood him. ’

He looked down and they carried on. Some of the books half-disintegrated when they picked them up.

The room must be damp, thought Mirren; the beautiful, ancient mullioned windows were single-glazed, of course, and the moisture must get in.

Another terrible note for the survey, if she had been doing her actual job.

There must be mice too. This place would be a feast to them.

Add them to the spiders and this castle was absolutely full of life.

She made a promise to herself not to think about bats.

At the edge of the mezzanine, where the wrought-iron balcony creaked slightly and probably wouldn’t handle too much leaning against, was a pile of old chests.

One of them was full of magazines: old issues of National Geographic with their yellow borders, which might have been worth something if they weren’t all warped and spotted.

A second, likewise, but with a bunch of comics.

‘The Beano!’ said Mirren.

Jamie looked up.

‘Hundreds of them!’ she said.

He came up to inspect. ‘Well, there’s some treasure,’ he said, and bounded up the curved staircase, which wobbled ominously at his large hands on it. ‘Ha. God, that old bastard.’

‘What?’ said Mirren.

He shook his head. ‘It’s funny really. He wouldn’t let me have any comics because I should be reading “real books”. And don’t even start me on telly or the internet. And he had all of these the entire time!’

He picked out the top one. ‘What was your favourite?’

‘The Numskulls, obviously,’ said Mirren. ‘I feel sorry for kids today who only have Inside Out.’

He laughed. ‘Quite right too. God, I used to look like Plug.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘I went through a very prominent-Adam’s-apple stage.’

Jamie sat down excitedly to read them. Mirren carried on with the next trunk, feeling a niggling in her back and shoulders. Muscles that didn’t get a workout very often were feeling the strain of a long day picking up and putting down.

‘Ugh,’ she said. ‘Just school stuff.’

Jamie ignored her. He was reading, and Theo had wandered up too.

‘Do you know what we need?’ he said. ‘A flask.’

‘I think there’s about forty-two of them in the under-kitchen,’ murmured Jamie, handing over a Dandy. ‘They used to get used on hunting parties. Beef tea.’

Mirren didn’t know what beef tea was but it sounded disgusting, and she made a face, as the boys sat down and started reading the comics like a couple of teenagers.

‘Hey!’ said Mirren.

‘Come off it,’ said Theo. ‘We’ve been at it for hours.’

‘You’re filthy,’ said Mirren. Theo was completely covered in dust, including a streak in his shiny hair.

‘You should see yourself,’ he said.

‘I can’t,’ said Mirren. ‘Because I’m busy doing that job that I’m being paid for?’

Theo groaned theatrically and put Desperate Dan down.

Mirren carried on opening chests. The very smallest was at the back, a small brown case with JWDMK on it as initials, plus a tiny golden coat of arms. It was so obviously a bag for a child going on a journey, it made Mirren feel oddly sad. Actual golden initials – but for what?

It creaked open, and the smell was of musty old ink. There were letters inside, on wrinkled old sheets of leaf-thin see-through airmail paper, or crinkly proper stationery with the address emblazoned on it.

Dear James,

Thank you for your last letter. I will say, it is not to your credit to hear you complain.

I have spoken to your housemaster who tells me you have been coddled too much at home and are having trouble adapting.

I see this as my own failing and feel it would probably be best – the master agrees – if you stayed on over the Easter break, as I shall be travelling to Capri and I worry the food may upset you.

The letter was dated 1952.

Mirren stared at it for a long time. Obviously these were letters received by the owner of the small, pathetic child’s suitcase.

‘Jamie,’ she said, glancing up, ‘when was your grandfather born?’

‘Just before the end of the war,’ said Jamie, ‘1944. I had to order the headstone.’

Eight, thought Mirren holding the letter. This was written to a child of eight. Telling them they couldn’t come home for the Easter holidays.

‘Where was your . . . oh. Do you know whose handwriting this is?’ She passed it over.

‘That’s my great-grandfather,’ said Jamie, frowning. ‘You can see his signature.’

‘So, your grandfather’s dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Also called . . . ’

‘James, yes.’

She leafed through the pages.

We were disappointed to hear . . .

Unfortunately, we are unable . . .

Once again your housemaster . . .

Jamie got up and came over to examine the letters.

‘He doesn’t seem very happy,’ Mirren said. ‘They just seem to be a long collection of responses to complaints from your grandfather . . . well, I don’t suppose you’d like it if you were sent away from home at eight years old . . . ’

‘You wouldn’t,’ said two emphatic voices. The boys looked at each other, surprised.

‘You?’ said Theo.

‘Croffley,’ said Jamie. ‘Literally the same place these letters went to. Banged up at eight for a ten-stretch.’

Theo nodded. ‘Dunner Hall.’

‘Isn’t that for softies?’

Theo grimaced. ‘Apparently, yes.’

‘I am beginning to think,’ said Mirren, ‘that growing up posh is not quite as much fun as I imagined it might be.’

Theo bent down and took a look.

‘Oh, my God. I can kind of understand keeping a kid’s drawings – although probably not if you send them away, bloody hell. But this . . . ’ He pulled out a sheaf of ancient, flaking-away tracing paper.

Mirren looked at it. The old pages were such thin leaves, they looked ready to crumble into dust.

‘Trace its line,’ she breathed.

Across the top, in a smudged child’s hand, was written ANANMILS OF THE ARTIC, and the tracings were of creatures – polar bears, Arctic foxes, and, yes, geese . . .

‘No penguins, though,’ said Mirren.

‘Wait – there actually aren’t any penguins in the Arctic!’ said Theo suddenly. ‘I forgot. How embarrassing.’

‘Oh! So he did mean pick up your pen!’

‘Or he wasn’t a very good student.’

They leafed through the box, but it didn’t seem to have anything in it other than the letters and pictures.

Theo blinked. ‘Hang on,’ he said, and got up and jumped down the stairs and across the room. He waved a hand. ‘Over here,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I saw . . . somewhere around here . . . ’

Just as he said it, the lights flickered, and they looked up.

‘They do that,’ said Jamie. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Um, okay,’ said Theo. ‘Have you got a torch – you know, just in case?’

‘No,’ said Jamie. ‘I can find my way round this place blindfolded. And have done, often.’

‘Well, that’s okay for you,’ said Mirren. ‘I can’t remember where my bedroom is when we’re in broad daylight.’

The lights flickered again.

‘It’s fine,’ said Jamie, and went towards the window, frowning. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s earlier than was forecast. Oh, well.’

‘What?’ said Mirren, picking her way down the stairs towards the great high casement windows. The lights flickered again, and she could see it now: it had begun to snow. ‘It’s snowing!’ she said.

‘It’s winter in Scotland,’ said Jamie. ‘There are literally ski lifts one mountain over.’

‘Are we going to get stuck?’ said Theo.

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Jamie, waving a hand. ‘Snow isn’t what it was. I’m amazed we’re even getting any in December. It used to show up in November, and you could be stuck for weeks after Christmas. It was great. If I didn’t have to get back to school.’

‘Did you get to hang out with your grandad?’

‘No! With Bonnie, of course.’

They watched the flakes fall. It was cold and bleak out there; Mirren was happy she wasn’t outside, even though the metal of the casement windows was freezing to the touch.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It never snows in London. Like, five flakes, then it’s all slushy and disgusting. This is . . . this is proper.’

‘It is,’ said Jamie. ‘We’re going to have to get you kitted out.’

The lights wobbled again.

‘Is the power going to go off?’

Jamie shrugged. ‘Probably. Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’

‘The electrics are . . . a little aged.’

‘I feel a Tripadvisor review coming on,’ said Mirren.

‘So,’ said Theo, turning back to the matter at hand, ‘over here for some reason, mildly lumped together for once . . . ’

He held up a front cover. They squinted to see it. Bacteria of the Arctic.

‘I didn’t think there were any bacteria in the Arctic,’ said Mirren. ‘I thought it was too cold.’

‘It’s just an example,’ said Theo. ‘There are lots of books about the Arctic and Arctic animals over here.’

Jamie glanced back. ‘You think they might have something to do with the tracings?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Theo. ‘But they were traced from somewhere.’

‘Fair point,’ said Jamie, and they started looking through the dusty old guides, Theo still using his phone as a torch. Jamie meanwhile had grabbed a stud of candle in a holder and was now reading by candlelight.

Mirren stared out a moment longer, letting her eyes adjust to looking at the swooping, dancing snowflakes blasting across the landscape.

It was so lovely, the way they whisked and twirled in the air.

As the boys leafed through the pages, occasionally making remarks like ‘well, someone had never seen an otter before’ and, ‘okay, I’ve gone bird-blind’, she gazed into the lonely wilderness.

She had travelled a little, she supposed – well, Ibiza with the girls, and France with her mum.

But here, even though she was supposedly on the same island as London, it was hard to believe it.

Not a speck of humanity or civilisation anywhere; nothing to be seen or heard, nobody else around.

It was liberating, too, she supposed, to have this much space with which to do what you wanted.

Although it hadn’t seemed to make the old man very happy.

Or the young one, she found herself thinking.

Perhaps there was just too much solitude.

Just as she thought this, she saw a light, blinking, outside in the freezing dark.