The Present: The must-read Christmas romance of the year!

The inside of the box was divided up into twelve squares, and in each square nestled a paper- wrapped package. All except for one square in the middle, that one was empty. Tucked inside the lid was a blank envelope, cream coloured, the edges dog-eared and creased as if it had been opened many times. She carefully extracted a thin sheet of paper, smoothed it out.

‘It’s a letter,’ she said, frowning. It was handwritten in faded black ink, a sloping script. She read aloud:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me …

That’s how the song goes, and you, Olive, are my true love. Words can’t describe how much it pains me to be called away now, when all I want is to spend every minute of every day with you, my darling.

I am not leaving you though, not really, and to prove to you that even though the world we are in today is full of uncertainties and horrors, I am yours.

For every day of these twelve days of Christmas, I am sending you a present, a part of me, to keep with you for ever, whatever may happen. Look out for their arrival, and know how loved you are. How I am thinking of you this Christmas and for all the days of my life.

J

Curiosity flying now, she scooped one of the packages out with her fingertips. The paper wrapping was tissue thin, perhaps ivory at one point, but now a little yellowed with age. She unpeeled the layers carefully and stared. Lying in her palm was a tiny, elaborately decorated pale green glass ball with two tiny painted birds perched on the top. She could tell just from the smoky opaqueness of the glass and the muted tones of the paint that it was old. A loop of thin, faded gold ribbon was attached to the top. The holly inlay on the lid made sudden sense.

‘It’s a Christmas decoration,’ she said, glancing up at Jack. ‘For the tree. At least I think that’s what it is. I’ve never seen this box before. I mean, I’ve spent probably twenty out of thirty Christmases in this house, and I’ve never once seen it. It’s beautiful. Why on earth was it shoved away up in the attic?’

She turned the box around to show him.

‘What’s this?’ He pulled a slip of paper from the pile of tissue wrapping. It had the same faded black slanted handwriting. He gave it to her.

‘It’s a note,’ she said, putting the glass ball down very carefully on the table and smoothing the piece of paper out flat. ‘“Olive. Remember that sunrise when the new day was ours, how we listened to the birdsong. We are stronger than any time or distance.” That’s gorgeous. What do you think it means?’

‘There’s a date there,’ he said, pointing to the corner of the paper.

She followed his gaze. ‘Twenty-fourth December 1944,’ she read, and looked up at Jack, her mind working. ‘During the war.’ She flapped a hand at him and kicked the chair out opposite her. ‘Come and help me. Unwrap another.’ House clearance and cut leg were completely forgotten in her curiosity. That all-encompassing determination to investigate the living daylights out of this that she rarely felt these days, because working on a local paper meant she didn’t often get to cover anything more interesting than duck races and local fetes.

She lifted another package from the box, and peeled back the paper layers. Jack sat down at the table and did the same. This time a tiny wooden drum sat in the palm of her hand, its faded paint red, gold, and green.

‘This one’s from December the thirteenth, 1944,’ she said, checking the date. She could hear the excitement in her voice. ‘Listen to this, “On this first day of Christmas, do not settle for what is within reach, my Olive. I carry you with me in my heart on this day and every day, no matter how far away I am. I will return. Believe in me.”’

Her heart twisted in her chest. Oh, the bloody delicious romance of it.

‘Look at this one.’

Jack held up a delicate green glass pear, perfect in every way, right down to the tiny painted leaf and stalk on the top. She took it from him and held it up to the light. It twisted this way and that, suspended from the ribbon. The glass was thin and flawless.

He picked up the drum and turned it in his fingers.

‘The carving on this is really perfect,’ he said, frowning. ‘“This first day of Christmas”. These are based on the song, aren’t they? That’s what the letter is talking about. That song where you count down to the pear tree at the end. That must be the pear. And there was some line or other about drummers drumming, right?’

She searched her mind and realised she could only remember bits and pieces of the song, although she definitely had memories of Gran playing it on the piano. The rickety old piano at the side of the sitting room just down the hall. She was all thumbs in her eagerness to unwrap the rest. There was a gold painted glass egg, an ornate swan. A black-and-white painted cow, perfect in every detail right down to its tiny horns. Each decoration came with its own love note, each one more heart-melting than the last.

‘I need to do a web search on the song,’ she said, picking up her smartphone. ‘Maybe the egg is for the geese-a-laying, and I definitely remember there being swans in there somewhere. Not sure about the cow, to be perfectly honest …’ She waved the phone high above her head. ‘No bloody Wi-Fi, is there,’ she said, to his questioning expression. ‘And the signal’s really patchy around here … right, here we go. Twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping …’ He held up tiny carved panpipes. ‘Maids a-milking!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s the cow. Thank goodness, it was going to drive me mad.’

‘So some of them are a bit cryptic …’ He held up four entwined carved feathers ‘… I mean, I’m guessing this is four calling birds, right? But it definitely fits. It’s a set of Christmas decorations, based on the song. The twelve days of Christmas. They must be very old, and I’d say pre-1939, because it would have been impossible to pick up something like this during the war.’

‘Then there should be twelve, shouldn’t there?’ she said, looking at the empty slot in the middle of the box. There’s one missing.’ She ran her gaze quickly over the collection, holding her phone screen next to her, ticking lines from the song off in her head. ‘Five gold rings. That’s the missing one. What a shame. I wonder if it’s up in the attic somewhere in that mess of stuff. I’ll have to keep looking.’

‘Not right now you won’t, not until I’ve made sure the floor is safe,’ he said immediately.

‘And I’ll have to try and ask Gran about them when I visit,’ she said. ‘If she’s awake this time, that is.’ She hadn’t been conscious much at all yet. In many ways it had been the hardest thing to cope with, seeing Gran robbed of all her vivacity, so impossibly frail and unresponsive. ‘They’re obviously hers, her name is Olive. But she’s never mentioned them to me. I’ve definitely never seen them before: I would have remembered. And you saw them, they were just shoved in a corner up in the attic, covered in dust. No one’s opened this box in years. They were obviously just forgotten about.’

She looked down at the collection of beautiful love notes. How could anyone forget them?

Jack shrugged.

‘It’s been over seventy years, to be fair,’ he said. ‘Do you think they are from your grandad? Maybe they were a present from him to your gran.’

She looked down at the collection on the table and frowned. She simply could not imagine the openness of feeling in those notes coming from her stoic and straight-down-the-line grandfather.

‘I do know Gran and Grandad met before the war, even though they didn’t marry until much later. Gran was quite old by the standards of the time when she had my mum. But even so, I’m just not sure he was that kind of man,’ she said. ‘He didn’t do romantic gestures, not that I know of. He was a very ordered kind of person, very straightforward, play by the rules. Never late, always thought decisions through before making them, not impulsive. It’s one of things I liked best about him. You always know where you are with someone like that.’

He might not have been given to shows of affection, but if you wanted steadiness and absolute reliability, he was your man. He had been the perfect foil for a child whose mother was given to disappearing at the drop of a hat.

‘I want to ask Gran about them,’ she said, ‘but she’s only awake for moments at a time. She’s really not well. I don’t want to push a shedload of questions on her.’

‘It’s okay, you can ask her when she’s better,’ Jack said. ‘I’m sure she’ll pull round, just give it a bit of time.’

She toyed with the tiny drum decoration. It was perfectly detailed, beautiful. This set must have cost a fortune, and where could anyone buy things like this with a war on? Questions upon questions. She made herself wrap the drum back up, being careful to add the correct note before she placed it gently back in its place in the box. It seemed important to keep the set intact, the sentiments in the right order.

‘You have a point,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It’s been over seventy years, right? What’s the rush?’

Except there was a rush. Deep inside her. The urge to get to the bottom of the mystery nagged at her mind, and she had to force herself back to thinking about her present-day situation, which featured a Christmas to-do list that would require a team of full-time elves to pull off. The best she could hope for was flying through the holiday by the seat of her Christmas pants without any major disasters.

‘I really ought to get on,’ Jack said. He stood up, and she suddenly remembered that he was paid to do a job, and she was commandeering his time to piss about with antiques and family history from half a century ago. He was probably bored as hell and too polite to say so.

She shook her head, vaguely exasperated with herself. She stood up too. Her leg throbbed, but she ignored it.

‘Of course. I’m really sorry, I’ve probably cost you loads of time. The last thing you need is a shedload of someone else’s sentimental family history.’

‘Yeah, because fixing that window frame’s got a real pull that’s hard to resist,’ he said.

He smiled at her. Despite the fact it was the middle of winter, he had the kind of tan that spoke of an outdoor lifestyle, and his dark grey eyes creased a little at the corners. As if his strong physique wasn’t enough, he had the aftershave model looks to back it up. In that moment she could completely see where Gran’s gossip about his turbulent new-girl-every-five-minutes love life was rooted.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Really. Like I said, I’m around for a day or two if you need any help, or if you get trapped under something heavy.’

She told herself firmly that the appeal of having him on hand to help was entirely to do with his ability to heave a box into a skip, and definitely not how he might look while he did it.

Chapter 2

‘What the hell happened to you?’

Rod walked into the kitchen on the dot of seven, put his keys in the dish on the dresser, and stopped in the act of kissing Lucy’s cheek when he caught sight of her leg. She glanced down at the supersized sticking plaster she’d used to re-dress the graze on her shin. She’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt after a monumental shower to get rid of all the plaster dust.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I just scraped it getting some stuff out of Gran’s loft. No biggie.’

Probably best not to mention the gaping hole in Gran’s bedroom ceiling; she’d had quite enough of making a knob of herself in front of people today. Jack had assured her he would fix it in the next couple of days, and Rod could stay none the wiser.

She gave the schedule attached by a magnet to the fridge door an unnecessary check as she opened it, because knowing it was Wednesday was enough to know it was stir-fry night. In the same way that Monday was meat-free, and Friday was a takeaway.

Life ran better when it was organised. If Rod had a personal credo, this would be it. And it was one she wholeheartedly agreed with. There was something extremely reassuring, she had found, about knowing what was happening day to day, and especially longer term. She had known when she met Rod that they were on the same page in that respect. She’d contacted him to see if he would give an interview following the Budget five years ago: his accountancy firm’s take on the effects for local people, that kind of thing. He’d provided her with a projected schedule of costings, a comprehensive overview, and a list of tips for savers that would have got the nod from Martin Lewis. And an offer of dinner that turned into a series of dates that turned into a relationship. His private life was as ordered and planned as his work had been. And she always knew where she was with him. With Rod she had a future that she could count on. He would never disappear on impulse because he fancied a change of scenery.

‘Coming along well at the house, then?’ he said, leaning past her to turn on the extractor hood above the cooker. All mod cons in their new-build rental, nothing like Gran’s inefficient rambling dinosaur of a place. Steam began to curl up from the wok as she added chicken and vegetables to the pan. ‘Good to hear. I called the agent, and if we can get it shipshape we can have the valuation done and it can go on the market as soon as Christmas is out of the way.’

Her stomach gave an involuntary lurch at the thought. What would it feel like to know she was never going to see the old place again? What would it feel like for Gran? She couldn’t expect Rod to feel sentimental. He hadn’t lived there. He hadn’t built dens out of blankets and sticks in the garden in summer. He hadn’t learned to make fairy cakes in the kitchen, which was always warm, no matter what time of the year because of the range cooker. The thought must have shown on her face because Rod put an arm around her shoulders and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

‘We’ve been over this again and again,’ he said gently.

She moved away from him and grabbed a couple of plates from one of the neat cupboards.

‘I know,’ she said through gritted teeth. She served the stir-fry up grimly.

‘It’s the upheaval,’ he went on soothingly. ‘It’s bound to be unsettling. That’s why we need to really consider all the options.’

She knew where this was going.

‘Really, I think a residential facility might be the best possible thing all round.’

He tucked into his rice and chicken, not looking at her while he ate. Just the terminology he used made it sound like a prison.

‘I am not putting Gran in a home,’ she said. ‘I want her with me.’

‘I’m just saying, let’s not rule anything out. You don’t know yet what her recovery is going to be like. Moving in with us, into established routines … it’s bound to be difficult for everyone. I’m only saying, it might be better all round, to leave the care to the professionals.’

Correctly anticipating her next comment would be argumentative, he reached distractingly for the box at the end of the table and pulled it towards him.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘I found them in Gran’s attic,’ Lucy said. ‘I brought them home to show you.’

He lifted the lid of the box and took out one of the wrapped decorations at random. A perfectly carved and painted top hat. Ten lords a-leaping, she thought automatically.

‘Nice,’ he said indifferently, putting it back and resuming eating.

‘It’s a set of Christmas tree decorations. I think they might be antique.’

‘One missing,’ he remarked, pointing to the space in the middle of the box with a chopstick. ‘Incomplete set, so it won’t be worth much. Honestly, Lucy, just whack all this tat on eBay. Whatever you get for it will be a bonus, the main thing is to crack on and get the place cleared. We need to get the house ready for the family. This is the first year we’ve done the Carmichael Christmas, and we are going to be the best.’

Christmas was the pinnacle of one-upmanship in the Carmichael family. Rod was the middle child of five overachieving siblings. Last Christmas, as run by eldest sister Josephine, had involved a professionally decorated house in St John’s Wood, a champagne breakfast, three different kinds of roast meat, and a children’s entertainer. The year before that, his uber-successful stockbroker brother Don and family had rented a cabin in the Lake District for a no-tech, no-phone-signal, back-to-tradition Christmas that had filled the teenage family members with despair, featuring log fires and mulled wine and carol singing around a piano, and family games and frosty walks in the stunning countryside. This year, Lucy was hostess, and Rod’s expectations set the bar extremely high. She needed enough food to feed hordes of people, there were rooms to get ready, Christmas decorations to put up, a festive day to deliver that would impress or at the very least not disappoint his bloody perfect family.

No pressure.

‘We’ve got the works’ Christmas drinks coming up,’ he carried on, as if what she really needed now was a shedload more stress, ‘and we need to focus and make a decent impression. This promotion would be a big step towards partnership, and decisions will probably be made in the next couple of weeks even if they’re not announced until the New Year. Eye on the prize.’

Her place was at his side during work social functions. The accountancy firm was family run, and Rod liked to fit in with that image, no impression was too much trouble in the path towards partnership. She liked it. She liked being part of a couple. And of course, by implication, his future was also her future. She pulled the box back towards her, and he caught her hand in his. She looked up at him.

‘I know you’re under a lot of stress, honey,’ he said. ‘I’m right behind you, I really am. I just meant that it’s easy to lose sight of your own goals in a situation like this. It’s important for Olive that you and I keep ourselves grounded, so we can support her and stay organised and in control. Especially with Christmas, my family, and all the extra stuff that brings with it.’

‘I know, I know.’

He squeezed her hand, pressing the point.

‘Who knows what could happen if this promotion comes through? With all my family in our home, it would be the perfect time to make special announcements.’

He winked at her. She squinted back. Had he just used a plural? Was he hinting that more than promotion could be on the cards?

‘The best thing to do is just get this clearance done and out of the way as quickly as possible,’ he swept on. ‘Like ripping off a plaster. Then we can absolutely do what’s best for Olive.’ He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest against yet another predicted mention of care homes. ‘And that includes her moving in with us if that’s truly the best option. We just need to stay objective.’

She felt a rush of love for him, and a spike of excitement at what was surely a hint about popping the question. Wasn’t it? He really was committed to her, he had her best interests at heart, she was just being oversensitive. And he did have a point. Christmas was her favourite part of the year, she had been looking forward to spending time getting the house to look perfect, and all the preparation associated with it. Cooking ahead, making plans. She really hadn’t made the slightest dent in that yet. And if Gran was able to come out of hospital for Christmas – and she really hadn’t given up hope of that – Lucy wanted everything to be perfect for her. She had to keep focused. Gran had to be the priority here, and if she let every bit of history in that attic distract her, she’d still be sorting out the house clearance next bloody Christmas.

‘No need to worry,’ she said. ‘You’re completely right. I’ll storm through the house tomorrow, and then I’m going to visit Gran in hospital and check on her progress, see if I can get some information out of the doctors about when we might be able to bring her home.’

She closed the lid on the box of decorations and shelved her curiosity.

Six hours later, Lucy stared at the bedroom ceiling and tried to ignore her curiosity, which at – she checked the LED display on the bedside clock – two-thirty in the morning, was refusing to be shelved. And since the alternative to getting up and sorting her curiosity out was lying here and elbowing Rod every five minutes to keep his infuriatingly rhythmic snoring at bay, she might as well throw in the towel on sleep and go downstairs.

Sitting bleary-eyed at the kitchen table, she pulled the box of Christmas decorations towards her and unwrapped one, turning it gently in her fingers. A tiny swan. Perfect in every detail. She unfolded the note that was wrapped with it.

Do not settle for less because it is easy. Do not give in to pressure. Wait for me through this hard time and it will be worth any challenge we face.

She frowned. What did that mean? What would Gran be settling for? Or was it a who? Who had sent these to her? The mystery nagged maddeningly. Just where the hell to even start. Wide awake, Lucy grabbed her tablet from the kitchen worktop and did an Internet search on Christmas tree decorations that was rewarded with page after page of pictures of predominantly garden centre tat. Refining the search to World War Two brought up a collection of make-do-and-mend war effort items. Paper chains. Cardboard Christmas lanterns. Jack’s first instinct today had to be right, there was no way the decorations were from that time period. Moving the dates further back, it was obvious they predated the war by some decades. She ran her hand over the smooth cool wood of the box. Whatever they were, they were undoubtedly special. Whoever had sent them to Gran, one a day with a note for twelve days in the run-up to Christmas 1944, they must have cared for her very much.

She racked her brains for the slightest mention of that time in Gran’s life, but came up blank. Gran had simply never talked about it. She ran a finger over the slightly indented holly carving on the lid. How could she just chuck this on eBay without trying to look into it even the tiniest bit? But where to start?

She grabbed a tote bag from the cupboard and eased the box gently into it. The best place to start was most definitely not eBay. The logical thing to do would be to hang on to these for a while. The answer could be just waiting for her in the mountain in Gran’s attic. And technically, she would still be working on the house clearance; she would just have a bit more of a purpose in mind than to just lob the whole lot in a skip.

Jack held his tongue until he could take it no longer.

Since the attic currently sported a hole big enough to stumble through, which then progressed through to a gaping hole in Olive’s master bedroom ceiling, it had overnight shot to the top of the list of cosmetic tweaks he had been tasked with to make this house as saleable as possible. Engaged in cutting boards to size and nailing them across the gap in the attic, it became slowly clear to him that it was simply a matter of time if Lucy carried on the way she was going, before disaster struck a second time in as many days. She had been here even before he arrived this morning, and there was, in his view, a lot more sorting through and reading going on than there was house clearance. Every so often she would finish with the contents of a box or bag, and it would be taken down the loft ladder and presumably spirited away downstairs to be disposed of. If she carried on at this current speed, Olive would still be living here in five years’ time. Then he remembered their conversation yesterday, and wondered if that might actually be the point of the go-slow.

He managed to rein it in until she teetered towards the loft ladder with a box balanced on each arm and a cloth bag looped around her neck. Downing tools, he crossed the attic in a couple of strides. She stopped in surprise.

‘For God’s sake give me one of those boxes,’ he said, taking one from her before she had the chance to protest. ‘In fact, give me both of them before you fall down that ladder.’