Tied Up In Tinsel. Ngaio Marsh

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      ‘Not,’ Hilary intervened, ‘to some spurious Ancient Order wearing cotton-wool beards and making fools of themselves every second Tuesday.’

      ‘Oh, come, old boy,’ his uncle protested. ‘That’s not fair.’

      ‘Well, perhaps not. But no,’ Hilary continued, addressing himself to Troy, ‘at Halberds, St Nicholas or Santa Claus or whatever you like to call the Teutonic old person, is replaced by an ancient and more authentic figure: the great precursor of the Winter Solstice observances who bequeathed – consciously or not – so much of his lore to his Christian successors. The Druid, in fact.’

      ‘And the vicar doesn’t mind,’ Colonel Forrester earnestly interjected. ‘I promise you. The vicar doesn’t mind a bit.’

      ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ his wife observed with a cryptic snort.

      ‘He comes to the party even. So, you see, I shall be a Druid. I have been one each year since Hilary came to Halberds. There’s a tree and a kissing-bough you know, and, of course, quantities of mistletoe. All the children come: the children on the place and at The Vale and in the neighbouring districts. It’s a lovely party and I love doing it. Do you like dressing-up?’

      He asked this so anxiously, like a character in Alice, that she hadn’t the heart to give anything less than an enthusiastic assent and almost expected him to say cosily that they must dress up together one of these days.

      ‘Uncle Flea’s a brilliant performer,’ Hilary said, ‘and his beard is the pièce de résistance. He has it made by Wig Creations. It wouldn’t disgrace King Lear. And then the wig itself! So different from the usual repellent falsity. You shall see.’

      ‘We’ve made some changes,’ said Colonel Forrester excitedly. ‘They’ve re-dressed it. The feller said he thought it was a bit on the long side and might make me look as if I’d opted out. One can’t be too careful.’

      Hilary brought the drinks. Two of them were steaming and had slices of lemon in them.

      ‘Your rum toddies, Aunt Bed,’ he said. ‘Tell me if there’s not enough sugar.’

      Mrs Forrester wrapped her handkerchief round her glass and sat down with it. ‘It seems all right,’ she said. ‘Did you put nutmeg in your uncle’s?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Good.’

      ‘You will think,’ said the colonel to Troy, ‘that rum toddies before dinner are funny things to drink but we make a point of putting them forward after a journey. Usually they are nightcaps.’

      ‘They smell delicious.’

      ‘Would you like one?’ Hilary asked her. ‘Instead of a White Lady.’

      ‘I think I’ll stick to the White Lady.’

      ‘So shall I. Well, my dears,’ Hilary said generally. ‘We are a small house-party this year. Only Cressida and Uncle Bert to come. They both arrive tomorrow.’

      ‘Are you still engaged to Cressida?’ asked his aunt.

      ‘Yes. The arrangement stands. I am in high hopes, Aunt Bed, that you will take more of a fancy to Cressida on second sight.’

      ‘It’s not second sight. It’s fiftieth sight. Or more.’

      ‘But you know what I mean. Second sight since we became engaged.’

      ‘What’s the odds?’ she replied ambiguously.

      ‘Well, Aunt Bed, I would have thought –’ Hilary broke off and rubbed his nose. ‘Well, anyway, Aunt Bed, considering I met her in your house.’

      ‘More’s the pity. I warned your uncle. I said I warned you, Fred.’

      ‘What about, B?’

      ‘Your gel! The Tottenham gel. Cressida.’

      ‘She’s not mine, B. You put things so oddly, my dear.’

      ‘Well, anyway,’ Hilary said. ‘I hope you change your mind, Auntie.’

      ‘One can but hope,’ she rejoined and turned to Troy. ‘Have you met Miss Tottenham?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Hilary thinks she will go with the house. We’re still talking about Cressida,’ Mrs Forrester bawled at her husband.

      ‘I know you are. I heard.’

      After this they sipped their drinks, Mrs Forrester making rather a noise with hers and blowing on it to cool it down.

      ‘The arrangements for Christmas Day,’ Hilary began after a pause, ‘are, I think, an improvement on last year. I’ve thought of a new entrance for you, Uncle Flea.’

      ‘Have you, though? Have you? Have you?’

      ‘From outside. Through the french windows behind the tree.’

      ‘Outside!’ Mrs Forrester barked. ‘Do I understand you, Hilary? Do you plan to put your uncle out on the terrace on a midwinter night – in a snowstorm. I said a snowstorm?’

      ‘It’ll only be for a moment, Aunt Bed.’

      ‘You have not forgotten, I suppose, that your uncle suffers from a circulatory complaint.’

      ‘I’ll be all right, B.’

      ‘I don’t like it, I said –’

      ‘But I assure you! And the undergarment is quilted.’

      ‘Pshaw! I said –’

      ‘No, but do listen!’

      ‘Don’t fuss, B. My boots are fur-lined. Go on, old boy. You were saying –?’

      ‘I’ve got a lovely tape-recording of sleighbells and snorting reindeer. Don’t interrupt, anybody. I’ve done my research and I’m convinced that there’s an overlap here between the Teutonic and the Druidical and if there’s not,’ Hilary said rapidly, ‘there ought to be. So. We’ll hear you shout “Whoa”, Uncle Flea, outside, to the reindeer, and then you’ll come in.’

      ‘I don’t shout very loud nowadays, old boy,’ he said worriedly. ‘Not the Pirbright note any more, I’m afraid.’

      ‘I thought of that. I’ve had the “whoa” added to the bells and snorts. Cuthbert did it. He has a stentorian voice.’

      ‘Good. Good.’

      ‘There will be thirty-one children and about a dozen parents. And the usual assortment of county and farmers. Outside hands and, of course, the staff.’

      ‘Warders?’ asked Mrs Forrester. ‘From That СКАЧАТЬ