The Lover's Children

Chapter 9 - Winter Wedding #8

KLEMPNER

A Christmas tree takes up an entire corner of the lounge, the star at the top brushing the ceiling. It’s

highly decorated, but not with anything purchased from a store. Mitch and Jenny both go for the

Homemade Christmas look. Paper birds folded origami-style dangle from many of the branches.

Mitch’s hand shows in a bewildering array of painted and glinting pine cones, acorns, clove-studded

oranges and apples. The effect is striking, especially teamed up with the matching tree in the dining

room and the monster that rears up in the hall. She and Jenny sit at the table, making yet more of their

ornaments.

Why?

Why do people do this stuff?

I’m fooling myself. Mitch loves Christmas. I know that from long ago…

Maybe I should take her to Finland again?

Perhaps next year, when Vicky’s older…

Haswell folds up his newspaper, tosses it to one side with a snort, then sits, scowling, hands folded,

thumbs orbiting each other. “Here we are, Christmas just around the corner and there’s nothing but bad

news being reported. You'd think they could come up with one feel-good story.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Help yourself.”

I unfold the paper, scan the headlines. He has a point.

Terrorist attack in Mumbai… NôvelDrama.Org holds this content.

Traffic pile-up in winter weather. Police blame speeding drivers…

Slasher killer takes third City prostitute…

Do you suffer from the winter blues?

Haswell looks over his spectacles at me. “See what I mean?”

“Mmmm… yes.”

James strides in; clean shirt, suit pressed, shoes polished.” Ready?”

Haswell checks his watch. Sighs. “I suppose. Wish I could duck out of that lunch meeting.”

From somewhere in the house, a baby starts bawling. Then a second wail rises.

Oh God...

Michael’s mongrel, Scruffy sits up from his basket by the hearth…

Looks like a badly-stitched doormat…

… aims its snout at the ceiling and joins the howl.

Lying over my feet, Bear shifts...

“Not you...” I growl…

... then subsides with a rumble, ears flattening.

How do people stand this?

… This… this… domesticity?

“Think I'll go for a walk.”

“Perfect timing.” Michael stands in the doorway. “Larry, if you’re at a loose end, can you spare me a

couple of hours? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

“What with?”

“Got a tree to cut.”

“Another one?”

He follows my swivelling head to the tree in the corner and grins. “Yeah, but not for us. This one’s for

Ryan and Kirstie. I promised I’d provide the tree for their dining room. Want to help?”

“Why not?”

It’ll pass an hour or so…

*****

Michael wasn’t wrong about the weather. The traditions may say Christmas is all snow and sparkle. But

just few days before the event, this is just plain Winter. Not cold enough to freeze, but worse in its way.

At a couple of degrees above freezing, everything is wet, with a chill that clings and penetrates. Fog

swirls, casting grey over the forest and track.

Michael, practically dressed in several layers of thermals and sweaters, topped by waterproofs and

galoshes, stamps over the treacherous ground. Slick with boot-sucking mud, it promises a headlong

dive to the ground to anyone who doesn’t watch their footing.

Slamming up the tailgate of his antiquated Toyota flatbed, he bangs at the catch until it locks into place.

The tree, a twenty-foot fir, Iies horizontally on the back of the truck. Resin gums up everything in sight,

chainsaw, axe and my hands included.

Michael secures one end of a coil of rope to his side, then tosses the coil over the tree and across the

back. Snagging it mid-air, I yank it down, tensioning it around a side-hook, then return it.

How old is this thing?

I give one of the tyres an experimental kick and get a sore toe in recompense. “Is this thing legal? The

last time I saw something like this still driving, I was in Angola.”

Michael pauses in his knot-tying, giving me a long look. “That must have been a while back. What were

you using it for?”

“Transporting arms and mercenaries over the ruts that pass for roads there.”

He swings his head, eyes rolling. “I had to ask…” He turns his attention back to the rope-work. Then,

“But that’s the point, isn’t it. These old flatbeds, they’re damn near indestructible. They drive forever,

hardly break down, and if something does go wrong, any half-wit with a hammer and a spanner can

usually fix it.”

“True. I had to get one restarted myself a couple of times. When the heat had been too much, or if we’d

had to cross a river. You’re right. It doesn’t take much to keep them moving Or to get them moving

again. Any basic kit will do the job.”

“Michael pauses. “You can repair engines?”

“In a basic way. I always made the effort to be able to turn my hand to most things. When you travel

some of the places I have, it helps to be independent if possible.”

He nods slowly, Hmmming, absorbing that. “So… what else can you ‘turn your hand to’?”

“As I say, car repairs. The older ones at least, before the manufacturers opting for building everything

into black boxes. Basic electrics, setting up a generator for example… Um… Apprentice level joinery,

plumbing… Practical skills. The kind of thing that makes everyday life more comfortable.”

Michael raises brows. “That’s good to know. I’ll bear it in mind.” He loops the rope around his side,

again tensioning it, slightly flattening the tree, then tosses it back to me. “Actually, it was my first

vehicle. I bought it when I was seventeen.”

“Did it look any better then?” Loop and toss.

Michael catches again, loops, tensions, tosses. “Not really, but I paid for it with what I earned from

chores and Saturday work.” He slaps the side. “I’m fond of the old girl, and she’s good for the kind of

work where things are liable to get dirty.” He surveys the load, gives the tree a shove. It rattles, heaves

then settles back. “I think we’re about there. You want to fasten that off now?”

Knotting the rope on itself, I tie in an alpine butterfly, taking the end of the rope under the sidebar, then

back through the loop of the butterfly. Returning it around the hook, I re-tension everything, then tighten

it further with a series of half-hitches.

Michael pushes at the trunk. “Nope, that’s not going anywhere.” He eyes my knotwork. “You’ve done

that before too.”

“I’ve moved a few awkward loads in my time, if that’s what you mean, yes. And knotwork is a useful

skill for almost any way of life.” I eye the tree. “This dining room of Kirstie’s, how big is it? I know that

mill she and Ryan bought is a big place, but…”

He gives me a good-natured grin. “Perhaps ‘dining room’ is the wrong phrase. Dining hall would be

better. On the side facing the river, they’ve opened up the loading bays and merged them into one giant

window. It’s huge. But the view is amazing. And they’ve built around it to scale. The ground floor is one

enormous space, and they’ve opened part of it up to the next floor so they get a kind of minstrel gallery

effect.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“They asked James for his advice on how to convert it. I think he decided to get creative.”

“I can imagine. But it sounds a bit over-sized for a family home.”

“It is, but I think their long-term plan is to convert one of the out-buildings into their actual home. They

have plans to run the main building as a restaurant. But for now, they’re holding their wedding reception

there. They’ve got guests flying in from here, there and everywhere.”

“And you’re providing the tree?”

“Among other things. They asked us to help with the wedding. We’re helping. C’mon, let’s move before

the weather gets any worse.” He fumbles in a pocket for keys. “So, you’ve driven one of these before?”

“Many times.”

“Good.” He tosses me the keys. “I’ll play passenger then.”

In the driver’s seat, I turn the key, wondering what to expect from Michael’s antiquated vehicle. But the

starter turns smoothly and the engine sputters to life, rattling the dashboard.

Pulling himself up into the seat next to me, Michael closes his door with a slam, clips in his belt, then

relaxes back, wearing a huge grin.

He’s very cheerful…

I try the knob on the dash. “Any heating?”

“Just the blower, I’m afraid. Here…” He produces a rag of a towel from somewhere near his feet,

swipes mist from his side of the windscreen then passes it to me. Tugging his jacket tighter around

himself, tunelessly, he hums.