Christmas Caro by Clare Martin, a cup of warm, spiced wine

Sumptuous.

It was Caro’s favourite word. Everything good was sumptuous. Dark chocolate, a silk blouse, Elgar’s Enigma Variations.

And this room.

Sumptuous.

Sparkling mirrors and chandeliers, swathes of rich red hangings, and dragons dancing underfoot and overhead. A room made for parties and performances, with added glitter and gold for Christmas.

And, just for a few moments, it was all hers.

Caro was always early. Her friends joked about her obsessive planning, her terror of tardiness. Today's journey had been perfect without delay or diversion.

And here was her reward. Silence and solitude in sumptuous surroundings.

She stood in the centre of the room, breathed in and sang a soft note. The acoustics were perfect. She ran a scale, up and down, the high notes soaring up towards the ceiling, the low notes grounding her in the rich red and blue carpet.

The room demanded perfection. Better warm up properly, Caro admonished herself and taking a sip from her water bottle, began a series of trills and long notes.

‘The Holly and the Ivy,’ she sang over and over again, trying to get the leap to the high E just right.

‘Oh, that’s my favourite!’ The soft voice came from the doorway and Caro swung round. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ The guide, dressed as a Regency serving maid, ducked her head and turned to leave.

‘No, please don’t go.’ Caro stretched out her hand. ‘It’s my fault. I’m here early, but they said I could come in and wait for the others.’

‘You’re part of the entertainment then?’ The woman stepped further into the room, and Caro caught the sweet smell of cinnamon, tang of lemon and hint of warm. spiced wine that followed in her wake.

They really were going to town this festive season, Caro thought. All the more reason to be note perfect.

‘What will you be performing?’

‘The usual festive songs and carols.' Caro was running through the repertoire in her head, hoping she’d remember all the words. 'Hark The Herald, I Saw Three Ships. The traditional ones, you know.'

'..Oh tidings of comfort and joy ..'  the woman's voice was soft and gentle, setting sweet harmonics ringing. She sang beautifully, naturally.

'You should join us,' Caro rushed in.' You'd be very welcome …'

‘Oh no, I could never .. I wouldn't presume .. and I’m needed below stairs you see.’

Caro thought that was a nice touch, the old phrase tripping naturally off the guide’s tongue. She heard the distant clatter of pans, a man's voice shouting. Saw the woman flinch slightly.

'I just wanted to listen, for a moment.'

‘Perhaps, if we sing loud enough ..’ Caro turned her head as a group of her fellow choir members arrived, chattering loudly.

‘Here she is, good old Caro. Early as always.’ Much laughter and gentle teasing.

‘Fabulous place to sing, isn’t it?’ Her friend Sarah, unwound her scarf and dropped it on the window seat. ‘I guess you’ve tested out the acoustics already?’

‘Just a few scales,' Caro felt a sudden kick of irritation as the room filled with the everyday. 'And I was running through some of the carols for the guide. She's a singer too.’ She turned back and saw the pale shadow of the woman, smiling sadly as she faded into the red silk hangings.

‘Guide? What guide?’ 

About the author

  

Clare Martin is a writer with a background in radio journalism. Based in Sussex, England, she specialises in flash fiction and short stories. Writing about what lies under the surface of ordinary life, she draws inspiration from overheard conversations and the tales we tell ourselves. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Spiced Wine

by Lynn Clement

spiced wine 

 ‘T’was the night before Christmas, when after our dinner

Not a villain was stirring, not even one sinner,

The detective’s stocking was hung up with care,

In hope that Saint Nicholas soon would be there,

The snow it lay softly on the footpath,

The copper’s wife was taking a bath,

The camera pans in on the tranquil scene,

Fooling us all, because then there’s a scream!

The Christmas murder has begun,

The nation tunes in for ghoulish fun,

Inspector’s phone rings by his bedside,

We know what is coming; he’s offered a ride,

Down to the village through the fake snow,

On the edge of our seats - we viewers go,

Will we see blood, or an axe, or a rope?

Maybe a bad man selling some dope,

The Christmas tree lights the village square,

But - by now we all know there’s a murder done there,

The body is laid in the Santa’s grotto,

Pinned on his shirt is a Christmas motto,

The detective will solve that; it’s a clue you see,

We puzzle to fathom it, you and me,

We’re gripped by the gruesome amidst fairy lights,

When in walks an elf in some lurid green tights,

‘It was you,’ says the copper pointing his way,

‘You done it and I can prove it today.’

The elf tried to run but was stopped when his bells,

Got caught in the doorway – we heard his yells!

‘You left this note on the victim’s chest,

I recognise your writing; it’s not the best,

You killed Santa here in this shed,

And pinned the note on his coat of red.

‘Elf and safety applies’, so it says,

‘There’s no way on earth I’m pulling your sleigh.

The reindeers have fled because you are cruel,

I’ll get revenge you big fat fool.’

Take him down and book him Jones,

I’ve had enough I’m going home.’

The Inspector trudges through wind and snow,

He pulls his coat to, his nose all aglow,

His wife is waiting with the red wine,

There’s no way a murder will stop her good time,

We watch fulfilled as he goes out of sight,

Saying:

‘Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’