The Holly Groweth Green
Amy Rae Durreson
When wounded doctor Laurence Payne is stranded in the snowy English countryside on Christmas Eve, 1946, he is surprised to stumble upon Mistle Cottage and its mysterious inhabitant. Avery claims to be an Elizabethan wizard, and Laurence struggles to explain away the atmosphere of the cottage as mere coincidence and trickery. He spends a magical twelve days of Christmas celebrating with Avery, but then wakes to find his lover has vanished and the cottage has fallen to ruin overnight.
Laurence’s investigations lead him to the story of an ancient fairy curse—Avery is doomed to spend only Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night in human form until he finds true love. Laurence sets out to give Avery the greatest gift of all—his heart and with it the chance to live for more than the fleeting winter weeks he’s been sentenced to.
Our task today is to mobilise the Christmas spirit and to apply its power and healing to our daily life.
—King George VI, Christmas Message, 1946
How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 97
As the holly groweth green
And never changeth hue,
So I am, ever hath been,
Unto my lady true.
—King Henry VIII, “Green Groweth the Holly”
Chapter One
December 1946
THIS TRAIN clearly wasn’t going anywhere.
It had been sitting in the station for the best part of an hour now, and although at first Laurence had not minded, content to watch the snow sift down onto the white fields and tiled roof of the station house, it was starting to wear on his nerves. The train had been stationary long enough that the carriages were starting to grow cold, and he was increasingly aware of the hour—already almost three, and the light would soon be fading fast. He’d suffered from an irrational dislike of the cold and dark since the Colonsay went down, and he would like to be safely in Portsmouth before the sun set.
Wearily he heaved himself to his feet, left his compartment, and began to make his way down the train.
He found the guard in his van, making tea over a primus stove. He jumped up in surprise as Laurence came in. “Blimey, I didn’t think there was anyone still down that end of the train.”
“Is there a problem?” Laurence asked.
“We’re stuck, guv. Snow across the mouth of the West Meon tunnel ahead of us. Waiting to hear if we can get a line back to London, but there’s problems at Alton as well.”
“Good Lord,” Laurence said, because a reaction seemed to be expected. “Any chance of getting down to Portsmouth tonight?”
The guard shook his head. “We’ll be lucky to get back to town. If you make a change at Woking, maybe, but word is that the snow’s bad at Petersfield too. Wouldn’t risk it if I were you.”
“Damn.” Laurence hadn’t really been looking forward to Christmas in the Officers’ Club, but it would at least have had the comfort of familiarity. Town would mean a hotel and the weary process of making polite conversation with chance acquaintances.
“Most of the other passengers have gone over the road to The Privett Bush. If you wanted to warm up, I’ll walk over when we get the signal to depart.”
“I’ll do that, thank you. Can I bring you back a drink?”
“Best not, guv—I’m on duty. Thought’s appreciated, though.”
Laurence nodded at him and returned down the train to pick up his kit bag. Out on the snowy platform, he took a long breath, the cold air sparking through him, and made his way back along the deserted platform to the station exit. The whole world seemed quiet in the falling snow—the peaked roof of the station house coated in white, and every spike of the fence wearing a tiny white cap. Outside the station, he paused again, startled. From the size of the station, he had been expecting a sizable village, but all that stood here was a terrace of railway cottages and the railway hotel. Behind them the fields rolled out, pale and quiet, until they began to rise into low hills dotted with the occasional farmhouse or cottage. There was nothing moving on the road, no tire or wheel tracks that weren’t half-filled with snow—no sign of life save the train sitting behind him, its boxy lines softened by the feather pattern of snow on its cooling boiler.
But there were lights in the inn, and so Laurence made his way carefully across the road.
The Privett Bush was bustling, humming with cheerful conversation. Blinking at the light and noise, Laurence fought his way to the bar. A thought had struck him as he crossed the road, and he ordered a pint and inquired of the barman, “Have you any rooms?”
“Full up, sir. Sorry.”
“I assume I wasn’t the only one to have that particular idea?” Ironic, on this night of all nights, that there was no room at the inn.
“I’m afraid not, sir. The Holly Bush down in the village still has a few rooms. Old Les just drove some of the other folks from the train down there in the trap, but he’s not back yet.”
“Is it far to walk?”
“Just over a mile.”
“Well, if the train’s not on the move soon, I’ll think about it,” Laurence said as cheerfully as he could. He didn’t much fancy walking through this weather, but the idea of Christmas in the country was much more restful than taking on one of the big London hotels, and he’d never been afraid of a bit of an adventure. He glanced around the taproom and thought if the village pub was like this, it could be quite pleasant—there was a crackling fire in the hearth, holly and ivy strung over every window, and the warm scent of mulled cider floating through the air. Even though food was likely to be limited by rationing, he’d lay money on the hope that an inn like this kept its own hens, which might just mean eggs for breakfast.
Definitely better than London, and on a sudden whim, he drained his pint, picked up his bag, and headed back out into the snow. Maybe he’d meet Old Les and the trap on the way. Maybe he’d just get to stretch the cricks out of his legs.
It was still light enough that he could see the village across the fields that sloped up from the other side of the station. There was a lane leading that way. Even with his sense of direction, it looked an easy enough walk—all he had to do was keep the houses in sight and not deviate from his path. Cheerfully he slung his bag onto his back and set out at an easy stride, whistling under his breath. It felt like an adventure. He had never really seen much of the English countryside—his early years had been spent in India, and his schooldays boarding at Harrow or with his godfather in various expensive hotels during the hols. Rural England was a foreign land to him, albeit one where he could speak the language. He’d been growing stale and self-pitying in town—maybe a little country air would knock him out of it.
The road behind the station was narrow and high-hedged, but he could still look up and see the village ahead. Lights were on in the windows. Were there any other sailors there, finally released from duty to come home to their families? He hoped so. The war was long over, and it didn’t seem fair that so many lads were still waiting to be demobbed.
He wasn’t expecting the road to end. Neither turning led straight toward the village, and for a moment, he panicked.
Then he took the left turning, reminding himself that he would need to take any opportunity to turn left again.
No, right.
Left. Right.
He stopped, took a breath, and held out his hands in front of him, pointing his thumbs away at right angles. The village above was on the other side from the L-shape of one hand.
L was for left. So he had to turn away from the left at the first opportunity. Turn right.
He strode on, feeling the snow press down under his boots. All he could hear was the muffled sound of his own steps and the barely perceptible patter of snow on snow.