Chapter 6 #2
‘And he’s okay with me going through this stuff and putting it up? There must be a lot of memories inside these boxes.’
‘That’s what he’s said.’ She raises her shoulders in a shrug. ‘I’m not sure how much use it will be though.’
‘Me neither.’ I pull a box towards me and the cardboard starts to collapse under my fingers.
‘Christmas was important to Ollie’s parents, their favourite time of year. A time to catch up with friends and family and invite everyone to share the magic of Hollybrae Castle over the festive season. It’ll be nice to see a semblance of that return this month.’
Nancy leaves me to it as I peer into a tangled snarl of green-wired lights. The wires are sticky where the plastic has started breaking down, and they still have tiny baggies containing spare bulbs taped to them, the kind you haven’t been able to buy for years now.
In the notebook I brought with me, I scribble down that the lights all need replacing with energy-efficient LED ones, and move to another box.
I brush against a garland on a shelf and a shower of glitter rains down, embedding itself into Ollie’s cardigan forevermore.
The adhesive that once kept glitter where it was supposed to be has long since dried out, and every shimmering decoration in here will undoubtedly have met the same fate.
Cobwebs bridge the gaps between boxes as I uncover collections of heavy tablecloths and the ‘good’ Christmas dinnerware, clip-on birds, holographic crackers that must have been put back with the intention of pulling them one day, and that sadness pervades the air again.
One day that never came. No wonder Ollie hasn’t bothered with Christmas in recent years.
There are boxes of lovingly packed tartan-wearing festive teddy bears, potpourri that was probably strong once but now smells of nothing and crumbles into powder under my fingertips, and definitely not flame-retardant foil garlands that would never pass modern-day safety standards.
Velvet ribbon with wire edges, perfect for making perky decorative bows, now flattened with the wire poking out in places.
There’s snow-frosted green tinsel that’s crusted with yellow flocking, and in one corner, a stack of fibre-optic trees from the boom of the early 2000s.
They once were white, but have now turned the colour of old newspaper, and their fibre filaments are brittle and curling, undoubtedly never to work again even if I was brave enough to risk plugging one in.
Rusted metal stars and bells, oversized signs with bulbs through every letter, spelling out words like ‘JOY’.
Peering down from upper shelves, covered in spiderwebs and dust, in its current context, it’s more threatening than joyful.
Each box is like digging into a different geological layer of festive history, and it’s nearly lunchtime when I finally reach the window and yank back the dusty curtain and fight with the window frame that hasn’t been opened for so long and clearly never expected to be again.
I push against it until it finally gives way and opens so fast that I nearly tumble out with it.
I straighten myself up and breathe in much welcome cool air.
Apart from a quick glance out of my bedroom window while getting dressed this morning, it’s the first time I’ve really been able to appreciate the grounds to the rear of the castle.
Leaf-strewn paths wind between curved lawn areas, each one with a tree that has a circular flower bed around its trunk that I can imagine bursting with flowers in the spring.
‘Ahoy there!’
In the tree nearest the window, there’s a greying red-haired man at the top of a ladder that’s resting against its trunk. He’s wearing a tam o’ shanter hat and a tartan gilet. The only thing that could make him look any more Scottish would be if he was wearing a kilt, which he thankfully is not.
‘Let me guess, Hamish?’ I call out.
‘Aye-aye, and you must be Miss Lula,’ he says in the deepest of Scottish brogues.
I can’t help the little smile at the name. Everyone is so respectful here. ‘Are you all right up there?’
‘Never better, lass.’ He salutes me with his branch pruners. ‘You’re even bonnier than Ollie let on.’
I blush furiously, even though I’m sure he’s being kind and Ollie has said nothing of the sort.
Even in the unlikely event that he had, I’m currently covered in dust bunnies, glitter dating back to the last century, and my hair is falling down but my hands are too dirty to put it right.
Hamish is just trying to be a cheeky old charmer.
Looking out at the grounds gives me all kinds of ideas for decorating, from fairy lights in the trees to paths lined with elfin mushrooms and oversized snowflakes.
Hamish asks a few more questions about how I like the castle and what I think of Ollie, but the wind is picking up and he needs to get on with his tree pruning, so I duck back inside the window and let the breeze stir up even more dust.
Most of the stuff in here is too old to use now, but I start gathering up the things that can be washed or have new life breathed into them in some other way.
I’ve always loved vintage decorations, and I’m determined to make this Christmas nostalgic and happy – for the visitors and for the inhabitants of the castle, which feels like it’s in need of as much festive cheer as possible.