Work Text:
The Secretary was wakened earlier than usual by ‘noises off’. Making a sketchy ablution and dressing fast, she came downstairs to see what was going on. In the hall, there seemed to be a parade of cut boughs and holly getting itself twisted into wreaths. Easing herself past was a bit tricky, since each person involved—some of whom she had never seen before—seemed to have a different notion of the best way to proceed. She did not want to play arbiter.
In the kitchen, she found Mrs Timmings rolling dough. “We’ve six different fruit cakes already,” the housekeeper informed her, “five loaves of gingerbread, four Christmas puddings, three tins of fudge, two sherry trifles—” (And a partridge in a pear tree? thought the Secretary) “—though most of them’s bought’uns.”
Olive came in from the pantry with an enormous crock of brandy butter, and Mrs Timmings fetched down a glass to cut rounds of shortbread. The Secretary foraged for breakfast around them, and ate it at the kitchen table. She was just finishing when she heard an even louder commotion outside. Putting down her mug, she ventured into the hall to see the front doors wide open and the space filled from side to side with a massive green brush. It took a moment to get the proper perspective, and realize that she was, of course, seeing the base of a remarkably large spruce tree. It appeared to be stuck.
“Mind you don’t break—” Theseus was shouting. There was some backing and shoving, and finally the lower branches were forced through. The Athenian guided the lower trunk up the hall; and as the rest of the tree progressed inwards, the Secretary could see several Greek hoplites and Persian soldiers hoisting it along.
Theseus came over to her. “An interesting tribute to the season,” he said. “But then, I understand you do not have the bay tree. Now, I would crown this saviour of yours with laurel; but—” he shrugged “—to each his custom. Or hers. I learned that on Crete.
Where do you want it?” he added.
The Secretary was at a loss. The spruce had to be fifteen feet tall.
“In there,” Bagoas directed. The rear echelon came round while the forward rank held position; the tree swung to the right; and the procession made its way through a pair of doors the Secretary had never seen before. She followed, curious to see what the house had come up with, and found herself in something resembling a small ballroom.
Neil Langton was up the long ladder that Reg Barker had borrowed from work, tacking in place the last of the paper garlands that Kit and Christie had brought. They scalloped round the sides of the room, and swooped diagonally across to meet in a cluster of bells dangling dead centre. The efforts to identify ‘dead centre’ had taken some time; but all the English characters agreed that this was the best way to decorate the room. The Secretary could only be impressed by the magnificent display of multi-coloured expanding caterpillars of tissue paper.
“Over there,” pointed Bagoas. From some unknown storage, he—or someone—had produced a massive stand; and the tree was carefully positioned several feet from the far wall. Everyone stood back to admire it. Though how we’re supposed to decorate it, thought the Secretary, is something that I would very much like to have someone explain.
Then the tree decorations began to arrive. Characters from every one of Renault’s modern novels came into the clubhouse—some familiar from last year’s barbecue or the summer reunion, some who had never ventured from their books before, each with a contribution. Several brought strings of electric lights, which had to be sorted out, series from parallel, depending on their era. There were long strands of beads, packages of silver tinsel, boxes of glass balls from Germany, and home-made cut paper stars.
The Secretary eased herself out of the room, and left them to it.