The Connoisseur

Chapter 17 - The Old Stories

When Sophia opened the curtains on Christmas Eve, she laughed.  Rain poured down from the leaden skies and the pristine snow had turned to a muddy slush.  The English weather had reverted to type.

She spent the day as it was meant to be spent: in present wrapping, movie watching and playing brilliantly awful Christmas songs very, very loudly.  That evening, she and her family put on their hats and scarves and braved the five minute walk to the pub.  They were drenched when they arrived.  Sophia wondered whether she’d be drenched when she left. 

The Bullmoor Arms hadn’t changed much in her lifetime, and probably not in the last century either.  The taproom still had those little three-legged tables, the cosy leather-backed booths and the same collection of random objects on the walls: old guns, horseshoes and pictures of the village in the past.  The clientele hadn’t changed much either.  The pensioners were out in force.

“You must be have been there for ten years now, dear!” said one of the old dears to her.  “I thought you were out of that university.”

“Still there, Mavis,” said Sophia, laughing.  She had to speak up over the chatter and the music.  She had to speak up anyway when talking to Mavis.  “I’ll be finished in the summer.”

“I remember you and your brother walking to the school bus stop, down the lane.  Seems like yesterday!  So does everything, mind.”

Sophia fielded the same questions all evening.  It was all a part of the Christmas ritual.  Some people in town might have a big boozy party, but she’d take a few drinks at the little pub every time.  She wondered what Alexander would make of it.

Before long, she got talking with Corporal Reg.  Everyone in the village called him that, even those his own age.

“I remember Christmas in Holland, in ’44,” he said, both hands clasped on top of his stick.

“I’m sure you do, Reg,” said Sophia, knocking back the last of her gin and tonic.  She caught her brother’s eye: he noticed who she was talking to, and laughed at her.

“We had our tank, a Churchill it was, camouflaged with spruce branches over the winter,” said Reg.  “In December, whenever we weren’t moving, we covered it with holly leaves, mistletoe, anything we could find.  We even got some lights draped over it at one point, real colourful ones!  Oh, thank you.” 

A pint of bitter had appeared in front of him.  It was some sort of magical power Reg had.  Sophia wished she had a gin and tonic version.  She carried on nodding as he told the famous story: how his men had delivered presents along the line in their Christmas tank and how a surprise German sortie was repelled by them whilst they were wearing Santa outfits.

“With full beards and all!” he cried.  “Took us forever to get the material for that gear, had to bend a few rationing rules.  And we got a...”

“...jolly good scolding from the Sergeant,” mouthed Sophia along with Reg.  He didn’t seem to notice.  She had an idea.  “Can you remember where in Holland this was, Reg?”

“Of course!  Venray, near Maastricht.”

“You know, one of these days, I’m going to have to go there and check that you’re not telling fibs.”

Reg laughed, gurgling into his pint.  “Oh no, no no no.  No, fibbing, dearie.  Besides,” he lent in closely, “You can’t exactly go back to ’44, can you!”

“Nope,” said Sophia.  “Definitely not.”

She knew which questions were coming next.  Reg always asked the same ones, just as he always told the same stories.

“Remind me,” he said.  “You’re at a university now, yes?  Just started?”

“Three and a bit years ago, Reg.  I’m into my Masters now.”

“Ooh!  Well done.  Doing what?”

“Chemistry, Reg.”

“Goodness me!  Chemistry?”

“Yes, Reg.”

“So what do you want to do when you finish, then?”

Sophia had given those same answers each year, and she had always done the same for this question: I want to work in medicine.  Sometimes she’d mention how she didn’t want to be a doctor because she was a little squeamish, or how she might like to do a PhD.  That was always the gist of the answer.

But something had changed.

“I...I’m not sure, Reg.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find something.  Clever young woman like you!  You remind me of this darling French girl I met in Caen in ’45...”

Reg set off another story.  Sophia didn’t hear a word of it.  The whole pub, music and lights and warmth, seemed very distant.  Her future had always been so obvious: study hard, get a lab job, help people, have fun along the way.

It suddenly seemed unappealing, and that was terrible.  She imagined herself at a desk in ten years time, writing up some notes on a recent experiment.  It seemed such a dull life to wish for.  It had never done so before.  She knew exactly why. 

*

Christmas Day came and went in the usual haze of turkey, wrapping paper and Bailey’s.  It was as quietly perfect as could be hoped for, barring one moment.  They had been opening presents in the living room when it happened.  Her brother had passed her a little present, beautifully wrapped, from the top of the pile around the tree.  From the size and weight, it could only be jewellery.  She read the label aloud.

“‘To Sophia.  Merry Christmas!  Love from Caroline.’”

“Oh, lovely!” said Mum.  “I didn’t think we’d be getting anything from your cousin until later in the year.  The postage must have cost a fortune.  Do you know where she is now?”

“India, I think.  Thailand next week.”

Sophia carefully prised open the crisp paper.  Inside, sure enough, was a little black jewellery box, and within was a pair of earrings, resting on piece of blue fabric.  They were two small circles inlaid with more circular patterns in gold.  They looked familiar.

“Those are pretty,” cooed Mum as Sophia held them in her palm.  “She must have found a fancy little market somewhere.” 

“I guess so.”

Sophia picked up the piece of fabric in the box and found a little sticker at the bottom: Persian Emporium, Kinari Bazar, Agra: finest Persian goods since 1987!

As she stared at the earrings, all Sophia could remember were the authentic ones she had worn in Ctesiphon.  These imitations seemed pale by comparison, but she knew, deep down, that a month ago she would have found them completely beautiful.  A squirming feeling wriggled through her stomach as she put them on.

“They look nice on you, don’t they dear?” said Mum.

“Hm?  Very nice,” replied Dad.

Sophia smiled with effort.  She remembered how she had looked in the mirror when she had tried on her Byzantine outfit, and how fabulous she had found the jewellery laid out for her in Alexander’s house.  It was so, so real.

The next image that came to mind was of her and Alexander, on New Years’ Eve 1894.  I can’t wait, she told herself, and she smiled, but a quieter voice told her to beware.  She would go to 1894, and it would be awesomely real – but it would still be a dream, and eventually she would have to wake up.

*

I hope you enjoyed this chapter.  Is Sophia undergoing a change of heart?  If you have any thoughts I'd like to hear, and I hope you're enjoying the story.

The music is Sophia's favourite Christmas song, A Fairytale of New York.  Maybe I'll have to send her to New York later in the story and name a chapter after it...