More years ago than I care to remember, the wonderful actress Lucille Copland and I had just finished a film together.
Darling Lucille.
The jet-set followed her like a flock of migrating birds.
We were sat in brilliant sunshine on the terrace of Le Bleu in Monaco eating tiny toasts with Foie Gras and sipping pink champagne with views across the sea. It was a day before Christmas Eve and our fondest delight in each others company together with the sheer brilliance of the location, the sun and birds singing, has stayed in my mind. Always.
There have been many Christmases since, many of them forgettable, and, hopefully, more to come, but that memory of Christmas in the south of France would always be warm, golden and pleasurable.
My first Noel in the house was unexpected.
Two days before the big day, I was crunched over thin ice-fringed puddles, stamping frozen feet trying to shield myself from a cold wind while admiring three large fir trees which had just been planted in the garden. They had transformed the place into a kind of Wuthering Heights moorland, friendly, welcoming, scenic. The neighbours had even approved of the trees.
'They keep away the evil eye,' one said. 'Faith, Hope and Charity.'
It was an idea Adrian had, trees that would be planted and with the right nourishment, would last forever. A new entrance to the private ground. But they came at a price.
Earlier in the day the first snowflakes fell. I have always preferred snow underfoot to sand between my toes. Snow, frost, ice and clear, pearl-grey skies appeal so much more to me than bright sun and fierce light. Like a child I came rushing out in amazed delight, cupping up the flakes in the hands before they reached the ground. It gave me an instant pleasure beyond words. It always did. I love Christmas. I love its false humour, the gluttony and greed, the idiot cries of 'Seasons Greetings,' and all the rest of it. I never really bothered with the whole gift thing, I always sent many cards, although one year I decided to send them all early but completely forgot about them. I found them the following March stuffed under a pot plant.
For my first Christmas here I decided to have a turkey, invite a few friends that would be on
their own, celebrate fully. Holly and mistletoe would decorate the whole house inside and out. But no garish tinsel or paper chains. And on Christmas night itself, sitting at the head of a long walnut table, elegant in black velvet and a rope of pearls, decorated with a bowl of gold baubles and a few bottles of good wine with candles burning steady in warmth, we all enjoyed ourselves. The light of a fire, a cognac in one hand, an ear cocked to the sound of Mozart, what more could one want?
Probably a dog I thought to myself. I always had dogs.
An old favorite was Lambo, a black Labrador, a Christmas gift from many years ago and became a lifetime companion. But there was always a problem when I was called away to start a new film project. A suitcase would be pulled down, drawers opened and Lambo knew instinctively what was afoot and started shaking, trailing from one room to another, the soft wail of fear for thinking I was never coming back. And so a companion for Lambo was needed. Charley. A beautiful boxer. She had a beautiful brown and white face, enormous feet and an over protective character. Lambo was non too pleased. He was horrified at her eagerness, her greediness of affections and gluttony of food. He resented her bitterly, but she stayed and soon enough she won him around and Charley and Lambo became the best of friends. At Christmas time they would share a platter of turkey pickings and gravy.
But that first Christmas with friends quietly chatting in the background, the long playing record soothing us all, I took stock on all the last year had brought. Extreme pleasures, shock surprises, the deconstruction of goods and chattel, a new pond, broken ground, the arrival of trees. Too much money spent from a small reserved income. But I was happy, I was content. Perhaps it was the turkey, the cognac or Mozart. Maybe it was the company of friends but I knew that deep down, life wasn’t all that bad. I used to hear people describing the days following Christmas Day as flat. I am of another mind. They are peaceful days, gentle days that are as much a part of Christmas as those leading up to Christmas Eve. That first Christmas brought a telephone call.
'I have seen the first rough edit of the film,' the director said, 'and it’s not that bad, not bad at all. Might even be an award in there somewhere for you.'
'Thank heavens for that, an epitaph,' I replied.
'There is no music yet, but we have a film. When I am happy with it you must come and see
it.'
'In the New Year, I promise,' I said. 'Seasons Greetings.' I am a winter person, never happier than on a clear, frosty day. Dark winter afternoon. I delight in the soft greens and browns of a resting winter garden. I don’t need year round colour. Dry brown hydrangeas on crisp stems, ivy, yew, wet earth the colour of chocolate cake. And here and there in the dusk, snowdrops shining like fairy lanterns, narcissus and tulip bulbs peeping through the soil. A pale pink pelargonium still in flower, and everywhere the scent of winter box, trapped between the garden’s tall yew hedges. There is life in this garden even now. You just need to look closely.
Years past.
I find packing away the decorations both unbearably sad and something of a relief. It is Christmas again. Sweet spices, sugar and a healthy dash of alcohol is the smell of the season. Another fire. Another cognac. Same Mozart. Lost friends. At some point during the first week of December each year, I climb up into the attic and get the decorations down. Some need to have their cotton replaced and others need a careful wipe with a damp cloth. Who knows what those little cherubs get up to in the dark. Carefully unwrapping decorations on a dark winter morning. Delightful to see them all again. A box of delights for the Christmas tree. Santa Claus, antique fir-cones, glass mushrooms, a faded 1950s pink globe, a bronze pumpkin from India and a pink angel from Köln. The tree becomes alive with my precious friends except the little magenta bauble, which turned out to be as fragile as a bird’s egg so it was placed very carefully into a bowl above the fireplace. Each bauble holding a memory.
This is also the season for eating. I wouldn’t ever want a Christmas without the tantalizing smell of a roast bird being basted, the wing tips crisping, the skin slowly burnishing to the deepest bronze. All the cakes and breads appeal to me: the traditional, iced Christmas cake; Italian panettone for eating with coffee and the German stollen with its hidden cargo of marzipan. Throughout Christmastime I always used to stop, mid-morning, make coffee and have a slice of one or the other. Just five minutes in which to stop and settle the spirit. There is a golden thread of sweetness that runs through my festive eating.
I laughed suddenly at the pleasure of my recollections. I walked outside on the terraces.
Soft grey sky. The promise of more. The garden sleeps. A few autumn leaves still holding. Holding on. The last few petals of the forest pansy, clinging to their branches. They catch the evening sun at the bottom of the garden, making each leaf appear illuminated, like the glass in a church window.
The great thing about this time of year is being able to see the garden’s bones. Without its plumage you can see the opportunities that exist, spaces to fill, plants that need moving or pruning and it allows us to take stock. And all that is underground, all is quietly happening, bulbs sprouting and next year’s growth already coming to life.
The three trees now long gone.
Heavy snow was falling.
A walk around the garden at dusk.
As I go through the gate into the tiny middle garden, I am hit by the most wonderful scent trapped between the garden walls and the high yew hedges.
So Adrian was right when he suggested planting Sarcococca all those years ago.
Christmas box.
Thank you Adrian.