The Christmas Cottage
written by: J Rulton-Fox
‘How long has she been gone?’ Ruby asked, gazing mournfully across the frozen lawn outside the cottage.
The last, low light of the afternoon sun adorned the grass in sparkling golden stripes, its flare only interrupted by the rows of oak and sycamore lining the driveway. The gravel that swept and curved towards the thick, iron gates beyond had lain undisturbed for many days, the crunch of her mother’s tyres as she left seeming now an almost impossible length of time away.
Her brother stirred in his chair on the other side of the room, closed the book he was reading, and moved towards the window.
’She’ll be back soon,’ he promised, rubbing Ruby’s shoulder.
’Oh, Alistair,’ she said, ‘I do hope so.’
Their mother’s friend had agreed that the children could stay with her, while she attended to some unexpected business on the other side of the country. The two women had been friends for a long time, until the older woman had taken retirement from the same job several years before.
‘I have to go away,’ their mother had told them. ‘Mrs Bright is happy for you to stay with her, just for a while. Just for a few days.’
Those few days had passed agonisingly slowly, and now, suddenly, it was Christmas Eve. Neither of the children could begin to imagine what Christmas Day without their mother would be like.
They had only visited Mrs Bright’s cottage once before, spending a delightful summer weekend with her and their mother the previous year. They had shared an afternoon picnic, walked down to the lake and back through the meadow, and thought it wonderful to be allowed to stay up late to watch the fireflies dance. Even so, the cottage appeared to them a foreboding, antiquated place even in that most fair circumstance, and as the gloomy nights crept ever closer around them, the temperature falling, it had now taken on the appearance of something dreadful. Frightful, even. The dark wood of the walls, the cold stone of the floors, the echoing creaks and thumps carried by the cool air that permeated the rooms – everything about it had set the children on edge.
‘Where did she say she was going again?’ Ruby asked, looking up at Alistair.
‘It was something to do with work, I think, although I’m not completely sure. A new client, maybe? She was a bit vague.’
Ruby’s face fell into an expression of confused unease.
‘But… but it’s Christmas,’ she said, her lip trembling, her eyes clouding.
Now almost thirteen, a year and a half older than his sister, Alistair was already feeling the weight of responsibility, that it fell to him to protect his little sister and to have answers to all her questions. The truth was, he had barely any more wisdom of the world than she, and he, too, had started to wonder with growing concern just what had happened to their mother. How could she not be here? How could she leave them in this rustic, archaic old cottage, without even a telephone, a television or a computer?
Worst of all, how could she miss Christmas?
Mrs Bright, a considerably older and less amiable woman than their mother, offered them no gifts of hope. ‘She’ll be back before you know it,’ she’d say, or, ‘Don’t bother me now, I have so much to do.’
What it was that was so pressing, the children could only guess, since it never seemed to them that she was ever particularly busy with anything.
Having lived alone since the passing of her husband a decade earlier, Mrs Bright had become used to her own company, savouring the solitude and regarding any interruption as an unwelcome intrusion. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for her friend or her children. Rather, she had developed her own way of doing things, at her own pace, and was not fond of any kind of disturbance or interference. The cottage stood amongst open countryside several hundred yards from the road, cut away from the community, and Mrs Bright had grown into herself and the lodge as it had grown into her.
She, and it, had become remote.
Her home had remained more or less as it had been the summer before; Mrs Bright, they now understood, was not particularly predisposed towards Christmas. She had installed a rather ancient and despondent artificial tree in the main living room, placing a couple of strands of tinsel across its branches that looked as though she had thrown them from several feet away, and had decorated as sparsely as she could, with a small statue of an angel on the mantle and a grubby wooden nutcracker figure standing near the fire which, Alistair thought, smelled rather on the damp side.
To all intents and purposes, Christmas Eve was, for Mrs Bright, a day much like any other.
As the weather on the second morning of their visit had been clear and not especially cold, the children had decided to explore the countryside close to the cottage. They had found and collected pinecones scattered near the lake they had so enjoyed the previous year, although now it looked as though it was frozen solid. They also found sprigs of holly, evergreen leaves, and red berries, and gathered twigs of fallen willow so they could make Christmas wreaths. Their mother had suggested they bring a good amount of coloured paper, just so they had something to draw and write upon, and they spent the afternoon cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace constructing paper chains. Mrs Bright did not look any more festal when they strung the chains round the walls of the room, nor when they placed the pinecones on the mantel and next to the fire, but at least she did not remove them.
‘Well, goodnight,’ Alistair said with a sigh later that evening, reaching for the handle to his door after another rather unpalatable meal.
‘Goodnight,’ Ruby replied, walking the few extra steps to the adjoining room.
Neither felt tired, but each was wishing for the night to pass quickly, to hasten the morning’s arrival and, with it, to perhaps return their mother. Feeling they had no choice but to forsake any thoughts of a proper Christmas, the advent of their mother was now their only wish in the whole world.
Awoken some hours later, Ruby wearily glanced to her window and the branches scratching and tapping at it. Then she heard something else, something further away. She went to the window, leaning her forehead against it to see out. It had started to snow and, between the flurries and the branches of the tree that stood so close to the cottage, she was sure she could see someone on the lawn and, on the driveway, some kind of vehicle. The dark figure appeared to be struggling with a large, heavy bag.
Ruby, feeling an icy shudder of unease, carefully opened her door and turned towards Alistair’s room. She knocked and waited impatiently, looking up and down the gloomy corridor that, now, her unease gnawing at her, the cool air pricking her skin, had taken on an even more broody atmosphere despite the chains of colourful paper they had affixed a couple of days before. She knocked again and, at last, with a low creak, the door to Alistair’s room began to open. As it did, a shaft of light spilled across the corridor, a creamy yellow beam that ran across the wooden floor and sent a sliver up the opposite wall.
‘What’s going on?’ her brother asked, his voice dry and cracking.
Ruby leapt towards him, pushing him back into the room before she closed the door.
‘What?’ Alistair said, sitting on the edge of his bed. ‘What’s happening? What are you doing?’
‘There’s someone there,’ Ruby said quickly, her voice once more a whisper. ‘Someone there, outside, on the grass.’
‘What?’ Alistair asked again, confused and still wiping his eyes. ‘Someone where?’
Ruby grabbed his hand and led him towards the window.
‘Look,’ she hissed impatiently. ‘Out there, on the grass. There’s someone there.’
She had to make him see what was happening outside, to shake him awake so that he would be able to tell her what they should do.
He stared into the night, leaning his head against the glass.
‘There’s no-one there, but… there is something on the drive. Hey, maybe it’s Santa Claus, and that’s his sleigh.’
He smiled but, at that moment, they both heard sounds from downstairs. Echoing against the wooden confines of the cottage, there came thuds and scratching and the low, indiscernible murmur of voices.
‘What’s that?’ Ruby asked. ‘Who’s that?’
‘I don’t think it is Santa Claus,’ Alistair said, somewhat less cheerfully.
They both sat quietly on the bed, straining to hear what was happening below, trying to imagine what Mrs Bright could be up to at this late hour. Ruby, who by now was picturing all kinds of alarming scenarios, went to the window and saw, through the thickening snowfall, that the dark shape of the vehicle remained on the drive. Frowning, she was about to return to her position when, stiff from nerves, she clumsily knocked into the small nightstand next to the bed and sent it toppling, with a loud crash, onto the floor. They both gasped, then, at Alistair’s signal, they sat on the floor so that they were hidden by the bed.
After a few moments of silence, they heard slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs and then, shrinking out of sight, they heard the doorknob begin to turn.
At this, Alistair got to his feet, preparing to stand his ground so that he would be able to protect his sister. Even if it were robbers, he knew he must do what he could to look after her.
The door opened with a measured groan. Just a small amount at first, as though the person on the other side was attempting to peek into the room without being noticed.
‘Who’s there?’ Alistair said, trying to sound determined, trying to hide his fear.
The door opened further still, until he could see who it was.
‘What on earth are you doing out of bed?’ asked Mrs Bright, glancing around the room in surprise.
Ruby rose from the floor and stood next to her brother.
‘There…there was someone here, someone outside,’ Alistair said. ‘And now they’re downstairs. Didn’t you see them?’
Mrs Bright nodded.
‘Well, who is it?’ Alistair wanted to know. ‘What do they want? How did you escape from them?’
And then, to the astonishment of the children, for what seemed the first time since they arrived, Mrs Bright did something very unusual.
She smiled.
‘Why don’t you come and see?’ she asked, gesturing that they should join her.
Warily, casting apprehensive glances at one another, they followed her along the chilly hallway and down the creaking stairs. As they went, it occurred to them that the cottage seemed oddly lighter, fresher, as though its dull hollowness had been swept aside. Looking to their left as they approached the bottom of the stairs, they saw a glow of light from the dining room.
‘Just in there,’ Mrs Bright said, pointing to the doorway.
Still uncertain, the children slowly approached.
It was then they saw the face they had missed with such heavy hearts, had longed to see for what seemed like an eternity.
‘Oh, how I’ve missed you two,’ their mother said, snow falling from her shoulders as she opened her arms to greet them. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve been away for so long, so much longer than I’d thought. Oh, Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas!’
They ran to her, wrapping their arms around her and holding onto her so tightly she would never be able to leave them again.
‘Happy Christmas, mum,’ they sang.
And it was a very happy Christmas, and from that day forward, the three of them never spent another Christmas without each other again.
- The Christmas Cottage - December 22, 2025
- Destined - October 5, 2025
