It’s not a question.
‘No, I would not,’ I answer by rote. ‘I’ll do it. I just, I don’t get how it’s a Christmas game, that’s all. I mean, where’s the Christmas spirit?’
Robert sips his scotch and perches on the arm of a sofa with an amusing smile. ‘What could be more in the spirit of Christmas than offering everyone in the family a chance to do the right thing? Whoever wins has the opportunity to act with kindness as much as greed, you see? You choose. The game gives us a chance to rebalance the scales, once a year, to rectify the power balance in the family. It reminds us that we must be good to each other all year long or risk the consequences if the tables are turned.’ He breaks off, Eleanor topping up his glass. ‘But, as Edward rightly says, it is just a game. No one gets hurt here; by the end there are just bruised egos, some damaged pride, and it has always meant a lot to those who play it. The only reason you might have to fear the game is if you have something to hide. Do you have something to hide?’
‘Nothing you wouldn’t already know,’ I answer.
‘Then you’ll play,’ Robert concludes.
‘Of course,’ I say with a smile that I hope presents as authentic. ‘After all, it’s not the winning that counts, right?’ I ask hopefully. ‘It’s just the taking part. That’s what they say, right?’
‘Ha, I bet they do,’ Stuart mutters, a sharp look from Oliver quickly shutting him down.
‘Well, then. I think we’re decided. If we’re ready,’ Eleanor suggests as she lifts the silver dice cup from the black bear’s wooden claws and jostles it. Inside, dice rattle. ‘Highest number starts the game,’ she instructs, offering up the cup to the group. ‘Who wants to roll first?’
43 One Clue. Two Clue
Saturday 24 December
Standing in front of the card table, the fire roaring, I pull my card from its envelope. Two players have already gone before me.
I can feel the family’s eyes on me, but having watched both Fiona and Stuart take their turns, I know not to give anything away as I read my card.
Up the wooden hill to Bed-ford-shire,
Heading for the land of dreams.
When I look back to those happy childhood days,
Nothing is quite what it seems.
I look up at the faces staring back at me.
‘Who writes these?’ I ask.
All eyes swivel to Robert, answering the question for me. ‘And who writes yours?’ I ask.
‘I do,’ Eleanor answers, then gestures to my card. ‘Does everything there make sense?’ she asks with generosity.
I look down at it again.
‘I think so, yes,’ I reply.
Like the players before me, I drop my card into the roaring fire, carefully watching as it burns to nothing.
‘Wonderful,’ Eleanor beams. ‘Then good luck, Harriet, and happy hunting.’
I feel Edward’s eyes on me but I do not engage with him, or anyone else, for fear that somehow the truth will pour out of me, out of my face, my eyes. Instead, head high, I make my way straight past the remaining players and directly out of the room.
I need to go up the wooden hill – the stairs – to find a bedroom, that much is clear. A childhood bedroom. I’m reminded of the ones Robert mentioned in his tape, his children’s childhood rooms. There I will find my next clue and hopefully the trail Robert is leaving me will start to make sense.
My heels tap a sharp rhythm across the paraquet hallway and muffle as I take the carpeted stairs up two at a time. Time is against me. The previous players have a decent head start already. I listen ahead for the sound of Fiona or Stuart but the low sound of Christmas music is all that greets me.