A Fatal Grace

Peter hung their stockings on the mantelpiece. The shortbread cookies were baked into stars and trees and snowmen and decorated with silver balls that could have been buckshot. In the living room each evening before caroling Peter would tend the fire and read his books while Clara noodled on the piano, singing carols off key. Many nights Myrna or Ruth, Gabri or Olivier would drop by for drinks or an easy dinner.



Then, before they knew it, it was Christmas Eve and they were all off to Émilie’s for her réveillon party. But first, midnight service at St Thomas’s church.



‘Silent night, holy night,’ the congregation sang, with more gusto than talent. It actually sounded slightly like the old sea shanty, ‘What shall we do with the drunken Sailor’. Gabri’s beautiful tenor naturally led them, or at least made it clear they were wandering in a musical wilderness, or lost at sea. Except one. From the back of the wooden chapel came a voice of such exquisite clarity it staggered even Gabri. The child’s voice swooped out of the pew and mingled with the meandering voices of the congregation and hovered around the holly and pine boughs the Anglican Church Women had placed all over so that the worshippers had the impression they were not in a church at all, but a forest. Bare maple limbs had been attached to the rafters by Billy Williams, and the ACW, led by Mother, had asked him to twine small white lights loosely about the branches. The effect was of the heavens sparkling above the small gathering of faithful. The church was filled with greenery and light.



‘Green is the heart chakra,’ Mother had explained.



‘I’m sure the Bishop will be pleased,’ Kaye said.



On Christmas Eve St Thomas’s was also filled with families, children excited and exhausted, elderly men and women who’d come to this place all their lives and sat in the same pew and worshipped the same God and baptized and married and buried those they loved. Some they never got to bury, but instead immortalized in the small stained glass window placed to get the morning, the youngest, light. They marched now in warm yellows and blues and greens, for ever perfect and petrified in the Great War. Etched below the brilliant boys were their names and the words ‘They Were Our Children’.



This night the church was full of Anglicans and Catholics and Jews and non-believers and people who believed in something undefined and unrestricted to a church. They came because St Thomas’s on Christmas Eve was full of greenery and light.



But, unexpectedly, this Christmas it was also full of the most beautiful singing.



‘All is calm,’ the voice sang, rescuing the sinking congregation. Clara turned, trying to find the child. Many were also craning to see who was leading them. Even Gabri was forced to relinquish his place in the unexpected and not totally welcome presence of the divine. It was as though an angel, as Yeats would have it, became weary of the whimpering dead and chose this lively company.



Clara suddenly had a perfect view.



There at the back stood CC de Poitiers wearing a fluffy white sweater made of either cashmere or kittens. Beside her was her husband, florid and mute. And beside him an enormous child was wearing a sleeveless sundress of the brightest pink. Her underarms bulged and flopped and the rolls of her waist made the skintight dress look like a melting strawberry ice cream. It was grotesque.



But her face was beautiful. Clara had seen this child before, but only from a distance and only with a sullen unhappy face. But now that face was tilted toward the glowing rafters and held a look Clara knew to be bliss.



‘All is bright.’ Crie’s exquisite voice played in the rafters with the lights then slipped under the door of the old chapel and danced with the gently falling snowflakes and parked cars and bare maples. The words of the old carol glided across the frozen pond and nested in the Christmas trees and seeped into every happy home in Three Pines.



After the service the minister hurried out, late for Christmas Eve celebrations in nearby Cleghorn Halt.



‘Joyeux Noël,’ said Peter to Gabri as they gathered on the steps outside the church for the short stroll across the village to Émilie’s house. ‘What a beautiful night.’



‘And what a beautiful service,’ said Clara, coming up beside Peter. ‘Can you believe that child’s voice?’



‘Not bad,’ admitted Gabri.



‘Not bad?’ Mother Bea oscillated up to them, Kaye on her arm like a muff and Émilie on her other side. ‘She was unbelievable. I’ve never heard such a voice, have you?’



‘I need a drink,’ said Kaye. ‘When’re we leaving?’



‘Right now,’ Em assured her.