A Chelsie Christmas

J – Jingle Bells

December 10th, 1926

There were many, many things about marriage Elsie hadn't considered before the wedding. Tiny things which seemed inconsequential, like how long one spent in the bathroom brushing their teeth or how socks should be folded. Not that she wore socks, but obviously Charles did and it had never occurred to her that he might like his socks folded in a particular way. She noted he never enquired as to how her stockings should be stored.

It was the snoring though, above all things, that had come as a surprise. For the first month her sleep was constantly interrupted by it. She was exhausted, and not for the reason newly married couples usually gave. After a while she found if he slept with three pillows propping him up it wasn't quite so bad, and besides she'd grown used to it, along with the way he'd hold her in the night, or she'd wake to find the hardness between his thighs pressing against her back.

Yes, there were a great many things she had never considered before marriage.

Despite the fact she could've woken leisurely – for it was Friday, her morning off – the body clock didn't obey and she was awake before the sun rose. And his snoring was soothing, welcomed. She lay for a while on her back listening to it in the dark room. Beneath the sheets it was warm and comforting, yet she could feel the air beyond was biting and tight. She twisted onto her side, she slept on the left of the bed, closer to the window, Charles on the right, closer to the door. It was a sparse room but theirs and she liked it that way.

She watched him sleep. A bruise had formed over his right eye where he'd cut his forehead and she had to resist the urge to touch it.

"My darling," she whispered into the darkness, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder, then down his arm, beneath the sheets into their secret world. Her fingertips beneath his sleeve, tender on his wrist. Her hands were cold where they'd been out of the bed and the contrast with his warm skin was intense. He was warm and alive, it was all that mattered.

The church bells roused her again and she pulled back from him, slipping out of their bed. He only stirred, turned onto his side and slept again. She crept from the bedroom and went to light the fire downstairs and put the kettle on; the Doctor would be there early and she wanted to be dressed and sorted before he arrived.

"Mrs. Carson, good morning." Dr. Clarkson said as he came up their path.

"Oh good morning," she was beating the kitchen mat out in the garden and he was early. "I didn't expect you, Dr. Clarkson, I thought it might be a junior."

"I wanted to do this one myself, how is he?"

"Still asleep last time I went up, so not had breakfast yet, not even a cup of tea. Can I tempt you to one whilst I go to wake him?"

"That would be most welcome."

He sat at their little table sipping his tea and she felt odd about it, like someone had trespassed, like their privacy was being violated. It needed to be done though and she was ever practical about things.

"Charles," she whispered, opening the curtains a fraction to try and wake him. She pressed a hand to his chest on top of the sheets. "Charlie?" She said again and he mumbled.

"I'm awake."

"Dr. Clarkson is here," she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, "shall I send him up?"

"Absolutely not."

She smiled at his tone, "You're going to come down then? Are you quite up to it?"

"Just tired is all, I can manage to walk downstairs." He pushed the bedsheets down to his belly and she pressed her hand down to one of his where it lay against the mattress. He blinked, clearing his gaze and looking at her, like an angel in the early morning light, white from the snow, she shone.

"I'll pour tea, put your dressing gown on, and your slippers."

He rolled his eyes at her instructions but there was a kindness to it, a concern, which he couldn't ignore.

"He won't be long," she said, relaying the carpets in the kitchen.

Clarkson got to his feet, wandering to the fire and warming his hands. "He slept well?"

"Yes, from what I noticed." She realised that admitting certain things meant pointing out that they did indeed share not only a bedroom but a bed. She was well aware of what people thought, it as a marriage of friendship, of convenience, that they'd be in separate singles not cuddling up together, feet touching on cold nights. "I thought he might catch a chill."

"It might come out."

"I kept his feet warm, as instructed, drew it down from his head."

"Good, and you're alright, Mrs. Carson?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

"Shock, an odd thing."

He was there when she had arrived at the river, her husband wrapped in blankets in the snow. She had slipped in her boots as she came towards them, hand gripping Andy's arm so tightly her knuckles had turned beyond white to blue. She had that ashen look upon her face he'd seen a hundred times before during the war – wives losing their husbands. He had never thought to have seen it upon Mrs. Hughes' face.

He got to his feet quickly, "He's alive," he'd repeated until she heard and breathed and he thought he'd never seen her eyes look that clear.

Regardless of who was around or what had happened she had fallen to her knees beside him, hands reaching to clasp his, and she had said something, whispered words which he hadn't made out. He was glad of that, it was a private matter.

He hadn't realised before you see. That it was real love. He thought it companionship, affection formed over a lifetime working closely together. But it was plain for all to see, right there, she was in love.

"Bit of a hero, as it turns out." Clarkson said. "The village is chattering over it."

"Already? Goodness."

"Wouldn't be surprised if the local paper won't want to talk to him."

"He'd hate that."

"I do," Charles said, coming into the lounge, "If they turn up send them on their way." He sank into a chair and Elsie resisted the urge to help him; he wouldn't want to appear weak in front of Clarkson. Instead she poured his tea, good and strong with two sugars, and carried it over.

"Just want to check a few things," Clarkson said, tapping his thermometer. "No sickness? No shivers?"

"A little sickness yesterday evening, shivering in the early hours."

Elsie chewed her lip, hovering behind the Doctor as he took Charles' temperature.

"Running a slight fever, best to stay wrapped up, in bed even better. Sleep it out of your system. I can prescribe something too."

"How's the…" Charles coughed, reaching for his tea, his throat seemed tight and his voice lower than usual. "How's the lad?" He asked.

"Not out of the woods just yet, but alive, and fighting."

"No kind of Christmas is it, for him."

"He might be home, we'll see how it goes. Need to check he hasn't got an infection for one, that water's not hygienic at the best of times and his immune system will be weaker than yours." He started to write the prescription. "Very brave of you, Mr. Carson, to do that."

"Didn't really think the thing through," he admitted, glancing at Elsie. "Seemed the obvious."

"Well, his mother has you to thank for her boy being alive. She's got five of them to feed and a little lassie too." He handed the prescription to Elsie. "Pneumonia for the lad, worst case scenario, which is why I'm none too happy you didn't stay."

"I would be as well in my home as I am there," Charles said with finality.

"Yes well, your heartbeat is faster than it need be so no strenuous activity."

"I thought I might visit the lad, see how he is."

"Not yet you won't," Clarkson said.

"Absolutely not," Elsie said at the same time. "You will either be lying in bed or in that chair by the fire, and I'll be taking care of you."

"You have work this afternoon."

"Things won't fall apart without me, I don't think that highly of myself." She plumped another pillow behind his back, "Now, come on, drink your tea. I'll nip into the village later for your medication. Shall I see you out, Doctor?"

Elsie made a good breakfast – bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes – she worried Charles wouldn't eat but his appetite was actually hearty which pleased her.

"I have my meetings," he said, onto a third cup of tea.

"Well, they can cope without you. I won't have you doing anything until you're well again."

"You're incredibly bossy."

She took his empty plate away, "And this you have only just learned?"

He glared at her and turned his face to the fire, "My back aches, or my bones do."

"Painkillers should help. But you must stop fussing over things, I can take care of anything that needs taking care of."

"Lucky I have you," he said softly.

"Yes, you are," she drew her chair next to his, her hand on his arm. "I didn't think to have lost you so soon… I won't."

He knew what she meant, their reality was married life might be short, though perhaps not this short. If he could have another ten years with her; but then that would pass and he'd long for ten more.

He watched her fingertips stroke back and forth upon his arm, causing the hairs to rise and react to the sensuality of her touch. Her skin was as akin to silk as he had ever found, and her fingertips weren't even the softest spot, there were more far more secretive, hidden places. Places where she'd shiver when he touched her.

"I wondered if you might do something for me."

"You aren't going to take advantage of this situation, are you? Have me running about."

"Don't be ridiculous," he started, then realised her teasing and gave a slight nod. "You must return to work tomorrow, I won't have you risking anything." He was coughing again and she went to fetch water.

"I think his Lordship knows us well enough by now. And as I have said, you have to clear your mind of worries and concentrate on recovering. Now, what would you like me to do?"

Elsie had hated hospitals since childhood. First, her mother's traumatic labour with Becky, and then visiting her sister many times over those first few years. There was that distinctive clinical smell of bleach and coldness, like death wandered the halls. When she was seven she thought she saw him, his staff raised as he turned a corner, and she'd been terrified ever since.

Fears changed with adulthood though, the fantasies that caused nightmares as a child replaced with much more tangible worries. Losing her husband was foremost in her mind presently, and this niggling awful feeling that she couldn't actually do very much at all other than nag him to get better.

And this of course, his request.

When he'd asked she'd been surprised, but he seemed to have his mind set on it and had evidently been pondering it whilst awake in the early hours.

She'd dug the item out from his private storage in the spare bedroom at the cottage. Had dusted it off and wrapped it in tissue paper tied with a string. She'd questioned his certainty, but once he had settled his heart on something there could be no alternative, as she knew all too well.

Mother and Grandmother were by the sleeping boy's bed, and it made Elsie's chest hurt to see him there, though he was pinker since she saw him last, like a fish dragged from the water. She thought of Charles' hands, the sheer span of them, the strength in his arms, and how he had held firm and pulled the boy from the grasp of death.

"I am so very sorry to interrupt," she said gently, she knew neither woman which surprised her. Perhaps they lived on the outskirts. "My name is Mrs. Carson, it was my husband who –."

"Your husband?" The mother said and her accent was Irish. She grasped Elsie's arm, her fingers closing around her wrist. "Oh, thank you, you must thank him, again and again."

"I will, I will," Elsie said, "he is so very glad your boy is alive. Has there been any improvement?"

"His temperature has dropped a little, just though, we keep hoping. All we can do is pray and hope. But thank him. That man…"

"How is he?" The grandmother asked, calmer, still sitting.

Elsie shook her hand, "Recovering, I think, his body will just take a while… he isn't a young man." She smiled, "He actually sent me with something. A gift for your son."

"Oh?"

She took the package from her bag and handed it across, "It was his, when he was a boy. And he has his heart set on passing it to your son, a Christmas gift if you will."

The mother unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful wooden sleigh, hand painted, the back filled with the toys, Father Christmas sitting proudly holding the reins.

"We can't possibly, this is precious. He can't give this away."

"He is quite certain," Elsie insisted. "We have no children of our own and I think he just wanted to…" she looked at the sleeping boy. "Well, do something nice." She took the sleigh from the woman's hands and sat it down on the table beside the boy's head. "It's got some wonderful fine detail, look," she touched a finger to the reins, "the bells even jingle."

"A beautiful gift," the grandmother acknowledged. "Your husband is clearly a good man."

"He is," she said wistfully, "the most wonderful man I have ever met."