The Family Game(34)

I can’t help but smile at the idea of little Billy in a tiny costume, singing, and the logistics involved in that. ‘It sounds very cute, though,’ I say, in what I hope is a supportive way.

‘Ha. Never have kids, Harry,’ she chuckles wryly, in the way that only mothers can. ‘Now, listen, I’m calling because every year we have a thing at the house, a party, and I was wondering if you’d like to come along to this one? Billy has been especially insistent about me asking you,’ she adds.

‘Oh, really?’ I ask, a sliver of pride in my voice.

‘Oh, yes. He’s been asking if you can come since the Thanksgiving dinner. To be honest I don’t think he’s going to stop asking until I give him a definitive answer. And, of course, we all want you there too.’ She breaks off for a second, her attention elsewhere, her tone of voice changing as she talks to someone beside her. ‘I’m asking her now, honey. Yes: Auntie Harry. I’m asking her now. Okay, then. No, let Mama talk to her first, okay?’

It’s Billy. I get a fuzzy aunty feeling followed by an odd ache which I guess must be broodiness. Thank God that just kicks in at some stage; I had thought it might not for me.

‘Okay, Harriet,’ Fiona singsongs. ‘Are you free on the sixteenth of December? You and Edward, of course?’

‘Um?’ I answer hesitantly, suddenly wary of being tricked into another unwitting Thanksgiving situation. It occurs to me that this invitation might be a slow preamble towards Eleanor’s Christmas. But perhaps that’s not so bad. ‘Sorry to ask, Fiona, but the sixteenth isn’t some big American holiday I don’t know about, is it? Nothing like that?’

Fiona chuckles. ‘Definitely not. It’s just a regular American Friday evening. Though it is something we do every year. It’s this Friday,’ she adds helpfully.

‘Then I guess we’re free,’ I tell her. It works out perfectly, as Fiona is next on my list to get to know better. I’m dying to hear more about the family from her perspective.

‘Oh, that’s just great. Billy is going to be over the moon. All right then, so just to tell you a little bit about it. It’s family tradition, every year, for Krampusnacht,’ she says it breezily, as if I will know what that means. Her German pronunciation is perfect and immediately intimidating. ‘I mean,’ she continues, ‘technically Krampusnacht is supposed to be on the fifth,’ she continues, ‘but we always push it to the last weekend before the Christmas break. It’s just easier for everyone.’ Sensing my lack of comprehension, she chuckles. ‘I’ve lost you, haven’t I? It’s a silly German thing – a Holbeck Christmas tradition. I took over organizing from Eleanor when we had kids. It’s ostensibly for the children but there’s fun to be had for the grown-ups too.’ There’s a smile in her voice that tells me food and booze will be involved and, while I can’t drink, I can almost certainly eat.

‘That sounds fun. I’d love that. Krampusnacht,’ I say, testing the word in my mouth. ‘Do I need to bring anything? Wine?’

‘Oh, no. No need to bring anything at all. Well, unless…’ she pauses a second. ‘Do you own a flashlight?’

‘A flashlight?’

‘Yes, a battery-operated flashlight? A big one.’

I frown at the glass beside me in the shop doorway and catch my own bewildered expression in it.

‘No. But I can get one, I guess, if I need one?’

‘Great. Well, that’s settled,’ she says brightly. ‘Yes, I know Edward has one. He used it last year but, anyway, we’ll get a car over to you on the evening too, so don’t worry about all that. Does 7 p.m. work?’

Edward was at their house last year while we were still doing long distance from England. It must have been one of the last family events he took part in before he came over to spend Christmas with me.

‘7 p.m. Yeah, great,’ I say, remembering the question. ‘Wait, will Billy be up if it starts then?’ Though as soon as I’ve said it, I recall how late the boys were up for the Thanksgiving dinner.

She chuckles. ‘Oh yes. The kids don’t tend to sleep on Krampusnacht. They’ll be exhausted the next day, of course, but they always stay up for Krampus.’

After we hang up, I google Krampusnacht on my phone and stop dead in my tracks, an immoveable object on a bustling sidewalk, pedestrians forced to flow past me, an island in a cursing, jostling stream. I stare at my phone’s screen absolutely dumbfounded as the results for Krampusnacht, or Krampus Night, load.

I gawk at the main Google image. A towering monstrosity of fur and teeth with barely recognizable human features, its body twisted in pain and rage. Jesus Christ, what the absolute hell is a Krampus? And why in God’s name are Fiona and Oliver having a night for it? I must have typed the word in wrong, or perhaps this is Fiona’s idea of making a joke – a very strange, very worrying joke? Again, I remember what Lila said earlier about me not scaring easily. Perhaps that’s a good thing if this is the Holbecks’ idea of humour. But then, thinking of Fiona, with her friendly, open face, I doubt she would make a joke like this. I must have just misheard the German word she used. There has to be a rational explanation for this, I tell myself, yet at the same time I read on.

Krampusnacht is celebrated as an accompaniment to the feast of St Nicholas. The feast of St Nicholas? Father Christmas has a feast? It occurs to me possibly for the first time in my life that while I’ve celebrated Christmas every year since I was born, I have absolutely no understanding of most of the traditions surrounding it.