ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

A Berena Christmas Carol
By Aimée

Prologue

Serena was working late – not that unusual in December, since AAU staff was as vulnerable as most people to the yearly flu epidemics, and once again all healthy hands were needed on deck. She had spent the day in theatre with Xavier Duval, operating successively on a RTC victim, a man who'd fallen from his ladder while putting on Christmas lights and a young woman with a ruptured appendix. She missed …Well, she missed Dr Faulkner, who'd been a capable enough surgeon…and whose end-of-rotation had come at a both timely and untimely time. And she missed Bernie – oh, God, she missed Bernie. But there was no point in missing her – she was gone, and it was not like she had been the innocent party in the split. So maybe after all work was the best place to be, even though she'd heard some of her staff grumbling. Apparently she'd been like a bear with a sore head since Jason's wedding. Well, good! Who needed Christmas anyway? She didn't even believe in God, so why would she need to celebrate His Son's coming?

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and Fletch popped his head in: "Serena? I wasn't sure you were still here. Want to come home with me? Everything's quiet on the ward front, and I'm sure the kids would love to see you – Evie's been asking about you."

"Thanks, Fletch – but I want to be alone. Or with a nice big bottle of Shiraz."

Fletch looked worried: "Do you want to talk? I can spare a little time – we can even go to Albie's if …"

"Go home, Fletch! The kids are waiting! Tell Evie I'll see her sometimes soon."

Fletch raised his hands in defeat: "All right, all right – well …merry Christmas, then."

She heard him mutter something as he left, something which sounded like: "Don't bloody know what happened between you and the Major, but I wished it had happened after Christmas."

So did she… Jason, Greta and Guinivere were staying with Greta's parents, and she had been invited, but she really didn't want to have to smile and chat as if everything was all right in the world.

Bernie was working – she had planned on staying in England until the new year – and then she had planned on staying indefinitely, until her plans for the future had come crashing down. Luckily, she'd been able to retract her notice at the NTU, and she had gone straight back to Nairobi after Jason's wedding. The Trauma Unit, busy as usual, kept her from thinking too much about what had happened in Holby. They accepted extra cases to relieve the other wards, and even though not all operations necessitated her trauma skills, they at least kept her busy. As long as she was in theatre, she could keep the dark thoughts from coming – it was only when she got home that they came crashing in. Her last surgery of the day was particularly gruesome – a woman with breast cancer who hadn't seen a doctor until her breast was completely necrosed – of course, the cancer had spread, and the surgery was only an attempt to give her a few more months of life. The case resonated painfully for Bernie, first because it showed the appalling level of care in some parts of the Kenyan population, and secondly because it reminded her of one of her first case at Holby – the two sisters with a genetic predisposition to breast and ovarian cancer. The case which had nearly put an end to her career in Holby before it had even begun when the patient had complained about her bedside manner. She knew she had come a long way since…and yet, since she'd returned to Nairobi, she had retreated into her shell once more. She wasn't overtly rude to her colleagues or to the patients, but she used as few words as possible and tended to snap at her team. Therefore, she was surprised when her registrar, Peter Mantuna, invited her for Christmas dinner at his home. She had met his wife before at a hospital function, and she found them both very nice, but she really didn't feel up to company – besides, she had someone waiting for her at home, who she had neglected recently. Therefore, she politely declined, and offered her best wishes for Christmas to the team.

Stave I – In Holby

Serena stopped at the off-licence on her way home – she didn't want Shiraz after all – she wanted whisky – no gradually getting drunk, but brutal and welcome oblivion after only a few glasses. Christmas – such a bunch of humbug – it only reminded her of Elinor coming to film in the ward …and the rest. Two years afterwards, the wound was still as raw as ever. When she'd come back from the South of France, she had finally found the courage to empty her daughter's bedroom. She hadn't got rid of anything, but she had packed it all her in carton boxes that now sat in her basement. And she had found the notebook – not a diary, not Elinor's intimate thoughts, but a key to them – her passwords to her online accounts – for social media, and for her blog. She had had no idea her daughter had a blog. Elinor wrote under the name "Snowflakebuttough", about her life at uni, her relations with her friends and with her mother. She had read the whole thing several times, but when she felt particularly maudlin or bereft, she went back to it, or rather to the blog pages she had printed. Serena sat on the couch, shivering – the two small radiators had never been enough to heat the large living room properly, but somehow it had never felt as cold before – not when she'd been with Edward and Elinor, nor when she had been in it with Elinor – or with Bernie… She couldn't go there – not again, otherwise she would cry in her whisky. She had cried so much in the last weeks her eyes felt perpetually red and raw. She had replayed their last hours together again and again in her head… She wished she had done the whole thing differently – she wished she had never set her eyes on bloody Dr. Faulkner – wished she hadn't yielded to that insane impulse, that night, in the on-call room. Almost wished Bernie hadn't come back for the wedding. Maybe it would have turned out differently then. Wished Bernie hadn't been so magnanimous – wished she had ranted and raved at her, she would have welcomed it. She had needed that. But that resigned attitude…That request to talk things over, that acceptance of part of the blame…somehow she hadn't been expecting that, and it had made the whole thing even more unbearable.

Serena selected a page at random and began to read. Elinor had had a gift for writing. As she perused the words, she could see her daughter sprawled on one of the armchairs. As she read her rantings over unfair teachers, or her hankering for a relationship with "the handsome hunk in the French seminar", or her dilemma about whether to buy Gucci or Ralph Lauren sunglasses, she could hear her daughter's voice, imagine her so vividly she almost extended her arm to touch her. Later on in the evening, after she had consumed more than half the bottle, when she was staring at the empty room, she heard Elinor's voice quite clearly in her head… "Mum – you've messed up. Really messed up big time. You need to sort yourself out. I'm here to warn you, and help you. You'll be haunted by three Spirits. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls One. Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us! Love you, Mum. Night night'.

Stave I – in Nairobi

When Bernie came home from the hospital, she was exhausted. She had barely found the courage to stop at a pizzeria on her way home – a Christmas pizza, which would be a welcome change from the insipid hospital food she hadn't had the heart to swallow in the previous days anyway. She was aware she had lost several pounds since her return to Nairobi, but food somehow didn't make it past her mouth. She would be working on Christmas Day – she hated Christmas anyway – had hated it since her mother's death when she was a child. Bah humbug indeed! She crashed on the sofa – one of the few pieces of furniture in the flat which had been provided for her by the hospital. It was more of a bedsit than a flat – a living room with a kitchen area, a bedroom and a small bathroom. But she hadn't needed anything – she had come to work, after all. But that night, it felt even more dismal than usual. Only one thing kept it from being totally dreary. A warm body nestled against hers.

"Hello, you…Had a good day? Did you miss me?"

She settled on Bernie's lap and purred loudly into her ear. She had called her Nyeusi – black in Swahili. The black kitten she had found a few weeks after her arrival hiding under cardboard in the hospital car park had found its way into her heart and her home. Now more than ever, she was grateful for its presence. With an animal, no one could be completely lonely, even though her heart was breaking. She had never felt so alone in her life – not even when her parents had died. She managed a few bites of pizza before putting the rest aside – her appetite was still in Holby. She wanted to go to bed – she needed to go to bed, but she didn't even have the energy to move. She grabbed a book – a well-thumbed copy of a first edition of Jane Eyre she carried everywhere with her. Her father had given it to her for her fifteen birthday. She re-read it when she felt sad…And used it as a photo album. A few photographs fell from it when she opened it – Charlotte and Cameron hugging on a beach, Serena … She wondered what her children were doing. She knew Cameron was back in England, but she had had no news from Charlotte in ages. What Serena was – no, she couldn't think about that – it would only make her cry. A picture of her old regiment… A picture of her and Alex in Camp Bastion– she had heard via the grapevine that she had found a position in a military hospital near Bristol. She wondered what Alex was doing… She thought back to their last parting, in Holby. She should have been braver – she should have told Marcus and made a go of it with Alex. But then, she wouldn't have met Serena. Or she would have met Serena and be torn between the two women…Anyway…She'd managed quite efficiently two sabotage both relationships. She wondered what Alex would have said about the recent events… She closed her eyes and reclined on the sofa…She could almost hear see herself in Kandahar, in their quarters, during one of their nightime conversations. "Alex", she murmured. "I've fucked up."

"You haven't, darling. Well – a little – you've never been able to choose. Were you really expecting her to wait for you while you were off gallivanting in Nairobi? Serena isn't like you – she needs her family. You took the right decision at the wrong moment – if you'd given up the NTU last June…And you didn't need to be so bloody noble about her little dalliance either. Do you remember that Corporal who was making eyes at you? And the tongue-lashing I gave you afterwards, even though you'd done absolutely nothing wrong? That's how you should have reacted – you should have shown Serena how hurt you were, how angry her betrayal had made you feel, instead of taking the blame and just try to appease the situation. Then she would have known how much she mattered to you. But it's too late …too late…too late…Now you can only wait…Expect the unexpected – I am here to warn you – you will be haunted by three Spirits…Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls One. Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. The third upon the next night when the last stroke of Twelve has ceased to vibrate. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

Stave II – In Holby

When Serena woke up, still dressed and on the sofa, she started to cry – Elinor's presence had been so vivid the previous night- but it had all been just a dream – or a ghost. Or had it? She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece – twelve o'clock. That wasn't possible – she had read well into he early hours of the morning. Could she have slept until noon? Could a whole day had passed? She had been so tired…But when she looked outside, the streets were still dark. She decided she could get a few hours in bed after all before she had to face another day. Head on her pillow, she remembered the words …three Spirits…the first one at one o'clock. Rubbish! That must have been the spirit talking indeed – the one she had emptied a bottle of.

When the bells of the nearby church rang one, a strange light illuminated her bedroom. Serena bolted up in her bed when she saw a strange figure in the room. A strange figure – like a child; yet not so like a child as like … "Jasmine!" exclaimed Serena. The child who looked so much like the deceased young doctor wore a white tunic bound by a belt which sparkled and glittered around the waist, a belt trimmed with holly. On the tunic were also summer flowers and on her head, she wore a luminous crown which lit the whole room.

"Jasmine! What …What …?" asked Serena.

"I am the Spirit whose coming was foretold to you – I am the Spirit of Christmas Past."

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

"Long past?"

"No – your past."

Serena wondered just exactly how much she had drank.

"Rise, and walk with me!" said the Spirit, beckoning to her.

It would have been in vain for Serena to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that she was clad but lightly in her slippers and pyjamas. She rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, she tried to remonstrate with her.

"Come on – I'm not Peter Pan or Wendy, I can't fly!"

"Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the Spirit, laying it upon her heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this!"

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon a suburban street – the avenue where Serena's leafy detached stood had completely vanished. The Spirit gazed upon her mildly. Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to Serena's sense of feeling. She was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten!

She saw her childhood home – a semi-detached house in the suburbs of London, with flower-print wall paper and Formica kitchen. She saw her mother preparing Christmas dinner for the family gathering, which had included many long-dead relatives, and her father choosing the wine in his collection. Then she saw herself crying in her bed because her father, now divorced and with a new family, hadn't even bothered to send her a present. Another Christmas scene appeared, at her grandparents's, who had all the warmth of Victorian undertakers. They could not understand that a child couldn't be expected to sit at a table for four hours, without talking – because children should be seen and not heard. The food had been stodgy, and there was no getting out of eating her sprouts – hateful things. And when she was a little older, she'd decided to become a vegetarian, and that did not go well either …She usually got useful presents, like socks or home-knit pulpartners, for which she was supposed to write thank you letters.

Then the scene switched again and she found herself on the beach in Thailand, singing and getting high with a group of students like herself she'd met on the backpacking trip she had taken when she was twenty-four, before she'd left for her MBA at Harvard. She was leaning in a boy's arm and looked supremely comfortable. Much more actually, than a few years afterwards, finishing a Christmas night shift as an F2 at London University Hospital and crashing in the hospital cafeteria with Edward Campbell, a fellow medical student.

Then the more painful memories began…She found herself in her own home, only it was a little messier, and most of the furniture much newer. A big tree stood near the chimney, and fairy lights had been hung around the living room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it were many plates, a Christmas pudding, and a big chocolate Yule log. The table was too high for the little girl, no more than two or three years old, wearing a pink fairy dress, whose seat had been raised by a pile of cushions. Her chin was nearly in her plate, and her face and her hands were covered with chocolate. She was grinning mischievously and looking at her parents out of the corner of her eyes – she knew no one would scold her on Christmas. And indeed, Serena scooped her from the chair, and smothered her with kisses, laughing: "Come on, Ellie-baby, let's get you cleaned up - otherwise Santa's reindeer will think you're a new type of biscuit and gobble you up." The little girl giggled, and Serena hugged her harder…

Little Elinor vanished, and the scene switched abruptly to Serena's last Christmas in her house… Everything had gone well in the morning – she and Bernie had both cooked a little, and dished out ready-made food too – they had had no intention of slaving in the kitchen. The presents for the kids were waiting under the tree. They'd already exchanged their gifts to one another, as they were a little too intimate for public disclosure … At noon, Eleanor had arrived, with a book for Jason, a poinsettia for her mother "because she already had everything anyways", and nothing for Bernie. And then she'd proceeded to ignore her pointedly. She had not been pleased to know they were waiting for Bernie's children to sit down to lunch. Cameron had arrived a quarter of an hour afterwards, alone – he'd mumbled that Charlotte had drunk too much on the previous night, and that she was feeling nauseous and not up to Christmas lunch. As he'd never been a good liar, an inquisitive stern look from Bernie got him to confess that Charlotte had said there was no bloody way she would spend Christmas at her "mother's whore" house. Bernie had gulped – she'd been terribly hurt – but she'd smiled and said that this way, there would be more pudding for everyone else. Cameron had done his best to keep the conversation going over the table, but his efforts soon petered out and apart from Jason, no one was really feeling festive anymore. Eleanor had sat there, toying with her food and answering Serena and Bernie's attempts at small talk by monosyllables. The meal had been mostly silent, Serena simmering over her daughter's rudeness and Bernie feeling as if once again, she'd been the one to spoil everything.

And then…perhaps the most painful scene, because it opened up fresh wounds. Christmas 2017 – she had still been in the South of France, and Bernie had joined her there for a few days – against her will. When Bernie had told her she would come all the way from the Sudan to spend Christmas with her, her first instinct had been to refuse. She had wanted to spend that first Christmas after Elinor's death alone. But Bernie had insisted, by email, texts and phone calls, and Serena had relented, on the express condition that Bernie didn't mention Elinor.

They had rented a car and they drove to a smaller town not far from Aix-en-Provence. The first sight of their destination, from the motorway, was a huge basilica nestled in a landscape of chalky-white mountains. Bernie was driving and she found the hotel car park without too much difficulty – the Hotel du Couvent Royal adjoined the basilica. The reception area looked warm and welcoming, with apparent stonework, a Christmas tree and a small nativity scene underneath. Bernie walked to the reception desk and in her fluent French asked for their room. Serena produced the credit card she'd used for the booking. The receptionist looked at them both and a small frown crossed her face: « Je suis désolée, Mesdames, j'ai l'impression que nous avons fait une erreur – nous vous avons réservé une chambre avec un lit double. » We have booked you a room with a double bed. Bernie began to shake her head but the receptionist went on. "Et nous sommes complets pour les fêtes! Laissez-moi réfléchir… » And we're fully booked for the holidays. Bernie decided to put her out of her misery: "Tout va bien, Mademoiselle, pas d'erreur. Merci." Everything's fine, Miss – no mistake. The receptionist's eyes went from Bernie to Serena, wondering if Serena would object, but seeing no reaction, she finally produced a key and a smile: "Parfait – chamber 28, deuxième étage. I wish for you a good sojourn at us. Help for baggage?"

"No, thank you."

Biting their cheeks to keep from smiling at the young woman's quaint English, they grabbed their bags and made their way to the lift. The room did indeed hold a double bed covered with a Provencal bedspread and not much else, with the red tiles on the floor and the white-washed walls giving it a conventual look. They had booked for Christmas Eve dinner at the hotel's restaurant, fearing that other places would be fully booked. They had, however, a full day of leisure before them, and they didn't intend to spend it in the room. They wrapped up warmly and decided that their first stop must be a café. St Maximin la Ste Baume was a perfect town for tourists – easy to navigate, with just one main street opening up on a large square on each side. At the beginning of the street, the huge façade of the basilica dwarfed even the cypress trees surrounding the square. On it hung blood and gold standards, the colours of Provence. Bernie and Serena decided not to go in right away – their need for a hot drink won easily over sightseeing. They walked down the main street, noticing how different the smells were from England. The air was as crisp and cold as in Holby, but it also bore scents from the various stands installed in front of the shops. Almost each shop had a decorated tree, either in its window or in front of it, and some must have been scented artificially for a strong fir smell dominated the street. However, as Bernie and Serena walked down, they also inhaled the aroma of chicken roasting on spits outside the butcher's shop, of fresh brioches at the baker's and of roasting chestnuts at a corner. They stopped for a moment in front of one of the pâtisserie, admiring the ornate creamy Yule logs and earmarked a small coffeehouse nearby. They pushed on as far as the other huge square, dominated by a stone war memorial and another sparkling Christmas tree. They had a look in one of the big cafés but the crowded space, loud voices and aniseed smell did not appeal, and they walked back to the coffeehouse, where they were greeted by the aroma of roasting beans. After espresso, they felt energised enough to go walking again, and they explored the town a little further, going as far as the pétanque strip and peeking into several shops on the way back… She could still feel the kisses they had exchanged as they walked back to the hotel…

""Spirit!" said Serena in a broken voice, "remove me from this place."

"I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghost. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

"Remove me!" Serena exclaimed. "I cannot bear it!"

And then she found herself back in her room, a little dizzy. She felt overcome with drowsiness, and slipped back into bed…

Stave II – in Nairobi

Bernie's phone alarm jolted her out of sleep on Christmas morning – or at least she thought she had set it for 7.30 am, but it was still dark outside. Maybe a storm was coming – when it happened, the sky darkened and clouded over. She glanced at the screen – 12.00. That wasn't possible – her alarm was always set for 7.30. She was due in theatre at 9.00. She got up, went to look outside and saw an almost full moon and stars. And yet, she hadn't come back from the hospital until well past 10.00 pm. She must have fallen asleep, because she could remember dreaming – she remembered something about ghosts …about one o'clock. An overtired brain played strange tricks…

She started as a corner of the room suddenly started to go, and for the first time since she'd left the army she regretted not having her Sig Sauer with her. However, even though her rational mind fought against it, she understood that no bullet could get rid of the strange apparition.

"Who are you?"

As the glowing translucid figure turned her face towards her, she put her hand against her mouth: "No …No, you're …I couldn't save you – you're dead…" She closed her eyes but when she opened them again, the Spirit was still there, looking at her benignantly:

"I know – you did your best – you tried. Thank you. And yes – I'm dead – I'm not Jasmine anymore. I am the Spirit whose coming was foretold to you – I am the Spirit of Christmas Past – of your past."

Surely that was another symptom of exhaustion…Hallucinations.

"Rise, and walk with me!" said the Spirit, beckoning to her.

Her army training kicked in and she obeyed the order…She was wearing only the white shirt she had fallen asleep in and knickers…Well, it wasn't that cold outside, and anyway, one didn't feel the cold in a dream…

"Bear but a touch of my hand there," said the Spirit, laying it upon her heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this!"

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and found themselves in a the courtyard of Brompton Barracks, in Kent. They entered one of the staff quarters and Bernie saw herself sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree – the tree seemed huge to her four-years-old self and she was wearing pyjamas with little red and white teddy bears. In her hands was the present she'd just opened – something she'd asked Father Christmas for, a Sindy doll in a ball gown. Also under the trees were other unwrapped presents – an Etch-a- Sketch and a Monopoly. She thought the last one wasn't a very good choice, as she didn't have any siblings to play with, but she was enchanted by the doll. She lifted her eyes and turned her head when she heard a flash. Her mother was kneeling on the floor, Polaroid camera in hand: "Smile, darling – I'll send the best ones to Daddy." She smiled obediently for the camera, and turned to the doll again. And then, she was in her mother's arms. The only light in the room came from the television, Christmas with the Stars on the screen. She nestled closer to her mother – close enough feel the scent of Chanel N 5 and vanilla cookies transfer on her own skin, close enough to feel like everything was right in the world and she was loved, she was safe…

Then the scene switched to another British army base, in Rheindahlen, Germany and Bernie stifled a cry, because she knew what was coming, and it had been the most painful moment of her life…

"No – please, no – I can't …" Bernie shook her head slightly, as if trying not to remember – this was not the time, not after everything that had happened at Holby …But she was back in their kitchen in Rheindahlen, ten years old again, wearing an apron and helping her mother to make gingerbread, a week before Christmas. They were laughing together as her mother was showing her how to crack and egg… One minute her mother was standing, laughing, teasing her with the apple peel, and the next, she was on the floor, clutching her arm, murmuring nonsensical words, then unconscious. Berenice had stood uncomprehendingly for what had felt like ages, but would really have been a minute or two, before running out of the flat and knocking on their neighbour's door. The lady next door had called the medical team, but it was too late – a lightning heart attack, they'd said. No warning signs, no possible resuscitation.They had decorated the tree two days before, just she and her mother, as her father was on ops. They had made little gingerbread biscuits and cinnamon swirls to hang, and paper chains, and it had been the first year Berenice had been tall enough to put the fairy on the top, perched on a stepladder. The day before her mother's death, they had gone to rehearse the carols at the base's chapel. Her mother sung in the choir – she had a clear soprano which usually earned her a solo – in fact, if she closed her eyes, Bernie could still hear her mother's voice singing Heilige Nacht during that rehearsal… Since then, the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon had brought a slight feeling of déjà vu and nausea….

After her mother's death, they had not celebrated Christmas at all when her father was not on external ops – it had been a day like all others, except that she was not at school but on whatever army base her father had been posted on at the time. When her father was on ops, she'd had to spend the festivities with another family on the base, or even at one of her teachers'. It did not make for very good memories…

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have done anything."

Bernie turned towards the Spirit: "Take me away from there – I can't bear it."

Then she found herself in the family home she had shared with Marcus in Cheltenham – Cameron and Charlotte pulling a cracker…Charlotte playing with her new Barbie dolls…Cameron fake-shooting everyone in the room with the toy pistol her in-laws had given him, although she'd been strongly against it. Marcus' parents had always managed to make her feel inadequate. If she'd contributed to the meal, Marcus' mother would say something like: "Very nice, dear, if a little over/under cooked – but of course your dear mother did not have time to teach you to cook, the poor thing." When she'd stopped contributing, her mother-in-law had changed her tune to : "I'm exhausted, but I so like to provide a nice meal for Christmas – of course I understand you didn't have time to help, but…" The kids had gorged on sweets and cake, and usually ended up the day sick. She had then spent two Christmases on mission, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, and she'd felt more comfortable there…

Camp Bastion appeared before her eyes, and she saw herself prepping before the Christmas dinner … Alex's hands loosening her tie a little "You need to breathe, darling, that's more important than having a perfect knot." After a quick glance to check that Bernie's room door was closed, Alex had planted a kiss on her lips, effectively taking away the breath she had released. She could still feel the gentle pressure made more insistent, the taste of coffee, cigarette and love…And then Alex had insisted on applying lipstick on her: "I don't wear make-up, Bernie but you ought to, always. Not that you don't look beautiful au naturel, but because with it, you look …Like one of those old-times movie stars in your uniform." Bernie had submitted to a little light brown on her lips and a coat of mascara on her eyelashes. Bernie's eyes on her had calmed her nerves during the evening meal, after which she'd been asked to make a speech, and she had wondered if everyone could see their love, as it had seemed to her almost tangible between them.

And then …that first Christmas in Holby, her first Christmas with Serena. They'd both had great expectations for the day but …She hadn't had time to swallow her humiliation at Charlotte not showing up that her daughter had made an appearance. Grumpy and obviously still hungover, she had proceeded to ignore Serena, to tease Jason about his favourite TV show and to snob Elinor's chosen branch of studies. After a parting shot about everyone knew that people choosing to study French at uni were idlers and losers, Charlotte had left again, refusing Christmas cake. Right after lunch, Eleanor had jumped up and said she was going back to her father's, as she had mates to see, and Cameron had followed her soon afterwards, pretexting he had to do some studying for exams. Eleanor had accepted her mother's present – a nice cashmere jumper – but had pointedly left the bracelet Bernie had bought for her under the tree, still in its wrapping. Jason had gone back to his room and his game, and Bernie had sunk on a chair at the table, head in her hands. Not even the double scotch she and Serena had drunk could salvage the fiasco…

The scene switched abruptly to the South of France, the previous Christmas. When Serena had told her she was going back to Holby, to help Ric and Henrik. She had wanted to beg her to come back with her to Nairobi instead, but she had understood her need to help out. Despite both of them having decided not to exchange gifts, they both agreed with Jo March on the fact that "Christmas without presents wouldn't be Christmas."… She had spotted a little shop in the main street, wedged oddly between a gift shop selling lavender sachets, local jams and Provençal fabrics and a baker's. The little shop had taken a trip up north and deviated from the usual South of France specialities towards stones, incense sticks and Celtic jewellery. While Serena was drooling on the cakes in the next window, she had had time to notice the perfect gift… On the pretext of wanting a smoke, an habit she knew Serena detested but wouldn't try to stop her from indulging in, she had gone back to the shop and bought it.

As they were changing for dinner – they didn't know if it would be smart or not, but they'd rather be over-dressed than under – Serena threw a longing glance towards the bed: "Maybe we could just skip the restaurant and go straight to bed?"

"You can – I'm going down."

"No fun you…"

"Hungry me…"

"All right, all right…"

Of course they could have skipped the dinner – Bernie wasn't that hungry – if anything, anxiety tended to put her off her food entirely. And the butterflies in her stomach refused to go away, despite her brain telling them everything would be all right. They had settled there as soon as she had seen the bed on their arrival. But …after the enchanted parenthesis, Serena would go back to Holby, to her former life, and she would be thousand miles away. How would their relationship survive? It had nearly burst after her stay in Ukraine…It had been touch and go before Christmas too – she hadn't wanted to let Serena spend that first Christmas after the death of her daughter alone, but Serena had resisted. There were moments when Serena closed up completely, and Bernie knew she was thinking about it. She respected Serena's wish no to talk about Elinor, but…She couldn't help thinking it might not be the right way to deal with it. However, if it was going to drive a wedge into their relationship, surely it would have already?

As she changed for dinner, she had been unable to keep from looking at herself in the mirror, noting every new wrinkle, every scar, every flaw etched in her skin. As she had grown older, she had always thought she would also become better at showing her love – Alex had taught her a lot, and she had overcome many of her weaknesses, but she would never be demonstrative or tactile. How long till Serena decided she was tiring of doing all the work?

When they arrived in the dining room, they saw that they had done the right thing in dressing up. The old convent refectory with apparent stonework and a ribbed vault ceiling was glittering with fairy lights and candles and most of the diners had made a special effort for the occasion. Serena's six-inches heels put her at Bernie's height and they made a striking couples. Both women had opted for black trousers with a festive top. Serena wore a red diamante neckline long-sleeve blouse, assorted to the soles of her stilettos and Bernie, as usual, was all in sober black, with a sequined and lace bardot top. When they looked at the menu, they wondered whether they would manage the six courses, but they discovered the portions had been adapted to the number of dishes, and everything tasted delicious. The meal followed a traditional French order, beginning with amuse-bouches – little nibbles of smoked salmon and scallops followed by a starter of game and foie gras pithiviers with a truffle sauce. The puff pastry melted in the mouth and the intricate design on it made Serena want to take a photo.

"Please! Don't!" Bernie hissed, horrified.

"Why not? It's a compliment to the chef."

In deference to her partner's expression, she snapped only one photo and put her phone away. A turbot fillet with winkles and braised endives in a sweet and peppery sauce followed. Luckily, the waiters, in true South of France fashion, were in no hurry and this left the diners a little time between each dish to re-whet their appetites. The chef had followed his idea of the Provençal tradition of a "lean" supper, eschewing the meat course, and the highlight of the evening came in the shape of a mini chocolate Yule log with mango coulis. Serena's phone came out again and this time Bernie didn't say anything. The meal concluded by another Provençal tradition, the thirteen desserts. The restaurant provided a little illustrated memo explaining the origin of the tradition and the symbolism of the different desserts. Thirteen represented the number of people at the Last Supper – the twelve apostles and Jesus. Then, the four mendicant religious orders were represented by dried fruits, walnuts or hazelnuts for the Augustines, almonds for the Carmelites, dry figs for the Franciscans and raisins for the Dominicans. The pompe à huile – a kind of brioche – symbolized the breaking of the bread by Jesus. Black and white nougat stood for good and evil, candied citron and quince paste for the Magi, dates symbolized the Christ coming from Orient, and the three fresh fruits, which could vary from town to town, but which that night were grapes, melon, pears and plums referred to the olden days, where plying your guests with desserts meant you had enough to survive well through the hard winter. All these came with small glasses of sweet cooked wine. Bernie and Serena gamely attempted to follow the advice given on the memo – taste each of the desserts to ensure good luck for the following year. The lights in the restaurant had dimmed as the evening progressed and by candlelight they fed each other bits of fruit and brioche, until they both called it quits. They considered going for a little stroll to walk the meal off but snow had begun to fall and Serena decided her stilettos wouldn't be up to it.

Back in their room, Serena immediately shed the said stilettos, rubbing her feet with a grimace.

"I don't know why you insist on wearing those shoes, darling – even in China, they've stopped binding little girls' feet…"

"It's called "fashion", Major."

Bernie sighed and while Serena sat on the bed and switched on the television, surfing the various channels, she bagged the bathroom to change into her nightclothes – new black silk pyjamas she'd bought especially for the trip. When she came back into the room, Serena whistled, which immediately made Bernie blush peony red. She came to sit near her partner: "All right, all right – no need to push it! You'd think I usually wear rags…"

"No, darling, but you don't usually look so…silky. Come here!"

Bernie obeyed and threw the counterpane on the floor in the process. Serena's fastidious nature almost made her stand and pick it up but she resisted and instead slipped her fingers under Bernie's top. "I do love those pyjamas, but you're a little overdressed, Major. Let me help with that." As she unbuttoned the top, she dropped a kiss on Bernie's breasts between each button and then lower, lower, lower, until her lips reached her belly. Somehow Bernie felt even less confident than on their first night – the night where they had shyly explored their middle-aged bodies and shared their battle scars, the night of their mutual discovery. That night, Bernie had found her body reactive in the most extraordinary ways, had felt alive again after an agony of emptiness. There had been many other nights of shared passion and feeling, but since they had been drifted parted, Bernie's old insecurities had sprung up again. Surely she wasn't good enough for Serena. She had never been very good at intimacy, and had usually let Serena initiate their lovemaking, and…

Serena stroked her shoulders, letting her hands wander on the pale skin. Bernie shivered as the sensitive fingers played a melody on her. She reached for Serena's blouse and clumsily helped her out of it, almost moaning as their connection was broken for a second. Serena wriggled out of her trousers and gently pushed Bernie backwards on the pillows. Then she regained control and began her caresses again, nudging the rest of Bernie's pyjamas out of the way. Bernie stiffened, warmth invading her, a tattoo beating in her belly. Her breath became shorter, ragged. As Serena's lips settled on hers in a long kiss, her fingers found Bernie's sweet spot and slowly circled it, tickling, teasing, until Bernie begged her for release. As the fingers settled and found their way, she tensed and bit her lips from crying out when the wave of climax reached her.

When Bernie woke up the next morning and tentatively extended an arm out of the sheets, she discovered that stone walls protected a room from the cold as much as an army tent. They had blithely lowered the heating the night before, and the room felt distinctively chilly. She threw a glance at the mural clock and saw it was only seven o'clock, but even though she tried to burrow again under the covers, she remained wide awake. Serena still slept peacefully and she took great care not to disturb her as she slipped out of bed and tiptoed towards the thermostat. She turned the heat on and briefly considered putting on her satin pyjamas again before opting for the warmer solution. Once in her black jeans, jumper and woollen army-issued socks – guaranteed to keep one's feet warm in any weather – she glanced at her sleeping partner again. Still no signs of life there. She decided she would go for a walk to clear her head- the sleeping pill she'd popped in the night before had given her a few hours of undisturbed sleep but had left her with the usual brain fog. She wrote a little note in case Serena woke up to an empty room and gently closed the door behind her.

She nearly stopped in the still-empty dining room for a cup of coffee but decided to wait for Serena – fresh air would do to wake her up. As she stepped outside, she was greeted by a white blanket. Around what she supposed to be the kitchen doors, several footsteps marred the fresh snow but otherwise it remained pristine. Her trainers left a single trail in the hotel car park and on the pavement. The bustling town from the previous day was still asleep, even though she could imagine wide-awake jumping on their parents' bed, clamouring for their presents. Sometimes she regretted her choice but regrets never changed anything, and only made one miserable most of the time. Lost in thoughts, she had walked further than she'd planned and she noted with dismay that her feet were getting wet, her shoes not up to the four inches of snow of the ground. She retraced her steps and went back to the room. She found Serena still under the covers but awake.

"Merry Christmas, sleepyhead!"

"Merry Christmas, Major. Any chance I can convince you to come back to bed?"

"Not a chance! You'll just have to get up." Bernie did come nearer and deposited a kiss on Serena's forehead. Serena reached out for her arm and grabbed it, forcing Bernie to sit on the bed. "Serena! No!" Then, seeing Serena's serious expression, she sobered up too. "What's wrong, Serena?"

"Nothing – nothing. It's just – did you imagine, last year, that – we would be together?"

Bernie bit her lips: "I – I don't know. I think I wanted us to. I think I was attracted to you from the first time I saw you, but …I couldn't do anything about it then, and …It was complicated…"

"Yes …I know – but then, it's never simple, is it? Or when it's simple …I sometimes think it's because it's wrong – you're not with the right person, I mean."

"Yes, you may be right there, Serena."

She ran her fingers through Serena's raven grey-streaked hair and bent down to give her another kiss: "Why so ... reflective this morning, though? What brought this up?"

Serena stroked the hand she was holding with her other hand, her fingers caressing gently the her partner's wrist: "Bernie – yesterday – I mean, last night…"

"Yes?"

Immediately Bernie felt anxiety grip her and her throat tighten. She hadn't been good enough – she had thought Serena had enjoyed it too, but apparently she'd been wrong. Her lack of experience, her awkwardness – although Serena hadn't been with a woman before, she seemed to know instinctively how to find her most sensitive spots, whereas she still fumbled, and hesitated. Faith had never complained, but… As Serena seemed to look for the right words, Bernie went on in a small voice: "I'm sorry – I – I know I'm not very good at …I'm sorry." Serena looked at her aghast and drew her in her arms: "Oh no, darling, no! That's not at all – no – you're …You're perfect. But last night – you were crying, and I was afraid…Because…You had one of your nightmares too, and you were talking in your sleep, saying "no" again and again to someone.

"Oh no!" Bernie buried her face in Serena's shoulder. "I'm sorry – I thought the sleeping pill would – normally it stops the nightmares too, but… Do you want me to try and get another room?"

"What?! Of course not! I don't mind your nightmares – for me, I mean – I just wish you could get rid of them…Come on – I can't believe it, but I'm hungry! Let's see what the breakfast looks like, Major!"

"Your wish is my command – may I just remind you that you're the one still in bed and I'm fully dressed and waiting for you?"

While Serena got ready, Bernie foraged in her bag for her present. As Serena emerged from the bathroom, she presented her with a small gift box: "Merry Christmas, darling."

"I thought we said no presents, Major…But I came prepared too." She handed Bernie her own small gift box. Serena opened her gift and discovered an Irish silver ring with the words "Mo Anam Cara" and Claddagh symbols.

"My soul mate" said Bernie softly. "When I saw it, I just had to get it for …"

In her turn she opened a jewellery box containing a necklace with an amber necklace… "The colour of your eyes – and it absorbs pain and negative energy…"

"It's perfect, my love – thank you. Will you help me put it on?"

Bernie leant forward and Serena fastened the necklace around her neck. She captured Serena's lips with her own on the way. Each time she found Serena responding to her tentative attempts, she felt a few of her inhibitions melt-away, and the tender kiss that ensued did much to comfort her.

With the lavish supper the previous evening, neither of them had thought they would want breakfast, but faced with a lovely spread of pastries, cereal and fruits, they somehow decided they might well have a little room left after all.

"At least the Christmas jumper fashion hasn't reached France yet," murmured Bernie as she took in the morning crowd – mostly pensioners and a few Japanese tourists.

"Why did you have to say that?" giggled Serena, as she discreetly motioned towards a couple entering the dining room, both wearing green and red reindeer-themed pulpartners.

"Sorry!" spluttered Bernie, strangling herself with her coffee.

After miniature croissants, pains au chocolat and apple turnovers washed down with watery coffee, they ventured outside – except from the food shops like the baker's, which sported a mil long queue outside and the butcher's, the others appeared closed for the day. The town promised to be a ghost one as its inhabitants spent Christmas indoors with their families. As they watched people pouring out of the church after morning mass, they decided to drive to the seaside for the day – they both liked beaches in winter more than in summer, and it seemed like a good way to occupy their day. The roads too were deserted and it took them just about an hour to drive to Hyères. They spent the rest of the day exploring the small town, walking on the beach, empty except from a few dog walkers and drinking hot chocolate in cafés. They spent the next few days exploring the area, relaxing in cafés and just enjoying being with each other, reclaiming the intimacy they'd shared during their first moments together. The intimacy she'd just put an end to forever.

"Remove me! I can't bear it!" The tears that had threatened to fall so many times since her return to Nairobi were flowing freely and as her anguished eyes begged the Spirit to take her back, she found herself in her bed again.

Stave III – in Holby

When Serena woke up for the second time as the church bells struck one once more, she was ready for a good broad field of strange appearances, and nothing between a Martian and a white owl would have astonished her very much. Now, being prepared for almost anything, she was not by any means prepared for nothing; and, consequently, when the Bell struck One, and no shape appeared, she was taken with a violent fit of trembling. Five minutes, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour went by, yet nothing came. All this time, she laid upon the bed, the very core and centre of a blaze of ruddy light, which streamed upon it and which being only light, was more alarming than a dozen ghosts, as she was powerless to make out what it meant, or would be at; and was sometimes apprehensive that she might be at that very moment an interesting case of spontaneous combustion, without having the consolation of knowing it. At last, however, she began to think—as you or I would have thought at first; for it is always the person not in the predicament who knows what ought to have been done in it, and would unquestionably have done it too—at last, I say, she began to think that the source and secret of this ghostly light might be in the adjoining room: from whence, on further tracing it, it seemed to shine. This idea taking full possession of her mind, she got up softly and went to the door. The moment her hand was on the handle, a voice called her by her name, and bade her enter. She obeyed.

It was her own living -room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. The walls and ceiling were so hung with living green, that it looked a perfect grove, from every part of which, bright gleaming berries glistened. The crisp leaves of holly, mistletoe, and ivy reflected back the light, as if so many little mirrors had been scattered there; and such a mighty blaze went roaring up the chimney, as that dull petrifaction of a hearth had never known for many and many a winter season gone. On her sofa and coffee tables were several opened boxes of chocolates, Quality Streets and other sweets. Bowls of crisps and nuts completed the tableau. In easy state upon the couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Serena, as she came peeping round the door.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! and know me better!"

Serena entered and looked at the apparition with astonished eyes: "Sasha?? What are you doing here?"

"I'm not Sasha – not exactly – Sasha's alive… I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit. "Look upon me!"

Serena reverently did so. Instead of Sasha Levy's usual flowery shirts, the Spirit was clothed in one simple deep green robe, or mantle, bordered with white fur. On its head it wore no other covering than a holly wreath set here and there with shining icicles. Its grey curls were long and free: free as its genial face, its sparkling eye, its open hand, its cheery voice, its unconstrained demeanour, and its joyful air. Girded round its middle was an antique scabbard; but no sword was in it, and the ancient sheath was eaten up with rust.

The Ghost of Christmas Present rose.

"Spirit," said Serena, "conduct me where you will. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

"Touch my robe!"

Serena did as she was told, and held it fast.

Holly, mistletoe, red berries, ivy, chocolates and crisps all vanished instantly. So did the room, the fire, the ruddy glow, the hour of night, and they found themselves in a car park, in front of a tall square orange building bordered by palm trees. The air was mild, almost balmy, and the people Serena could see scurrying along wore t-shirts and shorts.

"But …That's…"

"Nairobi Trauma Center, yes – come with me inside."

A hospital is rarely a gay place, and yet in this one there was an air of cheerfulness that the clearest summer air and brightest summer sun might have endeavoured to diffuse in vain. The people, as much staff as patients appeared jovial and full of glee. As Serena and the Spirit made their way to the staff cafeteria, she saw that it had been decorated as Holby's, only instead of a spruce a palm tree sported the garlands and baubles. The table groaned with food – she could see a turkey with the usual trimmings, as well as more local dishes she could recognise from when she had visited Bernie. Ugali, of course, the staple Kenyan food made of cornmeal boiled in water, sukuma wiki, collard greens cooked in oil with tomatoes and onions, several dishes of rice or beans with various seasonings, matoke - plantain bananas puree and grilled goat and fish. Waiting on a side table were the sweets – there again the traditional occidental fares such as Christmas pudding, yule log and other cakes stood along local desserts like mandazi – little ball-shaped doughnuts, several entremets made from tea or coconut and yogurt, and piles of fresh pineapple, oranges, passion fruits and bananas.

Around the long table sat about fifty to sixty people, obviously a mix of doctors, nurses and other members of the hospital staff. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly time, all laughing, and talking and toasting each other. The Spirit noticed a few members of that gay assembly which did not seem to have such a good time as the others – quieter, withdrawn and he sprinkled a few drops from his torch on them…their good humour was restored directly.

Serena looked at him in puzzlement: "Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?"

"There is. My own."

"Would it apply to anyone on this day?" asked Serena

"To any kindly given. To a poor one most."

"And yet some of us have suffered in your name – some of us have lost what we held dearest, and have found no appeasement. And worse than our personal woes are the wars that devastate countries, poverty which claims lives and dignities, illness which rob people of their will to live."

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name; who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us."

Serena promised that she would and went on observing the scene. Her heart constricted as she saw Bernie among the dinners – Bernie who appeared to be laughing and joking along as if she hadn't a care in the world, but whose eyes reflected such sadness, whose appearance looked so downbeat that Serena would have given anything to go and comfort her. Someone looking closely enough would see the very slight tremor of Bernie's left eyelid and the right thumb nail which was repetitively scratching the left thumb. The hazel eyes were lacklustre, dispirited, as if all the fight, the life force had gone out of them. They were also underlined by dark shadows visible even under the carefully applied make-up. The face was ashen and etched with pain lines. Her former partner's hair hung limply, and her usually ramrod-straight back slumped. Serena also saw with great unease how the woman sitting beside her, a tall attractive redhead, seemed to try her best to attract Bernie's attention, going as far as to put a hand on her arm. Serena wanted to leap to Bernie's side, then, to claim her partner back, but she had nor the right nor the ability to. She knew well she was invisible. Thankfully, Bernie didn't pay any attention to the redhead. Small mercies…

Before she had time to cry, the Spirit whisked her away, and they found themselves in a street Serena recognised as Fletch's. The Spirit led her to the window of the ground floor flat he rented with his children. The room she saw was full of wrapping paper, toys and laughter. She saw Evie and Mikey playing a video game with their grand-father. Ella and Theo, Fletch's youngest, were playing a rowdy game of cat and mouse with Jac's daughter Emma, all of them wearing costumes. The little girls were Disney princesses, and Theo a cowboy. Fletch and Jac were clearing the remain of the meal, laughing and talking animatedly. Then she saw Fletch's face briefly darken and heard his words distinctively: "I'm worried about Serena – she doesn't seem like herself. I invited her, but …Too many losses…" And she heard Jac's reply, too: "Give her time, Fletch – let's just be thankful we are alive and our children are too. We can toast to her health, though!" And they clicked glasses: "To Serena!"

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Serena had her doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. She felt herself cheering up a little and would gladly have remained a little longer staring through the window at the happy family, but she noticed that while she remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older.

"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Serena.

"My life upon this globe, is very brief," replied the Ghost. "It ends to-night."

"To-night!" cried Serena.

"To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near."

The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment.

"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said Serena, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see something strange in your pocket – may I ask what it is?"

The Spirit reached in his gown and took out what looked like a heart pierced with a broken arrow: "This is Lost Love – all the what may have been and never will."

Serena looked at him aghast and the bell struck twelve. She looked about her for the Ghost and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, she remembered the prediction, and lifting up her eyes, she beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards her.

Stave III – in Nairobi

When Bernie's phone alarm rang for the second time, she immediately jolted awake and noticed her bedroom was empty. She could, however, sense a presence in the flat, and the goosebumps on her skin. As a soldier, she was not lacking courage, and decided she might as well face the intruder. The moment her hand was on the handle, a voice called her by her name, and bade her enter. She obeyed.

It was her own living -room. There was no doubt about that. But it had undergone a surprising transformation. Fairy lights, garlands and greenery had been strewn all over the bare room, and on the sofa she could see soft throws, books and chocolates in golden paper. In easy state upon the couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty's horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Bernie, as she came peeping round the door.

"Come in!" exclaimed the Ghost. "Come in! and know me better!"

Bernie rubbed her eyes: "That's not possible – I must be dreaming – how – what – Sasha – Sasha Levy?? What are you doing here?"

"I'm not Sasha – not exactly – Sasha's alive… I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," said the Spirit.

Bernie noted that although the voice was certainly similar to the one that had guided her during her first day at Holby, the Spirit certainly had an even worst sense dress sense than the jolly consultant. The Ghost of Christmas Present rose and she felt the irresistible urge to follow him without question.

"Touch my robe!"

Bernie did as she was told and held it fast.

Fairy lights, garlands, greenery, soft throws, books and chocolates all vanished instantly. So did the room, and they found themselves in the garden of a leafy semi-detached house. Bernie bit her lips – that was a place she had hoped not to revisit – at least not quite so soon. When she had left the party after Jason's wedding, she had made straight for Serena's house and retrieved her luggage. Then she had slipped her key in the post box and checked into a hotel… The living-room was full of people – she saw Jason and Greta, entwined on the sofa, a couple who she supposed were Jason's in-laws, and a few people from the hospital – Henrik Hanssen was there, very busy tickling little Guinivere to make her laugh, and… Bernie scanned the room – thank God, there was no sign of Leah Faulkner. Everyone was eating cakes and drinking tea and coffee, but champagne flutes were also scattered here and there. And in a corner of the room, she found the person she both wanted and dreaded to see. Serena sat in an armchair, with a slight smile on her face, but obviously not the soul of the party as she usually was. When someone talked to her, she answered, and when Henrik handed her the baby, her smile softened, but she seemed near tears …From time to time her eyes turned towards the bookshelves, where sat a few pictures – Elinor …and Bernie. Bernie saw Serena swallow hard, and she guessed she was trying hard not to spoil the party. Her heart ached for her former partner. She had really thought she was doing the right thing by leaving again – she'd thought Serena wanted her to leave…

Then the scene changed and they were in a busy upmarket restaurant. A nudge from the Spirit showed her a round table with Marcus, Cameron, Charlotte, and an unknown blonde woman about her own age. Each table sported candles, so she guessed it was supper time. They were all dressed to the nines – her son looking incredibly handsome in a suit and tie, her daughter with a little too much make-up and a very very short mini-dress, Marcus in his usual Armani grey suit and the stranger in a black dress. Maybe she should have been jealous – and she was, but only because that woman got to spend Christmas with her children. She was glad Marcus had found someone – she had never wanted to hurt him, and although she could have done with a less acrimonious divorce, she didn't blame him. She feasted her eyes on Cameron and Charlotte, who seemed to be having a good time. Apparently her daughter didn't want her mother to have a new companion, but didn't mind if her father had. Well… She couldn't live her life to please other people, even her own daughter. Maybe now she was alone, they would have a chance to reconnect. What a beautiful young woman she had given birth to! Her family's table was certainly one of the merriest, and she noticed the Spirit sprinkling something from his torch on some of the more silent tables, or the rare ones at which a lonely diner sat in solitary and gloomy splendour. Those tables cheered up instantly, and Bernie was glad of it. For herself, she was torn between sadness at being away from her family and comfort at the idea that she did have one. And then sadness again, because she had foregone her chances for a new family beginning. She and Serena would never have a home together – would never be together again.

It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Bernie had her doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. She felt herself cheering up a little and would gladly have remained a little longer staring through the window at the happy family, but she noticed that while she remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. She looked at him worriedly – was she going to be torn from what may be the only gay moment of that extraordinary experience?

"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said Bernie, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see something strange in your pocket – may I ask what it is?"

The Spirit reached in his gown and took out what looked like a heart pierced with a broken arrow: "This is Lost Love – all the what may have been and never will."

Bernie looked at him aghast and the bell struck twelve. She looked about her for the Ghost and saw it not. She was in her own flat once more, and as the last stroke ceased to vibrate, she remembered the prediction, and lifting up her eyes, she beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards her.

Stave IV – in Holby

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near her, Serena backed away, for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

She felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside her, and that its mysterious presence filled her with a solemn dread. She knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" she asked.

The Spirit answered not but pointed onward with its hand.

"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Serena pursued. "Is that so, Spirit?"

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer she received.

Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Serena feared the silent shape so much that her legs trembled beneath her, and she found that she could hardly stand when she prepared to follow it.

"Ghost of the Future!" she exclaimed, "I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another woman from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?"

It gave her no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.

"Lead on!" said Serena. "Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!"

First he led her to a hospital – at first glance, she had never been there before. It was obviously England, though, and as they came closer she could see its name – Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Birmingham. The Spirit took them inside, and by the number of people in uniform, she guessed it to be a military facility. She was guided to a theatre where two surgeons were finishing an operation: "Three bullets – direct shot. Gosh – all of this for a car – what a waste!"

"Not for a car – for the driver – she saved his life."

"Maybe, but…Anyway – she was intubated on the scene – signs of hemoptysis significative of a tracheobronchial injury, plus CT scan showed a bullet in the pulmonary vein. We performed a median sternotomy, cardiopulmonary bypass, and pulmonary venectomy but the second injury, the aortic root wound proved fatal. Time of death 6.45. I wish we could have saved her – what a Christmas!"

Serena analysed what the two men had said with her clinical mind – poor woman – she had no doubt her colleagues had tried everything, but those kind of gunshot injuries usually proved fatal. Before she had time to think further, the scene changed and she found herself in a church she didn't recognise. The Ghost motioned for her to sit down, and she obeyed. Mechanically, she rose with the rest when the Union Jack covered coffin entered the church, carried by four young men in uniform. As she focused on the few people scattered in the front pews, she noted several men in uniform and she gasped as she recognised familiar faces. Cameron Dunne – an older Cameron in a black suit, sober and straight-faced. Next to him stood a young woman she recognised as Charlotte, in a black coat, leaning on another man she supposed must be her husband and holding the hand of a little blond boy. Charlotte looked so much like Bernie that Serena felt a pang in her heart. Her brain still refused to acknowledge what she was witnessing, though. A vicar went to stand before the coffin and Serena heard the words she had heard too many times – for Adrienne, for Arthur, for Elinor: "Jesus said, I am the resurrection and I am life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, yet shall they live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last. I died, and behold I am alive for evermore, and I hold the keys of hell and death. Because I live, you shall live also."

The vicar bowed and walked to the lectern. He turned and faced the sparse congregation: "We meet in the name of Jesus Christ, who died and was raised to the glory of God the Father. Grace and mercy be with you."

Then he called Cameron to the lectern and Serena saw the young man straighten up and take a deep breath: "…My mother, Major Berenice Grizelda Wolfe, was an exceptional woman – a talented trauma surgeon, a dedicated officer and a loving mother. I wish I had known her better as an adult, but life didn't give us the chance to be in the same place at the same time… She lost her life not in a combat zone, but saving someone else's and I think she would have be proud of that. Please join us in prayer."

He went back to his pew, where Charlotte was sobbing convulsively and the vicar prayed aloud:

"Almighty God, you judge us with infinite mercy and justice and love everything you have made. In your mercy turn the darkness of death into the dawn of new life, and the sorrow of parting into the joy of heaven; through our Saviour, Jesus Christ."

The Spirit let Serena attend the rest of the service – or maybe not – it passed in a blur for her. She was weeping softly, and didn't realise they had moved until she looked around and saw they were now in a cemetery. The mournful tone of a bugle playing The Last Post jolted her out of her trance and she noticed that several familiar faces had joined the mourners – Henrik Hanssen, Ric Griffiths, Jac Naylor and Fletch were standing in a group a few feet from the grave. All of them had aged and sported grey or white hair. Serena remembered when Bernie had joined her in France after the closure of the Trauma Unit, she had told her about what Ric had done – offered to give up his salary if it would secure her position…Bernie had laughed wryly and added: "Just before I learnt that, I'd called him a sad old man – poor Ric!" Well – now he was really a sad old man…

As the mourners dispersed, she saw Cameron shaking hands with the Holby group. Apparently in answer to a question by Ric, she heard him answer: "No – she never found anyone else. I thought she would, but … They lost touch, though. Even when she came back to England five years ago, they didn't meet up or anything. I think she was hoping to – I mean – Chief Trauma Surgeon at Queen Elisabeth was a prime position, but I believe she also wanted to come home because she hoped to mend things – to make things right between them. But maybe something happened, or… I asked her once – she said Serena had made it clear that she didn't want a "suburban Bernie Wolfe" as a partner. I think she wanted to contact her, but feared the pain that would ensue. So she decided to cut every link she had to Holby."

Serena wanted to scream that she'd said that in guilt and in anger – that she had felt at the time that she had no right to keep her partner with her. Pushing Bernie away had been a reflex of self-survival – she didn't want to be with an all-forgiving Bernie at the time – she would have felt forever in her debt, and that wouldn't have sat easily with her pride. It was true they had lost touch – at first they had sent a few emails to each other, but both of them had led busy lives, and Bernie had never been the best at keeping in touch. Along the years the relationship had dwindled and frayed, but apparently Bernie too had carried the burden of a broken heart. She had never wanted her blonde partner to be lonely and unhappy.

Distraught, she looked at the Spirit which was watching her silently, and reached out to him: "I am not the woman I was. I will not be the woman I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope? I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may change this fate!"

In her agony, she saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down, and finally faded in the wall.

Stave IV - in Nairobi

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near her, Bernie recoiled, for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

She felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside her, and that its mysterious presence filled her with a solemn dread. She knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

"I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?" she asked.

The Spirit answered not but pointed onward with its hand.

"You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us," Bernie pursued. "Is that so, Spirit? Then, lead on, and I will follow!"

Bernie found herself in Holby's AAU– only it had undergone a few changes since the day she'd left two weeks previously. Several potted plants had appeared, and the layout was different. She didn't recognise any of the staff, although…there was Donna, tending to a patient – an older Donna, with streaks of grey in her hair, thinner and moving more slowly than before. And there was Fletch – he had aged too – almost lost all his hair, but the changes of time were less visible on him. She wanted desperately to hug him as usual, but of course he would have been embraced by a ghost. If his physical appearance was much the same, his face, however, looked distraught as he strode towards Donna and murmured something in her ears. Bernie saw Donna's eyes get rounder and she obviously struggled to keep her composure.

"I can't believe it – she was fine yesterday. I saw her before she went home and she looked okay."

"Poor Henrik – this might kill him!"

"No – he's stronger than that, but… He said the funeral would be on Thursday. A funeral for Christmas – how horrid!"

Bernie wondered who had died, but before she could eavesdrop anymore, she was led away by the Spirit and transported to a graveyard. She recognised the one where Arthur Digby had been buried, although it had been extended by several square yards. The graves and paths were covered with fresh snow and it would have given a fairy-like glow to an older graveyards, around countryside churches, buried in grass and weeds. She liked those, in fact – they felt peaceful and almost …happy. But the city cemeteries only seemed to ooze pain and despair in bleak surroundings and the snow added an extra coat of iciness. She always thought them somewhat hypocritical too – as a Christian, you had to believe that the soul was not six feet under but safe with God – what was the point of a slab of marble and a few withered flowers? The Spirit led her near a plot where the earth had been freshly dug and several people were gathered around the hole. She saw Jac Naylor clutching Fletch's arm, and she almost smiled – she'd had a feeling those two would end up together eventually. Also Mo, looking thinner and more solemn than she'd ever seen her, Donna, and …a couple – Jason and Greta - clutching to each other. Both of them wore black clothes and she saw a young girl, probably about ten years old, also in black, a few yards away, her nose buried in a book. Bernie noticed the bewildered expression on Jason's face and longed to comfort him, but such actions were impossible to her in her present form.

At the head of the grave stood the vicar and Henrik Hanssen, leaning heavily on a stick. His hair had become completely white but his voice was steady as he began to speak: "Thank you for coming today. My wife, Serena Campbell-Hanssen, has dedicated a large part of her life to Holby Hospital and I am certain she would appreciate your presence here today. Serena and I have only been blessed with ten years of married life, but these ten years have been the happiest of my existence. She had been a treasured friend for many years before that, and I pray she …she finds peace." His voice broke and he bowed his head. A man Bernie recognised as Dom, several pounds heavier and several frown lines added to his brow, came to take Henrik's arm.

Bernie reeled and retched. She thought she was going to throw up. Not that – no! She heard the mourners who were dispersing talk between themselves.

"How did she die?"

"Henrik said she came home tired on Monday, but she'd spent several hours in theatre, and neither of them worried. Then she complained of feeling nauseous, but they went to bed and thought no more about it. Apparently she had a massive heart attack and he couldn't resuscitate her. Poor man!"

Despite her will, she found herself drawn to the grave where Henrik Hanssen was now kneeling. She heard him talk, and she had to bite her hand to keep from screaming, although maybe it wouldn't have mattered. Although he was speaking in Swedish, she understood every word: "My darling Serena – I know I wasn't the one you wanted, but I hope I did manage to make you happy, at least a little. Whenever you heard her name, whenever Nairobi or even Africa came up in the news, I saw your face and I knew. You never stopped loving her, did you? Sometimes, when you thought I wasn't looking, you would take out a picture of her and your eyes would mist over. Several times I wanted to set you free, to order you to go to Nairobi to join her – selfishly, I never did. We were happy, but you could have been happier – unless it was too late. Forgive me, my darling – may you be together in heaven."

Bernie's tears were flowing freely by the time Henrik stopped speaking – not because she resented their union, but because she could have been the one… And because Serena had never found perfect happiness. She should have fought when Serena had pushed her away – she shouldn't have left so easily – camouflaged her wounded pride behind a seemingly mutual decision…What a mistake – another one to add to her already long list. Distraught, she looked at the Spirit which was watching her silently, and reached out to him: "I am not the woman I was. I will not be the woman I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope? I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may change this fate!"

In her agony, she saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down, and finally faded in the wall.

Stave V – in Holby, Nairobi and Holby

>Serena looked around her. The bed was her own, the room was her own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before her was her own, to make amends in! . "I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Serena repeated, as she scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me."

She noticed her face was wet with tears, and yet she felt lighter and happier than she had been in several weeks. Because she knew what she had to do. What she didn't know was what day it was – how long had her travels in Spiritland taken? She looked at her phone but it had apparently died. She went to switch on the television, and she recognised the Christmas Day Eucharist on BBC One. It was still Christmas! There was no time to lose. She located her other phone – the one attached to the landline, which she never ever used anymore – and dialled Bernie's number. As usual, she got the answering message, but she tried not to mind as much as before: "Bernie – we've made a huge mistake. I've made a huge mistake. Please call me back – I love you." A smile crept on Serena's lips uninvited, and her fingers longed to run through the blonde's hair. Thinking like a lover, or like an ass: I suppose it is pretty nearly the same.

Bernie looked around her. The bed was her own, the room was her own. Before she had time to get her bearings, a black mass jumped in her stomach and proceeded to knead the sheets, purring loudly. "Did something happen here, little one? Were you frightened? Or are you just hungry?"

Bernie didn't know exactly what had taken place, but it seemed that the long night – or was it more? – was over . Best and happiest of all, the Time before her was her own, to make amends in! . "I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Bernie repeated, as she scrambled out of bed, dislodging Nyeusi who meowed loudly in protest. "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me."

She noticed her face was wet with tears, and yet she felt lighter and happier than she had been in several weeks. Because she knew what she had to do. The sun was shining outside, and as she opened the window, a draught of balmy air came into the room. Her mobile alarm rang at that same moment and she glanced at the screen: "25/12/2018 – 7.30". So it was still Christmas day – she still had time. She wrote a text and sent it without taking any more time to dither – the motto of her old regiment was, after all, Celer et Audax "swift and daring": "Tell Jason I used to play with Cameron and Charlotte in a sandpit. I even played tea parties with Charlotte. I promise never to do my share of domestic chores, and to always go barefoot. I'm coming home. I love you."

I went away, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!

She feared she was addicted to Serena even more that she was addicted to do the sensible thing. And she couldn't imagine living without her. As much as she'd wanted to leave and to forge a new life, she would never be able to sever their ties. A heart well worth winning, and well won. A heart that, once won, goes through fire and water for the winner, and never changes, and is never daunted.

Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries

They were better than their word. They did it all, and infinitely more. Not that it was all a bed of roses – when is a relationship ever all rainbows and unicorns? But Bernie got back to England and back to Holby. She did end up at Queen Elisabeth Hospital after all – one of the country's top-range military hospital. That way, she could do the work she excelled in without encroaching on Serena's turf, and after a short commute, she could still get "home" at night most nights. Home wasn't, after all, Serena's leafy detached. Serena had decided to sell the house – too many memories haunted it. She had found a smaller one in another part of the town, with a minute garden where Guinevere and Cameron's son Leo could play. Bernie had bought a basement flat two streets away – that way they could each have their own space – which didn't mean that they ended up at each other's places most of the time – they shared good times and bad times, but they could also retreat in their lairs if they wanted time alone.

Bernie also decided to rejoin the Reserves – due to her injuries after the IED, she was considered Medically Non Deployable, but she could still go on humanitarian missions one or two months per year. She was also in great demand for seminars and congressed on Trauma Care, and although with the years her dread of public speaking never really got any better, she found that once she was engrossed in her specialist subject the butterflies flew away.

Serena was asked to become Holby's CEO. Once, it would have been her life's dream, but she had decided against it. She wanted more time for herself, and to nurture her relationship. When Bernie had come back from Nairobi, they'd decided to take things slowly, but each of them had tried hard. Serena had apologized again and Bernie, who was better with deeds than words, had had several small attentions for her partner. Some people hadn't understood – Jason, for one, had been bewildered – why separate and get back together so quickly? Some people laughed but they let them laugh, and little heeded them; for they were wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, they thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. Their own hearts laughed: and that was quite enough for them.

Guinevere had her two great-aunties with her for her first birthday, and for many more afterwards. Serena held Bernie's hand while Cameron paced in the maternity corridors during his son's birth – his wife, also a doctor, had categorically forbidden him to be in the room…

They spent many Christmases together, both in Holby and abroad. With family, or just the two of them together. They had no further intercourse with Spirits, but they never forgot that Christmas night…not that they ever told each other or anyone about it. But as they cuddled on cold winter nights, they remembered what had made them listen to their hearts before reason. When they were together, somehow they felt warmer inside, as if a small fire was lit.

And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death. And O what a bright old song it is, that O 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round!

The End

"I went away, dear Agnes, loving you. I stayed away, loving you. I returned home, loving you!"

I was not merely over head and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through and through. Enough love might have been wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking, to drown anybody in; and yet there would have remained enough within me, and all over me, to pervade my entire existence. ~ David Copperfield

And O there are days in this life, worth life and worth death. And O what a bright old song it is, that O 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love that makes the world go round! ~ Our Mutual Friend (Share this Quote)

"A heart well worth winning, and well won. A heart that, once won, goes through fire and water for the winner, and never changes, and is never daunted." ~ Our Mutual Friend

"I cannot help it; reason has nothing to do with it; I love her against reason--but who would as soon love me for my own sake, as she would love the beggar at the corner." ~ Our Mutual Friend

She better liked to see him free and happy, even than to have him near her, because she loved him better than herself. ~ Barnaby Rudge (Share this Quote)

"True love believes everything, and bears everything, and trusts everything."

You have no idea what it is to have anybody wonderful fond of you, unless you have been got down and rolled upon by the lonely feelings that I have mentioned as having once got the better of me. ~ Doctor Marigold's Prescriptions

"But I am thinking like a lover, or like an ass: which I suppose is pretty nearly the same." ~ Nicholas Nickleby

Mystery and disappointment are not absolutely indispensable to the growth of love, but they are, very often, its powerful auxiliaries. ~ Nicholas Nickleby (Share this Quote)

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