The Midnight Gardener: Christmas On Nevis | Bedtime Story For Sleep

Hey, Jeffrey here, and welcome back to Night Falls. I've got a quick favour to ask. If you're enjoying the show, please do hit follow, and if you're able to, subscribe. That way you can enjoy all our content ad-free, and you won't miss a thing. I'm a sucker for a Christmas time. How about you? The festive cheer, the lights, the magic in the air. I love the gift of giving, but can never think of what I want. It's always so much easier when it's not Christmas. I also usually associate the festive period with cozy winter nights, but tonight we're going to enjoy it in a different way, on the sunny island of Nevis, where there's no snow or pine trees, no hats or scarves or woolly socks, just peace and love and sunshine. Before we begin, here's the quick ad-break that keeps this free content possible. To go ad-free, subscribe via the link in the show notes. Alright, now back to Night Falls. Catherine lay in bed a few moments longer, reaching her arms above her head and pointing her toes, stretching out in the shafts of sunlight that crept in through the half-open slats of louvered doors. Nevis was at its quietest in the early morning, the nighttime frenzy of frogs and cicadas finally quieted, and just a few bananquits whistled their hellos from high up in the trees. Green, vervet monkeys rustled the branches, leaping from mango tree to mango tree, heading up the slopes of the mountain in their eternal quest for fruit. It was Catherine's first December on the island, and would be her first Christmas in a place where warm sun was the order of the day. She thought back to all the Christmases before, the layers of clothing she piled on before heading outside into the icy winds, thick black boots stepping slowly through the snow. There were moments when it was all ridiculously pretty, when the grey skies gave way to pale blue, and the snow wrapped itself gently around the bare branches of trees, but the mornings of sweeping snow from the sidewalk and scraping ice from the windshield now felt as if they belonged to a different lifetime. Sam appeared in the room, a mug of coffee in each hand, and he settled down beside her on the bed. She lifted her head and rested it against his leg, and they sat in silence for a while, lingering longer than perhaps either needed to, but indulging in the perfect peace. The tableau was interrupted by the arrival of Sandy, a dog of indeterminate breed who had appeared at Catherine's gate one day. These mango dogs, as they were known on Nevis, had a habit of choosing their owners, watching people from a distance when they went down to the beaches, and then daring to come closer and closer, eventually following them home and taking to showing up on driveways and even porches. Sandy was neither large nor small, her nose was neither pointed nor rounded, her eyes were a golden yellow, and she had an arch of tail that flicked back and forth faster and faster the closer she was to either Catherine or Sam. In general, her place was on the veranda or in the garden, but sometimes, as with this morning, she made an exception. Sandy launched herself onto the bed, standing over Catherine and reaching down to lick her face. The thankfully nearly empty coffee cup went flying and Sam leapt up laughing. Sandy jumped onto the floor and pulled playfully at the edge of Catherine's shirt. She gave in and followed the dog outside, who promptly ran down onto the lawns and returned with the husk of a half a coconut in her mouth, laying it lovingly at Catherine's feet and looking up at her with those huge golden eyes. As Sam and Catherine took it in turns to throw the increasingly shredded husk, she asked him about Christmas here on Nevis. He shrugged and said he supposed it was the same as everywhere else, and when she looked sideways at him, he did concede that there was probably less snow on the island than she was used to. If you ordered well in advance, you could even get a real tree, he said, sent over from America, but most people just used the artificial ones. It was easier, and the real trees didn't have a hope of surviving once the new year arrived. Pine trees of any origin are not designed for the Caribbean after all. Catherine thought it was a shame, but set that idea aside, going about her day as usual, leaving Sam to head home to paint and then meeting up with him in the late afternoon so they could take Sandy to run on the beach. Today, they would head to the windward side of the island, where the wild Atlantic threw waves that rushed up and down the shingle. Sandy loved to run in and out of the waves, barking at them to go away, and then letting them chase her back across the smooth, round pebbles that shimmered and shone in the sunshine. Most visitors devoted their time to the leeward side, lying back on the long stretches of golden sand that poured into the warm, gentle waters of the Caribbean, but Catherine was learning to love this wilder side. The raw beauty and power of the waves, and in the distance on clear days, the shapes of Montserrat and Dominica rising above the blue. Sam was throwing pebbles for Sandy, pebbles that she never returned with, but chased all the same, and Catherine sat down at the top of the rough beach. She leaned back and felt something crunch and collapse beneath her hand, and looking around, she saw dozens and dozens of tiny sea urchins shells. Some were barely an inch in diameter, all of them perfect, fragile forms that lay piled up in little white mounds. Catherine picked up a few, holding them carefully, lifting them up for a closer inspection, and feeling the intricately patterned, but perfectly symmetrical bumps beneath her fingertips. She piled three together, the smallest on top, and held them on the flat of her hand, laughing to herself as she saw they looked something like a tiny snowman. Sam, she called, and he turned, squinting in the sunlight to see what she was pointing at on her hand, and then giving her a thumbs up as she mouthed the word, snowman. By the time he and Sandy were done playing in the waves, Catherine had quite the gathering of sea urchins, all carefully piled in threes, with the smaller ones on top. They make nice decorations, don't you think? She said to him, just need to figure out fixing them together. He took them from her, and looked closely, turning the tiny shells over carefully in his hands, gentle so as not to break their delicate forms. He pointed out the holes in the top and bottom of each urchin, and showed how a thread could be passed through, and then anchored in place by a small piece of stick, carefully inserted into the lowest and largest one. They took home a few handfuls each, keeping them away from Sandy, who jumped and searched with her nose, wanting to know what was going on, and finally placing them on the table on the veranda. As the sun started to sink, perfect streaks of pink and orange reaching across the sky and reflected in the sea, the two sat out on the veranda, expecting to see the sun rising reaching across the sky and reflected in the sea. The two sat out on the veranda, experimenting with threads and string and small pieces of stick, mastering the art of creating the perfect sea urchin snowman. With the final disappearance of the sun, the cicadas and frogs came back in full force, their high-pitched chatter pouring out into the night, and Catherine imagined reaching up to the stars above. So many stars here, so many more than she'd ever known could really be, twinkling and sparkling as if handfuls of diamonds had been thrown into the darkness. It seems a shame, said Catherine, eyeing up one of the snowmen and failing to finish her sentence. She looked thoughtful and then strode off into the garden, letting the moon and stars light her way. Sam and Sandy waited, the dogs had resting contentedly on the man's lap, both happy to let her do her thing, safe in the knowledge she would always come back. When she did, she had a bundle of leaves and lengths of fine and creeper in her hands, laying the offerings out on the table. She pulled strips from the leaves, making them as narrow as possible and holding them up to see their shapes dark against the sky, casting them aside critically and reaching instead for the vines and the long grasses, finally selecting one and using it as the thread to link the three archons and form another snowman. Da, she said at last after fumbling with knots. She held up a perfect snowman, complete with a scarf made from a carefully folded over and tied strip of leaf, swinging from a length of vine. Just as nature intended, she added. Her slender fingers worked quickly, adding more and more snowmen, removing the original lengths of thread and replacing them with the vines. Sam tried to help, but it was far too delicate for his larger hands and he eventually gave up, lying back so that Sandy could drape herself across his chest. The dog was soon asleep, wrapped contentedly in his arms, and Sam stroked her gently as he watched Catherine work, looking from her to the now silver sea that threw back the light of the stars and shone like quick silver. Over the days that followed, Catherine started scouring the beaches for more of the tiny sea urchins, bringing them back in piles and transforming them into green-scarfed snowmen. And when she had a small army of those lined up on the table on the veranda, she started looking for something new. The abandoned shells of hermit crabs stood out, perfect swirls and whirls of different colored shells, some with pointed ends and some rounded, and she took those too, learning to drill the tiniest hole in the very top so she could hang them from a single strip of narrow vine pulled from the garden. She gathered larger sea urchins and kept those as single pieces, carefully threading in the piece of stick and using it to wrap the twine around so they too could be hung. On the edge of one beach she found the single shells of sea scallops, some of them as large as her hand with her fingers spread wide and some so small they barely covered one of Sandy's paws. Concentrating hard, she created strings of these carefully drilling and threading and knotting so they hung five together in a long swinging line. With the veranda quite taken over by her creations, some asked her one evening what on earth she was going to do with all the shells and ornaments she had amassed. She admitted that she hoped to have so many that you wouldn't be able to see an artificial tree at all hidden beneath them, and that this was the one thing she would surely miss about Christmas, back home. The real tree, the smell of the pine, the whole adventure that was going and choosing the perfect tree each year. I think you've more than covered a tree, he said with a smile playing on his lips, and for the first time Catherine looked up and realized just how many shells she had gathered in the sky. The table had long since been abandoned as it was covered in them, and all along the top rail of the veranda, the rail upon which they used to lean in the evenings, wine in hand as they watched the sunset, shells now filled the space. As if to prove the point that perhaps Catherine had won too many shells, Sandy rushed up the steps, tail wagging furiously, and knocked a pile to the ground. The delicate urchins smashed, and the dog leapt back, looking at her tail, and then with big eyes up to Catherine, as if apologizing for the accident. Sam was quite right, of course, she could see that now. Perhaps she'd gone a little overboard, but it was also different here. It felt strange to hear the same carols spilling out across the sand as people sat sipping cocktails in the sunshine. It felt strange to see friends exchanging presents, the parcels packaged in red and green paper, that danced with pictures of holly and ivy and mistletoe, all while wearing shorts and flip-flops. And it felt strangest of all to see children lining up by the flamboyant tree to have their picture taken with Santa Claus, a man who somehow tolerated the impossible heat to dress up in the full red and white outfit, complete with beard, smiling at the children who sat on his knee while mopping his forehead with a huge handkerchief that was soaked by mid-morning. At least, she told herself, at least the shells had been put together with the vines and twigs. They could be returned to the beaches and cause no trouble at all. Sam was right, and Sandy needed to be able to leap about without fear of breakages, and it would be nice to eat dinner from the table once more, rather than balanced awkwardly on her knee. I'll take them back to the beach tomorrow, she whispered with a sigh, eyeing up her hours and hours of work with a heavy heart. The beach, said Sam. I had another idea in mind entirely, which is why, a few nights later, the two ended up walking down the hill with baskets filled with the ornaments that Catherine had so carefully prepared. They headed first to the little church in town, walking into the gardens and hanging the snowmen and sea urchins and abandoned hermit crab shells from the pointed leaves of aloe vera, from the fringes of palm trees, and from the twisted branches of the flamboyans. Everything stood out bright and white against the black of the night, the ornaments twisting and turning in the gentle evening breeze. The next morning Catherine went to the market, the place where all information is learned and exchanged on an island such as Nevis, taking her time browsing through the fruits and vegetables and listening to the others talking. It was Mrs. Lily who nudged her as she waited for her oranges to be weighed. Mrs. Lily, whose garden she had secretly transformed all those months ago, when the old lady had been quite unable to keep on top of it herself. The spirits have been headed again, said Mrs. Lily, eyes wide. The tiny lady nodded solemnly and Catherine feigned confusion and surprise. The spirits, she asked, oh, you mean in your garden? Not my garden, whispered Mrs. Lily. It's the church this time. The trees are absolutely covered in shells. My word, I've never seen anything like it. Shells, said Catherine. What do you mean? Just beautiful, said Mrs. Lily, pulling Catherine closer so she could whisper into her ear. Catherine bent her head and obliged so she could hear the tiny old lady's words. I tell you, it's the spirits of the island again, and this time they brought Christmas magic with them. Sounds wonderful, said Catherine, hoping she was hiding her truth. But Mrs. Lily had already moved on and was having the same conversation with others. Catherine tried to suppress her grins as she heard people adored the snowmen and how children had reached up to swing the strings of scallop shells. In the fortnight that followed, Catherine and Sam disappeared on more of their midnight missions. Sometimes they hiked along the footpaths high up on the slopes of the mountain. Sandy delighting in extra walks, and they would choose a single tree by the side of the path and decorate it with their shells. Other times they would head towards favorite spots on the beaches, Catherine climbing onto Sam's shoulders so she could reach higher. They sneaked into the gardens of the island so people would wake in the morning and head out onto their verandas and suddenly see that they had been visited too. Catherine was very excited about the fact that she had been able to get to the island. She was very excited about the fact that she had been able to get to the island and the fact that she had been able to get to the verandas and suddenly see that they had been visited too and now their trees had been decorated with the delicate shells. When Christmas Day arrived, they had managed to decorate trees in hidden corners of all the parishes, both delighting in hearing the stories of discovery. In order not to arouse suspicion that they themselves were involved, Sam and Catherine were careful to share their own discoveries too, naming the areas where the trees had not yet been found and sending happy search parties off up the mountain trails and down footpaths that wound their way towards the abandoned ruins of sugar mills. Sandy stood still as Catherine carefully tied a golden ribbon around her neck, golden to match the color of her eyes and then danced about in the sunlight, showing off this new addition to her wardrobe, a sense of belonging and of being a part of something that she had never known before she turned up at the gates a few months before. Sam's present to Catherine was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a painting. He seemed uncertain whether to hand it over, reaching forwards with the wrapped canvas and then bringing it back to himself until eventually she dived at it and pulled the paper aside. He had created a perfect wintry scene, such as she might have known back at home, but more perfect than any she had ever seen. In the foreground was a frozen lake and figures swirled and twirled on ice skates, colored scarves flying behind them, matching hats and gloves firmly in place. Behind that were rows of shops, windows filled with displays of presence, all perfectly wrapped with red and silver, gold and green bows, and there were hollywreaths on the doors and there, outside a shop, a man held a sprig of mistletoe and a woman was leaning up to kiss him. And in the distance were snow-covered hills, trees heavy with snow, and a line of deer were silhouetted against the soft pink of the sky. In the center of the frozen lake, a huge tree soared towards the sky, decorated in sparkling tinsel and baubles and with a golden star right at the very top. Jennie peered a little closer and there, on one of the branches, was the perfect image of one of her snowmen. Three tiny sea urchins piled one on top of the other, green scarf neatly in place, and beside them was a line of five scallop shells that she could almost see twist and turn in the breeze she imagined was rustling across the scene. It's perfect, she whispered softly. Everything Christmas has always been for me. Sam spent the day showing her the Christmases of her future. They took a basket filled with food and headed to their favorite cove, diving into the turquoise water and floating on their backs to look at the cloudless sky above. They lay on their towels and shared stories of their childhood Christmas days, the ones where there were mountains of colorful presents beneath trees, where the family gathered at a table and ate and laughed and played games long into the night. There were walks on Christmas morning and the lines of cards on the mantelpiece and the taking down of stockings, and they laughed when they both found that, yes, their mothers had both slipped an orange into the very toe of their stocking. There were always random uncles and aunts who appeared at that time of year too, who they barely saw or heard from at other times, but were suddenly there, part of the family, with jumpers that had silly slogans and presents that were best suited to who the receiver had been three years before. So Catherine was always given clothes that were too small, and Sam invariably had toys to go with sets that he no longer played with. We always went and listened to the carols in the church, said Catherine, and she looked wistfully at the sea in the late afternoon sun, and almost wished she could whisk herself away just for that, to hear the voices of the choir soar with the old familiar music. And so Sam took her to church that evening, when the sky was already black, and the stars dotted around, and as they approached she heard the words of, O come, all ye faithful, drift out from the doors. The glorious gospel choir were more beautiful than anything she had heard before. The shells in the trees stood out bright in the darkness, and then Sam pointed towards the larger sea urchins that Catherine had shared and hung as single pieces. They seemed to glow with an ethereal light, and she realized that inside each were a cluster of fireflies dancing and shining, their light glowing as if inside a lantern. Mrs. Lily passed them on her way into the church and stopped to see what they were looking at. You see, she said with a satisfied smile, I told you was the spirit of the island that brought us this magic. Merry Christmas, my dears, Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Lily, and a very happy new year to you too, said Catherine. They didn't follow her into the church, instead they stayed outside, sitting on the wall with Sandy at their feet, her golden bow bright in the moonlight. From there they could hear the waves on the shore and the songs of the choir and see the shells sparkle and dance and the magic of Christmas wrapped itself around them, spreading its way slowly around the world as mornings started with stockings and smiles and drifted gently towards evening with that deep, contented glow that happens when love is in every home and every heart. We'll leave our story there for tonight. Hope you enjoyed our Christmas trip to the Caribbean. Sleep well and sweet dreams.