Who Killed Tulkinghorn?
26th December 2008

Whether the leitmotif is Christian or commercial most human behaviour at Christmas boils down to tradition. We strive, year in and year out, to recreate the festive season in a form that is familiar and satisfying. Although I consider myself adaptable, even adventurous at times, a diary of my Christmas week reveals the extent to which I am enthralled by custom.

Sunday 21st December.
Arriving at the point in the year when we can finally relax Sylvia and I are reluctant to engage with the hype of Christmas. Our response is to disappear into a good story. A visit to the Ashburton library unearths a BBC costume drama, Charles Dickens’ Bleak House in 15 episodes. We settle down for an evening of Jarndyce vs Jarndyce, fuelled by a batch of Sylvia’s famous rumballs drenched in cointreau. Within minutes we are lost in Victorian London among lawyers, ladies and litigation.

Monday 22nd December.
I have no pretensions as a pastrycook but years ago I picked up the habit of baking Christmas mince pies, small pastry delights that have become a fixture of our festivities. I spend the morning with rolling pin and cookie cutter. For a few hours fruit mince is, literally, my raisin d’etre and by lunchtime six dozen mince pies are cooling on the bench.

After lunch I venture out to the shops in a departure from the tradition of doing all my Christmas shopping at 5pm on the 24th. I buy jewellery for Sylvia, gardening tools for Marjan and aviator sunglasses for Corrie. In the evening we return to Bleak House where Krook spontaneously combusts, Esther’s hopes for happiness are dashed by smallpox and somebody drills a bullet through the black heart of Tulkinghorn the villainous lawyer.

Tuesday 23rd December.
Continuing to distance ourselves from festive frenzy we indulge another family tradition – the pre-Christmas tramping trip. Over the years we have polished this up as a highlight of our holidays. Usually we venture no further than the Mt Somers walkway but on this occasion we drive to Arthur’s Pass where Marjan is waitressing at a luxury tourist lodge. Her roster gives her a couple of days break and she joins us for a short tramp into the Edwards valley.

Marjan is reliably unpredictable. Halfway up the valley she remarks, “I’ve noticed your smell has changed. No offence or anything, but you’re starting to smell like an old man.”
I’m taken aback. Of all the signs of approaching decrepitude I never expected it would be my smell that undid me.

We climb towards the Edwards hut through meadows of shining snow grass and Mt Cook buttercups. Under a bright blue sky we debate the identity of Tulkinghorn’s murderer. Sergeant George is clearly the prime suspect but we agree that he is too obvious. Lady Dedlock has motive. Then again, it could be Guppy the striving law clerk or Hortense the estranged maid. We agree that Hortense is the most likely killer - she is French, after all.

Wednesday 24th December.
Christmas Eve. We rise early and head back down the valley. The Bealey river is thigh deep as we approach the car park and we walk the last few hundred metres through a blanket of purple lupins. We return Marjan to the tourist lodge where she opens her Christmas presents. In another departure from tradition she will not be with us on Christmas day and I feel saddened by this. There are moments when the journey of parenthood still throws up surprises.

We return to Ashburton and a flurry of wrapping paper and trifle. Corrie joins us from her job at the berry farm, we pack the car and turn towards Christchurch and the customary gathering of my family at my mum’s place.

Later in the evening I disentangle myself from nephews and nieces and accompany mum to midnight mass. Father Miles, the parish priest, is as confidential as a butler. From his lips the message of Christ’s birth reassures me just as it did when I was 10 years old. I stifle a yawn – it’s been a long day – and lose myself in the familiarity of it all.

The congregation clanks into Silent Night and Christmas slowly rumbles into view like a coal train emerging from the Otira tunnel. I wonder whether the small traditions I pursue so resolutely have any basis in reality or whether each festive season adds another ring in a slowly growing tree of fantasy. It’s Christmas - and I still don’t know who killed Tulkinghorn.