Silent Night

by James Bates 

egg nog

Ralph Kaczynski had been a salvation army bell ringer for seventeen years and this was by far and away the coldest and the snowiest winter he could ever recall. In spite of wearing long underwear, jeans, two sweaters, three pair of socks, heavy boots and a thick, insulated snowmobile suit, he was still cold. It didn't help that standing outside the huge big box store was a lesson in the both the good and the bad in humanity. Mostly the bad. People hurrying and yelling at each other, shoving and pushing...Man, talk about lack of good will toward mankind. He stole a quick glance at his wristwatch. Nine forty-five. Only fifteen minutes to go until the store closed. Then Christmas Eve tomorrow, and then he was done until next year. Thank god. It'd take him until July to thaw out.

            Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a commotion near the exit. A young woman was arguing with one of the security guards. He recognized her. She and her daughter had been frequent visitors since Thanksgiving, and he'd occasionally wondered what they'd been doing, so much time in the store like the did. They rarely left with any packages, anything he could see anyway. Hmm. Shop lifters, maybe? There'd been a rash of them this season.

            Suddenly the little girl, who must have been six years old or so, stepped away from her mother. She looked Ralph right in the eye, smiled a friendly smile and skipped across the slushy sidewalk toward him, going too fast in his estimation. "Watch out," he called out  above the noisy throng of shoppers. "It's slippery."

            She tried to slow down, but slipped and fell down hard anyway. "Oww," She said quietly as she slid along the sidewalk right up next to him.

            Ralph's heart immediately went out to the little girl. With her pink stocking cap and unicorn themed snow jacket, she reminded him of his daughter when she was that age. He bent down, "Here, honey, let me help you." Her mother was still preoccupied with the security guard. "Are you okay?"

            "I'm okay, mister," she said, wiping the slush off her tights. "It doesn't hurt too bad."

            He lifted the little girl to her feet and made sure was uninjured. He glanced back just as the security guard waved the mother away. She hurried over, saying to Ralph, "Thank you so much, sir." Then she knelt down next to her daughter, "Are you okay, Lisa? I told you to be more careful."

            The little girl's tights were torn at the knee, but she only had a small scrap, a tiny amount of blood. "I'm okay, mommy, really. This nice man helped me."

            Ralph was suddenly embarrassed. "It was nothing. She's a tough little girl."

            What was he talking about. He didn't know anything about her, but the little girl, this Lisa, had a way about her, a presence almost. He had to ask, just to be polite, because, after all, it was the holiday season, "Do you want anything special for Christmas, honey? A doll or something?"

            The little girl shocked him. "No. Not really."

            "Are you sure? Nothing at all?"

            The little girl thought hard for a moment and then said, "Well, what I'd really like is to sing a Christmas carol."

            "A Christmas carol?"

            "Yes, please. Right here." Ralph couldn't believe how polite the little girl was.

            "She didn't get to sing in the school concert this year," her mother added. "I had to work so I kept her with me."

            There was something about the two of them that Ralph found endearing.

            He put his bell aside and said, "You know. I'm not sure if it's against regulations or not, but to heck with it. You go right ahead, young lady. Sing any song you want."

            Lisa beamed a bright smile and took a moment to compose herself. Then she stood up straight and tall and starting singing "Silent Night". Her voice was quiet at first and the song hardly recognizable, but by the time she gotten to "Sleep in heavenly peace," she had found her confidence and passion, and her voice rang out loud and clear into the cold night air. Soon, a small crowd formed around the little singer, some even humming or singing along themselves. Ralph stood off to the side with Lisa's mother, watching, enjoying a bit of Christmas magic right there on the sidewalk of a big box store.

            When she was done with her song, the crowd applauded and asked for more. With a nod from Ralph she sang, "Joy To The World," and even the bell ringer, old curmudgeon that he was, felt a tear form in his eye.

            While her daughter sang, Meg, went through her mental checklist. Get Lisa into bed, snug and secure. Make sure the doors were locked. Make sure their extra blankets were handy because it was going to be cold tonight. Get to work tomorrow by nine in the morning for a full six hour day. Then back to the parking lot for the night, Christmas Eve.

            Meg considered herself lucky because she had a car to call home and a place for her and Lisa to sleep. Others weren't so fortunate. But it almost had all gone down the drain when that security guard had gotten in her face, telling her she had to move on and couldn't park there overnight. She had to remind him that she could, that the owners of the store had agreed to let ten cars park there for the winter and she was one of them, one of the homeless finding a place to live in the big box store parking lot.

            Finally he'd agreed, saying, threatening, "Well, you better watch yourself. No drugs or alcohol or anything like that."

            No problem. Meg told him, "Look, it's just me and my daughter. You've got nothing to worry about."

            He didn't either. Lance, her former boyfriend and Lisa's father, had no idea where they were and that was the way she wanted it. He was a drunk and was physically abusive to her, and she needed to stay away from him for the sake of herself and Lisa.

            When Lisa was done singing she ran over, "Mommy, Mommy, did you like them? Did you like my songs?"

            Meg smiled, "I did very much, sweetheart. You did really good." She turned to Ralph, "Thank you so much.

            He suddenly had a thought, "You know, tomorrow's Christmas Eve. I'll be here from four until six, closing. Maybe Lisa would like to come and sing. I'd like it and I think the crowds would, too."

            Meg thought for a moment. Why not? "What do you think, Lisa? Would you like to sing some more tomorrow?"

            "I would, Mommy, I really would."

            "Well, you heard her. I guess we'll be back."

            Ralph smiled, "Good. Great. See you then."

            "Okay. Right. See you tomorrow." The three of them all waved good-bye.

            The snow was starting to fall as Meg and Lisa made their way to the far corner of the parking lot to their car. They got in the backseat and spent a few minutes wrapping themselves in blankets for the night, then curled up together for warmth.

            Just before she fell asleep, Lisa spoke, "Mommy?"

            "What sweetheart?"

            "Am I really going to be able to sing tomorrow?"

            "Yes, you can. If you want to."

            "Oh, I do. I do."

            "Well, then you can."

            "Thank you Mommy."

            "Don't thank me, thank the nice man. Ralph."

            "I will tomorrow. Okay?"

            "Okay. Now, good night."

            "Good night. And Mommy?"

            "What, sweetie?"

            "If I can sing tomorrow, it's going to make it my best Christmas ever."

            Meg snuggled in close to her daughter. It was so peaceful and quiet she could hear the snowflakes settling on the roof of the car. A silent night. They were safe from Lance. They had a roof over their heads and she had a job. Most importantly, she and Lisa were together. Things could be a lot worse. "Mine, too," she said, hugging her little girl tight, "My best Christmas ever."           

About the author      

Jim's family used to go Christmas caroling around his neighborhood when he was young. Silent Night is still one of his favorites.         

           

A Christmas Friendship

                          

by Lynn Clement      

cinnamon milk                 

Barney stepped lightly, almost tiptoeing across the crisp snow. He was not enamoured of this white stuff. He didn’t understand why everyone else in the house got so excited. Joel and Lindy had wrapped themselves up in woollens and gone off to play in the park. Well, it was mother who’d wrapped them up really, as they were too small to do it themselves. Barney didn’t mind that they’d gone without him. He wasn’t keen on the park, too noisy. He’d see them later anyway and by then the fire would be lit.

He had a job to do today which was the only reason he’d ventured out, otherwise he might have even stayed in bed. He wanted to visit old Henry at The Manor. He’d not been too well and Barney was off to cheer him up.

As Barney was deliberating which way to go, a snow ball smashed into his face and nearly knocked him sideways. Shaking his head vigorously he looked in the direction of the missile. Gavin Peterson! He lived next door to Barney, Joel and Lindy but he wasn’t a friend. In fact the twins called him ‘The Enemy.’ All Barney knew, was that he was mean. Gavin had that look on his face, the one when he tosses toys over the fence and then yells to his mum that the twins have taken them. The two mothers have had shoutings before.

Barney decided to run, even though it meant sinking further into the stuff. He was steeling himself when another snowball caught him, followed by a loud laugh at his expense. He knew he could outrun Gavin Peterson and he did, saving himself more discomfort than he could take.

The Manor was on Tile Street and Barney got there quickly, leaving Gavin Peterson in his wake. He tapped on the window; he could see Henry sitting alone on one of the comfy chairs by a fire. His eyes were closed. He was looking raggedy, not really taking care of himself nowadays. The cleaner was putting the bins out at the back and let Barney in. At the door he shook himself so that he didn’t take any of the wet into Henry’s room. As Barney approached, Henry’s eyes opened. They were watery and dull but grateful. Barney sat next to him and patted him on his back. There was a drink offered and Barney had some but Henry didn’t. They sat for a while, companions warming themselves by the fire.

Barney let himself out when it was dark. People were arriving and the noise was beginning, so he sloped through the front door. He wanted to get back to the twins. He’d nodded at Henry and Henry had nodded back. Barney wasn’t sure he’d ever see him again. Tomorrow was Christmas day and he’d spend it with mother, Joel, Lindy and a lovely log fire. He might even get a fishy treat. He was looking forward to that, but most of all he loved to chase the wrapping paper balls the twins made for him after opening their presents. He knew not to climb the tree any more after last year’s disaster but he was allowed to pat the twinkly balls on the lower branches. Christmas in his house was such fun. He thought about Henry and hoped he had at least one more Christmas day, curled up in his warm arm chair by the pub fire.

Twas the Night before Christmas

by James Bates

hot mocha spice

With five year old Stacy and three year old Dale nestled snug under the covers beside him, Peter was the happiest he'd been in months. He opened his treasured book, one passed down from his grandmother to his mom and then to him, and began to read, his voice quiet as a whisper, drawing his young ones in, "Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse..."

            By the time he'd finished, both children were asleep, breathing restfully, visions, Peter hoped, of sugar plums dancing in their heads. He smiled to himself. Why not? It was Christmas Eve, as good a time for magical thoughts as any. He tucked them in under their warm covers and, before turning out the light, paused at the doorway, taking a long moment watching his two little sleepy heads. Worn out from seeing Dad, he joked to himself, hoping it was true. It was. Just ask Lyn, his wife. She'd say that their children adored their father and missed him terribly while he was away getting his treatments. Then she'd get a little teary eyed, her strength wavering ever so slightly before returning, knowing there were still more long days to come.

            After turning out the bedroom light, Peter made his way to the stairway and began to descend, step by cautious step, holding onto the handrail with what little strength he had. From the living room, Lyn saw him and hurried to help. "Here, Sweetheart, lean on me. We'll go slow. We can rest together on the couch."

            He smiled, grateful for everything about her, "That'd be perfect."

            It took a few minutes before they were finally curled up together under the wool afghan Lyn had knit when they were first married, seven years earlier. The room was a peaceful sanctuary, with Christmas music playing so quietly in the background one had to strain to hear a choir singing ”Silent Night". Lyn had turned off all the lights except for the warm glow from the Christmas tree. It was lit with white twinkling lights, and decorated with a myriad of colored glass ornaments and handmade decorations, accented with at least five strands of popcorn and cranberries. The family had decorated it that afternoon when Peter had come home from the hospital on a twenty-four hour pass.   

            Lyn put her head on his shoulder. "Isn't the tree beautiful?"

            "It's our best tree ever," he smiled, putting a thin arm around her and holding her tight.

            He liked that Lyn was willing to put aside what was really happening with his disease, at least for tonight. Tonight he had a break from his treatments. Tonight he could be home with his family and enjoy a moment of comfort and repose before leaving tomorrow to go back to the hospital to continue his battle. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but he was getting tired so he said only what he needed to say, "Lyn, I love you so much. You mean the world to me."    

            It was all Lyn needed to hear. She kissed him gently. "I love you, too, Peter. Forever and always."

            He kissed her in return. Their undying affection for each other carrying them through these most challenging of times.

They must have fallen asleep. A rustle on the stairway caused Peter to awaken. He turned to see his children, standing patiently, so young and so innocent, dressed in their red flannel pajamas. Stacy was holding a book, and Peter could see it was the one he'd read to them earlier.

            "Daddy, could you read to us again?" She asked, her tiny voice music to his ears.

            "Please, Daddy, please," Dale chimed in.

            Their voices woke Lyn. "The kids want me to read again," Peter said to her, sitting up and stretching. "I know it's late, but is it all right with you?"

            Lyn didn't have to think. "Absolutely. But first, "she said,  getting to her feet, "How about if I fix us a plate of ginger cookies and some milk for a little treat. How would everyone like that?

            Three heads nodded enthusiastically, and all was well for them on this Christmas Eve, the world held at bay for a little while longer.

            Later, the family snuggled together on the couch under the warm afghan, leftover cookies within easy reach. Peter began the story, wondering as he read if this would be the last time he'd be able to do this, read to his family like he was. Then he put the thought out of his mind. Quit thinking like that, he admonished himself. He had to stay positive. He had to believe that he'd be with his wife and children next year. After all, who else could read Twas the Night Before Christmas to his children like he could? No one.

            "Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night," he said, when he reached the end of the story, but not before ad-libbing a hearty, "Ho, ho, ho," making the kids giggle and Lyn smile.

            Then he closed the book and wrapped his arms around his wife and children and hugged his family all together as tightly as he could. Until next year, he whispered to himself. Until next year.

God Works in Mysterious Ways Especially at Christmas

by Robin Wrigley

mulled wine

In 1973 I was working on the fringes of the Sahara in Algeria. We were camped less than an hour’s drive south from the small town of Messaad, east of the main provincial town Laghouat. It was necessary to pass through Messaad to access the main road to either Laghouat or Algiers.

     It wasn’t long before we discovered that a group from the British charity ‘Save the Children’ were based in an old French fort in the town and we went to visit them and say hello. The manager was a retired army officer and the medical staff comprised of two mid-wives and a lady doctor. We quickly established a friendship and always called in whenever we had occasion to pass by. The staff liked to see fellow countrymen dropping in and we became very useful to the group in being able take mail for them or help out with supplies. For us it was a welcome watering point on journeys out of the desert, especially if it coincided with a meal time.

******

 A few weeks before Christmas that year I was scheduled to make a two weeks break in England. On my way up to Algiers I called in at the charity and collected their Christmas cards and wish lists to buy for them in London. It was arranged I would make various purchases and also contact the doctor’s sister to collect her presents to carry back.

     Little did I know what I was letting myself in for with this offer, now becoming purchaser and carrier. Most of the items requested were from Marks and Spenser’s ladies underwear department! The doctor’s sister’s gifts took up a quarter of my suitcase and the various purchase items another quarter. The other half was filled with various Christmas goodies such as mince pies, Christmas cake and pudding. Thankfully I did not need much room for my own personal effects.

     The next hurdle was the Algerian custom’s authorities at Algiers airport. The country was still coming to terms with the dreadful and prolonged war of independence and the treatment of foreigners was not very friendly. Baggage searches were very thorough and nit-picking. Magazines zealously scrutinized for any racy photos or anything likely to offend good Moslem conduct. Advertisements for ladies underwear would result in the page being ripped out or the magazine completely confiscated.

     The large amount of ladies underwear in my bag caused considerable concern but I lied explaining it was for members of my family. The rest of the presents and Christmas goodies survived the check.

*****

On Christmas day the five of us who were left on the crew arranged a ‘service day’ and finished around midday, washed, changed into our best available clothes and headed north to Messaad. Their manager was not present having arranged to go home to England for the holiday but the doctor and midwives had entered into the spirit with decorations, mince pies and mulled wine.

     They had also wrapped presents for each of us and although the gifts were simple and really no more than tokens we made a big scene of opening each one with cries of surprise followed by much applause. My present was a pair of M & S socks. Sad to say it was the sum total of my Christmas presents that year.

     We then retired to the dining table where a fine seasonal feast had been laid out; what with that and the local wine we wanted for nothing even though we were far from our homeland.

     After the meal we played the usual silly games, sang Christmas carols and generally chatted and reminisced about our lives and our families. Later in the evening after another snacking type meal we bade our hosts farewell and set off into a cold but clear Saharan night on our journey back to our camp.

      Our camp life continued much the same as ever until three days before New Year I received instructions from Algiers head office that we should strike camp and head to a new concession further south and then east near the town of Touggourt and on to a camp site in El Oued, a date growing area. The preparations for the move made it impossible to bid farewell to the charity. It wasn’t until after the dust settled and the camp reorganised that I discovered my Christmas present of the socks was missing, presumed stolen.

     Not long after this move I became disenchanted with the new area, the company management, the flies in the date growing oasis and life in general and I resigned and returned to London.

*****

Since my time in Algeria I have worked and lived in many countries worldwide but at this time of the year I often reflect on the loss of those socks. Did the thief enjoy them? I consoled myself with the thought that he probably needed them more than I did.

*****

A few weeks before Christmas in 2017 a package arrived for me from a company called ‘Bamboo’ of whom I had never heard of before. Inside the package was a very nice pair of blue-striped socks, just my size.

     This year the same thing happened again! God really does move in mysterious ways.

December

by Roger Noons

a glass of port wine.

‘It was when I read cleavage, good to perfect that I thought of you.’

    She frowned.

    ‘It’s a description of Turquoise, a blue-green mineral, prized as a gemstone and when you said your birthday is in December, I had to buy it.’

    ‘It’s beautiful.’

    ‘Shall I put it on you?’

    Grinning, she nodded. He walked around behind her, moved her hair onto one shoulder and lowered the pendant to an inch above the neckline of her dress. He fastened the clasp allowing his fingertips to brush the back of her neck.

    She shivered, jumped up and rushed to the mirror.

    ‘If you don’t like it, they will change—’

    ‘Jon, it’s beautiful, I’m sure I’ll not do it justice.’

    ‘But you will my darling. A beautiful object for a beautiful girl.’

Marie studied the pendant, smiled into her dressing table mirror. Apart from when he was away, representing King and Country, he had told her every day that she was beautiful. She would wear it tonight, she decided; her fiftieth birthday, their thirtieth wedding anniversary. She would give him her hand mirror so that he could see it as she wheeled him into the restaurant.

Alternative Christmas

by Janet Howson

Two Cobras

It seemed a good idea at the time. I knew we would not be arriving back from New Zealand until the morning of Christmas Eve with the almost certainty of jet lag, a case full of clothes needing to be washed and piles of Christmas cards to be opened and arrayed around the room. I resolved not to put up a tree and had, previous to the holiday, just displayed the minimum of Christmas decorations that appeared annually. So, the thought of cooking a turkey with all the trimmings appalled me and probably would have ruined my time in New Zealand. I told myself I did it year after year, for my family, my mother, my brother his children and ‘the dog’. I was due a rest.

I congratulated myself on my decision as we arrived back in the UK to be met by snow piled on top of our car that we had left in a friend’s drive who lived conveniently close to the station. The house was of arctic temperature and I spent the night wrapped in my dressing gown in bed unable to sleep both because of the time difference and my freezing feet, hands and nose. Thank goodness I did not have to tackle all the cooking and preparations the following day.

The alarm went off and I extracted myself from my cocoon and got up to find the central heating had not come on. I groaned. Better check the thermostat before going into a wild panic. I put on my slipper boots and descended the stairs. The thermostat was on but on checking the timer I realised we had not altered it from the holiday setting which did not include an early start. I sighed a breath of relief and reset it. Problem one solved.

Problem two soon raised its head. I had forgotten in my state of exhaustion last night, to take the bread and milk out of the freezer. The bread could be toasted in its frozen state but I wasn’t too sure about milk. Oh well, toast, marmalade and green tea.

I knew that Catherine and Christopher would not be arriving until midday, if that. Neither of them are known to be particularly punctual. My brother would arrive at the same time with our mother and his children would meet us at the venue at 1pm. That all seemed quite simple.

I decided not to wake my husband who, going by the snoring, had slept soundly. Instead I tackled the opening of the cards as I drank my tea, sorting them into size as to where I would position them in my lounge. This done I picked up my e mails that had grown to mammoth proportions, reviewed my face book and checked the photos of our holiday had all been successfully posted. I then took all the washing out of the suitcases we had discarded at the bottom of the stairs and put it into the machine. It wouldn’t all fit in so I made a ceremonious pile in the kitchen to be put on later.

Problem three soon became evident as I attempted to have a power shower which always revived me and woke me up. The water continued to run cold. I had reset the heating but not the water. Silently cursing myself I reset it and counted in my head when it would be ready for me to use. I would use the time to unpack the rest of the case and sort out the various Christmas presents I had bought in New Zealand.

I was sorting out the presents into piles in the front room when I heard the torrential rain. Wonderful, I thought, all we need with four of the guests driving miles. The remaining snow will turn into mush and because it was so cold, it may end up as treacherous black ice. I just had to hope they all drove carefully and that there was no accident on the notorious M25 that would hold them all up.

The noise of the rain woke my husband who appeared, weary eyed complaining of feeling a headache coming on. I administered a paracetamol, explained about the shower and lack of milk and then finished off unpacking completely.

An hour later we were showered, dressed and waiting for my brother and mother to arrive. It seemed an age before the doorbell went and I answered it to let in my brother pulling two suitcases and my mother clutching a Sainsbury’s Christmas cake with a box of crackers balanced precariously on the top. My brother had to revisit the car three times to bring in the presents, the alcohol (his contribution to Christmas) and last and not least ‘the dog’.

I explained that Christopher and Catherine were still to arrive, but shouldn’t be long and as by cue my mobile burst into action and I discovered a text from Catherine saying they had left late and to go ahead without them and they would get there a.s.a.p. My brother then chipped in with the fact that his children had texted him separately saying they couldn’t make it as the car had failed its MOT and couldn’t be driven and of course there were no trains on Christmas day.

So reduced to the four of us and ‘the dog’ who was in a state of constant movement, his tail wagging furiously and slobbering slightly, we decided to position all the presents under the tree to be opened later when we were all together and make our way out to the restaurant and hopefully the other two would arrive shortly. My husband asked me for the hundredth time if I was sure I had checked dogs were allowed and I reassured him I had. We took the Christmas Crackers with us as I had been told that none would be provided. “Strange,” my mother had remarked, “no crackers in a restaurant at Christmas?” I told her all would be clear when we got there.

We parked easily as most of the population were ensconced in their houses or pubs in walking distance. It was very cold and we all had wrapped up in thick coats and scarves. It looked very much as if rain or snow or worse was about to happen, so umbrellas were at the ready.

On entering the restaurant the first thing that hit us was the absence of any other bookings. One table at the end of the room had been set up with a crisp white cloth, cutlery and napkins. No Christmas decorations at all. It had been set up for eight people. I realised I should have phoned ahead to cancel two places. Our coats were taken and we led to the table and a lot of fuss was made as two settings were removed. ‘The dog’ was ensconced under the table and secured to a leg with his lead. I immediately regretted allowing my coat to have been taken as the cold hit me. My husband said I was making a fuss as it was perfectly warm enough and he was fine in a short -sleeved shirt. My mother backed me up and my brother said it was a bit chilly so out voted my husband enquired if the heating could be turned on to be told they could not do that as it had not been working for a week but they would bring in a blow heater.

Settled in with the blow heater, warming our feet but not a lot else, we looked at the menu, which was fairly limited, my mother asked if she could have a children’s menu and they said were there children coming and she said no it was for her as she didn’t eat as much as she did due to indigestion and her false teeth plate having a crack in it. “We only allow children our children’s menu,” the waiter replied. My mother sniffed disapprovingly probably making a mental note not to tip him. ‘The dog’ was being placated with biscuits that my brother was feeding him but the waiters were eyeing him suspiciously and giving the table a wide birth.

After twenty minutes my husband said we should order and Catherine and Christopher would have to order when they arrived. We ordered two cobras a gin and tonic with ice and lemon and the same with no gin, “It gives me reflux,” my mother informed us all, and a bowl of water for ‘the dog’. We then put in our order for food and sat back contemplating whether we ought to wait for the other two before pulling the crackers. It all seemed very quiet and the only other people we saw were a couple who entered and left quickly having collected a take away. I asked if we could have some music on but they said their player had broken down on Christmas Eve but one of the staff did a very good Ed Sheeren impression and was willing to sing but we declined the offer as none of us could remember him doing any Christmas songs.

The food arrived and still no sign of Catherine and Christopher despite various texts and calls on my part. The table looked particularly sad with two places missing, no Christmas decorations and ‘the dog’ had already pulled down the tinsel that I had thought to bring at the last minute to put round the edge of the table.

The food wasn’t particularly hot and mum didn’t like hers and was still sulking at the refusal of a child’s meal. The waiters hovered, whipping away any empty dish obviously intent on getting us to leave as quickly as possible so they could enjoy the rest of Christmas day at home. Then suddenly ‘the dog’ lurched forward still tied to a table leg, in obvious pursuit of something not obvious to any of us. The table toppled over with my brother attempting a rugby tackle on ‘the dog’ whose progress had been hampered by the trailing table. Mum screamed for help, my husband was too shocked to move and I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or take a photo on my phone for facebook. The result was a writhing heap of man, dog half empty dishes, glasses and the remains of the crackers. The waiters rushed forward to assist and between all of them the table was righted, ‘the dog’ and mum calmed and my husband regained his power of speech. He apologised profusely and my brother offered to pay for any damage.

Things moved very quickly. The bill was brought with undue haste and it was paid with undue haste and our coats were extracted from the hooks and helped on, then offered a dubious looking mint from a none too clean glass jar. Mum took three due to her indigestion, saving two for later. ‘The dog’ was dragged out completely oblivious of the disgrace he had brought on the family, no amount of tail wagging and doleful eyes could win us round.

The children were at home when we arrived back. Dispirited and glad to be home we recounted our experience. Both of them thought it was highly amusing ruing the fact they had missed it all.

Catherine wiped away the tears of laughter. “Well, what can you expect mum if you book up an Indian restaurant on Christmas day.”

Needless to say they did not open the following year and we had Christmas at home as usual.

                                                           

The Untrodden Snow

by Paula R C Readman

stale wine

‘Please, Megan I need more time.’ I shouted down the phone even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.

‘Mum, we’ve already talked this over. I need to get my life back on track. It’s a great opportunity for me. One, I’m sure, Dad would’ve wanted me to take. I need you to be pleased for me.’

‘I am. Of course, I am,’ I lied.

‘It’s been five years, Mum. We agreed that I would help run the business until you were back on your feet again, but if an opportunity arose then I had to take it.’

‘I know, but I thought you would’ve waited until I’m…’ I paused, not trusting myself.

 Five years ago, my world fell apart when Laurence left. No, not just my world, but Megan’s too. I couldn’t really expect her to put her life on hold forever. It’s supposed to get easier, but it doesn’t. All it does is turn you into a hard-headed dragon that roars selfishly at everyone around you.

I wanted Megan at home because she reminded me so much of her father, not just her looks, but her strength too. Oh, she’s right, I needed to regain my independence, but America. It’s too far away.  

‘Look Mum,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Once I’ve found a place of my own, you’ll be able to join me.’

I knew she didn’t want to upset me, but I couldn’t stop the feeling that she was deserting me too.  I wanted to say I’m stronger now, but I didn’t feel it in my heart.

I heard her exhale, and felt her trepidation, but I held back not wanting the selfish dragon to scream down the line, ‘it’s all right for you, but ‘what about me?’

‘Mum, think about it. A change of scenery will do you good.’ Her voice lightened. ‘You can come and stay for as long as you want. When the time is right, maybe you could sell up and join me here. Anyway, at least think about it. I know it has been hard on you, but Dad would’ve wanted you to enjoy your life.  Please remember Mum, I miss him too.’

‘I know, Love.’

Her voice softened. ‘Mum, you really need to start thinking about yourself. You’re still young.’

‘Old head on young shoulders,’ I muttered.

‘What? What did you say, Mum, I couldn’t hear you?’

‘Nothing darling,’ I said brightly, not wishing her to feel guilty about leaving.

‘Mum, they’re calling my plane. I’ve got to go now.’

‘Promise, you’ll call me as soon as you touch down.’ I said mustering a cheerful voice, wanting to give her something positive.

‘Of course I will. I love you, Mum.’

Normally the ‘Rambler’s Rest,’ would’ve been fully booked in the winter, just as it was in the summer months, but I wanted Christmas alone, so I allowed the bookings to dwindle.  It surprised Laurence and I just how many people wanted to escape Christmas, so they booked a holiday away from it all.

For the first time I understood their need to be on their own. I hoped the time I spent alone would allow me to start planning a new future. As I stood by the French windows, at the back of the property, wine glass in hand, staring at the vast, empty moorland, I found myself watching the first snowfall of the season. As the imperfections of the world disappeared under a white quilt, the snowflakes became a flood blocking out even the pale light of the full moon.

 I found comfort in knowing that no two flakes were alike. Their uniqueness mirrored my own situation. I wondered if Laurence was still out there. Was he watching the snowflakes falling too? Had it really been five years since our last hurried goodbye and his promised return?

‘Time changes everything,’ I muttered, drawing the curtains, shutting out the coldness before crossing to the fireplace, and adding another log to the dying embers.

As the fire erupted back into life, the log spat a spray of red and yellow sparks into the dimly lit room, reminding me that another Christmas had passed with no words from him.  I poured another drink, and stretched out on the sofa, offering up a toast to my past.

Megan was right; I couldn’t expect her to stay forever.

I sipped the wine, not really tasting it and watched the small dancing flames reinventing themselves, flaring up and then dying back. I tried recalling the sound of Laurence’s voice, the touch of his lips and warmth of his embrace.

With a sudden shudder, I woke.  The early morning sun leaked through a gap in the curtains, revealing the neglect that surrounded me. Among the detritus of discarded rubbish, dirty plates, and cold cups of tea that littered the dusty surfaces, my eyes settled on the collection of Christmas cards.  They reminded me how much love there was still in my life.   

I ran my tongue around my mouth trying to free it from the stale taste of the wine before I sat up.  Aware for the first time, I was still on the sofa. I rubbed my forehead and tried to remember the last time I had given the place a damn good clean.

A little unsteady, I stood, and kicked the empty wine bottle away. It rolled under the sofa as if it too was ashamed of what it had done. I staggered to the bathroom and splashed cold water onto my face. As I patted it dry with a musty smelling towel, I looked up.

The mirror above the sink revealed another unwelcome friend. She stared back at me with questioning grey eyes.

‘I know,’ I answered her. ‘I’ll take a shower.’

Stripping off, I stepped under the shower. The force of hot water took me back to the long hot summer when Laurence and I first met.  

I’d just turned sixteen and was on my first holiday without my parents. Tall, lanky, and unsure of myself, I stayed with my widowed, Aunt Iris. She belonged to a ramblers club.

One day as we waited outside a pub on the moors for the rest of the group to arrive, a tall, suntanned lad with fair hair and the brightest sky-blue eyes I had ever seen, joined us. As Laurence’s parents and my Aunt chatted together, he strode happily along beside me.

During that time, I learnt how passionate Laurence was about the untamed moors and the natural world around us.

‘Oh Sally, this landscape is so beautiful,’ he said as we followed the footpath ahead of the others. He would point out things of interest to me, from butterflies to flowers, stone circles, to circling buzzards.  Soon I realised I had a rival for his love, but I understood why he loved her so. 

I couldn’t compete with her wild beauty, but I acknowledged his passion. She wasn’t a selfish lover, sharing a deep sense of freedom with all who travelled her many footpaths and bridleways under a clear blue sky where the only sound heard was that of a skylark descending, with nothing around for miles, but a sea of grasses, heathers, gorse, and of course the sheep.

‘Never be deceived by her gentle beauty,’ Laurence warned me as we wandered along hand in hand.  ‘There’s many hidden dangers among her dips and hollows.’

After stepping out of the shower, I rubbed my hair dry and smirked into the mirror asking, ‘Why must all good things come to an end?’

It would’ve been far easier if he’d fallen sick and died, or even divorced me, but the sense of loss I suffered is too hard to bear.  Death is final. There are no ifs or buts. And, divorce, at least you can shout at them. With Laurence’s disappearance, there’s no body, no one to shout at, just many unanswered questions.

For years, Laurence and I had promised ourselves a winter holiday at the ‘Rambler’s Rest’ in Yorkshire, where our love first began. On Christmas morning, Laurence teased me awake. 

‘Are you awake, Sally?’ he whispered, running his fingertips down my chin, neck and between my breasts.

‘Please, Laurence,’ I mumbled sleepily, ‘allow me time to wake up first, my darling.’

He kissed my lips, parting them with his tongue.

‘Not that, my sweet, as nice as it is.’ He laughed and kissed me again. ‘Let’s go for an early morning walk.’

We wrapped up warm against the bitter, cutting winds and headed out.  Our footsteps the first to break the virginal snow as we set off as soon as it was light enough to see. By midday, we headed back.  The wind had dropped and the sun, though cold, was bright.

As we removed our boots in the utility room, Mrs Williamson popped her head round the door. ‘When you’re ready, please will you join me in my private dining room for Christmas dinner?”

‘Of course, we’d love too.’  After showering, Laurence and I got dressed up for the occasion. As I dried my hair, my husband commented on the falling snow.  

‘We got back just in time,’ he said as the snow obscured our footprints. 

‘Thank you for allowing us to join you,’ I said as Annie showed us to our seats.  

‘It’s my pleasure. So nice to share my last Christmas here with you both, especially as I’ve known you two for such a long time,’ she chuckled.

‘Your last Christmas?’ Laurence said, his fork hovering in midair.

‘Yes, since my husband passed away, my son suggested now would be a good time to put ‘Rambler’s Rest’ up for sale. The time has come for me to do something else. Travel maybe. ’

Laurence’s face lit up, and I knew what he was thinking.

‘I’m sure it’s a lot of hard work on your own.’ he said, putting down his fork.’

‘Oh it’s been worth it. I’ve enjoyed every day and will miss waking up to the wonderful views, and of course all my lovely guests. I hope whoever buys it enjoys the same life I’ve had living here.’  

No sooner than we had climbed into bed that night, Laurence hugged me tightly. ‘I’ve been thinking, Sally, isn’t it about time we followed our hearts and…’

I placed a finger on his lips. ‘I knew it…you want to take over ‘Rambler’s Rest’?’

He nodded, and kissed my fingertips. ‘Downsizing and escape city living will do us both the world of good and our daughter too.’ 

Before Annie handed over the keys to us, she explained, ‘being so isolated here, anyone caught out in bad weather finds out quickly it’s an unforgiving place. Be prepared for every occasion. Keep plenty of stores in as you can be cut off for months.’

‘Rambler’s Rest’ became a real family affair and a Mecca too for the dedicated walkers, who stay every year. During the summer months, some of Megan’s university friends helped us out to earn extra pocket money.

After a few mild winters, Annie’s warnings seemed unfounded until one bitter cold morning five years ago. If anyone had warned me what would’ve happened that day, I wouldn’t have believed it.

By late afternoon, it had warmed slightly. Busy in the kitchen sorting out evening meals for our guests, I had the radio on, checking the weather forecast.

‘The weather’s on the turn. The sky’s full of it.  Laurence said, coming in with a bucket of coal and an arm full of logs. His blue eyes shone bright as his cheeks and nose from the cold outside. ‘Hmm, it smells lovely in here.  You’re making me feel hungry.’

‘Have the Highsmiths returned yet?’ I asked, peering through the serving hatch into the dining room.

‘I haven’t seen them. The Roberts are in the lounge reading, and the Longmans went to get ready for dinner.’ Laurence said as he added some coal and another log to the range before emptying the rest of the coal into the box beside the burner.

‘I’m worried about the Highsmiths.’ I checked on the turkey.

‘I’m sure they’ll be back soon.’ He looked out the window, at the gathering storm clouds crossing the pale grey horizon.

‘I just hope so. Anyone can see there’s bad weather on the way.’

He gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘Stop worrying. The smell of your food will have them rushing back,’

I began loading the dishwasher. ‘They arrived with no all-weathers-gear and went out this morning wearing designer trainers. Being Londoners, they might think it’s like a stroll in Hyde Park on a winter’s day.’

‘I’ll go and have a word with the others. They might have seen them. Hopefully they’re keeping to the main paths.’

Laurence returned just as I was emptying the dishwasher, his face ashen.

‘What is it, love?’

‘The Roberts said they had seen them up by the old alum works.’

‘No, what were they doing up there.’

‘The Roberts told them to start heading back, but they wanted to finish exploring the works. What a pair of idiots!’ Laurence snapped. ‘I’d best go and see if I can find them. To make matters worse it’s snowing now, Sally.’  

‘Laurence, you can’t go on your own. It’s a good hour’s walk from here.’ I followed him through to the utility room.  

‘Hopefully, they’re heading back. Call the rescue team, and warn them. Let’s hope we don’t need them.’ He pulled on his hiking boots, waterproofs, and an insulated jacket before grabbing a survival backpack. On opening the back door, a blast of cold wind hit us. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he said and disappeared out into the swirling snowflakes.

With no last goodbye kiss, not even an ‘I love you.’ Laurence rushed off to look for the Highsmiths. I forced the door shut behind him, and hurried to make the call.

‘Roger, it’s Sally from Rambler’s Rest.  Laurence has gone to the old alum works to see if he can find two of our missing guests.  Yes, he knows the weather is closing in, but he didn’t want to leave them out there. Be careful Roger, I’ll see you soon.’  

After feeding the rest of guests and supplying hot drinks to some of the rescue party who arrived back tired, cold and unsuccessful in their search, I stood, by the window, hot chocolate in hand, as night drew in.  

Through the snow flurries, I saw a group of figures, little more than crude outlines, their heads down, battling against the wind, which was trying to erase them.  Once they crossed the threshold, I searched among the familiar faces unable to find Laurence.

The Highsmiths huddled together by a roaring fire, holding mugs of hot chocolate while through chattering teeth they thanked everyone for finding them. The rescuers stood round despondently, waiting for the storm to break so they could look for Laurence. After a week of searching, they finally had to call it off.  

After thanking them all, I went onto the snow driven moors and screamed out his name, begging for his return.

With Megan’s help, I focused on the business setting our loss to one side. With a bright smile, I sent my guests off hiking for the day, though secretly, I hoped that one of them would stumble upon Laurence’s backpack, mobile, or even a boot. Anything that would let us know what had become of him, but of course, they were here to enjoy their holidays, not to free me from my sadness.

The first winter without Laurence left me feeling like Catherine Ernshaw as I longed for the return of my Heathcliff. Sometimes, when I was preoccupied with cleaning, a flash of brilliant light would illuminate the room. Dashing to the window, I was sure I could see his familiar form striding across the flat, valley floor towards the stile that marked our boundary.

As he clambered over, he would give me a wave, his signal to have his glass of brandy ready by the roaring fire in the lounge to take the chill from his bones.

   

Now dressed, I jammed the wet towels in the washing machine, and noticed the calendar. Three months had passed since Megan went to America. She’s right about a change of scenery, though I’m not sure whether America is what I need right now.

 Outside, I hugged my coat to me. The sharp, cold air, takes my breath away as I stroll towards the stile. A sudden ‘kiew’ makes me look up.  Overhead a buzzard circles, soaring high against the white sky before disappearing from view.

‘Oh Laurence, my darling.’ I let my tears fall, knowing the time has come.

‘Kiew, Kiew,’ echoes across the icy landscape, pulling me out of my thoughts. Above the buzzard had returned, and with it, its mate.

As they circled, I acknowledged them, knowing that the moorland mistress has won. I whispered, ‘He’s yours to keep.’

I climb back over the stile, and see the signs of rebirth in the melting snow as blades of dull green with the drooping heads of snowdrops nodding gently in the cold breeze. They are the ones Laurence and I planted during our first spring here so long ago.

Maybe it was just my imagination, though I like to think its Laurence’s way of letting me know it is time for me to move on.

He may be lost to me, taken by the mistress of the moor, who has his heart, body and soul. Wherever Laurence’s final resting place is, he is not alone, with the buzzards, curlews, and the standing stones.

I hurry back to the warmth of the ‘Rambler’s Rest.’ Tomorrow, I shall wish Megan a happy New Year, and ask if she’s ready for a visit from her Mum.

Like snowflakes falling, I’ll take things one step at a time, and who knows where the future may lead me.