February 18, 2014

Really, Really Dreadful

Leila had been planning to do away with her neighbor for a while now. The woman was just awful, sweat pants and plastic shoes, gnomes in the garden, a wheezy, fat, smelly dog who wore a sweater and slobbered all over people’s legs. She really let down the village, it couldn’t go on. Summer was coming bringing visitors for the garden fete and the best kept village competition, and the big house open day. What would people think? Leila had removed several of the gnomes, and pepper sprayed the dog whenever she could, but the woman was still there.

Leila had desperately wanted her friend Monica to come into the village and live so conveniently next door with her sherry and her lovely meat pies which she never minded sharing.  So after that last dreadful coffee morning she had started her planning.

She had loved coffee mornings. The vicar’s wife, dear Sylvia, made excellent coffee and served delicious scones, and sometimes little sandwiches, and they played games at which she was quite good. Last month she had been forced to sit with her horrible neighbor so hadn’t been able to stash the sandwiches into her bag for lunch as she usually did. It would be such a relief not to have to suffer the woman, so loud and shrill, asking why they didn’t play Bingo. Bingo at the vicarage? She had to go. Leila made her plans.

 

Today she sat in her front window and watched her neighbor set off down the road to the bus stop. She worked a few days a week with the old people in a nursing home in town. Leila always watched for her to leave. Today was  Monday, that was a bonus, it meant that she could start her week ‘in the clear’ as she put it. She would have three days to conduct her life without the awful possibility of meeting her neighbor in the village shop or walking that horrible old dog on the green.

She gave herself a small sherry in celebration and set about her arrangements. First she carefully noted the time the woman had come out of her front door, so irritatingly close to her own, and then jotted down the clothes she had been wearing; her usual nylon work clothes that barely contained her plumpness and today since it was so mild out, a shaggy, stretched green cardigan instead of the awful puffer jacket she had worn all winter and the dreadful, really, really, dreadful, blue plastic shoes with little holes all over the top and pink tags on the heels. They would have to go.

Drawing her curtains over the front window so no one could see in and anyone would hesitate to knock, thinking she must be still asleep, Leila pulled on her boots and a pair of latex gloves and took her bottle of pepper spray.  She opened her backdoor and stepped out. Untidy shrubs and hedges marked the boundary on her neighbor’s side, the fence having long since fallen down.  Pulling back a bushy mess of forsythia she slipped into the neighboring garden. She took the key from inside the bird house on the kitchen wall and let herself in. The dog, ancient, fat and smelly was just beginning to tremble into wakefulness. She gave him a quick spray and he sank back into his basket without even a yip. And then she got busy.

She opened the refrigerator and took out butter and milk, setting them on the counter in the sun; she went in to the hallway and took the phone off its base; she went into the front sitting room and rumpled up the hearth rug and moved a small table away from its chair. Upstairs she used the toilet and didn’t flush, gathered up several dirty towels and turned the bath tap to drip.

In the main bedroom she smashed the glass on the wedding photograph and turned it face down on the bed –first pulling back the bed covers.  She picked up slippers and placed them on the stairs as she went back down, dropping the towels at the bottom.

There, that was enough for today, just enough to sow unease and doubt. Satisfied, back in her own house she took off her working gear, as she thought of it and dressed herself carefully; her best tweed skirt, a rather smart knitted jacket she had liberated from the bring and buy donations  last year, and her good shoes. She crossed the green and walked along the graveled path to the vicarage entrance. The coffee was good, and dear Sylvia had made delightful little sandwiches again; when no one was watching she wrapped several into her napkin and stowed them away in her bag, she could have them for supper. She helpfully carried the cups and saucers into the kitchen and liberated a bar of chocolate. Excellent, she would eat well tonight.

On Tuesday Leila got out her journal and recorded her neighbor’s leaving time and her outfit; today a blue plastic raincoat, it was showery, and wellingtons. From behind her curtains Leila watched as the woman turned to speak to her dog before closing the door. She seemed to be upset and there was a bruise on the side of her face. The slippers maybe, or the rug?  Good.

She pushed back the forsythia and slipped through.  She selected a handful of stones, from the graveled path, took the key out of the bird house and let herself into the kitchen. The old dog barely raised his head; he seemed more wheezy than usual and sank back into his basket when she sprayed him without a sound. Opening the fridge she liberated three nice brown eggs, a half packet of bacon and a bunch of radishes; she left the fridge door ajar. She turned the oven on and set it at warm.  In the sitting room she moved all the china ornaments from the mantelpiece to the window sill, and scratched the paint with the door key, she took a glass and two bottles of sherry out of the cabinet, tipping sherry on to the seat of the chair and leaving one bottle and the glass on the floor.  In the hallway she liberated a few pound coins from the change jar by the front door and replaced them with the stones.

Upstairs in the front bedroom she looked in the wardrobe, there were some men’s clothes hanging there; she took them down, folded them neatly and stowed them away under the bed in the second bedroom.  She moved the bedside rug to the top of the stairs. She went back down into the kitchen. She looked by the back door for the plastic shoes, but didn’t see them, she would have a better look tomorrow. The dog was breathing heavily and he didn’t move when she took down a shopping bag from the back door and put the eggs, bacon, and radishes and sherry into it.

On Wednesday she went to church early, really just a small prayer group, but there was the communion wine and often the doctor would invite the group back to her house for coffee and her husband would warm up a couple of quiches and there was usually fruit.  She always liberated a banana for her lunch. Sometimes the doctor gave her the last slices of quiche too, to take home, such a lovely woman. She looked for her neighbor at the bus stop as she crossed the green, but there was no sign of her.  Leila frowned, had the woman stayed home today? Had an accident on the stairs maybe? She wondered how she could find out. She entered the church and took her seat.

The doctor wasn’t at the prayer circle –“Been called out,” said one of the newer members, a social worker she was, and very interfering – she had actually asked Leila once if she ate enough, and if she was able to manage on her own – “it’s that neighbor of yours, fell downstairs, apparently, she seemed very confused, Claire’s called the ambulance, she’s over there now waiting with her.”

‘Claire’?  Who was she to call the doctor Claire?  Leila hardly listened to the prayers and the discussion, she was puzzled. Why hadn’t she seen the doctor coming to the next door cottage? She might have been caught.  Taking out her note book and she looked through the entries – yesterday – yes, she had noted the woman’s return, and when she took the dog out, she seemed all right then.  There was a note about her television; she had it on from eight thirty until after eleven, too loud as usual.  Then Leila had seen the lights come on in the bathroom at the back of the house, so she had opened her front door and, leaning over the wall between the gardens, plucked up another of the gnomes. Funny, there didn’t seem to be so many today. This one had a bottle of beer in one hand and a rake in the other and his pants hung much too low, really dreadful. Leila quickly wrote him into her journal, with the date and time. He was the third one she had taken. She put him in the cupboard under the stairs with the others.

The social worker was talking again. “Since Claire is held up why don’t you all come to me? I can do coffee and biscuits, and may be Claire will call with some news about Leila’s neighbor.”

The women followed her back to her house, one of the cottages behind the pub whose tenants seemed to come and go. Wasn’t this where that girl had lived, the one with the little dog and the awful tights?  Really dreadful, thank goodness she had left the village. Leila hadn’t had to work on her, though. She apparently just took herself off, when was that? Wasn’t it about the time that the parish councilor’s husband had taken a job far away?  Leila got out her journal to check – yes, here it was, that was back in September, just before the rash of break- ins.

The social worker was approaching with coffee. She handed the biscuits around and didn’t leave the plate out; irritating, no chance of liberating anything for lunch today. They were on a second round of biscuits when the doctor came back.

“She’s fine, just a bit of bruising and a sprained ankle – she is going to her daughter for a few days. But she seems to think that someone’s been in her house, taking things and poking about. Her ex husband she thought.”

“Rubbish,” said the social worker, “someone would have seen him hanging about, and what has she to take anyway? There’s nothing of value in that poky little place. “

There was a silence.

“I’ll get you some fresh coffee, Claire.” The social worker hurried off into the kitchen. Leila looked at her in amazement, where was her professional cool manner now? She seemed quite rattled. She followed her into the kitchen.

“Can I help?”

“Oh, yes I …  yes,  just pass the sugar would you? Need to top up the bowl.”

Leila looked around for the sugar.

“On the counter.”

The sugar container sat on the counter next to a jolly gnome, the one with the pipe.  On the floor next to the back door, surely those were blue plastic shoes that she had so despised on her neighbor… with the absurd tags … in fact the self-same shoes.

December 4, 2013

The Christmas Miracle

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Jilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘What’s Christmas?

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘What’s Christmas?

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘What’s Christmas?

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘What’s Christmas?

 

 

 

 

 

The Christmas Miracle

The wireless was playing that song again “…away… away in a manger,” Jilly listened, who was away, who had gone away?  Then it played the little drummer boy song, “… par rump a pum pum, me and my drum.”

“Mummy, why has the little boy gone away?”

Mummy was cleaning the brass candle stick that had lived in Granny’s house, “… rub a dub dub, par rump a pum pum,” she sang

“What little boy?” she asked

“The little boy, he’s gone away, and he doesn’t have anything to bring, was he naughty?”

“Oh, Jilly, that is the little drummer boy in the song, he wants to bring a gift to Jesus, in the manger, it’s just a Christmas song.”

“Is it Christmas now?”

Daddy put down his newspaper, “No, that’s just a superstitious celebration” he said crossly, snapping off the wireless, “and we won’t be doing Christmas in this house”

Jilly looked at him, Daddy was sometimes scary. He had only recently come home from the WAR, very handsome in his smart blue uniform, but it was uncomfortable having him around. He took up all Mummy’s time, and shouted and got very cross if things weren’t right. Now he was cross about Christmas. Usually they went to Granny’s for Christmas dinner; once they had chicken and little sausages. Jilly loved the little sausages, and the bread sauce, and sometimes the aunties made mince pies – Jilly didn’t like those, but the grown-ups did, and after the mince pies Granny got out her knitting and they told stories and sang songs and shared little presents. That was Christmas she thought, the aunties and Mummy and Granny and Jilly, cozy together round the fire. All the men were away at the War, in their blue and brown uniforms, they didn’t bother Christmas; but now it was going to be different.

“Well, aren’t we going to have chicken,” she asked, “and little sausages?”

Daddy shook his paper and growled, Mummy put the candle stick back on the mantelpiece, “We’ll see,” she said, “why don’t you run outside and play with Sheila and Betty?”

Sheila and Betty were playing on the wall, balancing along it, singing ‘Away in a manger’, Jilly joined them, “Who went away,” she asked, “was it the little boy?”

“Don’t you know anything?” said Betty, “No one went away, someone came, to save the world … Baby Jesus,”

“And everyone brought him gifts,” said Sheila, “they followed the star and brought him gifts, but the little drummer boy didn’t have anything to bring so he just brought himself. Did you put your tree up yet?

 

“What tree?”

“For the gifts”, said Betty, “and the star, ours is up, come and see.”

In Betty’s house the couch was pushed back along the wall and a big green pine tree was standing in the corner, it had a star on the top, but nothing else was on it.

“We are going to decorate it tonight,” said Betty, “with paper chains and silver tinsel, and candles”

“We have a candle,” said Jilly, “on the mantelpiece, Mummy polished it today, it’s all shiny, for Christmas.”

“Well, do you have your tree up?” asked Sheila, “Our daddy is bringing ours tonight.”

Jilly didn’t want to be left out so she said, “Ours is coming tonight too”, and she ran home to ask her Mummy about the tree and the star. At home Mummy was talking to Daddy in the kitchen, Jilly could hear them mumble, mumble, mumble… she looked around the living room, there was not much space, but maybe if she rearranged the chairs they could put a tree in front of the window. She began to drag the chairs across the room, the rugs bunched up and it was hard work. She knocked over the big lamp and Mummy came in,

“Jilly, what are you doing?”

“Making room for the Christmas tree,” said Jilly, “Betty and Sheila have got theirs already.”

Daddy growled, “There’ll be no tree in this house, I told you we don’t do Christmas.”

Gilly was sad, she helped Mummy pull the rugs straight and put the chairs back. “I really wanted a tree,” she said, “and Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy.

The next day Jilly went to play with Katherine and Patricia across the street. They showed Jilly their crèche. Jilly looked at the little wooden figures, made from smooth, nice smelling wood. She wanted to play with the dear little donkey and the sheep, but Katherine and Patricia said the crèche wasn’t to play with, it was special, it told the Christmas story; they showed her Joseph and Mary and the kings on their camels coming with their gifts, and the shepherds standing at the back.

“Where is Jesus?” asked Jilly.

“He hasn’t come yet,” said Katherine.

Their Mummy was busy baking, mince pies she said, and stuffing ready for a turkey and bread sauce with onions. It all smelled delicious.

“Hello, Jilly,” she said, “Have you got your stocking ready?”

“What stocking?” said Jilly.

Katherine and Patricia screamed, “Your stocking, silly, for Father Christmas to put presents in, tonight, it’s Christmas Eve. We are going to church and then when we come home we are going to put Baby Jesus in the crib, and hang our stockings on our beds, and Father Christmas will come in the night and put presents in our stockings.”

“Jilly said “That’s stupid, no one can come in your house in the night, and anyway my Daddy says we don’t do Christmas.”

“He comes down the chimney,” said Katherine, “and everyone does Christmas round here.”

Jilly went home, Mummy and Daddy were having a cup of tea, there were no cooking smells, no tree or star.  It wasn’t very cheerful in her house.

“When shall I hang my stocking up?” she asked.

“What’s this about a stocking?” said Daddy, and he looked cross again.

“For Father Christmas,” said Jilly, “to put presents in, he comes in the night down the chimney.”

“We’re having no flying saints in this house, and no tree, no star, nothing, we don’t do Christmas, do you hear me?” and he thumped the table and stamped off into the kitchen. Mummy went after him and Jilly could hear them, mumble, mumble, mumble ….

She played by herself in the living room, with her cut out dolls; she made them a tree out of newspaper and a star out of a shiny sweet paper she had been saving. She told them about Christmas; Jesus came to save the world, she knew that must be right because the big War was over and the daddies had come home, so the world was safe now; and Father Christmas would be able to come. Perhaps he hadn’t come before because the world was a bad world. Now he could bring presents, and put them in the stockings.

Mummy came in, “Come on, Jilly, time for your tea, and then bed – it’s getting quite dark already.”

Jilly picked up her dolls, “Never mind,” she told them, “it probably couldn’t really happen anyway.”

Later after her bath and a story Mummy tucked Jilly into bed, “Here,” she said, “let’s put this on the end of the bed.” She gave Jilly a long white woolen stocking.

“That’s Daddy’s,” said Jilly, “out of his big flying boots. Won’t he be cross? He said no Christmas.”

“We’ll see,” said Mummy, “you never know, maybe there will be a miracle.”

“What’s a miracle,” said Jilly

“Something amazing that happens that you can’t explain.” said Mummy. She kissed Jilly goodnight and went out. Jilly snuggled down in bed, Mummy had spread Daddy’s greatcoat over the bed to keep her warm; she liked to think of the greatcoat flying high in the sky with Daddy in the airplanes. She pretended it was a magic coat that it would take her to Father Christmas, where ever he was.

Drifting into sleep she could hear mumble, mumble, mumble in the kitchen, and then the back door rattled and someone wiped his feet on the raspy mat, who was that? ‘Away in a Manger’ floated in her head and something rustled and crinkled on the bed, was it the magic coat bringing her back?

“Wake up, Jilly, wake up!” That was Mummy.  Jilly sat up and looked for her dressing gown on the end of the bed…… what was this, the flying stocking had grown fat and lumpy in the night and it rustled and crinkled when she moved.

Mummy came in, “Well, well,” she said laughing, “he’s been, aren’t you going to look inside?”

Jilly carefully pulled out the rustling parcels. There was a red notebook just like the one Mummy kept her shopping lists in, which Jilly wasn’t allowed to write in… and two lovely long shiny pencils, whole pencils, not stumpy broken ones … there was a book, Alice in Wonderland, it had beautiful colored pictures of animals and a little girl with long fair hair, Jilly had seen the same book in Granny’s house, but no one would read it to her, they were too busy … now she had her own … and what was this squishy package?  Mittens, striped green and brown, the same colors as the jumper Grandma had been knitting for her. She put them on, then opened the next package, it was hard and it had a funny smell … inside was a red and gold wrapper, chocolate?  Only the soldiers and airmen were given chocolate, Jilly had only ever tasted one piece, now she had a whole bar …

“Keep going,” said Mummy, and down at the very toe of the stocking were some hard little lumps, nuts, and a big sweet smelling thing wrapped in tissue paper … an orange…

Jilly grabbed up all the packages and ran into the living room. It was warm and cosy with the smell of bacon and hot toast. The brass candlestick glowed on the mantelpiece.  Daddy was sitting in his big chair by the fire, with a cup of tea, he didn’t seem so cross today.

“It’s Christmas, Daddy, it’s Christmas and look, Father Christmas came! Did you let him in?”

“I don’t know anything about Father Christmas,” said Daddy smiling, “you’d better ask your mother.”

“It must be a miracle,” said Jilly.

“Yes,” said Mummy, “a Christmas miracle, especially for you,” and she smiled at Daddy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘What’s Christmas?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November 27, 2013

Runa’s Song

Runa’s Song

Something in the air, something astir, something creaking and settling, a sadness in the house, fear buried in the walls,  ….not now, not now, but then, once it was … once long ago.

Runa felt the fear even where she was, hidden behind boards in the wall space beside the chimney. She couldn’t see them, but she heard the pounding of hooves as soldiers came thundering up the track, she heard the clatter of swords striking the walls, and stabbing the thatch, she smelled the fire as they tossed brands onto the roof. She heard her brothers cursing, dragging down the burning thatch and emptying buckets over the smoldering cottage and bothy.

“Mam, Mam,”
“You’ll stay there,” said her mam, “until they’ve gone from here, stay quiet now, not a peep, or it will be the worse for you.”

So Runa wound her shawl over her head and crouched against the chimney. The swearing and shouting went away, maybe the soldiers were only going after the cattle in the pens; last time they had only taken  cattle and left the cottages alone. Runa had peered out from the tiny attic window then, to see them; tall soldiers in their uniforms, driving the cattle ahead and ignoring the curses called down on their heads by the old women, her mam among them. But bold Mairead had ignored Mam’s orders to stay hidden and ran after them, tossing her red hair, catching the bright coins thrown down by a young officer, following the horses for more.  And then she hadn’t come back. For three days she was missing. It was Dom who found her under the bracken on the hill, caked in mud, her shawl torn and her skirts wet and bloody.  He brought her home wrapped in his plaid and they buried her that night by the stunted oak, right under the wall of the cottage.

“She’ ll know we’re here,” said Mam, “we’ll tell your da she took the grippe, you hear me now, you boys, he’d never stand the shame.”

“He’ll never come back to know it,” growled Dom, “he’s long gone out of here, probably away across to Ireland by now; it’s us has to bear the shame.” His younger brother, Finn nodded, “But they’ll be back looking for him, that’s for sure, they have him for a rebel and a leader, they won’t let us rest.”

After that Runa was hidden in the wall space all the time.  The soldiers had thundered past several times; it was said they had been chasing off families in the next valley, there were shouts and cries and the wild keening of the women and she smelled the burning; and then there was silence.

“Mam, mam!”

“Haven’t  I told you to be silent, there’s soldiers all around yet, be still now, I’ll let ye out for a wee while tonight .”

Late, late into the night Mam pulled back  the boards and Runa crept in to the room;  it had a cold desolate feel;  Mam had only a tiny fire going, the smallest pot nestled in the ashes, oatmeal simmered,  “ No noise now, I’m letting the fire go down, I’ll not light it again, if they come by they’ll think we’re gone, they look for the smoke from the chimneys Dom says.”

Runa ate her oatmeal, and took a sip of the whisky Mam produced from her pocket. She turned the little silver flask in her fingers, “That’s Da’s, where is he Mam, will he ever come for us?”

“Dom and Finn say he’s away to the coast, they’ve gone to get news of him. It’s bad all round, fields burned, crops stolen, women taken.”

“Can’t we go to after them? “

Mam was shocked. “And leave Mairead all alone here, no one to hear her, keen with her, are ye daft girl?”

Runa said no more. Very late when black clouds hid the sliver of moon she stole out to the necessary. A grey shroud hung over the valley where she had lived since she was born; the threadbare silhouettes of trees stood barely visible against the hill. A goat tied nearby bleated plaintively and an owl swept past on silent wings. An omen? She shivered superstitiously then hurried back inside. Mam packed her away in the wall space and gave her another old shawl and a napkin of bannocks.

“Stay there now, whatever you hear, not a peep out of you, be a good girl, here take the flask too, I’ll not leave it for those bastards.”

“But where will you be Mam?”

Right here in my chair where I always am, with my knitting, waiting for your da.”

 

A sleety cold rain set in rattling against the door, and the wind rose and whipped the burn into frenzy, she could hear the water leaping against the stones. Runa crouched in the wall space, sipping from the flask and singing with Mairead; only she and Mam could ever hear Mairead and only she ever saw Mairead.  Sometimes she was a bedraggled grey shape, and sometimes like now she was her old bright self, tossing her red hair and rushing on ahead. “Come with me, Runa.”

But Runa couldn’t leave, she was waiting for Da. When the soldiers came again with their swords and their fire she shrank down in the wall until they had gone away. Other folk too came, over time; she heard  laughter, or crying, or singing and  the clear, bright chatter of children.  And still Runa waited. Mam’s shawl unraveled, and her skirts, wet and soiled, disintegrated under her, the flask fell onto the floor boards.

When  the wall was opened they found Runa. And that night Mairead came again for her and this time Runa would to go with her. The children saw them twist away into the evening. They waved their little hands and sang the songs they had heard on the nights when Mairead came for Runa.

– The End

November 4, 2013

Burglar Bess

Burglar Bess

 

She had always wanted to be a burglar, a stalwart striped jumper, salt of the earth classic burglar, bundling the silver salt cellars into his sack, like Burglar Bill in the old children’s book.   Or a sleek black clad cat burglar, impossibly shinning up the facades of luxury hotels in search of fabulous jewels.  Even a country house burglar, stealing in through the conveniently unlocked conservatory and making off with priceless paintings. She had no patience with your modern burglar; all messy break in and bust up, snatching credit cards, phones and laptops. No skills there and such soulless possessions. No, she wanted the polished undetected entry into a different world.

She would be a thorn, something pricking here and there, “Darling have you seen my pearls?”  “Wherever did that woman put the silver candlesticks, I can’t find them anywhere?”  “Why did you change these pictures?”  Oh yes, something to upset the apple cart.  Let’s see what they are really like, the colonel and his lady, sir and madam, all those sleek suits in the money world, behind the lies and the cover stories.  Was she muttering, it didn’t do to mutter, she looked around the tables, but no one was paying her any attention. Most of them were chewing their way through frightful plates of starch and fat; she nibbled modestly at her smoked salmon sandwich, and sipped her tea. She needed to make it last, this was her one free time, a weekly afternoon trip to town; a visit to the library, pick up a few groceries and tea in the supermarket coffee shop. She had left Harris with his minder, the next door neighbor who came in and watched a sports program with him. They had a beer and the neighbor, what was his name, Don, Ron whatever, would take Harrison to the loo and give him his tea.  It was worth the few pounds.

She sipped her tea, looking around, there, there was one of them, wafting down the wine aisle; Jennifer something from the house up on the lane, not far from the bus stop; one of the new money lot, all show and no substance.  Braying  away at her friend, something about going to the village concert that night, “Got to support the locals, you know. Why don’t you come along, John’s away, we can go back to the house for a glass of wine afterwards.”

The friend laughed, “We’ll need it, they’re bound to be frightful, see you there then, six, did

you say?” They moved off. She finished her tea and pocketing a few brown sugars and two or three unused napkins, she slowly gathered her things together and made her way thoughtfully to the exit.

 

The bus was crowded, standing room only, she was jammed between two scruffy,sweaty young men, bragging of their exploits with girls. She shuddered; no finesse, no polish.  The bus grumbled its way into the village and came to a stop by the war memorial. A handful of people struggled to the exit including the two young men. The taller red head, retrieved a long case from the luggage space and  turned to give her a helping hand down the steep step “OK, Gran?” he winked and followed his friend into the pub.  “Don’t often see that,” commented a woman behind her, Mrs. Holt from the shop, “most of the young have no manners. I wonder what they are doing here; we don’t often see that type thank goodness. I hope they won’t be at the concert and cause a ruckus. Are you coming?”

“No,” she said, “Harris you know, can’t really leave him.”

“Shame, oh well, ‘bye then.”

She walked along the road, Jennifer’s house, a modern build, all windows and gimmicks, a real fright, stood  at the top of its steep, graveled driveway set back from the row of bungalows, fronting on the lane, away from the village. She walked past and turned and came back again to her own gate, number four, where she and Harris existed. She looked back again, it would be possible to reach the back of the house on the lane by going through the back gardens of the bungalows. She felt a shiver of excitement, people would be at the concert, John was away, the couple had no dogs, serve them right if someone, her, was to slip across the gardens and into the house by the laundry room door, which she knew didn’t lock because Ron, Don who ever, had said he was going to fix it for Jennifer tomorrow.

 

Ron, Don who ever, opened the front door as she came up the path, “There you are, did you have a good shop then? We’ve been fine, he’s had his tea and we watched the footie, he got a bit excited so I gave him his pill, a bit early I know, but he’s dozing now so he’ll be all right for you this evening.”

He was a good soul, Ron, Don, “Thanks so much, it is such a help, my escape afternoon.”

“You could escape tonight, and come to the concert with Peg and me. He’ll not get restless now, if we get him into bed, he’ll be fine.”

“Oh, thank you, but I have things to do, and I really wouldn’t feel right leaving him. No, I’ll be fine.”

She watched him hop over the little brick wall between the front gardens and saw Peg open the door for him.  She went into the house. Harris was slumped in the big chair, breathing noisily. She pushed a stool under his feet and covered him with a rug. He didn’t move. The evening loomed ahead, boring, deadly, drab.

 

She hung up her coat, slipped off her good town shoes and  went into the bedroom, might as well get comfortable; she pulled on her old sweat pants, only used for gardening, and its companion sweater.

Sitting up on the bed she helped herself to a generous sherry from the bottle in the bedside cabinet and looked out across the yard to the windows of the house on the lane. The upper ones were lit, visible through the dusk, must be the bedroom and the bathroom, and the big one was the landing. She watched for a long time, a figure moved from window to window, Jennifer dolling herself up to astound the natives. A light went on in a downstairs window, the kitchen? Jennifer putting out the wine? The upstairs lights went off except for the landing, and another brighter light showed on the side of the house, an outside light, the laundry room entrance?

 

Harris snored on. She pushed her feet into boots and stepped past him through the French windows.  She crossed the garden and pushed through the hedges, sidling along them in the quiet and damp until she reached the fallen fences that marked the end of the big house property. She brought herself up to the laundry room and tried the door, open, she went in. The beginning sounds of the concert floated through the night air.

 

Some days later Jennifer and John had a huge row over the amount of whisky Jennifer had apparently consumed while John was away, “Three bottles Jen? And why is all the cash missing from my dresser, drawer? I want answers.”

 

She heard all about it in the supermarket café the next week.  Jennifer and her friend were reliving the row at the next table; her friend’s opinion was that Jen should leave. “Life’s too short Jen, what about that lovely violin guy you were talking to at the concert, he was giving you the eye all right.”

“That was just flirting” said Jen, “John can’t expect me to live like a nun while he goes off on these trips.”

Her friend giggled, “Not much nun like about you. Hey look isn’t that him now?”

The red headed young man from the bus was strolling up the biscuits and sweets aisle towards them. He caught her eye, “OK Gran?”

She smiled “Very OK, young man.”

 

Harris muttered and Ron, his name was Ron, held the whiskey glass to his lips. Harris obediently swallowed his pill with the whiskey. “Good chap,” said Ron, sipping from his own glass; Great stuff she kept, who would have known and quite a little looker too for a Gran; yes, there might be something here for him eventually.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

September 20, 2013

In The Cloud ⁰

 

In The Cloud

She was at her place early for once; even the Big Man wasn’t around.  Better be careful though, he always seemed to know everything that was going on and had an annoying habit of appearing from nowhere. She’d been nearly caught out a few times.

Anyway he wasn’t here now. She sat down at her station, plugged into her machine and picked up her head set. The image on the big screens in front of her loomed up and swirled into focus; the accompanying data stream hiccupped a few times and began its chatter. OK, where were we today?  Northern location, pretty built up and already the signals were darting on the screen hopping from one location to another like the peripheral vision test she’d had to take once – a lifetime ago. Must be motorways, they were the worst. You would think with a straight way ahead, and enough signs there would be no problem, but no, there would always be some lesser intelligence trying to outwit her. Well today she wasn’t going to stand for it. She had never asked for this assignment, really she had wanted something challenging with more action, extreme climate, maybe. She always fancied hurricanes, but at her test she had confused the pressure bars, and they had given her this. No worries they had said, it’s all programmed, you just have to synchronize the signals with the data feed, if you get the blue light enter the keyboard code for alternate choice, the program will reorient itself; you don’t need to do anything  complicated, just capture the signals on your screen and click the mouse. If anything gets too complicated the Big Man will step in and clear it up.

She clamped on the headset and snagged an outlier signal, the data screen gave a jerk, displaying its bizarre set of references –good she hadn’t messed anything up – through her head set she could hear Max’s soothing voice instructing the driver to stay left for an upcoming exit and then merge right.

Must have been a woman driving, it usually was when it was Max leading. They would do everything he said, docile as sheep. It was the men who were a problem, some of them never followed the commands. Oops, she nearly missed that snag, OK though, the data screen wobbled, but integrated with the signal just in time. She managed to get through the next hour and was just relaxing into the rhythm of it when her headset picked up assertive instructions in a woman’s voice and at the same time a signal pulsed vigorously on her screen; she skipped the snag and the data feed stopped for an instant- in that window of time she knew she could hear the lesser intelligences in the car if she dialed up the locator in her head set; it was a game she had discovered and sometimes it was quite funny – lone women talking dirty to Max, children parroting the instructions and frustrated drivers cursing. She had never been caught but she had a feeling that if the Big Man ever found out he would wreak havoc. There was a story in the cloud that he had once overheard a weather girl who hadn’t done her prep work, forecasting mild snow flurries and he had been so angered that he had blanketed the whole region in major snowfall for three days.  The weather girl had been ‘reassigned’. No one quite knew what that meant but there was a rumor it was a back in time thing.

 

She tried for the snag again but missed, so she dialed up her head set and listened. A male lesser was arguing with the commands. He seemed to have a female with him who was begging him to just follow through and get off the motorway so they could re orient but he was having none of it. The blue light showed so she entered the alternate choice code. She peered at the screen and zoomed in, the car icon was stalled and she could hear the driver arguing north and south with his female, he was being very abusive and using a good few beepable words.  She knew she shouldn’t but the temptation was too much; she reinstalled the direction feed, using a fall back code she had devised herself, and then snagged the signal. The car icon began to move and the headset talk died back, she redialed her correct locator and watched the screen. The car turned and looped crazily on and off the motorway, passing the hideously looming Angel of the North sculpture four times, twice in a northerly direction and twice in a southerly. Good, serve him right, these lesser intelligences should learn to take instruction, there would be far less trouble in the world if they followed directions.

Break time; she set the ‘searching for satellite’ notice and left her station. She longed for a cappuccino but of course that wasn’t on offer up here. You were supposed to go to the conscience café and do some soul searching and spiritual soothing, but she wasn’t up for that today, maybe she would just drift around the hub and see what new folk were being taken up.

 

From out in the amorphous swathes of time the Big Man became aware of a ripple of discomfort.  What now? He checked his focus and bore down on a superb motorway tie up; all ready he could feel the desperate pleas for help coming his way, he could almost hear the rattle of beads and the St. Christophers dancing on the dash boards.  It must be that new satellite navigation woman, she was trouble from the start, arguing about her placement, arguing – with Him! Time for damage control or his credibility was gone. Swiftly he brought a woman into labor and directed a doctor to her help; wait, he redirected, make it a woman doctor from an immigrant group. He cleared the skies for the news helicopters and dialed up a few of his mercy crew on the ground to get involved. Excellent.

 

Now for the trouble maker. He located her floating around the hub, interfering with the intake. Where to put her? Send her back? Sometimes he did that, if there was a faith gap that needed strengthening. What was it she had demanded? Extreme climate? So shall it be.

 

Out on the prairie the wagons had slowed, black clouds had been building all day and now the temperature dropped and a fierce wind was blowing snow squalls over the canvas.

“Pull round, pull round,” shouted the leader, “we’ll wait it out, it will blow itself out by morning.”

From the third wagon back, driven by a young woman, on her own with a ragged bunch of kids, came a cry,

“Keep on, there’s a settlement ahead, we can reach it, just follow the trail until we reach the river, then go along, we can make it.”

“Would you listen to her,” scoffed the leader, “it’s because of her we’re here now, we lost way too much time following her directions last time. Take no notice of her.”

 

He was pleased; he increased the snow to a blizzard and blotted out the trail forward, two or three days should do it. Next time she came up there would be no arguing.

August 13, 2013

Back in Time ⁰

 

“It’s been raining since Glasgow,” grumbled Vicky, “rain, rain, rain, and it’s so cold, probably be snowing in a minute and we’ll freeze to death. ‘Car found with four frozen Americans’, it’ll be in all the papers, you’ll be sorry you made us come, Dad.”

“Not if he’s frozen,” said her little brother, Ewan. “That’s enough,” Mother said coming to life; she hadn’t spoken a word since they had set off from the airport, driving perilously on the wrong side of the road, “do stop complaining Vicky, we’re all tired and cold not just you, and we’re almost there; look, that’s the sign for the ferry.”

“Wow,” said Ewan, “two languages, look, can you say that Dad?”

“Failte, welcome,” said Dad, “That’s Gaelic, my granny spoke Gaelic, she wouldn’t speak a word of English, ever.”

“Why not?” asked Vicky.

“That’s a long history,” replied Dad, “the cousins will tell you, lots of stories to tell around the fire, we’re going to have such a great Christmas.”

Dad maneuvered the car down the rattling ramp and onto the ferry. They were the only car. Hail rattled on the deck, and mixed with rain to slide through the scuppers.

“Only five minutes, said Dad, seeing Mother biting her lips, closing her eyes at each lurch of the vessel, as it pulled away from the dock,  “then a few miles up the road and we’re there.  I can’t wait to see Tarbet House again, you’ll fall in love with it Ellie, it’s the real thing, built in the seventeen hundreds.”

Mother shivered and pulled her scarf down over her face, “As long as it’s warm, and there’s a kettle.” Dad laughed and held her hand, “I promise you the kettle.”

On the other side of the loch a sudden squall of snow blotted out the old inn crouched opposite the landing place, and a curtain of rain and hail swept over the boat to hide the dock buildings on the shore  behind them. The afternoon had faded away.. They were in no man’s land thought Vicky, between present and past. This trip back to Dad’s childhood home where his granny had been housekeeper, and his father a stock hand, better be worth it. She and Ewan had grown up with tales of the ‘Big House’; the bustle of the farm and stalking parties, great gatherings of relatives, the romance of the Highlands and mystery of Dad’s mother who was never mentioned in the stories, or at home.

The ferryman, staggering cheerfully toward them, took Dad’s fare, “You’re lucky, this’ll be the last ferry.  You have a good night now,” he called as he lowered the ramp and watched them drive off.

A few scraggy sheep trotting in the road turned their ghostly yellow eyes to watch as Dad drove carefully past them.  There were no houses, no other cars, nothing moved in the fields and on the hills, now covered with drifting snow and the shadows of night.

“Watch for the house sign,” said Dad, “on the right, coming up after the bend, if we see the post box we’ve gone too far.”

“Watch for their Christmas lights,” said Ewan, “they will have lights won’t they?”

But there were no lights. They saw the house sign, drooping from its chain, at the last minute and the car skidded as Dad made the turn and bumped up a rutted, stony drive way. The house was in darkness, no lights showed in the farm buildings behind it. Dad pulled up, and he and Mother got out of the car.

 

“The cousins were supposed to be here before us,” he said, “they were going to get the house opened up and they were bringing the Christmas dinner, venison.”

“Probably the weather held them up too,” said Mother, “how do we get in? I can’t see a thing where’s the door? Turn the car, we can see with the headlights.”

The headlights showed the long stone house wall, tall shuttered windows and a solid, black, wooden door.  Dad pushed and pulled at the door, rattling the handle. The wind wailed sadly round the house corners; no one answered Dad’s knocking.

Vicky and Ewan got out of the car, “We’re hungry and it’s freezing, can’t we go to a hotel or something?” said Vicky.

“We could go back to the one by the ferry,” said Ewan, “maybe they will have burgers.”

“Maybe we should,” said Mother, “and try again tomorrow, obviously there is no one here, they must have got held up.”

Dad turned the car again and crept down the icy drive; out on the road the snow was blowing hard now and packing under their wheels, the car barely moved, slipping sideways when Dad tried to accelerate.

“It’s no good,” said Dad, “I don’t want to get stuck in a ditch.”

“Look out!” shouted Mother, “Sheep!”

Three sheep reared up from the road edge in front of them, blundering into the car.  Dad wrenched the wheel and the car spun around, and slid into a stone wall with a crump.  The sheep trotted off into the snowy darkness as the engine died.

“Now what?” asked Vicky, “can you get it going again?”

But the car refused to start and the snow was turning to icy needles, stinging their faces, rattling on the car roof as they got out and stood looking at it.

“That’s it, said Dad, “we’ll just have to go back to the house, there must be a way in, maybe I can get in through the pantry window somehow, it always used to be left on the latch.”

“Bring your back packs,” said Mother, grabbing her overnight bag, “we’re not coming out again in this weather.” She hugged Ewan, “It’ll be fine, we can make a fire, and the cousins will be here tomorrow, I’m sure.”

They trudged back to the driveway; two milk churns stood at the entrance, “Funny,” said Vicky,

“I didn’t notice them before, and where’s the sign?”

“Come on Vicky, don’t hang about, it’s too cold.” Dad and Mother pushed on, pulling Ewan between them. Vicky followed. She smelled wood smoke, or a pipe? Impossible. She looked around, wasn’t that a glimmer of light? There to her right, coming from the shuttered windows? She hurried forward.

Ewan was leaning against the wall, “Dad and Mother have gone round the back,” he said, “to break in.”

Vicky hardly heard him, she was looking at the window, there was a light, there behind the shutter.  She turned around, sheep bleated from the barn and a cow mooed a reply. What.. ? She turned again, pulling Ewan to her. Now she heard the clatter of a busy kitchen. Was it the cousins playing tricks?

She knocked on the black door.  Someone was coming. The door creaked slowly open. An old woman holding a candle aloft looked at her. She pulled her shawl tight across her chest, speaking in her own language.“So yer back and you brought the boy.”  She spat on the ground. “Well, yer not welcome, English, and yer not stopping.”

The door shut in Vicky’s face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 13, 2013

Back in Time ⁰

August 5, 2013

The Coffee Wars ⁰

 

Francine opened her eyes hearing the last chimes of the clock on the landing. What time was it four, five?  She looked over to the other bed, Art was on his back, snoring.  She braced herself for the gagging gasp which usually woke him, but not yet, she didn’t want him awake yet. Reaching across to the other bed she poked him sharply, “Ahhh,” he mumbled, get off, dog!”  It was years since they had a dog, he was really going off.

She checked the bedside clock’s big numbers, five o’clock, good, clambered out of bed, and staggering a bit until her knees kicked in, set off for the kitchen, time to get the coffee on.  Carefully she measured the grounds, half caff, half decaff, and the water, up to the five cup mark. Excellent, she could down one now and still have two cups with Art for breakfast. She hid the decaff container behind the cleaning equipment under the sink; don’t want him finding that she said to herself.  She took her blue and yellow mug, threw in an illicit sugar lump and a splash of milk and carried her coffee out into the garden. She strolled down to the bench by the garden shed.   One quarter, three quarters last week, half, half this week; maybe if she could go on cutting his caffeine down gradually, Art would relax a bit. Maybe she would borrow their daughter’s dog for a while, that was supposed to be calming. She would tell him Jane had gone away for a few weeks, or, no, that would make him too anxious, where, when, arrangements, no, too busy at work, that would do, for a while anyway.  She leaned back on the bench and shut her eyes. Bliss, no anxious questioning, no fretting over arrangements and times, just the birds twittering gently in the bushes, and the soft, quiet, damp feel of another morning.

The smell of brewed coffee drifted up the stairs and woke Art.  He sat up quickly, it must be late, had he slept in?  Impossible, he had secreted his alarm under his pillow so he could be up first and make the coffee. Now Francine must have made it, but what time was it for goodness sake? He checked the watch, five thirty? He looked over to the other empty bed. What was she doing up at five thirty and making coffee?  Was she back in his work schedule when they had to get up at five and she would have his coffee ready for him in his red travel mug? She was really going off.  He went downstairs into the kitchen, yes there was the coffee, he snatched up the pot and sniffed the brew suspiciously, just as he thought too weak. Francine always made it too weak. Coffee should be strong, robust, and full flavored.  Irritably he poured away the pot and filled the coffee maker with water again to the four cup mark.  Bending stiffly and groping under the counter where the pans were stored he pulled out his Robusto packet and measured generous scoops into the filter basket.  Then he replaced the packet in its hiding place and placed their regular coffee from the refrigerator on the counter. Where was Francine anyway? He checked the bathroom and the utility room, no Francine. Really, what could she be doing at this time in the morning?  Had she gone to fetch the paper at the bottom of the driveway, forgetting that they didn’t take the paper anymore? She forgot a lot these days, that’s why she should be drinking coffee as he made it, good and strong, “They say coffee is a neurological organizer.”

“Who says?” asked Francine coming in the back door, “What are you doing up so early? Did you think it was a work day again?”

“I only did that once.” he answered crossly, “and anyway where were you? Did you go to get the paper? And why are you up so early?

“Art, we don’t take the paper anymore – you stopped it, remember?  I was just in the garden, drink your coffee and relax.”

Art poured the coffee and drank his; Francine sipped hers, “Ugh,” she said, “why do you make it so strong? We might as well have breakfast since we’re up. Aren’t you playing golf today?”

“Hayden is picking me up at ten o’clock, plenty of time. Finish your coffee while I get ready.”

Francine waited until she heard the shower running then she poured away a third of the coffee in the pot and added hot water. She laid out the breakfast, yogurt, muesli and fruit and two slices of whole wheat for Art. She poured herself half a cup of the new weaker coffee and sat down at the breakfast counter.

Art came back dressed in his sports attire and began his breakfast. He switched on the traffic program,  speculating on the cause of a major hold up on the circular road. He got out his GPS and began loading the golf club address, analyzing the best route for Hayden. “As if you don’t know where you’re going,” said Francine exasperated, “you’ve been going to the same place every week since we moved here. It’s very rude to have your GPS playing when you’re not the driver. Harold will be offended.’

“His name’s Hayden, not Harold, you’re having trouble with names, lately, dear. I’m just checking some alternate routes, the circular road hold up is bound to spill over onto local streets, I don’t want to miss

our slot.” He poured out the rest of the coffee and drank it off, “Doesn’t hold up well, this stuff, I might make another pot later on.”

 

Francine went to shower and get dressed. She tidied up the bathroom and made the beds. She laid out Art’s wallet, keys and club pass, and his jacket and stood at the window for a long time watching for Hayden.

She came down when she heard the car; she could hear Art talking in the driveway organizing the golf club stowage.  He had made another pot of coffee, she poured it into a flask, he could take it with him.

 

Two hours later they called from the golf club to say he had had a turn and was being taken to the hospital. Francine got a taxi and rushed into the emergency wing. Art was sitting up, wired up for various screens and checking them constantly.

“We’re going to keep him overnight,’ said the doctor, “just a precaution, his heart beat was a little fast, when he was brought in. He should be fine by tomorrow, but we’ll watch him just in case.” She smiled and hurried away.

Francine waited with him until the nurse came to take him to the ward.

“How will you get back?” asked Art.

“Harold will collect me,” said Francine.

“Hayden, you mean, you always forget his name.”

 

Harold, his name is Harold Hayden, I ought to know, she said to herself on the way out, he has been my lover for twenty years, I know his name.

“All OK, then?” asked Harold as they got into his car.

“Fine,” said Francine, “it must have been the coffee.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Coffee Wars

Francine opened her eyes hearing the last chimes of the clock on the landing. What time was it four, five?  She looked over to the other bed, Art was on his back, snoring.  She braced herself for the gagging gasp which usually woke him, but not yet, she didn’t want him awake yet. Reaching across to the other bed she poked him sharply, “Ahhh,” he mumbled, get off, dog!”  It was years since they had a dog, he was really going off.

She checked the bedside clock’s big numbers, five o’clock, good, clambered out of bed, and staggering a bit until her knees kicked in, set off for the kitchen, time to get the coffee on.  Carefully she measured the grounds, half caff, half decaff, and the water, up to the five cup mark. Excellent, she could down one now and still have two cups with Art for breakfast. She hid the decaff container behind the cleaning equipment under the sink; don’t want him finding that she said to herself.  She took her blue and yellow mug, threw in an illicit sugar lump and a splash of milk and carried her coffee out into the garden. She strolled down to the bench by the garden shed.   One quarter, three quarters last week, half, half this week; maybe if she could go on cutting his caffeine down gradually, Art would relax a bit. Maybe she would borrow their daughter’s dog for a while, that was supposed to be calming. She would tell him Jane had gone away for a few weeks, or, no, that would make him too anxious, where, when, arrangements, no, too busy at work, that would do, for a while anyway.  She leaned back on the bench and shut her eyes. Bliss, no anxious questioning, no fretting over arrangements and times, just the birds twittering gently in the bushes, and the soft, quiet, damp feel of another morning.

The smell of brewed coffee drifted up the stairs and woke Art.  He sat up quickly, it must be late, had he slept in?  Impossible, he had secreted his alarm under his pillow so he could be up first and make the coffee. Now Francine must have made it, but what time was it for goodness sake? He checked the watch, five thirty? He looked over to the other empty bed. What was she doing up at five thirty and making coffee?  Was she back in his work schedule when they had to get up at five and she would have his coffee ready for him in his red travel mug? She was really going off.  He went downstairs into the kitchen, yes there was the coffee, he snatched up the pot and sniffed the brew suspiciously, just as he thought too weak. Francine always made it too weak. Coffee should be strong, robust, and full flavored.  Irritably he poured away the pot and filled the coffee maker with water again to the four cup mark.  Bending stiffly and groping under the counter where the pans were stored he pulled out his Robusto packet and measured generous scoops into the filter basket.  Then he replaced the packet in its hiding place and placed their regular coffee from the refrigerator on the counter. Where was Francine anyway? He checked the bathroom and the utility room, no Francine. Really, what could she be doing at this time in the morning?  Had she gone to fetch the paper at the bottom of the driveway, forgetting that they didn’t take the paper anymore? She forgot a lot these days, that’s why she should be drinking coffee as he made it, good and strong, “They say coffee is a neurological organizer.”

“Who says?” asked Francine coming in the back door, “What are you doing up so early? Did you think it was a work day again?”

“I only did that once.” he answered crossly, “and anyway where were you? Did you go to get the paper? And why are you up so early?

“Art, we don’t take the paper anymore – you stopped it, remember?  I was just in the garden, drink your coffee and relax.”

Art poured the coffee and drank his; Francine sipped hers, “Ugh,” she said, “why do you make it so strong? We might as well have breakfast since we’re up. Aren’t you playing golf today?”

“Hayden is picking me up at ten o’clock, plenty of time. Finish your coffee while I get ready.”

Francine waited until she heard the shower running then she poured away a third of the coffee in the pot and added hot water. She laid out the breakfast, yogurt, muesli and fruit and two slices of whole wheat for Art. She poured herself half a cup of the new weaker coffee and sat down at the breakfast counter.

Art came back dressed in his sports attire and began his breakfast. He switched on the traffic program,  speculating on the cause of a major hold up on the circular road. He got out his GPS and began loading the golf club address, analyzing the best route for Hayden. “As if you don’t know where you’re going,” said Francine exasperated, “you’ve been going to the same place every week since we moved here. It’s very rude to have your GPS playing when you’re not the driver. Harold will be offended.’

“His name’s Hayden, not Harold, you’re having trouble with names, lately, dear. I’m just checking some alternate routes, the circular road hold up is bound to spill over onto local streets, I don’t want to miss

our slot.” He poured out the rest of the coffee and drank it off, “Doesn’t hold up well, this stuff, I might make another pot later on.”

 

Francine went to shower and get dressed. She tidied up the bathroom and made the beds. She laid out Art’s wallet, keys and club pass, and his jacket and stood at the window for a long time watching for Hayden.

She came down when she heard the car; she could hear Art talking in the driveway organizing the golf club stowage.  He had made another pot of coffee, she poured it into a flask, he could take it with him.

 

Two hours later they called from the golf club to say he had had a turn and was being taken to the hospital. Francine got a taxi and rushed into the emergency wing. Art was sitting up, wired up for various screens and checking them constantly.

“We’re going to keep him overnight,’ said the doctor, “just a precaution, his heart beat was a little fast, when he was brought in. He should be fine by tomorrow, but we’ll watch him just in case.” She smiled and hurried away.

Francine waited with him until the nurse came to take him to the ward.

“How will you get back?” asked Art.

“Harold will collect me,” said Francine.

“Hayden, you mean, you always forget his name.”

 

Harold, his name is Harold Hayden, I ought to know, she said to herself on the way out, he has been my lover for twenty years, I know his name.

“All OK, then?” asked Harold as they got into his car.

“Fine,” said Francine, “it must have been the coffee.”