Alan Cadman
a cup of Earl Grey
She ran her fingers across the only Christmas card on
the mantelpiece. After picking it up she read out loud the spidery inscription,
‘To my dearest wife, Marjorie, Merry Christmas from your loving husband,
Albert.’ The edges had curled a little, but it still looked in good condition;
considering it was ten years old.
‘He was a good man, my Albert,’ She said, ‘I
miss him terribly. Heart attack . . . it was so sudden.’ She dabbed her eyes.
‘He was strong as well . . . who could have known?’
After opening the sitting room
curtains, she peered outside. ‘Rupert,’ she called, ‘I’m afraid there isn’t any
snow for us this year.’
Rupert stretched, blinked his
feline eyes, and led her to his empty bowl in the kitchen. She wagged a finger
towards him. ‘You’re such a greedy cat. I’ve only just fed you . . . at least I
think I have.’ She opened another tin. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt
this time.’ She bent down, stroked his head. He purred and rubbed against her
hand.
Shuffling back to the fireside, her thoughts
drifted to her only surviving relative; her daughter. Well, Australia is a
long way from here and things do get lost in the post. Susan phones me every
Christmas. All right, it’s me who always rings her, but she is a very busy
woman.
‘Anyway, enough of that, here’s our
presents. You go first.’ The cat yawned, curled up in a ball, as she tore off
the colourful paper and pushed a tin of red salmon in front of
him.
‘You do test my patience, Ruby . . . I mean,
Rupert.’ She shook her head. ‘Did I just call you Ruby? Of course I didn’t. I
might be old, but I’ve still got all of my faculties. In a year or so, I hope to
receive a birthday card from the Queen.’ She glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘It
would be even nicer if she’d sent me a Christmas card.’
She rubbed her hands. ‘I’ll open my
gift now.’ Feigning surprise, she clutched a shiny black tin to her chest.
‘Earl Grey, my favourite.’
Her eyes widened at the sound of a vehicle
approaching her bungalow. ‘Oh, Rupert, it seems like we’ve got visitors.’ She
twitched the net curtains. Her shoulders slumped. ‘It’s for next door. They have
their groceries delivered in a van.’ She scratched her head. ‘Surely
there aren’t any deliveries on Christmas day?’
She drummed her fingers on the window sill.
‘Of course, silly old me, the big day is tomorrow . . . or is it the day after?
I’ll have to wrap up those presents again, just like I did
yesterday.’
Rupert padded along the hallway. The rattle
of a cat flap echoed around the room. Marjorie held a new sheet of festive paper
and a roll of Sellotape in her hands. ‘Don’t worry, let’s be positive. We’ve
still got it all to look forward to again.’
* *
*
About the author
Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In
2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction.
He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three
accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has
been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and
e-zines.
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