When Christmas Falls by Sherry Caayupan, latte

He sips a cup of cafe latte by the fireplace and dips a chocolate chip cookie into it, then, takes a bite...Frost's almost biting his pointed nose. He lives all by himself...old and yet...unknowing what lies beyond...even when Christmas is about to fall.

He hears children's carols in the air and then, it goes silent....He is grinning and yet, though Christmas is cold...and the winter nips his knees with his pants on...he remembers the time when he was young...

The wooden floor seems ricketty as he takes another sip from his cup of cafe latte and he glances by the window where his Christmas lights light up in diverse colorful lights...

The night is silent and yet colorful; he turns around, and sees red eyes underneath dark huge cloak standing by the fireplace beckoning him...

The cafe latte cup falls from his grasp onto the old wooden floor and he falls!

Then, he holds his thoughts, standing as bright white light before him flashes and invites him in!

 

About the author 

 Sherry Caayupan is an amateur poet and an aspiring amateur movie screenplay writer. She loves to write about love, humor, horror, and fantasy. She also loves singing and does gourmet cooking! 

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Dinner for Two + 1 by Robin Wrigley, gin and tonic

 

Dinner For Two + One

 

‘James?

            ‘Yes, is that you Angela?’

            ‘You mean you don’t recognise my voice, James. I realise it’s been four years.’

            ‘What, since you let me down at the last moment on Christmas bloody day?’

            ‘Oh, come on James that was four years ago. Is this going to be held against me forever?

            ‘Tell me, dear girl when was the last time you ever cooked a Christmas dinner? I imagine that this is the reason for this call after all this time.’

            ‘Look how many times have I got to apologise for heaven’s sake.’

            ‘In number – a lot.’

            In truth the last time she pulled out at the last minute worked out okay. I invited the old boy from next door instead. He’s been at my table every year since. In fact, I have invited him again this year. He’s a taxi driver in the city, never married and he has no family. I’ve always wondered if he was gay. You know - for no other reason than he lives on his own, (like me you might say). But he’s never given me any cause for concern.

I only invite him at Christmas. I refer to him as the old boy but I doubt if he is more that five years older than me. He’s a bit worn around the edges but he’s well-scrubbed up – well has to be working in the city I suppose. Since the second year he always brings me a bottle of Scotch. Doesn’t wrap it up. Do I care?

‘Well, dear girl, is this call to precipitate an invitation for Christmas dinner?’

‘No not entirely.’ She couldn’t help herself from an embarrassed giggle which I could have done without. ‘Please, pretty please James if you can find it in your heart after the last time, that is.’

‘The answer is yes. But you had not better let me down again. I don’t care if Rod Stewart or the Prince of Wales makes a counter offer. If you are not ringing my doorbell at one-thirty on Christmas Day I will hunt you down. Understood?’

Her giggle broke out into a full throated laugh.

‘Oh James, you are such drama queen, aren’t you?’

‘I’m deadly serious Angela. Oh, and by the way I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘What? You haven’t bought a dog, have you? I could just see you with a dog I really could.’

‘No.’

‘A cat then. I like cats.’

‘Honestly, I’m still petless and will die that way. Now get off the line and go and get your hair done. It looked a mess if memory serves me.’

‘You really can be so horrid at times. But I still look forward to spending Christmas day with you. You really are so kind. Bye James.’

With that she was gone. If she is good to her word she is in for a surprise. Her fellow diner will be a rather large taxi-driver from Jamaica. 

 

About the author 

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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Christmas in Ticino by Michael Barrington, a French martini

‘Oh, my goodness, how beautiful you are. Come here and let me take a closer look at you.’ Estere Coglione placed both hands on Anya’s shoulders, holding her at a distance, then pulled her into her ample bosom and smothered her with kisses on both cheeks. ‘Welcome home. I’ve been waiting all day to meet you. You must be hungry and tired. There are some specially baked fresh cakes inside for you. Come upstairs out of the cold. There’s a good fire in the hearth.’ Anya did not understand a word of the rapid-fire Italian, but knew from the gestures and smiles she was welcome.

‘Mamina, this is Anya,’ Luca said after giving his mother a warm hug and a kiss. ‘I hope you will like her.’

‘Then you take good care of her. Don’t leave her in the cold, she will get sick.’

Luca laughed and smiled at Anya. ‘It’s good you don’t understand Italian,’ he said jokingly. ‘You need to quickly reconcile yourself to one thing while we are living with Mamina, we’re going to be suffocated with care and attention. It’s Italian, and it’s my mother. She still treats and talks to me as if I never left home.’

‘Leave the baggage, Luca,’ Estere continued. ‘Carlo and Neri can take care of everything. Help Anya up the stairs. Hold her hand carefully. Mind she doesn’t trip on her coat. It’s starting to snow again. Sit her in front of the fire. Make sure she’s comfortable.’

As the road from Zurich airport descended into the Ticino valley with snow falling heavily, the views were breathtaking. Anya reached over and took Luca’s hand. Her head swam with a thousand nervous thoughts about meeting his family, especially his mother about whom she had heard so much, but also about this beautiful place that she would soon call home. She had seen nothing like this in Ireland or Nigeria. She was also anxious, wondering how she would manage not speaking Italian.

Estere Coglione was a strikingly lovely woman who looked a lot younger than her sixty-one years. With long plaited gray hair pulled back and wound on top of her head in a bun, there was an elegance and simplicity about her. Her tanned face spoke of the outdoors. Although living alone, she provided enough fresh vegetables to feed most of her large extended family. She also managed a small section of a vineyard, together with her one helper, Neri, who did a little of everything.

The middle girl of five sisters, who all lived locally with their families, Estere had spent the whole of her life in Bellinonza. Surrounded by her late husband's family, he had two brothers and two sisters, she never felt alone. Hardly a day passed, without one or two relatives passing by for a glass of wine and one of her famous baked pastries. Fervent Catholics, the two families were pillars of the local church, and eager and curious to see what a former nun looked like.

As Luca helped her take off her topcoat, Anya was surprised at the size of the family room and dining room combined. It was huge. At one end near a kitchen was a large oblong wooden table with ten matching chairs. The rest of the space was set up with comfortable furniture arranged around an open fireplace where a log fire was crackling. It felt warm and cosy. Off to the side was a dresser, with trays of food and next to it, a six-feet-tall beautifully dressed Christmas tree.

‘What do we do with the luggage?’ asked Carlo as Neri struggled into the room with three suitcases and a large leather bag.

‘Both bedrooms are ready,’ replied Estere, ‘and you know where Luca sleeps.’

‘Please,’ she called to Luca, ‘have something to eat. Look after Anya. She must be hungry. We’ll not have dinner until about 8 o’clock and the family is coming over. They all want to meet her.’

He translated for Anya and said, ‘Just nibble something if you're not very hungry or she will not leave us alone. And I'm warning you now, when the families arrive, each will come with enough food to feed the town and you'll not be able to escape,’ he said with a laugh. ‘She is on the phone now, calling them, letting them know we’ve arrived. It’s all good, but you will soon see just how crazy my family is. Are you ready to be the center of attention, Italian style?’

‘I really don’t know,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘but if they're as welcoming as your mother, I’ll manage. How will it be for them having a former nun as a relative?’

Drawing her close, he whispered, ‘Anya, my love, it will be fine.’

The bedrooms were on the top floor, reached by an interior staircase from the family room. Luca entered his old room, immediately walking over to where he could take in the view through the French windows. Even through the heavily falling snow, it was breathtaking.

Anya stood for a moment, arm in arm with him, then looked around for her suitcase and bag.

‘Luca,’ she said, ‘I only see your suitcase. Where is mine and my bag?’

Knowing what had happened, he said, ‘Just wait a moment,’ and left the room. Seconds later, he returned with them. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, but I should have told you, in the Ticino culture, it’s not normal for an unmarried man and woman to share the same room, let alone the same bed. Putting your things in the other room was my mother’s way of not wishing to be seen as condoning our sleeping together, even though she knows we will. She understands, but will never mention it in conversation. That way she can still go to church and feel good.’ He could see that Anya was frowning so continued, ‘Think of it as a sort of Catholic sex game,’ and burst out laughing. ‘I’m sure your Irish culture is not much different. And isn’t there an old saying, ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve for?’

Lying together relaxing before changing for dinner, Luca talked about his family, their names and relationships, trying to help Anya remember them. Finally, it was just too complicated, and he gave up.

‘Is there something wrong, darling? You’re very quiet’ he asked. ‘Are you anxious about the evening? It’s just a family get-together.’

‘Maybe just a little. But I’m wondering about you. How will you feel having me share this bed tonight? The last woman to do so was your wife.’

Drawing her close, he gave her a long, passionate kiss. ‘She died many years ago, my love. You're the only one I want. You are the light of my life.’

The evening was a chaotic mix of meeting people, sampling many new kinds of food, noisy children running around, and people almost standing in line to get an opportunity to meet and talk with Anya. She could feel their eyes on her as they entered the room, sensing that they didn’t know what to expect or how to address her.

Once he felt most people had arrived, Luca decided to speak, and after greeting everybody, introduced Anya, and told them how to pronounce her name. ‘Think of it as ‘AWNYA,’ he said, ‘in Gaelic, it means splendor or brilliance.’

Two of Luca's cousins, Issepa and Marsilia,who were schoolteachers, spoke reasonable English as did another cousin, Renata, and so helped translate. It was fun telling Anya what people were saying. People were amazed at her attractively cut, flaming, curly red hair which showed off her face and green eyes. They admired her engagement ring, asking where Luca had bought it and where he had proposed. Marsilia had a great sense of humor, burst out laughing so loud that most folks turned around to see what was happening. She was explaining to Anya that the family was very familiar with nuns and actually supported a local convent. ‘When they heard that Luca was to marry a former nun, they tried to imagine what you would be like, what you would be wearing. Some really funny things were said without meaning to be so. But you are so beautiful. Luca told us how you worked with him in Nigeria and how talented a nurse you are. And for a family that normally has a lot to say, it is stuck for words. They’re not ready for you, for such an elegant, sophisticated person. But they will quickly get over the shock, and in no time, you’ll simply be one of the family. I'm so happy you are engaged to Luca; he needs somebody like you.’

The next day, Carlo drove Anya and Luca to the airport. The other car was driven by Issepa accompanied by five female cousins, all of whom spoke some English and refused to be left at home. From the moment they left the house, Luca could sense Anya’s tension and anxiety.

‘Can you share it with me, my love?’ 

 ‘You know, the last time I saw my mother was six years ago,’ she said softly. ‘It was in Ireland. Since I entered the convent, she’s only ever seen me dressed as a nun. I just wonder how she really feels about me. I’m sure it’s a lot for her to handle emotionally. We had become very close, and she shared a lot with me about her relationship with my father. She’s an unfortunate woman, locked in a destructive relationship by her religion. I so want her to be happy and to be back in my life. I’m thrilled and grateful you invited my sister Moira with her husband Tom for Christmas, and also my mother. I never dreamed she would come.’

As the passengers began to emerge, having been given descriptions, the girls eagerly began calling ‘Moira, Tom,’ as each couple exited. Suddenly, they appeared and waved. The girls rushed to welcome them. Walking alongside them was an elegantly dressed older lady. She gazed at the waiting crowd as if looking for someone in particular, then her face lit up. Dropping her purse on the ground, Nuala opened her arms wide as Anya ran towards her mother and held her tightly against her breast. Neither spoke, as their tears of love and affection mingled and slowly washed away their pain.  

The rest of that morning passed like a dream for Anya. Wrapped in heavy coats, she sat next to her mother on the deck overlooking the valley and the vineyards. The snow had stopped, and the winter sun reflecting off the white landscape almost blinded them. They held hands as they talked, catching up on the years of separation and longing. Nuala let her heart speak, her tears flow, in sharing the pain and struggle of staying with her husband. Especially how helpless she had felt in protecting her daughters. But also, how much more tolerable it was now, since his stroke. He hadn’t fully recovered his speech, spent most of his time in a wheelchair, and couldn’t drink alcohol or abuse her. Anya spoke about her time in Nigeria, how much she enjoyed the work, and how she fell in love.

Finally, Anya felt it safe to ask how she felt about her, not just leaving the Order, but intending to get married.

Turning her head to face her, Nula said, ‘I was surprised but not shocked.’

‘Please tell me more,’ Anya begged. ‘I need to know.’

‘When I saw you take your vows and enter the convent, I was proud of you, of course, But I had very mixed emotions about it. I worried for you, and I was sad that you’d decided to enter an Order where your every movement would be controlled or have to be accounted for during the remainder of your life. You are a free spirit, Anya, my darling. You’ve been like that since you were a little girl and suffered for it at home and in school. If only I could take time back,’ Nuala said. ‘If only I could undo the past. When you entered the convent, I saw you like a beautiful bird wanting to fly, but having its wings clipped. That day I went home and spent the night weeping. I felt I was losing you.’ As her tears steadily flowed, Anya asked again, ‘and how do you really feel about my getting married?’

There was a pause and a slight hesitancy before she replied, as if struggling to find the right words.

‘I just want you to be happy, to be fulfilled, to be the free spirit you are. You have so much to offer the world. I want you to be with a man who will respect, love, and cherish you. Who will be to me a son and to you a husband, who will treasure you more than anything in life?’

“Mama,” she replied, “you have no idea what your coming here means to me. I just love you so very much,” and getting out of her chair, reached over and held her.

Christmas celebrations were different from anything she had known. After just a light meal on Christmas Eve, with no meat since it was considered a fasting day by the Church, they went to midnight Mass. When they arrived, everybody was gathered outside the church. As the bells in the steeple started to toll, Luca with his arm around her shoulders, told her to look up at the snow-covered mountain, glistening in the moonlight. She watched mesmerized as a long line of skiers started to descend in sweeping curves, holding lighted torches in their hands. ‘This is our tradition,’ he explained. ‘They are bringing fire for warmth and light to the church so that the Mass can take place.’

After returning home, they all enjoyed a hot chocolate before retiring. Luca explained to Anya, ‘In our culture, couples give each other one gift after midnight. So here is yours,’ and handed her a narrow box.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ she exclaimed. ‘This is so beautiful Luca, thank you darling,’ and held out a gold chain and pendant. ‘But now, I don’t have one for you.’

‘Then you can surprise me once we are married,’ and gave out a little laugh.

Christmas day started early as Anya could hear Estere working in the kitchen. By the time they came down for breakfast, the house was full of women. Eight of them were involved in preparing food for what they called the ‘lunch,’ an afternoon meal that would begin about four o’clock. She would later discover no family member would ever dream of missing it, and would bring with them their musical instruments, flutes, accordions, and mandolins.

 Once the party started, it seemed to Anya that everybody could sing and had beautiful voices. Late into the night, they drank, sang, danced, and played games. After explaining that where she came from in the west of Ireland, every girl learned traditional dancing, Issepa begged her to show them. Anya refused. ‘It’s ten years since I danced,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it. And these are the wrong shoes.’ Marsilia felt she now had a close enough relationship to tease her and insisted. Anya sat back in her chair, afraid of making a fool of herself. 

Finally, they pulled her into the middle of the floor while the families encouraged her. Embarrassed at being the center of attention, she asked Luca to interpret for her as she spoke to Uncle Leonardo with the accordion. At first, she clapped her hands in rhythm, then gave a short beat with her feet while looking towards him. As she danced several steps, he picked up the tempo and beat, playing an Italian tune. The other musicians tentatively joined in, extemporizing. In seconds Anya was back in school in Roscommon, as she closed her eyes and performed an Irish step dance. Then, speaking in Gaelic, she invited Moira, Tom, and her mother to join her. Everybody looked surprised but waited expectantly. As Tom gave a beat with his foot, all four suddenly danced together, showing the quick intricate movements and foot patterns of an Irish jig. The family was entranced. When it was over, they wanted more. Nuala, wiping the perspiration from her forehead, signaled with a smile she was too tired, her heart was ready to burst with love and happiness. The others continued dancing, with reels and hornpipes, finally having fun trying to teach the cousins a few steps. Everyone was overjoyed and agreed, Christmas was always a wonderful family experience. This one was special and never to be forgotten.

‘How was Christmas Day for you?’ asked Luca, as they were preparing for bed. ‘Was it too much, a little overwhelming perhaps, with so many people?’

‘No, not at all,’ Anya replied. ‘In fact, I'm starting to put some names to faces.’

‘Well, you were wonderful,’ he said, drawing her close. Looking down, he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. ‘Today, you showed me something I didn’t know about you, and it was lovely. My family was thrilled. But you’re in for another surprise later on today. We can expect almost everybody to come back in the afternoon, to finish off what food is left over,’ and let out a deep belly laugh. ‘But they’ll also bring even more food, eat, drink, sing, dance and probably stay until past midnight! It’s just what we do. It’s how we celebrate Christmas in Ticino.’

About the author  

Michael Barrington has written eight historical novels. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net. 

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The Cat Sat on the Mat by Henry Lewi, hot chocolate

It was one of those cold winter afternoons, the fire was blazing nicely, the TV was showing a re-run of an old film – well the Godfather if you must ask and the cat sat on the mat warming herself in front of the fire.

  Hold On! I don’t recall having a cat, so where did it come from? Was it an uninvited guest? Was it a temporal visitor from another time? So whose cat was it?

I looked at the cat and asked, “Who are you? Where are you from? Do you come in peace? Can you speak?"

 The Cat On The Mat just ignored me, the film continued to play on the TV, all was quiet. What should I do about this time travelling cat?  Well I’d already decided that this member of the feline species had travelled back in time from ‘Somewhere In When’ to warm itself in front of my fire.
  I mean how did the cat get into my house? The doors and windows were all tightly closed, it was freezing outside and snow was threatening, so how did the cat get in, only by time travel I guessed.  Did the cat possibly scamper in when my wife popped out to visit her sister just round the corner, where was she anyway? Well I don’t think so, she would certainly have noticed.

 Had the cat always sat on the mat, in both the past and present and would it do so till the end of time?  Did the cat exist in more than one moment in time and now occupied the past, present and future simultaneously?  Did the cat exist in more than one physical state at the same time, both being here and not being here?  Anyway whose Cat was it anyway?

  So WHEN was the origin of the cat, and what was its past and future?  So many questions, so many possibilities, I mean it was certainly looked like an ordinary Cat whatever that was.

  So I Googled ‘Time Travelling Cats’, and came up with nothing much more than images of different types of cats; and this supposedly time-travelling cat appeared to be a simple domestic ‘Tabby Cat’, with an orangey-brown colouring, all very straightforward, well in this current period of time anyway. 

   So the big question was, what should I do with this ‘Time Travelling Cat on The Mat’? Do I need to feed the cat?  What does a cat from the future eat anyway? Should I call the Cat Protection League, surely they’ll know what to do with a Time Travelling Cat, won’t they?   Was there a Government authority, which dealt with Time travellers, Humans, cats or other species?  So I looked it up and there amongst the various headings was the listing for ‘The Department of Time” which gave a simple 0800 number and a +44 number if calling from abroad.  

  I dialed the 0800 number it was answered by the message; “Thank you for calling The Department of Time, part of The Ministry for Science, Innovation and Technology. Our options have recently changed, so please listen carefully and select from one of the five available.  If you’ve received a visitor or communication from the Past press 1, if you’ve received a visitor or communication from the Future press ,2; If you wish to make arrangements to visit the Past press 3, if you wish to make arrangements to visit the Future press 4, and for all other enquiries press 5.”  

  As I really didn’t know whether the Cat On The Mat was from the past, present or the future, I pressed option 5.  The phone clicked and the voice continued, “Thank you, all our operatives are busy right now but your call is important to us. Please continue to hold, and one of our operatives will answer your call in a moment of time.”   So I held on. Meanwhile the phone played a variety of time-related music, such as the Rolling Stones’ ‘Time is on my Side’ and Bill Hailey’s ‘Rock around the Clock’, whilst I waited and waited, then a voice answered, “Can I help?”   Just then my wife returned from her sister’s and the first thing she said when she came in was, “Did you remember to feed Schrodinger the Cat?” 

About the author

 Henry is a retired Surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site.

 

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ANDREW’S GIFT (A CHRISTMAS STORY) by Eileen Cronin Barrington, Bailey's Irish Cream

The drafty Victorian building, with its tall ceilings and meandering hallways, was incapable of retaining any heat. The massive Cumberland slate fireplace in the common room had been lit earlier in the day, but the dying embers needed stoking. Two schoolmasters, each seated in well-worn leather chairs and strategically placed for optimum benefit, were oblivious to the growing chill in the air: their heavy black serge university gowns provided them an extra layer of warmth.

   A group of young boys entered the room, tripping over each other in their haste to position themselves close to the dying fire. Their school uniform of traditional short, grey, flannel pants and regulation blazers, with knee-high woolen socks, was ineffective in combatting the bitter elements. An earlier snowstorm had prevented them from kicking a soccer ball around or doing anything fun outside for fear of slipping and breaking a limb. Nevertheless, they were still expected to spend time out of doors.

   The school, located in Northwestern England, didn’t typically get much snow, but predictions for an unusually harsh and bitter winter were beginning to prove accurate.

   ‘Excuse me, sir, but permission to add more coal, sir?’ One brave soul addressed the grey-haired man reading a newspaper. The second man glanced over his horn-rimmed glasses before quickly resuming reading his book.

   ‘Go ahead, Jamieson, but not too much.’ The man shook and refolded his newspaper.

   “Thank you, sir.”

   In one more week, the quiet reverie of the common room would be bustling with students returning after the winter break. Andrew, and a few international students were the only boys remaining during the last week in December and the first week of January. There were twins from Johannesburg, South Africa, a boy from Buenos Aires, Argentina, and one from Barcelona, Spain. It was a common practice for foreign students to remain at school during the holidays, as it was too costly for their parents to consider flying them home for only two weeks. However, for the few who had remained, there was limited studying expected and no formal classes during the winter recess.

   Andrew Jamieson had been a boarder for two years. His parents had dropped him off on a brisk September day soon after his eighth birthday, with little emotion or ceremony. A stiff handshake from his father, a rigid suggestion of a hug from his mother, and they were gone.

   At the end of his first year at Greybridge, Andrew had been collected and driven home in silence by his father, a solicitor. With a lukewarm smile, his mother greeted him but all he could think about was how soon he could escape and make his way over to the farm.

   Whenever possible, the youngster would slip away, trailing after the farmhands as they went about their business. He loved the farm and looked forward to the end of each school year when he would spend his days there. Both parents were happy to not have to entertain him during the summer holidays. His father had never adjusted to or enjoyed farm life and left the running of the place he had inherited to an overseer.

    Andrew was neither a longed-for nor eagerly anticipated child. In fact, his untimely announcement had caused his thirty-nine-year-old mother to make a temporary invalid of herself. She became reclusive and never appeared to warm to the natural role of motherhood. His father had an older son, Gerald, from a previous marriage, but Andrew shared nothing in common with his half-sibling. It was a lonely existence for the young boy.

  

Keeping warm was uppermost in everyone’s mind. It was the second year Andrew had spent Christmas away from home. A box addressed to him was delivered in mid-December; the outer label included instructions not to be opened until Christmas Day.

   On Christmas morning, he had eagerly opened the package. Inside was a Christmas card that simply stated, ‘For Andrew, from Mother and Father.’ The gifts included a school-regulation woolen scarf, a fountain pen, and a chess set. He was grateful for the scarf, especially given the present raw weather conditions. The pen would be useful, but his interest in chess was limited. Occasionally, he had observed his father and half-brother playing, but he had little enthusiasm for the game. Books he loved and was mildly disappointed not to find one inside the package. 

   The artificial tree on the sideboard in the common room offered little cheer, so Andrew folded his Christmas card and formed a topper for it; a lop-sided nativity scene was the result. The South African brothers had received gifts wrapped in white paper. Sharing the wrappings with the other boys, they cut them into bits, arranging them around the base of the tree in hopes of rendering it less forlorn-looking and a little more seasonal. 

   Many of the staff were gone for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, so the school was eerily quiet. Of the staff remaining, none was thrilled to be there. However, one schoolmaster had located a box of dominoes, and the boys took turns playing each other.

   Christmas dinner was served as usual in the lofty refectory. The small amount of meat on his plate suggested to Andrew that it might have been chicken breast. Indeed, it was not a traditional turkey dinner, but there was one roast potato, some green beans, and a small scoop of stuffing. Gravy in a tureen was passed around the table, but by the time Andrew received it, little remained. Dessert consisted of a small portion of suet pudding with raisins, topped with a runny custard sauce. The somber quiet of the dining room was only relieved by the echoing of utensils clicking on porcelain plates.

   Eventually, making their way back to the common room, the boys discovered several lights had been turned on. However, the efficacy of the dim light bulbs added little to the gloomy mahogany wood-paneled room, and once again, the embers were low.

   When the two teachers who had dined with them entered the room, one sauntered over to the antique upright piano that stood neglected and forlorn in a corner. Switching on a small utility lamp, he raised the lid and began to play a couple of Christmas carols, including ‘Good King Wenceslas,’ and ‘The Snow Lay on The Ground.’ When he had finished, he walked across the room and turned the console radio on low. The music coming from it was marred by crackling and interference and was more of a distraction than a pleasure. He soon turned it off.

   After a while, Andrew excused himself and bade a formal goodnight to the schoolmasters. His friends, still playing dominoes, were oblivious to him, so quietly he left the room.

   The wind was picking up. Thin curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling single-pane windows moved slightly; gaps between the aged and worn sash windows rendered insulation impossible. Except for the howling and groaning of the trees, not a human sound could be heard in the long and chilly dormitory. 

   Without removing his socks, Andrew burrowed down in the inadequately thin bed covers. Silently, he wept.

 

25-Years Later

 

Country Veterinarian Dr. Andrew Jamieson had just assisted a local farmer in binding the leg of an injured horse. It was dark, and he was anxious to be heading home. He had not planned to work on Christmas Eve, but when the worried farmer called with concern for his mare, Andrew immediately left and drove five miles in the pouring rain to help.

   Carefully navigating the slick roads, he arrived home late for dinner. His wife, Norma, was accustomed to unexpected interruptions and calmly took it all in her stride. She had covered his dinner with foil and placed it back in the oven. Now, retrieving it, she served it with a smile as well as questions about the well-being of the horse. Their children, unaware of his return, were otherwise occupied.

   After dinner, it was customary for the family to gather around the fire in the large room off the kitchen. It was there that Andrew would listen to the local weather forecast before giving his undivided attention to the children. His wife accepted his need to know the weather conditions. Though it was for practical reasons, she also understood the underlying reason and wished she could erase his memory of having endured one of the harshest winters on record during his early years in boarding school.

   Sitting quietly with her eyes closed, his mother, Emmaline, listened to everything. Now in her seventies, though frail in body, her hearing was still remarkably acute.

   Andrew had never been close to his parents, but during his father’s lengthy illness, he had been a dutiful son and was helpful and supportive of his mother in every way possible. Soon after his father died it was his wife who had surprised him by suggesting that Emmaline move in with them. Norma, a registered nurse, knew she was capable and willing to deal with her mother-in-law, who had always been as distant to her as she had been to her own son.

   The manor house that Andrew never felt at home in was sold, with the proceeds going to his half-brother, Gerald. Over the years, they saw little of each other, their relationship being mostly non-existent though civil when necessary. The farmhouse Andrew inherited. He loved the place, as did his wife and children, and there was ample room to accommodate his mother.

   Soon, they began to see changes in Emmaline. The children, who had shied away from her in the manor house, would not leave her alone despite their parents’ constant reminders that Grandmother needed her rest. Joey, aged seven, was forever bombarding her with questions. David, aged six, initially kept his distance but after observing Joey, he soon began to imitate his brother. Leah was four years old, uninhibited, and would happily climb on her grandmother’s lap without invitation. Whether she wanted it or not, Emmaline was getting a lot of attention, and it appeared to be having a beneficial effect on her. Cracks in the veneer of this usually aloof and contained woman were beginning to emerge.

   When Andrew and Norma became engaged, they knew they wanted to have three children. They also made a pact that, in whatever way possible, they would always give them the best holiday experiences to remember, no matter their financial status.

   Norma, an only child, recalled Christmas with family members coming and going. Gifts were opened after breakfast and, typical in post-war years, were mainly of a practical nature. There was no such thing as having a wish list. However, her mother encouraged her to write letters to Father Christmas, but only asking him to be generous to the poor and orphaned children and not for things she wanted.

   The children were soon ushered upstairs. There were no arguments as they hung their pillowcases over the ends of the beds, making sure their embroidered names were clearly visible for Father Christmas. It was the one night of the year they were happy to go to bed early and without any fuss.

   When the noise from upstairs quieted, and they were sure everyone slept, Andrew and Norma set to work on decorating the big room. Emmaline sat with a crocheted rug across her knees, facing the cheery fire. She was contented to watch them, a gentle curve suggestive of a smile creeping onto her face.

   The Christmas tree was artificial, but it was difficult to tell it was not real by the time Norma had finished decorating it. Already adorned with twinkling lights, various ornaments were brought from storage and artfully hung on the sturdy limbs. Around the room was an arrangement of Christmas artifacts, reflecting their earlier European travels. By the time they were done, the room had taken on a magical appearance. Two German Steinbach nutcrackers stood to attention on the ends of the mantlepiece, seemingly in charge of the entire display and fiercely guarding the Jerusalem olive wood nativity set in the center.

   Satisfied with their accomplishments, they decided to enjoy a glass of Bailey’s Irish Cream and admire their handiwork.

   ‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you all this, Andrew.’ The words coming from Emmaline caught them totally off guard. Usually, by this time of night, she had become drowsy and would be anxious for Norma to walk her to her bedroom. Engrossed with decorating, they had forgotten she was still in the room!

   ‘Hi, Mum. I thought you had nodded off. Would you care for a small glass of Bailey’s or maybe a Bailey’s coffee? That would really warm you.’

   ‘A Bailey’s coffee sounds wonderful, thank you!’

   Norma looked towards her husband and raised her eyebrows in surprise at Emmaline’s unexpected response.

   When Andrew left the room, Emmaline looked at her daughter-in-law and said, “Norma, you are the best thing that has happened in this family. Your love for Andrew reaches out and beyond. Life takes us on many journeys, some short and some too long. I have learned so much more these past few years, and a good deal of it is thanks to you. That we are never too old to learn is something I failed to ponder until I came to live here. Watching you, I’m in awe of your relationship with Andrew and, of course, with the children. You both have an amazing capacity to love, and it seems to reverberate out from you, capturing and enveloping all who come into your sphere.”

   Norma walked over to her and taking her cool and bony hands into her own, said, “Bless you for what you have just said!”

   Andrew appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming beverages.

   ‘I thought we may as well all have a warm drink,’ he smiled. Passing sturdy porcelain mugs to his wife and mother, he sat down beside them.

   His mother immediately raised hers to them and murmured, ‘Happy Christmas, and Good health to all.

   Carefully setting the mug down on a coaster, she looked at her son and said, ‘I cannot adequately explain why I wasn’t a better mother, Andrew, but deep down, I always loved you. I just couldn’t express myself very well. Looking back, I believe I was suffering from depression. I tried, but when your father suggested we send you to a boarding school, it seemed like a good idea, and I was relieved even though I knew I had failed you miserably. Unfortunately, that sense of failure caused me to retreat from you even more. I was torn between wanting you at home but terrified I wouldn’t be able to cope with you and that I would only succeed in making you even more miserable.’ Emmaline paused and took another sip of her drink.

   ‘I wept many bitter tears over my inadequacy as a mother. How you managed to turn out to be the most kind and loving family man amazes and delights me. It’s my privilege to be here, and I’m grateful to you, Norma, for inviting me to come and live with you. I want to enjoy every moment left on this earth and to focus on being the best grandmother possible for your amazing children.’

   Emmaline paused a few more moments before continuing.

   ‘From the depths of my being, I thank you both!’ A joyous silence ensued as they looked from one to the other.

   ‘Happy Christmas, Mum. We’re so pleased to have you here with us.’

   Andrew slowly stood. Leaning into his mother, he gently kissed the top of her silver head before reaching out and taking Norma’s hands. Looking adoringly at his wife, he said, ‘We still have work to do, love, before the midnight hour strikes.’

   Emmaline couldn’t fail to notice how her son was beaming from ear to ear as with glistening eyes, unabashedly, he embraced the love of his life.

   It was beginning to feel like it would be a Christmas for the memory books.

About the author 

Eileen Cronin Barrington, born in Manchester, England, during World War II, now lives in Northern California, near Sacramento. Mother of three, grandmother of seven, she enjoys reading, writing and plays piano and violin. A typical day begins when she tunes in to Classic FM radio, broadcast directly from the UK. 

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One Last Christmas by Michelle Adams, a mug of sherry and a warm mince pie.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Mam?’ my daughter asked, frowning.

 It was the first thing she’d asked when I suggested the idea of the whole family spending Christmas together in the house. We hadn’t all been here together for years, not since the last Christmas with Ben, my late husband. I’d spent the last decade rotating my way through the homes of my three children, passed from one to the next, year after year, never allowed to stay home alone in case I’d ‘brood’ as my eldest, Georgia, put it. Admittedly, the first few years after losing Ben, I probably would have wallowed if left to my own devices, and invitations, or demands, to spend Christmas surrounded by my nearest and dearest was a welcome distraction. The last few years, however, I’d longed to have a Christmas at home. A traditional Christmas like when the children were small: stockings hanging from the mantel, carols sung around the old piano in the sitting room and Ben carving the turkey, his paper hat falling over his eyes, already three sherries down and wobbling as he tried to cut the slices straight.

                ‘It’s going to be perfect.’ The smile on my face at the memory became a full grin. ‘One last Christmas together is all I want.’

                ‘There’s going to be eighteen of us though!’ Rebecca put down the statue she’d be wrapping in old newspaper and looked at me. The frown she had been wearing more often these days causing deep furrows in her normally flawless forehead.

                ‘I know, it’s going to be fabulous!’ And I meant it. Despite all the topsy-turvy, the inconvenient timing and the mayhem my family was sure to bring, I couldn’t wait.

                ‘Mam, are you sure? I mean, look at the place? There’s hardly anything left, other than the downstairs furniture and your bedroom stuff. What hasn’t gone to charity shops has gone to the tip. Even the attic is empty now we’ve got all the Christmas stuff out… and what are you going to do with all of it? The tip is closed for the holidays.’

                ‘I’m going to put it all up, of course!’

                ‘What? All of it? But most of the stuff’s been around since before Jamie was born!’

                ‘There’s stuff there from before you were born too – and Georgia. There’s even a decoration or two from when I was a girl, and some of your dad’s old childhood decorations.’ The frown had disappeared as the lines on her forehead moved in the opposite direction.

                ‘Jeez, Mam, and I thought Dad was the hoarder!’ She resumed her wrapping, picking up the last of the statuettes from the display shelves put up to show off all the trinkets the children, and later grandchildren, had given me over the years. I’d be glad to see the back of them, truth be told, and all the dusting. The collection had never really been my thing, but the children showed such delight at the gifts they’d chosen just for me, what could I do but smile and nod my enthusiasm? A little porcelain barn owl Georgia had picked out for me came first.  Two more bird ornaments were added the following year. Rebecca, eager to outdo her sister, presented me with a tiny robin redbreast perched on a tree stump. Its crooked eyes gave it the look of someone who’d sampled the sherry left out for Father Christmas the night before. Georgia had found a small snowy owl to match the barn owl, and so my collection had begun. In addition to my ambivalence about the ornaments, I’d never shown any interest in birds either. I’m sure Ben had encouraged them; he’d relished the opportunity to tease me about the growing collection once little ears were out of range of his laughter. And they didn’t stop coming. Just last year, the excited faces of Jamie’s two boys beamed up at me as they watched me unwrap their latest offering, a small Mickey Mouse wearing a Santa hat.  

                ‘Mam?’ I jumped as Rebecca jolted me from my wander down memory lane. ‘Are you OK? Where’d you gone? You’ve been ignoring me for the last five minutes!’. The furrows were back.

                ‘Just reminiscing.’

                ‘Jamie just text, he’s on his way with some more boxes for the kitchen stuff, wants to know if you need anything else?’

                ‘Some mince pies and a bottle of sherry would go down a treat.’ I smiled, letting her know I was alright, the stress of packing a way the remnants of a life well-lived wasn’t too much for me.

                ‘Sherry? I always thought it was Dad’s drink. You sure you don’t want some wine instead? A nice rosé?’

                ‘There’s plenty of wine in the fridge. I just fancied a tipple for old time’s sake.’

                ‘OK, I’ll tell him to get a small bottle, but I think we’ve already taken the sherry glasses to the charity shop.  We might have to use the wine glasses.’

                ‘There’s a couple of mugs on the draining board.’

                ‘You can’t drink sherry out of mugs!’

                ‘Why not? Me and your dad used to drink it from teacups the first Christmas we lived here.’  We’d not had much the first year we’d lived here and making do had been part of the fun—turning what little we had into something special.

                As Rebecca tapped away a reply to her brother’s message, I closed up the box. We were almost done now, except for what I’d need for Christmas Day, which would be washed, dried and packed up by Boxing Day to follow the others to the high street for donation to a good cause. The last of the downstairs furniture was scheduled to be collected by the recycling scheme on the 30th. After that, I’d have a one more night, home alone. A quiet farewell to everything this house had been. They’d all tried to persuade me to stick to our normal routine, insisting I go to Jamie’s for Christmas as the cycle demanded. But I ‘d stuck to my guns. I’d told them the only gift I wanted this year was the gift of Christmas itself. All of us together in our family home.

                ‘You should get off, get Jamie to give you a lift home once he’s dropped the boxes off.’

                ‘Are you sure, I could stay and…’

                ‘I’m sure. I’ve got things to do.’

                ‘I’ll stay and help.’

                ‘No, you won’t. I’m not an invalid, and I’m quite capable,’ It didn’t hurt my children to remember that once in a while. Seventy-five I may be, but I was still able to do what I needed to. The front door opened, distracting Rebecca from pressing the matter further. After a few minutes of swapping empty boxes for full ones, I shooed her and Jamie out and waved them on their way. I gave myself a minute before pouring out a tipple of sherry in my favourite WonderNan mug (a gift from my favourite grandson, Benji – although we aren’t supposed to have favourites, are we? – Grandchildren that is, not mugs). Settling into my favourite armchair, I nibbled on a mince pie and thought about what needed doing next

*

I never thought I’d leave this house. Not breathing anyway. Finding a buyer so quickly had surprised me too, though Jamie scoffed and said I could’ve asked for more and still had buyers lining up. ‘A four-bedroom detached on the best street in town? It’s a steal at twice the price,’ he’d said. For a moment, I’d wondered if I should have offered it to him or the girls at a reduced rate—but they were all settled in homes of their own and I didn’t want to stir resentment over who got their childhood home and who didn’t

                So, here I was. The contracts had been exchanged and a completion date set. The decorations were up. The old Christmas tree was festooned with tinsel, fairy lights and an eclectic assortment of hanging baubles, and sitting proudly on its apex was the tatty old angel we’d had since the year we moved in. Colourful metallic chains criss-crossed the ceiling, terribly out of fashion these days, and held together as much with old, yellowing Sellotape as the original staples.

                I’d adorned the walls with years’ worth of collected Christmas cards, and the children’s drawings of seasonal scenes I’d never had the heart to throw away. They’d stayed fairly well preserved, up under the eaves gathering dust. There was Jamie’s drawings of a snowman, of reindeer and Santa’s sleigh, and here were Rebecca’s collage of bits of old Christmas card surrounded by glued on cotton wool. Georgia’s finger painting of a Christmas tree, proudly signed with her name and ‘aged 6’ hung next to another of a choir of angels, this one in crayon and marked ‘aged 7’. All through the downstairs of my home, I’d pinned and blue-tacked a lifetime of family Christmases. The walls of my almost empty home had become a gallery, cataloguing their growth from toddler to teen, when handmade offerings had given way to ‘Merry Christmas Mum’ shop-bought cards.

 And then the drawings had started again. Snowmen, Santa’s, angels and elves. Candy canes, stars and Christmas trees galore. From hand-printed versions from the youngest grandchildren to glitter and sequin festooned images from the older girls. From Benji there came a sweet little Robin Redbreast, reminding me of his mum and the cross-eyed little fellow from so long before. All eleven of my beautiful grandchildren had contributed to this collection, which I’d squirreled away at the end of each festive period, with the memories we’d made along the way.

There were seventeen presents under the tree, and seventeen stockings crammed in a line hanging from the mantel. Freshly laid logs and kindling waited to be lit in the open fireplace beneath it. I’d cheated with the stockings. By the time I’d had the idea, it was too late to knit an additional fourteen to match my children’s original three. Instead, I’d bought them ready-made and glued on the names. I’d stuffed them with clementines, nuts, and chocolate coins, and a small, wrapped gift carefully nestled in each toe.

                I’d cheated on the Christmas dinner too and splurged on ready prepared everything, including the gravy! The turkey had come butterflied, stuffed, wrapped and rolled and ready to go in the oven. Only the trifle had been made from scratch, just like always. Layers of fruit, jelly-soaked cake, custard and cream filled the bowl to the brim and festive sprinkles covered the top. I’d put some sausage rolls in the oven while I’d worked on the decorations, and they’d joined the mince pies on the cooling rack, filling the air with the mouthwatering aroma of festive flavours. I’d bought far too many Chocolate Oranges and Chocolate Mint thins, and yesterdays’ delivery had added a few plastic tubs of sweets to the bounty. It wasn’t the same, these tubs instead of tins, but then nothing really was anymore, was it? There was wine chilling next to the turkey in the fridge, and fizzy pop for the older children nestled under the stuffing. Everything was ready.

                By the time the oven was hot and the turkey roasting, I was two mince pies down and a thimble full of sherry had soothed the lump in my throat. I’d already double-checked the table with its twinkling candlelit centrepiece and eighteen carefully arranged place settings, holly-printed napkins folded neatly beneath each plate. The table stretched to its fullest, crowded with crackers and mismatched chairs. I hadn’t bothered ironing the tablecloth this year; it would be covered in gravy soon enough, and most of the creases had fallen out anyway. I’d considered setting a place for my dear Ben but couldn’t squeeze in another chair. Instead, on the windowsill, just out of reach of little hands, sat a small teacup of sherry.

*

There had been tears. Even Jamie had shed a few as they’d wandered through the downstairs rooms, taking in the pictures they’d long forgotten they’d drawn. There had been squeals of delight and so much laughter. As the children – young and not so young – playfully squabbled over who was the Picasso of the family, I soaked it all in.

My whole family, my whole world, in the home in which we’d shared so much. I found myself missing Ben as always, but by the time the last sprout had been reluctantly swallowed, and the trifle had been troughed, so many stories of by-gone Christmas has been shared, it felt like he was in the room with us. I’d even spotted Georgia, Rebecca and Jamie, taking discreet sips from the teacup of sherry, a quiet toast to their father’s memory. By the end of the night, the cup was empty, as though he’d returned in ghostly form to share in the celebration. The holly-adorned napkins had become soggy with tears of both sadness and joy, as well as gravy. Rebecca had cried the most, to nobody’s surprise. Her husband, Daniel, had threatened to take away her wineglass if she didn’t stop wailing and we’d all laughed when she’d exclaimed that as the designated driver, she hadn’t even been drinking alcohol!

It had been good day. The best. The presents under the tree had been gratefully opened, including the three envelopes I’d nestled among the branches. After the initial insistences about it being ‘too much,’ their contents were eventually accepted, with promises not to cash the cheques until the New Year, when the funds had cleared. I hadn’t split all the money from the house; a small emergency fund remained, along with a trust for the grandchildren. The house had sold for far more than we’d paid, proving to be a good investment in every way. Although it hurt my heart to be leaving, it healed a little by knowing I could help my loved ones. 

The highlight of the day came after dinner, after the menfolk had washed and packed away the crockery. Once the adults were squeezed onto the sofa and the children settled on the carpet, Milly began unpinning and handing out the stockings. They humoured me by waiting until everyone had theirs before emptying them. When the younger ones started tearing into the wrapping paper too soon, I had to gently remind them to wait—a rare admonishment that made their parents curious. At my signal, seventeen pairs of eager hands unwrapped their final gifts, tentative expressions shifting to confusion, then delight, as the contents were revealed.

                In Georgia’s careful palm sat a small barn owl, while Grace’s trembling hands held the cross-eyed robin on a tree stump. Jamie cradled a yawning ginger kitten, and his wife held a matching tabby. The girls’ husbands each held one of a pair of crystal swans, their shared amusement reflected in their smiles. Milly and the four eldest grandchildren carried an assortment of elephant statuettes, while the younger ones clutched various woodland creatures. Benji held a small green frog—the same one he’d given me a few years ago. I had to clear my throat before I could speak, emotion making my voice catch.

                ‘I couldn’t give them away, and there’s not enough space in my new room.’ The tears started then, warming my cheeks as they flowed. I didn’t attempt to stop them.

                ‘Oh Mam!’ This time it was Georgia, not her sister who joined me in my joyful grief. ‘We could have made room; they could have gone in a cabinet or on a shelf…’ I cut her off with a wave.

                ‘It’s OK, I saved a few special ones to take with me.’ I thought of the little Mickey Mouse Santa and the snowy owl, wrapped in tissue paper in my ready-to-go suitcase.

                Selling the house had been Georgia’s idea. ‘It’s time to think about the future,’ she’d said, her voice careful, as though she were trying not to upset me. I wasn’t getting any younger, and she wanted to make sure I was looked after. I’d been devastated, aghast at the idea, thinking she wanted to pack me off to an old folks’ home like unwanted rubbish, so I’d resisted at first, imagining draughty hallways and regimented mealtimes. She’d been quick to reassure me, and the more she explained, the more I came around. This wasn’t about losing my independence but about creating a new kind of comfort for the years ahead. What she had in mind wasn’t at all what I’d feared. They’d rejigged the downstairs space to create my very own granny annexe: a bedroom, bathroom, and small sitting room, complete with a small kitchenette—as Georgia insisted on calling it. The paint was still drying, but everything was ready.

For now, I’d spend a few nights at Jamie’s, as per The Plan, before he drove me back on the 30th for my final night under this roof. The next day, Aaron would collect the bed and move it to my new room, where I’d wake on New Year’s Day, under a new roof.

                ‘Nanny?’ The small voice of my youngest grandchild interrupted my reverie. ‘Can I have a chocolate?’ I looked down at the beautiful face of my littlest angel and smiled.

‘Of course you can, my love.’ I picked up the tub, full of empty wrappers sparkling in the lights of the Christmas tree. I shook it. A lone fudge rattled against the plastic sides. I scooped it out and handed it over. ‘Oh look,’ I said, ‘it’s the last one.’

‘No, it’s not, Nanny,’ came the quick reply. ‘There’s another tub over there—there’s always one more!’

And so there was, I thought. Always one more. It might not be the same tub of chocolates, or even the same roof, but there was always, at least, one more Christmas.

About the author

Michelle Adams (forty-something), lives on Anglesey and is an English lecturer and adult learner, who enjoys writing stories in her rare free time. When not marking assignments or chasing deadlines, she’s crafting heartfelt tales, devouring mysteries, and proving it’s never too late to follow your dreams. 

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