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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