‘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.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
No comments:
Post a Comment