Merri Christmas by Victoria Chatham

 

The book that started it all!
AVAILABLE HERE

For the last several years, I have written a short, Christmas-themed story, and here is this year's offering. I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

A passing customer pointed at her name badge, chuckled, and sang out, “Ho, ho, ho.”

Meredith Christmas grinned at him from behind her glass-topped jewellery counter, pointed her finger at him and repeated his greeting before giving him a cheerful thumbs-up.

“Merri, I don’t know how you put up with it,” her colleague, Sandy, moaned. “All that ho-ho-hoing year-round would drive me nuts. How did you get the surname Christmas anyway?”

“It’s from my Dad’s side of the family and dates back to thirteenth-century England via one Richard Christmas, who settled in Virginia in 1647,” Merri said. She waved at a girl of about seven or eight who looked longingly at the jewellery displays but was hurried along by her mother.  

“Wow, it’s a pretty old name then,” Sandy mused.

“Yes, it is. Mom and Dad have a framed certificate showing the family crest and history.”

“That sounds positively baronial,” Sandy said, narrowing her eyes and looking thoughtful. “I can see an oak-beamed hall with a log-filled open fireplace and flames leaping up a stone chimney.”

Merri laughed. “You and your imagination. But wouldn’t that be lovely? It would be decorated with holly, ivy, and real lanterns, and there would be room for everyone.”

Sandy nodded. “Family and friends and all the peasants, of course.”

“Naturally,” Merri agreed, then sighed. “Christmas is such a special time of year.”

“Merri, of everyone I know who loves Christmas, you’re the hands-down winner.”

“You love Christmas, too, Sandy, and don’t pretend otherwise. Ooh, look out, a customer is checking out the gold counter. Your turn.”

Merri picked up a polishing cloth and moved aside for Sandy to approach the counter. They started working on the same day at Boyle’s Emporium, the town’s original and historical corner store. It had been family-owned since it opened, but it was a mystery that none of the staff knew anything about the current Boyle family. Another mystery was that at the end of September, when Boyle’s started hiring for the Christmas season, they had not asked for resumes but five-hundred-word essays on why the applicants wanted to work at Boyle’s and why they liked Christmas.

Meredith glanced around the beautifully decorated store. Who could not like Christmas here? She had loved it since sitting on Father Christmas’s knee in the Winter Wonderland when she was five years old and asking for a baby brother. Her innocent request made her smile now, but hadn’t Father Christmas delivered? The following summer, her baby brother arrived, wrapped in a pale blue crocheted shawl, not in pretty snowflake patterned paper as she had imagined.

The sound of the till opening and closing broke into her reverie.

“Good sale?” Merri asked as Sandy rearranged the jewellery display to fill the gap made by the removal of several pieces.

“Four-hundred and ninety-four dollars and change,” Sandy replied. “I can’t believe how much cash we’ve taken today. I’m glad I’m not closing tonight, so I won’t have to count it.”

Merri glanced at her watch. “Goodness, we’ve only got another half an hour to the end of our shift. The day has flown by.”

“We can’t claim to be bored, that’s for sure,” Sandy agreed. “Especially when there’s a gorgeous-looking man on the horizon.”

She cocked her head, indicating a six-foot-plus, dark-haired individual approaching their counter. “This one’s yours,” she whispered, placing a firm hand on Merri’s back and pushing her toward the counter.

Merri faltered as she recognised the child holding tightly to the man’s hand. Right, she thought, remembering how the mom had hustled her daughter past the jewellery counter. So, there’s mom, dad, the kid, and possibly more than one, but she smiled at the child and said, “Hello again.” Then she shifted her gaze to the man she took to be the girl’s father and swallowed at the twinkle in his warm brown eyes. She pulled herself together. Be professional. “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may,” he replied. “My sister was in a hurry earlier and didn’t give Amanda time to buy a gift for her grandmother.”

“Then let’s see what we can do. Would you like to look at silver or gold earrings?”

Amanda shook her head. “I want to see Christmas earrings. Grandma loves them.”

“Got it.” Merri pulled a chair from behind the counter. “You sit here, and I’ll bring you a selection to view.”

She took a black velvet pad from under the counter and carefully browsed through the earrings on display. She frowned as she realised how few Christmas earrings they had in the silver and gold displays, so she moved to the carousel stands and carefully turned them, relieved to see more of a selection. There were tiny green trees studded with different-coloured stones, glittering globes, a pair of wreaths decorated with red bows, a fun pair simulating red and white striped candies, and another pair in the shape of a snowflake. Merri placed them all on the pad and took them back to her young customer, but then had a thought.

“Amanda, while you look at these, I’m going to check something. I’ll be right back.”

Merri raced to the main floor storeroom. She and Sandy had checked a delivery the day before, but hadn’t they left one box for this morning? Merri keyed in her code and entered the storeroom, scanning the area where they had worked yesterday. Yes, there it was, tucked in the corner of a shelf.

She hauled the cardboard container onto the worktable, reached for a box cutter and slit the tape. She removed the invoice and checked it, but nothing was specifically Christmas earrings. She would have to empty the whole box. She tipped the contents onto the tabletop and checked each packet, breathing a sigh of relief when she found three pairs of Christmas earrings. She ticked the removed items off the invoice and hurried back to her counter.

“I’m sorry I took so long, Amanda,” she said, catching her breath. “Here are three more pairs.” She removed them from the packets and laid them on the pad. “What do you think?”

“Oh, I like these.” Amanda pointed at a pair of enamelled snowmen. “But I like these better.”

She picked up a pair of stars made of mother-of-pearl and hanging from gold wires.

“These are the ones, Dad. Grandma will love them. They will go with her white hair.”

Merri looked up at the child’s father, who nodded. “Could you gift wrap them, please?”

“Of course.” Merri turned to Amanda. “Shall I put them in a box?”

“Yes, please.”

Merri opened a drawer and took out wrapping paper and ribbons. Amanda chose plain blue paper and silver ribbon and watched Merri measure and cut the paper.

“Can you wrap a parcel that small?”

Merri grinned at the child and whispered, “Watch me.”

In a few deft moves, she creased and folded the paper, quickly wrapped the ribbon around the small box, and had Amanda hold it with her finger while forming a bow.

“There, how about that?” She handed the small gift to Amanda. “Do you think your grandma will like it?”

“She’ll love it,” Amanda said. “Grandma says simple things are classy, whatever that means.”

“Your grandma sounds like a smart lady,” Merri said. She shifted her gaze to Amanda’s father. “And I’m sure your dad will explain what your grandma means.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Christmas,” he said, removing a credit card from his wallet.

Unsure he was being sarcastic at her suggestion or thanking her for helping his daughter, Merri barely glanced at the card as she entered the sale into the processing machine and handed it to him.

“Would you like a receipt, Mr.–” Merri stopped, suddenly flustered because she didn’t know the man’s name.

“Yes, I would, please, and the name is Boyle. Josh Boyle.”

Merri looked up at him. “Boyle?” she stammered. “As in Boyle’s Emporium Boyle?”

“That’s the one. We prefer to keep it quiet if you don’t mind.”

“Um, yes, yes, of course,” Merri said. Her head whirled. With her name in plain view so that everyone knew who she was, she still couldn’t quite accept that she was talking to one of the renowned but reclusive Boyles.

“And thank you again for helping Amanda.” The smile he gave her warmed Merri right down to her toes. “My mother said you were a good salesperson. She was right.”

Merri’s brow wrinkled. She didn’t know any Boyles until now.

Josh Boyle whispered, “You know her as Mrs. Winter, in Human Resources. She told me to come and see you. I’m glad I did.”

“Dad,” Amanda tugged his hand impatiently. “We have to go. Aunty Caroline said not to be late. If you want to talk to,” she squinted at Merri’s name badge, “Merri, she should come too.”

“What a splendid idea,” Josh said. His eyes twinkled even more as he smiled at Merri. “How about it, Miss Christmas? If you are free, would you accompany Amanda and me to my mother’s Christmas party?”

“Please come, Merri,” Amanda said. “Grandma is lovely, and so is Aunty Caroline when she’s not in a rush.”

“But what about your…” Merri began, unsure how to ask the question uppermost in her mind.

“Wife? Amanda’s mom?” Josh softly supplied for her.

Merri bit her lip and nodded.

“No longer with us, I’m afraid.”

“She died,” Amanda said with all the candour of childhood.

“Well, then,” Merri took a deep breath. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

“The party starts at eight this evening. We’ll collect you at about seven-thirty if that suits you. Perhaps you’d put your phone number into my phone?”

Merri nodded, speechless because her mouth was suddenly dry. He gave her his cell phone, and she tapped in her number, then returned the phone to him.

He slipped it into his coat pocket. “Later, then.”

“Wow,” Sandy whispered in her ear. “Cinderella shall go to the ball. I can hear the uproar when this news gets out.”

“Don’t,” Merri said. “Please don’t say a word to anyone.”

Sandy chuckled. “Alright, I promise. But you must also promise to tell me more about Mr. Dark and Delicious and his daughter after that party. And if the look on your face is anything to go by, you will have a very merry Christmas.”

Merri groaned. “Not if I don’t get a move on.” She glanced anxiously at her watch. “Where’s Dora and Sue? If they are late–”

Sandy gave her a push. “Just sign out and go. I can manage until they get here.”

“You are–”

“Your best friend, and don’t you forget it. Go and have fun.”

Merri quickly hugged Sandy, grabbed her coat and rushed out of the store into a cold, crisp evening. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had accepted Josh’s invitation, but there was no going back. She couldn’t contact him because although she had provided him with her phone number, she hadn’t taken his.

But, she told herself, you don’t want to go back. Amanda and Josh had charmed her, and she wanted to get to know them much, much better. Merri smiled at the thought that, yes, Sandy was right, and she would have a very merry Christmas indeed.

 

THE END

 

 Victoria Chatham

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The Gift by Victoria Chatham

  

 AVAILABLE HERE

 

It might be Christmas, but Suzie Castle felt no cheer or goodwill to all men. Losing her parents this year within months of each other weighed heavily on her, as did having her art class budget cut. She worried for her students, who had left before she did today with cheery Christmas greetings and shouts of ‘see you next year’ as they filed out of the classroom before her.

Cold from riding the train and then taking a bus from the school where she taught to her home, her feet wet from walking through slush and snow from the bus stop, she trudged up the stairs of her three-storey apartment building, wondering why she’d insisted on having a room with a view when an apartment on the main floor would have been so much more convenient right now.

Stopping at her door, Number 304, she set her grocery bag down and searched her purse for her keys. Why hadn’t she thought to find them while sitting on the train or the bus? She fitted the key in the lock, turned it and pushed her door open—then stopped.

Pale blue light flooded her open-plan kitchen, dining, and living room.

Had she left a light on? She didn’t think so. Besides, all her lights were practical, white LED bulbs. This morning, she had switched them all off and opened the drapes before leaving for her journey to the school. Now, not only was there light, but her drapes were closed against the wintery night. She stepped inside, her jaw dropping as she looked around.

The blue light came from an acrylic Christmas tree on her coffee table. Who had put it there? And when had all those cards been set up on her mantle shelf?

Suzie toed off her wet boots and wriggled her toes into her welcome mat as she unzipped her coat. Who on earth had been in her apartment? She hung her coat in the hall closet. As she approached her coffee table, she noticed several wrapped gifts on the floor beneath it. Frowning, she picked one up and looked at the label.

Happy Christmas, Miss Castle. See you next year. Best wishes, Jorge.

She picked up another.

Thank you for making the last term so fun. Love, Beccy.

Thinking of the bright, difficult fifteen-year-old with whom she’d had more than one skirmish, tears pricked Suzie’s eyes. She brushed them away and picked up another gift.

You helped me see things differently. Thank you. Love, Donny.

Donny. Suzie laid the gift on the table. She’d crossed words with him, too.

Suzie ran her gaze along the row of cards, stunned to see herself depicted on each one. She picked up the biggest, showing her in her toque and muffler with a big smile. She ran her finger over it and opened it.

Hope you like my drawing of you. Happy Christmas. Peter.

Peter. Her most talented pupil.

On another card, she was pointing something out to a figure she was sure was little Mary Brown. Whose easel had been behind Mary’s? Suzie couldn’t remember but thought it might have been Devon Jackson. She turned the card over. Sure enough, there were his initials and the date.

Suzie swallowed the lump in her throat as she remembered some of the casual, throw-away questions and comments from the last few weeks in the run-up to Christmas.

What do you do at Christmas, Miss Castle?

“Snuggle up in a big blanket with a book and drink hot chocolate.”

Do you have turkey and all the trimmings?

“Good gracious, no. It’s just like another day for me, although I sometimes buy myself a box of chocolates.”

Have you ever locked yourself out of your apartment?

“Only once, and then I left a spare key with my neighbour.”

Why did that question and her response suddenly spring into her mind?

Who had asked it? Suzie’s brow wrinkled as she thought back. It was Beccy. She was sure of it. At the time, she’d been busy suggesting a correction to the shading in Beccy’s drawing and not thought anything of it. Now, she saw clearly how her students had been cleverly gathering information all this time.

A knock at her door startled her, but she went to open it, only to find her elderly next-door neighbour, Mrs. Delaney from Number 306, outside.

“Mrs. Delaney,” Suzie said, welcoming her with a smile. “Please come in.”

There was an answering smile in Mrs. Delaney’s kind, blue eyes. “Don’t mind if I do, but I won’t keep you a moment. I only wanted to make sure you weren’t cross that I’d used your spare key to let the young ones into your apartment, and of course, I stayed with them while they decorated. They were such polite young people and wanted to do something nice for you so you wouldn’t feel lonely at Christmas.”

“How could I be cross about that sentiment, Mrs. Delaney?” Suzie motioned her to sit down. “This is the nicest thing that has happened to me in a long while. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble, dear.”

Suzie went into the kitchen to fill the kettle and switch it on, but right beside it, a mug with two single sachets of gourmet hot chocolate sat on top of a box of chocolates.

“Mrs. Delaney,” Suzie called. “Would you like a mug of hot chocolate instead? Irish cream or salted caramel?”

“Irish cream would be lovely,” Mrs. Delaney said, and Suzie unhooked another mug from her mug tree.

When she had made the drinks and carried them into the living room, Suzie sat opposite her neighbour and smiled at her.

“Thank you for helping my students set this up,” she said. “This is the best gift anyone could have given me.” She raised her mug in a salute to Mrs. Delaney and each one of her students. “Happy Christmas!” 

THE END

Victoria Chatham

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Home For Christmas. A short story by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

“Your sister’s coming home then.”

Marg Nicholls stood, dripping, in the doorway of Hetty Pimm’s shop. Marg had lived in Lower Vale all her life, but the speed news travelled around the community irritated her. She considered it must be the postman who regularly delivered more than the mail to anyone willing to listen. The local grapevine would have expanded from there. Who needed a cell phone when they had a Barry Jones?

“Well, shut the door,” Hetty commanded, rubbing her arms against the wind gusting forcefully into the little shop. “You can use that mop and bucket to clean up your puddle, and there are old newspapers by the door to soak up what you miss.”

Marg looked down at the rivulets of water trickling off her unflattering oilskin mac and green-booted feet and shook her head, which caused more water to fly off her plastic hood. Where else but in the bastion of an English village shop would one be expected to clean up after oneself? Marg took hold of the mop and spread its cotton threads over the floor. One did not argue with Hetty. Her shop had been converted, not very imaginatively, from her cottage’s living and dining rooms, and Marg supposed she still thought of it as her home.

Shelves stacked with bottles, tins, and packets, which, to Marg’s eyes, looked not to have been dusted or changed since her last visit, lined the walls. There was just enough space for a central display stand packed with Mother’s Pride bread, Mr. Kipling cakes and biscuits on one side, and toiletries and cleaning supplies on the other. At the end of the counter, from behind which, Hetty owlishly surveyed all who entered, stood a small cooler holding milk, butter, cheese, and eggs.

Marg knew it was not Hetty’s way of doing business to ask if she could help her customers. The customer had to do the asking, and Hetty would point a gnarled finger to the items they wished to purchase. Cash would cross the counter, and that would be it. No debit or credit cards for Hetty. Anyone who missed the ‘Cash Only’ notice on the door was invited to leave. Marg had no idea how Hetty managed to keep her business going, but the locals were thankful for it as it was the only shop in their small community.

Having purchased the unsalted butter, cornstarch, and waxed paper she needed, Marg left the shop, bending her head against the roaring wind and lashing rain. She threw her shopping bag onto the passenger seat of the old Land Rover and squeezed in behind the steering wheel. The weather reflected her mood, which transferred to the gears as she viciously reefed through them.

The wipers barely cleared the rain from the windshield as the Land Rover laboured up the lane to Hill Farm, which took its name from the slopes rising steeply behind it. Bare, blackened tree branches on either side rattled above her like sabres. Marg peered ahead, steering between every pothole and wheel rut in the gravelled surface. She knew them all.

And into this moisture-laden mayhem, her sister was about to arrive. How could Ruth do this to her after all this time? Marg didn’t even need to close her eyes to see the note she’d received. It was too brief to be considered a letter.

Dear Marg

Kenny and I are in London and would love to come and spend some time with you and John. We’ll travel down on Christmas Eve and stay for a few days. Hope that’s all right. You will have stacks of that delicious shortbread you always used to make, won’t you?

Love, Ruth.

That was it. No return address on the rich but anonymous cream-coloured stationery. No telephone number, text, or email contact.

“On purpose,” Marg muttered. “She knew if I couldn’t contact her, I couldn’t say no.”

Marg parked as close as possible to the utility room door. Holding on to her plastic hood with one hand and the shopping bag with the other, she dashed to the door, thanking heaven that farmers were practical people who expected and provided for extremes of weather. The old rush matting inside the door took the brunt of her wet wellies as she kicked them off. The dogs, Harvey and Beau, brushed their damp, smelly bodies against her in welcome, soaking up the rain from her mac but leaving a swath of their yellow and black Labrador hair. She shooed them back to their beds while she hung up her outdoor clothes, pushed her feet into ratty looking but comfortable slippers and entered the warmth and peace of her kitchen.

Well, it had been peaceful when she left. Now it was something of a battlefield. Her daughter, Penny, sat grumpily on one side of the long, pine table. An antique dealer would describe it as distressed and probably sell it for a small fortune. Penny’s brother, Mark, sat opposite her. Marg’s husband, John, sat in his usual place at the head of the table. He sipped tea from a battered old enamel mug which he refused to replace. Pottery broke. Enamel chipped but lasted longer. End of argument.

Marg knew he disliked the prospect of the impending visit as much as she did. Now it looked as if the children were rebelling too.

“Ask your mother.” John pursed his lips and cast Marg a gloomy glance.

“It’s not fair, Mum,” Penny complained. “I don’t want Mark sharing my room.”

“For heavens’ sake,” Marg snapped. “Who said Mark had to share your room?”

“Well, where else are Uncle Kenny and Aunty Ruth going to sleep if not in Mark’s room? They’re not having mine.”

“I’ll sleep in Pilot’s stable and take the dogs for extra warmth,” Mark said.

“Good idea. That pony would probably appreciate the company.” Marg went to the Aga, where a large teapot sat warming and poured herself a cup of tea. Was it too early in the day to add a tot of whisky? “There’s that foam mattress and your sleeping bag from when you camped last summer with the Scouts. You should be cozy.”

“Oh, wow.” Mark suddenly looked cheerful. “Can I take a flask of hot chocolate and some cake out there with me?”

“Whatever your heart desires.” Marg passed a weary hand across her forehead as Mark scraped his chair back and rushed upstairs.

“You never let me sleep in Lark’s stable,” Penny grumbled as she stood.

“You never asked,” Marg said.

“Bloody Aunt Ruth.” Penny kicked the leg of her chair and stalked out of the kitchen.

Marg recalled when she kicked the leg of another chair, and her mother immediately told her to stop that. At twenty-two, she was old enough to know better.

Her mother’s tears and her father’s temper had flowed and raged for days, ever since her younger sister, Ruth, announced she was going to Australia with her boyfriend, Kenny Parker. Their father raged that she was going nowhere, especially with Kenny, that skinny, spotty, good-for-nothing layabout. Ruth shouted back that she was nineteen and could go where and with whom she pleased, and anyway, they had already got passports and visas. Their flight was booked and paid for, and that was that.

Marg sighed and topped her tea before sitting in Penny’s recently vacated chair. Looking around the kitchen, she realized that, except for a coat of paint and a new backsplash behind the Belfast sink, Ruth would hardly see any difference. It saddened Marg that twenty years had slipped by almost without her noticing.

The early days when she and John were first married were marvellous. They lived in the cottage across the yard, helping her parents run the family sheep farm. One of their shepherds occupied it now. He also helped raise and train their border collies. Autumn, winter, spring, and summer did not mark their seasons. Breeding, feeding, lambing, shearing, and all the other tasks necessary to maintain a well-run farm, did. Marg’s father passed away quite suddenly, leaving her mother in a permanent daze until she, too, gave up her grip on life and peacefully followed him.

Ruth’s letters then had been full of remorse that she had not been able to support Marg and John, but in her heart, Marg knew this was not true. The letters became more infrequent, and when they arrived, they told of endless blue skies, beach, pool, tennis parties, and all the excitement of shopping in Melbourne. There were postcards showing kangaroos and koalas, sheep and camels. Did they have camels in Australia?

Marg wasn’t sure but supposed it must be true for them to be on postcards. Photographs occasionally accompanied the letters bearing the legends, ‘Me at Ayers Rock,’ ‘Me scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef,’ ‘Me with opal miners.’ Me having a great time. Me having no responsibilities, me obviously not working. Me! Me! Me! Marg supposed all these adventures were because Ruth and Kenny had decided not to have a family, but what was Kenny doing all this time, Marg wondered.

Penny and Mark came back into the kitchen, still bickering. It was suddenly all too much. Marg slammed her mug down on the table, making John and the children jump.

“You listen to me,” she snapped, standing and gripping the back of her chair as if to gain strength from the solid wood of it. “Ruth has been gone for twenty years. She’s not coming back to live here. She’s coming for a couple of days’ visit. The least you can do is be accommodating and welcoming. Ruth’s your aunt, for heaven’s sake. Hill Farm was her home before it was yours. Yes, she chose to leave, just as your father and I chose to stay here and run the farm, and that’s all there is to it.” Marg paused for breath. “Penny, Mark, I don’t want to hear another peep out of the pair of you. And you, John, can stop looking like you’ve lost a pound and found sixpence. Ruth’s my sister. She’s the only family I have outside of you lot. She may never get to come home again, and what chance have I to visit Australia, even if I was invited? Oh.” Marg stopped as something became blindingly clear to her. “You’re afraid I’ll want to go back with her.”

John blustered it was no such thing, and Penny and Mark quickly removed themselves from the kitchen, sensing a disagreement brewing between their parents.

Marg pinned John with a fierce glare. “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not the fact that Ruth’s coming to stay but that I might want to leave.”

John spread his big hands with their square-tipped fingers down on the table and pushed himself out of his chair. “You’ve got to admit you used to get pretty mopey when you got Ruth’s letters. I knew I couldn’t put a step right for a few days after they arrived. I put it down to jealousy.”

Marg bit her lip, knowing John only spoke the truth. She nodded slowly. “It seemed like she had an easier life than ours.”

“But you don’t know that.” John gripped her shoulder. “And who knows what kind of dance Kenny might have led her? Come on. I’ll help you make up the bed in Mark’s room.”

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Marg could not quite believe how they managed to pull everything together. For once, Penny and Mark did everything she asked of them without arguing. They fetched boxes of decorations from the attic and arranged the blue and silver tree on its stand. Now, on Christmas Eve morning, everything was as festive and ready as it could be for Ruth and Kenny’s arrival. There was only one thing left to do. Marg didn’t even need her mother’s old cookbook. She knew the shortbread recipe by heart. Beat one cup of brown sugar into two cups of softened butter, then add four to four and a half cups of all-purpose flour. Simple.

She placed the butter and sugar in her mixing bowl and beat it until it was fluffy, then carefully mixed in most of the flour. The dough was too soft, so she added more flour until satisfied with the consistency. Humming to herself, she sprinkled flour onto her pastry board, took the dough and began to knead it. She should have made it yesterday and left it to chill overnight in the refrigerator. Now she could only give it half an hour but filled that time with trimming Brussels sprouts while she waited.

Marg kept a close eye on the clock as she listened for the oven timer. At least the family was out from under her feet while she busied herself with the food preparation. Another glance at the clock had her reaching for the chilled dough. She transferred this to a sheet of parchment paper and rolled it out. When she had an almost perfect rectangle, she placed it on a baking sheet and cut it into finger-sized strips. Using a fork, she pricked each strip several times before putting the tray back in the fridge for another half an hour and then turning the oven on to preheat.

Her mother had made the preparation of Christmas dinner, and all the trimmings look so easy, Marg thought now. She had paid attention and helped her mother, while Ruth always managed to find something else to do and stay out of the way. Marg grinned while taking the baking tray from the fridge and slipping it into the oven. If Kenny had expected a home-cooked meal every evening, she didn’t mind betting he was one disappointed man. The sound of car doors slamming made her look up, frowning. They couldn’t be here already, could they? She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the back door but gasped at the figure filling the doorway.

“Kenny?” She looked up at the well-built man with a tanned face and laughing grey eyes.

“G’day, Marg. Here, take these.” He handed her the shopping bags he carried.

“Kenny?” she repeated, still squinting at him. Of the skinny, spotty youth she remembered, there was no sign. “My Lord, Australia’s been good to you.”

“We made the most of our opportunities, that’s for sure.” Kenny stepped inside. “Hope we’re not too early, but someone’s been hopping around like a shrimp on a barbie since early this morning. Now she’s gone all shy.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Kenny moved out of the way, and tears sprang to Marg’s eyes when she saw her sister. Kenny, she would have passed on the street and not known him, but Ruth, her dark brown hair now fetchingly streaked with grey, she would have known anywhere. The years rolled away as they fell into each other’s arms, hugging each other tightly, words, for now, unnecessary. All the talking and catching up could come later.

Mark and John came in from the yard. Penny wandered downstairs, a little shy but intrigued to meet the visitors. Marg was happy to introduce her sister and brother-in-law to the children. For once, Penny and Mark behaved impeccably. Mark asked Kenny what Australia was like and grinned at the response, “bloody hot, mate.”

Ruth turned her head and sniffed. “Is something burning?”

Marg’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, no.” She raced to the oven, grabbed a tea towel and opened the door. Smoke billowed out. She wafted it away and stared in dismay at the tray.

“Mum,” Penny breathed, stunned at the sight of the blackened offerings. “You never burn anything.”

Marg shook her head as she emptied the tray into the waste bin. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.” She looked at her sister. “Sorry, Ruth. I so wanted everything to be just right for your homecoming.”

Ruth stepped forward and hugged Marg. “Tell you what, why don’t we have coffee and then you and I will make shortbread together.”

Marg stared at her. “You? Make shortbread?”

“You’d be surprised at what Ruthie can make.” Kenny pulled out a chair and sat on it. “She’s been writing a cookery column for our local paper for the last few years.”

Marg’s mouth fell open. “A cookery column?”

Ruth nodded. “It’s been quite successful too. But in my last post, I promised my readers a shortbread recipe. Would you please–pretty please– share yours?”

Marg thought of all the times Ruth was MIA when it came to anything in the kitchen. She heard again her mother’s grumbles, the mutterings that Ruth would likely live on fast-food and fresh air, and now, Ruth was asking for help making shortbread. Marg smiled, then started to laugh.

“How can I refuse?” She shook her head. “Mum would be so impressed, and as it’s her recipe, I don’t see why not, but we’ll have to run down to Hetty’s for more butter.”

“Good Lord, is she still running the shop?” Ruth sounded incredulous.

Marg nodded. They collected their coats and left John and Kenny chatting as if they’d only seen each other yesterday while Penny and Mark fired questions at Kenny about life in Australia.

“They can come out for a visit any time they like,” Ruth said quietly as they headed outside. “You and John too.”

Marg paused as she opened the Land Rover’s door. “Ruth, I will do my best to make it happen. But if we come for a visit, I expect you to make shortbread.”

Ruth clambered up into the passenger seat. “I’ve missed you, sis. I’ve missed all this.” She indicated the sweep of the hillside dotted with sheep, the windswept trees and hedgerows, and the lowering grey sky. “But you know what I’ve missed most?”

Marg swallowed the lump in her throat and shook her head as she turned the key in the ignition.

“Family,” Ruth said, raising her voice over the cough and splutter of the engine as it came to life. “Us. I remember all those Christmases when I’d do anything to get out of doing chores, and now I so wish I hadn’t.”

The rain started as Marg pulled up in front of Hetty’s shop. The sisters sat looking at the bow windows on either side of the door, the sturdy limestone walls, and the slightly overhanging roof.

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Ruth commented as they left the vehicle and stepped across the narrow pavement.

Marg pushed the door open, listening to the clamour of the overhead, old-fashioned doorbell. Hetty looked up from behind her counter. There was no welcoming smile, just her usual owlish look, but Marg was sure there was a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth when she saw Ruth.

“You’re home then,” Hetty said.

THE END

 ​Victoria Chatham

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A Christmas Story by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

After discussing Christmas-themed stories with friends, I came up with this short story. Indulge in your favourite beverage, sit by a warm fire, and take a few minutes to read through it. I hope you enjoy it. Greetings of the season and Merry Christmas to everyone.

BEN’S CHRISTMAS WISH 

Two days before Christmas and Mom and Dad were arguing again. Ben sighed. At six years old, he knew Christmas was supposed to be a happy time but, listening to the rise and fall of his parents’ voices as they tramped from the kitchen into the hallway and then back again, he didn’t think they’d ever be happy again.

            It seemed to Ben they’d been arguing ever since he had asked, again, if he could have a kitten. He’d wished for one at Easter but only received a chocolate Easter egg. He’d asked for a kitten for his birthday, but Dad said no. And now he’d written a letter as best he could, asking Father Christmas for a kitten and that had made Dad cross.

            Ben pushed back his comforter and slipped out of bed. He quietly opened his bedroom door a crack and still heard the murmur of voices below. In a sudden blast of motion, Dad came into the hall. Ben sneaked onto the landing and peered between the railings. He watched Dad pull on his jacket, zip it up and reach for a warm toque. A gust of cold air swept in as the front door opened and closed with a bang. Dad was gone.

            Ben could hear his mom crying in the silence, making soft snuffly noises. He didn’t like hearing her cry and went back into his bedroom, thinking hard. Dad said it was best to ask right away when he had any questions, so that was what he would do. He’d find Dad and ask him why he was cross and why Mom was so upset.

            He pulled his Blue Jay Minors sweatshirt over his pyjamas, searched for his Fireman Joe socks under the bed and wiggled his toes into them. He sneaked out onto the landing, heard his mom talking and guessed she had phoned her best friend Jill, who lived next door. He made his way downstairs and reached into the closet for his coat and boots. He hadn’t heard the car start and thought Dad couldn’t have gone far. If he ran, Ben knew he could catch up with him. He pulled his boots on and let himself out of the house.

            The cold nearly took his breath away. He zipped his coat and pulled the collar up around his ears. He should have put on a hat, too, but he was not going back until he found Dad. Snow had already fallen, and Dad had shovelled into great heaps on either side of the driveway. Ben could barely see over them to the sidewalk beyond.

            He knew if he turned left, that would take him past Jill’s house and on around the block. If he turned right and walked for a couple of blocks, he would reach the plaza where Mom shopped and sometimes took him for a burger and fries. He liked looking in the store windows and especially liked the gazebo in the centre. Bands played there in the summer, and sometimes there were clowns and face-painting. Now there was a little crib with Baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph. Mom had told him the story about there being no room at the inn, and he felt real sorry for any baby born in a stable.

            Ben had his head down against the cold. As he crunched through the snow, he realized his boots were on the wrong feet and were pinching but did not stop to change them. He had to find Dad. Looking around the plaza, Ben saw that all the stores were closed, and their lights were out. What time must it be for all the lights to be out?

            The only bright spot was a soft glow from the gazebo. He stood for a moment listening to the bitter wind moaning in the bare trees and the Christmas decorations rattling against the ornamental streetlamps on which they hung. He was suddenly scared, knowing this wasn’t right and that he wouldn’t find Dad here.

            Ben ran towards the warm glow of the little lantern hanging above the crib in the gazebo. Mom said Baby Jesus knew just about everything, so he ducked under the guard rail and moved closer to ask where his dad had gone. Bending towards the crib, Ben heard a soft, mewing cry. He reached over and parted the straw in the crib. Something moved, and Ben quickly stepped back. Whatever it was, it was still crying and would not come out. He reached out again, this time moving the straw to one side.

            There in the crib, curled up and crying beside Baby Jesus, lay a kitten. It was gray and white with black stripes on its head and sides. It opened its mouth, showing tiny teeth and a pink tongue, as it tried to stand up on wobbly legs.

            “You’re cold,” Ben said. “Come on, little kitty, I can warm you up.”

            He unzipped his jacket, picked up the kitten and tucked it inside. He liked the way its fur tickled his chin, and the crying changed to a happy purr. Ben could feel the vibrations through its tiny body. It was like holding his Robby Robot with the battery running. He sat with his back against the crib, talking to the kitten, forgetting for the moment that he was looking for Dad.

            The kitten was more important. Dad wore a big coat to protect him against the cold. The kitten didn’t have a coat. Dad would know how to get home, but Ben thought the kitten must be lost. Dad could take care of himself, but the kitten had no one but Ben to take care of it right now.

            “You know what, little kitty,” Ben whispered. “Mom helped me write a letter to Father Christmas at the North Pole, and I asked for a little kitten. I think you’re it, and I’m going to call you Christmas.”

            Ben was so engrossed in the kitten that he jumped when a voice somewhere way above him suddenly said, “Now, now, young fella, what’s going on here?”

            Ben hadn’t heard anyone approaching. When he looked up, all he could see was a big belly and above that a vast expanse of white beard. Ben had been told not to talk to strangers many times, but there was something comforting in this man’s voice, and he looked a little bit familiar.

            “Come on, son, give me your hand. I’ll help you up.”

            Ben took the offered hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He was stiff with cold.

            “What have you got there?” the man asked.

            “It’s a kitten,” Ben said. “I think he’s lost.”

            “Are you lost?”

            Ben shook his head. “No, I was looking for my dad but found this kitty instead.”

            “Does your mom know you are out looking for your dad?”

            Ben shook his head again.

            “Well now, it seems to me we should take care of a few things here. First, let’s call your mom, so she doesn’t worry. Know your telephone number, son?”

            “Yes.” Ben took the cell phone the big man handed him and punched in his number. It rang once, and then his mom said, “Hello.”

            “Hi, Mom, it’s me. I went to look for Dad and found a kitten…”

            “Ben. Thank goodness. Where are you?” Mom’s voice sounded shaky, and Ben thought she might still be crying.

            He squinted up at the big man beside him. “I’m in the plaza with Baby Jesus and Father Christmas.”

            Then his father came on the line. “Stay there, Ben. We’ll be right over.”

            Ben couldn’t figure out how he’d missed Dad. “My Dad got home,” he said as he handed the phone back to Father Christmas.

            “That’s good. Now you’ll be going home to join them.”

            Ben sniffed and dropped his head to nuzzle the kitten in his jacket.

            “Now what’s that face for?” Father Christmas asked.

            “I don’t know if Mom and Dad have stopped being mad at each other, an’ I don’t like when they shout. I think I made them cross,” Ben whispered.

            “Well now, that’s possible, I’ll grant you, but sometimes other things that have nothing to do with their boys or girls make moms and dads cross.”

            “Really?” Ben wanted to believe him, wanted to forget Mom crying.

            “Yes, really. You’ll see and, if I’m not mistaken, this is your mom and dad now.”

            A car, headlights slicing the night, slipped sideways on the entry into the plaza, fishtailed again and drove across the empty parking lot towards them. The doors opened, and Mom and Dad were there, together, hugging him, scolding him, asking if he was all right.

            “I am, but I think you’re squishing my kitty,” Ben said. He opened his jacket and out popped the little striped head, protesting noisily at the cold night air and the commotion around it.

            “Oh, Ben, where on earth did you find it?” Mom stroked the kitten with a gentle finger.

            “It was with Baby Jesus, Mom. Can I keep him, please?”

            He saw the look pass between his parents, and then Dad said, “We’ll take it home with us for tonight and phone the animal shelter in the morning. It might just belong to another boy, and we will have to give it back.”

            “But if it doesn’t, if no one comes for it, can I please keep it?” Ben persisted. He held the kitten protectively against his chest with one hand and shook Dad’s arm with the other.

            “Ben, we’ve been over this pet thing a hundred times…”

            “I know, I know, but I promise, I really promise I’ll look after it. I will, Dad, you’ll see.”

            Dad looked Mom. “Susan?”

            It surprised Ben to see a smile curve his mom’s mouth. That pleased him. It was much nicer than tears.

            “Your call, Don.” Mom spoke so softly Ben could barely make out the words. He looked at his father and saw that he was smiling now.

            “Christmas, you’ve got a home,” he whispered to the kitten.

            “In the car, Ben,” Dad said, “and the kitten too. We’ve all had enough adventures for one night. It’s time to go home and get warm.”

            “And Father Christmas,” Ben said. “We have to take him too.”

            The big man laughed. “I’m not Father Christmas, son. My name’s Bill Bryce. I’m the security guard here.”

            He shook hands with mom and dad, wished them all a Merry Christmas and walked away to continue his rounds as Ben got into the car.

            As soon as the doors closed and Dad started the motor, Ben opened his jacket, and the kitten crawled out.

            “You know what, Christmas,” Ben said happily, “we’re going to have the best one ever.”

THE END

           

Victoria Chatham

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