It was the songs, the rain, and the dark, sparkling roads, pulsing the traffic in sporadic streams of reds and whites, forming impatient drivers, complacent passengers and a merry pet. This was Christmas 1951 in its glorious eve, meandering the puddle-strewn streets, seeping into homes, nefariously for some, honestly for others, like a long-lost family member coming to dine on the divine.
“Nadolig Llawen! Come in, come in,” said Eleri, bustling her wool-clad arms in frantic gestures. “Let me take your coats!”
Overgarments of dark brown and greens were strewn on radiators, and hands were sprung at the fire in the hearth, thawing the numbness of a winter’s night. “Not too close,” admonished Mary at her eager child, nudging him away from the fire and making his feet stumble just like the dancing flames.
The merry pet sprang its welcome onto Eleri before settling down on her armchair. A quick “Shoo!” had him leaping for the rug by the hearth, content to curl up in cosy company.
“Come now,” said Eleri, ushering her family away from the fireside. “Please, sit, sit, sit. There’s plenty of room for everyone. I have mulled wine warming on the hob, and a pot of hot chocolate for young Johnny here.” Her rustling of Johnny’s damp, dark hair gave no doubt of his adolescence, but he shrugged it away with fervour. “Well then, what a feisty young lad he is, now,” Eleri directed at Johnny’s dad, Malcolm.
“I don’t know where he gets it from, Ma,” Malcolm said, smiled and stood, diffusing little or all animosity that may arise from such a comment.
“Oh, hush!” Eleri batted him away and addressed Mary. “How can you put up with this son of mine–” The sentence was left hanging in jest, much like the paper and foil decorations pinned to the ceiling that swung in the swirling invisible heat from the boisterous fire.
“It’s cold here, Ma,” Johnny whispered to his mum while his dad and nanna Eleri clattered in the kitchen. “And, I want to be at home for Christmas.”
Mary curled her arm around Johnny’s sharp shoulder and dipped her chin to his head. “You know why we are here, cariad. Time with family is special. Christmas follows you wherever you are, as long as you let its spirit shine and guide you from within your soul. Be kind. Your nanna Eleri has offered us her home to share through this wonderful time of year.”
Johnny bobbed his head, still nestled under his mother’s firm chin, as his nanna Eleri entered the room holding two mugs of billowing steam, and offered Johnny one. Malcolm followed, bringing the scent of acidic oranges and earthly spices for him and Mary. The smell of the mulled wine that mixed with the artificial sweetness of Johnny’s hot chocolate created a layer of warmth that wasn’t emitted from the fire’s roving tentacles, and those same tentacles were not quite long enough to tickle the corners of the plush, garish room and fold back on themselves in an everlasting and loving embrace. And, as for the fire, as long as a human could feed its belly, it could sustain the squeeze of comfort, or suffocation, for as long as required, relentless in its passion for glory.
Within moments, a purple tub of tiny chocolates was passed under noses, the sweets each examined, dropped, re-chosen, and then eaten. The crinkle of wrappers and the clashes of cups on sideboards met the curious wet nose of their Collie. As dogs go, he was content and elderly, but the lure of candy garbled his senses into one of diversion and chocolate-scented focus. Apologetic head pats were offered, and a consolatory dog treat was accepted before he curled in a mass of speckled black and white fur in front of the fireplace once again.
Suddenly, Eleri declared, “I fear this fire has us too cosy, and the drinks and chocolates have us too sluggish.” She stood suddenly with a swinging bosom. “Let us be merry in song! Malcolm, my dear, play us a tune. A festive one, if I may request.”
Malcolm swayed towards the shiny oak piano through side tables dressed with seasonal doilies and flickering armies of Advent candles, once tall and proud, now dwindling on exhausted wicks towards their eternal rest on their base plates, ushering in Christmas once and for all.
At the piano, the lid screeched, the pedals squeaked, and the keys were submissive to a joyous tune. Eleri sang the words, “We wish you a merry Christmas,” with rising joviality and desperate crescendo, only relaxing once Mary and Malcolm brought the tenor of “and a happy new year!”
Malcolm’s fingers continued to fling over the ivory strips as Eleri sang frantically, and Mary hummed and bobbed under the duress of glee. Johnny turned away from the singing and cast his gaze out of the window. He spied fat, glistening raindrops gathering speed as they streaked the glass. Branches of the fairy-light-lit tree cast lines of light through the miserable darkness outside, and speared joy into the relentless storm. The glory of the song, spears of light, and the embrace of the fire evoked a tingle in Johnny’s stomach: of anticipation or excitement, he did not know. His mind whirled with questions: “Would Father Christmas be okay out in this storm? Would Father Christmas find him, Johnny, at this house that was not his on this unusual Christmas Eve?” These unanswered questions smothered the tingles into uneasy thoughts, instead knotting them up into bows and pulling them tight.
Johnny viewed the room, his nanna Eleri’s living room, like an outsider would to an outcast; as a prisoner would to his cell. He scrutinised the floral wallpaper and oriental red-rugged floors. He scrupulously eyed the Welsh tartan blankets that busied the fabric sofas, and examined the dado rail decorated with gold-rimmed photographs of fading ancestors – whether they were dressed or suited – frozen in a state of forensic happiness. In amongst the room’s halo of the deceased was a clicking, clacking wooden clock that provided the metronome of beat to the feeble tune of Hark! The Herald Angels Sing that stumbled from his dad’s now clumsy fingers.
For those who occupied the living room, Eleri blared out with contemptuous song, Mary swayed with a Van Gogh smile, the dog snuggled closer to the dwindling fire, and Malcolm crumpled his shoulders, his hands coming to an unmelodic rest.
Johnny winced at the sweet dregs of his hot chocolate and slowly lowered his cup, careful not to disturb the sudden, fragile silence. The silence that allowed the patter of the storm to penetrate inside. The silence that whispered words of dread straight into his heart, shrinking his unanswered questions about Father Christmas into miniature bows. In his mind’s eye, he saw those miniature bows swoop and swerve in his consciousness, knitting their way into a bow large enough to garnish his nanna Eleri’s front door.
“Johnny, cariad, collect the cups and take them to the kitchen.”
Johnny nodded at his mum and scrabbled for the cups, needing to prise his nanna Eleri’s from her hand as she stared ahead in frozen silence.
The warmth of the living room did not follow Johnny into the kitchen. Instead, it lingered in the doorway like it knew where the embraces of its dying embers were needed the most. The kitchen groaned with soothing shadows in comparison to the abrupt attempt of the living room’s merriment. The kitchen in that moment spoke more truly and more penetratingly than any spear of light, flicker of warmth or contentious tune. The cups clattered in the dark sink as understanding blossomed inside Johnny. They were here this Christmas for a reason, and that reason, whatever it may be, was making his family sad. Motes of murmured mumbles flowed into the gloomy reality of the kitchen from the living room. They were not distinguishable, but they contained notes of recognition enough to latch onto, consoling, and then determined; notes of consciousness from the humanity of the living room, surrounded by the prying eyes of the deceased.
In the kitchen, there was only Johnny’s eyes and Johnny’s clumsy tune of thought. The more he thought, the more it clamoured until eventually it rang out a continuous note, sturdy and unwavering, piercing his consciousness like a strobe of clarity and determination. This note swung through his body like a monkey jumping trees. It bounced from his mind to his heart. Then it swung to his stomach, where the monkey’s dexterous fingers plucked at the miniature bows, playing and fondling until they released a stream of adolescent ego that withered and died under the power of that glorious, continuous strum. It bounced to Johnny’s feet, and they, in turn, moved with purpose towards the living room, where the scene of a tumultuous tangle of arms hugged in sorrowful delight.
The adults untangled and swiped at their tears to hide them from Johnny’s presence. Johnny clasped his nanna Eleri’s rough, warm hands in his as they rested on her aproned lap. “I’d very much like to dance, Nanna Eleri,” Johnny declared. “I think you’re much too sad to feel merry while your feet keep still and your tears hide your smile. Come, let’s all dance, please,” he directed at his mum and dad. “Let us all dance with our own lights that fuel our very souls. Let us sway to the music that sings through our very veins. Let us warm our hearts with love, for there shall never be a Christmas quite like this one again.”
Written by Louise Gardner
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