CHRISTMAS PAST

There was one present left under the Christmas tree. Mrs Hutchings hadn't noticed it before, when she'd distributed all the others to her children, and her grandchildren, and her husband, who were now playing some noisy and uproarious game in paper hats on the other side of the glass doors that divided the cosy but cramped little front parlour, in whose bay-window the tree stood, from the dining room and its ample extension into the garden. She had been picking up the discarded wrapping paper, before going into the kitchen to do the washing-up and make the turkey sandwiches and the tea and cocoa they would all find so welcome in an hour's time. She watched the game, but could not understand what was going on, beyond the fact that they were enjoying it. She had insisted the glass doors should be soundproof, to let her listen to music in the front parlour while Ray watched television, so she couldn't hear a word, but she saw them smiling and racing around frantically before they collapsed in giggles. She hesitated with the present in her hand, not wanting to disturb them, not wanting to intrude. Games weren't her thing. She preferred listening to the music of the thirties and forties - not on her wind-up gramophone any more, though that was what Ray still called it as a joke - that had given up the ghost years ago - but on an old-fashioned record-player, none of your new-fangled hi-fi stereo units, but a thing like a hat-box that she got out when she wanted it and then put away neatly afterwards.

The present could wait till supper, she decided, and she was just popping it back under the tree when she noticed that it had her name on it. That was surprising. Not that she didn't get presents. Not that she hadn't had presents that Christmas. But they were for Mum, or Nana, or My Dear Old Girl. Ray had always called her Old Girl ever since he'd first put his arm round her that dreadful Christmas all those years ago, when she'd still been a very young girl indeed, even though she'd felt agèd. And who wouldn't have done, after what had happened?

The present didn't have a label, but written on the paper in smudgy blue-black ink was For Ivy. Nobody called her that now. She didn't even use it when she spoke to herself. Instead, she said, "Come along, Old Girl, must get a move on, or the work'll never be done," or, "Pull yourself together, Old Girl, lying in bed never helped anyone." Her own Mum and Dad had always called her Ive. It was Charly who'd called her Ivy. "Cling to me, Ivy," he'd said, "cling to me!" And she had. As long as she could. And he was the one who'd been ripped away from her. A long time ago now. A long, long time ago.

She sniffed, and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. A fine to time to start a cold, she thought, with the whole of Christmas still to cope with! She'd just have to tell it to go away. She felt the present. It was soft and floppy. A scarf, she thought. The paper, she decided, wasn't worth keeping, so she ripped it apart. Inside, there was tissue paper, which she unfolded. And inside that, there was a note in the same blue-black ink, written with a scratchy pen on that coarse greyish paper the colour of porridge that she remembered from wartime and all those letters she and Charly had written each other. It said Come into the hall If you want to know All. It was a game. But it was a quiet one. And it was one she'd played before. A long, long time ago.

The hall was dark and cold. There was a radiator there, but Ray never let her turn it on, said it was a waste. There was a smell there, too, that she'd had to live with all her married life, the smell of her in-laws' house, the smell of dampness under the sink, the smell of food crusting the gas-stove, the smell of dish-cloths that were never quite dry and never quite clean. The pebbled glass in the front door broke any light that came from the street into little pieces and scattered them across the wall.

She'd noticed these things before when she'd waited in the dark for Charly to kiss her. It'd been all right in the dark. With the light on it would have been wicked, and much less exciting. She'd held her breath and waited for him to slip out of the parlour where his parents had chaperoned them. Then they'd had a few moments together, time to whisper things, time to touch each other, time to kiss without breathing, before they heard the creak as Mother or Father got up to see where the tea was that Ivy was supposed to be making, and that Charly had gone to see about five minutes before. Charly would pretend to be putting out the milk bottles, and she'd scurry back to the steam-filled kitchen, where she'd deliberately not put the whistle on the kettle in case it disturbed them. Sometimes Ray would be there, just in from late shift at the engineering works, rubbing the condensation off his thick glasses, having come in discreetly the back way, since he knew what was likely to be happening when his younger brother, the dashing pilot-officer, was home on leave.

The hall was dark, and she knew she needed new glasses, but she thought she could make out a figure by the front door. Specks of light glinted as if they were the buttons on a tunic. She put out a hand to the light switch by the door into the parlour.

"No - don't do that. You won't be able to see me at all if you do that."

The figure seemed to have turned side on to her. She could see the silhouette of his strong face clearly now, with the peaked cap pushed rakishly far back on his head.

"What happened, Charly?" she said.

"I thought you knew. I thought they told you."

"You were cycling back. From our engagement party. You rode into a wall. You died without ever regaining consciousness."

"I was very happy. I wasn't thinking. I didn't notice until too late that the brakes weren't working. It was Ray that gave me the bicycle. He was always jealous of me."

"No, he wasn't, Charly, he was worried for you. And he was worried for me."

There was a long pause. She was vaguely aware of noises from the rest of the house, but chose to ignore them. This was more important.

"How do you know?"

"He told me. Many times. Even before you had your accident."

"Accident!" He seemed to toss his head and she thought she could see the light catching his eyes.

"Oh, Charly, you know it's not true. And it's not the first time you've told lies. There was Doreen. I never told you I knew about that, but I did. And you always said Ray must have drunk the bottle of pale ale you were keeping for me. But it wasn't so. You always begged him to buy an extra one, just for me, because you knew he was sweet on me, and you never had any money because you spent it all in the mess, and then you drank it yourself. Every time."

There was another long pause. She heard the dripping tap in the kitchen calling her to make the tea and the cocoa, but she knew this was her last chance.

"You're right, Ivy. You're right. That's why I did it. That's why I rode into that wall. Because I knew I wasn't worthy of you. Never would be. Life was never going to be better. I was engaged to the most beautiful girl in the world. It was time to stop it for good. And I couldn't rely on the Germans for that."

She caught sight of her face in the mirror. The glasses were gone, her eyes sparkled, firm skin stretched in taut anticipation over her cheek-bones, dancing curls cascaded from the crown of her head to her neck. As she looked, two shining tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and ran down under thick lenses, over wrinkled and puffy flesh.

"No, Charly, you may have been stupid, but you were never stupid enough to kill yourself deliberately." She watched his head sink and his figure hunch. He seemed to be crying. "There, there, Charly, it's all right, it's you and me, in the hall again, in the dark. Don't you remember being in the hall, in the dark?"

"Yes, yes, I do. But not with you. Not just with you. There were so many nights I sat here, on the stairs, on my own. Mother and Father and Ray were in the parlour, listening to the radio, or playing cards, or just talking and laughing. And I was out here. They'd sent me to bed early. Because I was young. Or because I'd been naughty. Or because I had to do my homework. And I used to sit out here in the dark. All on my own."

"Oh, Charly, my poor Charly! I never knew. Oh, Charly, let me cling to you!"

"You can't, Ivy, you can't. There's nothing of me left to cling to."

"I love you, Charly, I love you, I've never stopped loving you."

The parlour door burst open and a wedge of light was driven into the darkness.

"Here she is!" said Ray. "Here you are, Old Girl! Always fussing around and doing the work while the rest of us enjoy ourselves. Come into the warm, put your feet up, and have some fun while we see to the supper!"

He put his hands on her shoulders, spun her round and propelled her into the light and noise of the crowded front parlour where the whole family was assembled in silly paper hats, laughing and talking. She moved awkwardly, with her arms out in front, because in that last moment she had embraced all she could of the darkness, coldness and sadness she had found in the hall. They sat her down in her favourite chair and fetched out her gramophone and put on her records, one after another.

"You must get Dad to do something about the central heating," said her daughter, "it's positively bitter in the hall, and when you open the door, all the cold comes in here. I'm chilled through."

"What you need to do," said her son-in-law, "is have a dance." And he grabbed his wife round the waist and whisked her away. Soon they were all dancing, even the youngsters, and Ivy sat there watching them as the room got warm again, and the cold air that had come in from the hall mingled with the warmth of the dancers and was absorbed.

All of a sudden, there was Ray in front of her with a tray full of steaming mugs and a plate full of sandwiches. He put them down on the table and looked down at his wife, who seemed to be huddled up in her chair, hugging herself to keep warm.

"May I have the pleasure, Old Girl?" he said, bowing and extending an arm. But she still sat there, head down, old, shrivelled, sunk in thought. So he put his hands on her shoulders, and said, "Cling to me, Ivy, cling to me."

"Yes," she said, "yes," and she leapt to her feet, opening her arms wide as wide could be to embrace him.

Mike Rogers

8.30-11.46 p.m. December 5th 1997

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