REFLECTIONS AT CHRISTMAS
She had always hated travelling at night. Ever since those bus-journeys with her
mother, seeking refuge with some reluctant relative, 'only for a couple of
days, till he gets over it', that stretched to a week, or even two. Then the return to the dark, cold flat that
smelt of stale drink and smoke, the clatter of begged and borrowed coins in the
meter, the sudden glare of lights and blare of the radio, the black windows
(why did he never draw the curtains?) that showed the pale faces of her and her
mother gazing (as it seemed) into the room from somewhere outside.
She sat in the bus now with her own
six-year-old daughter and looked at the reflections of the other
passengers. There was nothing else to
see. She remembered her childhood
fantasy, that all the people you saw in the windows were ghosts, that there was
a whole ghost-bus beside and around you, and that if you watched when the
passengers got off, you'd still see the faces outside, looking in.
Gaudy Christmas lights drenched the bus's
windows with a shower of colour as it stopped at a row of shops. She checked the housing officer's written
directions and caught the driver's eye in his mirror. He nodded, so they got off and saw the tower-block a hundred
yards away. Its dark mass was speckled
with bright spots, like a Christmas tree with lights on but no decorations.
The hallway smelt of urine, the lift of
something worse, but at least it seemed to be working, which was a mercy. She had two suitcases, Annie was struggling
with a hold-all that had the groceries and hot-water bottles in it, and the
furnished flat they had been allocated was on the top floor. As the lift-doors were closing, a
middle-aged couple encumbered with shopping appeared. She held the lift for them, and, as they rode up together, asked
politely, 'Got everything for Christmas, then?'
'Not arf,' said the red-faced man in his
bright but grubby anorak. He flapped
the flat-pack of thirty lager-cans under his arm like a stubby penguin's wing. 'Course, we only do it for the kids,' he added,
poking the pack of two hundred cigarettes more firmly into the bag of bottles
in his other hand.
'Go on, Bert,' said the woman. 'Ours are long gone - sometimes we go to
them - but they've got families of their own.
This isn't really a place for kids - '
She stopped, as if she'd only just noticed Annie, sucking her thumb in a
corner of the lift. ' - I mean - you can
- I mean - it's all right for a while - but - there's problems.'
'Yeah,' said Bert, 'last year, f'r
instance - nasty business - '
'This is our floor,' the woman
interrupted. 'Go on, Bert - Happy Christmas, then.' She took her foot away, and the door clattered shut.
The landing was long, dingy and silent,
apart from the faint whining of the wind.
At either end, beyond pools of darkness where the bulbs had gone, large
windows reflected the figures of mother and daughter against the light-flecked
background of the city.
The flat itself was not too bad. The first thing she did was to draw the
curtains. Then she put on all the
lights, in every room, so that nothing could surprise her, and made herself and
Annie tea and boiled eggs with bread and butter. She cut it in fingers for both of them, even though she had told
Annie she was a big girl now. She made
the beds and aired them with hot-water-bottles. Annie undressed in the main room because it was warmer, and fell
asleep almost at once, while she was still going over her part in the Nativity
play. As quietly as she could, her
mother began to clean and explore.
She swept up the withered, brown,
scentless pine-needles in front of the main window, then she went through all
the cupboards. They had the usual
things in them, but right at the back of one, hidden away deliberately, were
some small parcels, wrapped up in Christmas paper with holly and robins and
snowmen. Written on one of the fatter
snowmen was: To Louise, for her seventh Christmas. She was reminded of that terrible moment
when she found her own Christmas presents by mistake, while looking for a fresh
sheet after wetting the bed in the middle of the night. She pushed all the parcels back into the
darkness at the rear of the cupboard, where Father Christmas would be able to find
them again when he came. Then she saw
the yellow ball with purple stars. It
had been used - it had scuff-marks - and she thought Annie might like it. But not yet.
Next morning, she made the long, dark bus-journey to school with Annie, then came back to get the flat ready. She had found a cheap tree and some lights and enough little presents to make it seem like Christmas. The real presents would come when her solicitor had got some money out of her husband. The thought lent strength to her cleaning, but when she opened the window to shake out her duster, she was frightened by how wide the gap could be, so she spent the rest of the morning tidying the kitchen, where the windows were smaller and not so easily reached.
As she was getting ready to go and watch
Annie in her nativity play, she heard a child's voice and the sound of a ball
bouncing on the landing outside. She
was pleased that Annie might have a playmate - she and her mother had always
been so much on the move that she had never had friends to invite home - so she
went out to talk to the little girl.
The sun was shining directly along the landing, reflected blindingly
from the tiles. At the far end,
against the light, there seemed to be the figure of a little girl,
beckoning. She was about to go to her,
when she thought that maybe the door might slam, so she slipped back in and got
her key. When she came out again, a
cloud had obscured the sun, and the landing was empty. She still went to walk towards the window,
but her foot struck a ball lying outside the door. It was yellow, with purple stars.
She was almost late as she stepped out of
the lift. It had not been easy,
putting on lipstick and mascara with a trembling hand, but she wanted to look
her best for her daughter. In the
hallway, she met the lady who had shared the lift the day before.
'Your little girl all right?' she asked.
'Yes,' she answered, her heart beginning
to pound, 'why?'
'Thought she must be ill, off school - I
heard her playing ball on the landing.'
'No - that wasn't her.'
'Funny - there's nobody else living on
your floor. Must've been a trick of
the wind.'
Annie was marvellous as Melchior. Everyone said so. What a pity she would have to go to another school nearer her
new home! All her little friends would
miss her, and she would miss the teachers.
She would have to break the news to her gently, after Christmas. Certainly not now, on the long dark
bus-journey with the ghosts at the windows, and Annie resplendent in her shiny gold
crown.
She kept it on indoors, too. Working in the kitchen, her mother could
see its reflection flash in the living-room window. She listened to her daughter playing, talking to her toys,
inventing stories. She had wanted to
draw the curtains when they came home, but Annie had insisted on leaving them
open; she said it made the tree seem twice as bright to have it reflected in
the window - and Annie was right. It
seemed to have many more lights - it even seemed to be bigger, and have more
decorations. For a moment, as she
looked at the reflection through the kitchen doorway, she thought it was an
entirely different tree. Somewhere
behind it she caught glimpses of a little girl, but without a golden crown.
'Now you've taken it off, Annie, you must
put it somewhere safe,' she said.
But Annie didn't answer, though she kept
on talking, and now there was a new tone in Annie's voice. She really seemed to be speaking to
somebody and waiting for answers. An
imaginary friend? A pity there were no
real little girls in the flats for her to play with. Why not? Housing was
hard to find - you couldn't be too fussy.
And yet the top floor was empty.
'I don't want to play with you,' she heard Annie say. 'It's too cold out there. I don't believe you can really fly.'
It was cold. She looked up from the sink. The venetian blinds were chattering in the
draught. The living-room window was
wide open. In the opened pane she saw
herself reflected. Out in the darkness,
where the stars and the lights of the city twinkled, was a small, yellow-haired
girl walking on the air. She heard her
voice.
'I'm cold, Mummy. I'm lonely, Mummy. Please come to me, Mummy.'
She recognised the voice: it was her own,
pleading as it had done long ago. She
couldn't resist it. Wiping her hands
on her apron, she went to the open window and leant out, reaching further and
further to cuddle the little girl in distress. Her arms closed on air.
As she tumbled through the cold and dark,
she heard two voices calling to her, 'Mummy, don't leave me! Mummy don't leave me!'
Cold and lonely, Annie in her golden
crown went to the window and closed it.
Ignoring the cold and lonely little girl who looked in at her, she drew
the curtain. Then she sat down and
started to cry. A long way off, an
ambulance siren began to wail.
30.i.92