When What To My Wondering Eyes Should Appear?
You think Christmas is only for children? That's what old Jim Hadfield thought too and as he was to discover, it is simply a matter of never losing sight of what Christmas intrinsically means and what magic exists still, in those remote places holed-up between fantasy and reality, hope and disillusionment.
Jim dreamed – just like everyone else. He dreamed of bygone days when he would leap from his bed Christmas mornings, a flushed and excited eight-year old, taking the stairs two at a time on his descent to the lounge-room. Pushing wide the door respectfully, a trait often exhibited by only-children, you could have lit-up a thousand cities from the glow on the youngster's face as he gazed in awe at the presents piled up around the tree.
Jim's parents had never been what you might call well-heeled, yet they had ensured that at whatever cost, their little boy would remember the happiest of childhoods, most especially during the Yuletide season. Their efforts had paid-off handsomely.
Marrying in his mid-twenties "for better or for worse," it had proven most definitely the less desirable of those two options. Cathy, fundamentally was a bitch. He remembered back, not long before his mother's death in fact and how she had more or less laid that particular fact out for him. His father had died years earlier and had been spared the worry of his son's great unhappiness. All Jim had ever done was to love his wife unconditionally and in doing so, managing somehow to overlook her selfishness, emotional detachment and cruel insensitivity. For thirty-four years Cathy drove, while he sat out life in the back-seat!
Bereft of meaning, the marriage had produced two daughters equally bereft of paternal interest and consideration. Perhaps genetically influenced, both girls from their teenage years onwards found a plethora of reasons not to be home, staying either with girlfriends or maternal relatives. Of little concern to Cathy, it simply afforded her more time to spend in front of the television. The few times Jim tried to talk to either girl about their school-work, their futures, even the most mundane of topics...it was obvious, they had little need for his input into their lives....that having ended one might conclude, with Cathy's abrupt announcement of her subsequent pregnancies. After a while he left them to their own intractable devices. Both girls left home soon after completing school and their finding local employment. He saw them perhaps once a fortnight, usually when they came to visit their mother.
Jim would console himself some nights recalling the Christmases when they were yet children and the pleasure he had gotten in recreating for them what still stood-out so vividly from his own past. How had everything gone so wrong? he mused. All he had ever wanted was to love...and be loved!
Many years passed. Cathy had died of kidney disease, his daughters had married and moved away to the north of England. A postcard from Marion in the late eighties had put him on notice that he was now officially a grandfather. He had seen the lad but half a dozen times since, the last being when his daughter called in at the local hospital briefly following his triple-bypass .
He was in his sixty-fourth year now and living alone in a shabby semi in Portsmouth, the area's solitude matching his own bleak and wind-swept life. Still, he took pleasure in wrapping-up during the wintry months and spending hours on the seafront, looking out at the gray Atlantic, perhaps sensing in the uncompromising and harsh environment, a kinship somehow with his own unstinting tidal existence.
The one thing that adverse circumstance had failed miserably in trying to dull or nullify in Jim's life however, was December the 25th. Each year he would decorate the little tree using the same tinsel and colored balls he had so religiously protected and stored away following his parental loss. Within the limitations of his meagre savings, he would even buy himself a few presents to be religiously wrapped and placed beneath the tree on Christmas Eve.
To the outside world that year, it was an elderly and rather melancholy-looking gentleman that took his time wandering around the stores, picking up and studying the latest toys, deriving tactile pleasure from simply holding the many items that represented those seasonal childhood yearnings. Occasionally he would smile as he held aloft a doll or a farm animal. Mothers would glance at him warily and shepherd their youngsters into the adjoining aisle. They could not know that inside that tattered old coat and scarf, an eight-year old child looked out at his beloved world of remembrances.
In Brackensfield's, one of the largest Department stores on the east-side, the newly installed Santa was entertaining a long line of expectant children as their mothers jostled for the dubious privilege of parting with six pounds 75p in exchange for an instant photo of their loved one/s posed on the man in red's knee. No-one noticed the lonely old figure standing alongside the racks of games nearby, watching the awe-struck children as they progressed excitedly along the queue. The moment they had to relinquish their mom's hand and take that last step up to that lofty perch. The encouragement to smile for the camera and then finally those few words with Santa himself. Unseen also, the occasional yet involuntary tear trickling down the man's cheeks.
He stayed until the last child had scampered back to his mother and the helpers were hanging up the sign which read "Santa has gone to feed his reindeer and will be back at 6 p.m."
For a moment he was lost in his own thoughts.
"It means a lot to you doesn't it?"
The words jolted him upright. Kindly eyes considerably older than his own even, looked down at him.
"I was just remembering," he half-stammered and feeling not a little embarrassed.
The eyes smiled. "Ah, the memory of happier times perhaps?" Then after the briefest of pauses, "And what then would you wish for yourself on this cold Christmas Eve?" came the question from deep beneath the bushy beard.
"That's easy, " Jim responded. "I'd wish that for just a few hours even, I could spend time with a young lady who might love me for simply myself. Someone I wished I could have met when I was young and had a future."
The hand caressed the white moustache. "All of us have a future my friend. It's just a matter of recognising when it actually started! We must enjoy the opportunities that come along and for some of us," he looked at Jim almost sympathetically, "such times may be of regrettably brief duration."
Smiling now, he took Jim's hand. "A very merry Christmas to you Sir. I must be going now. Those reindeer of mine are eating me out of house and home."
Jim watched as the tall figure disappeared around the sporting aisle and decided to head home. Although not snowing, it was icy cold outside and he was looking forward to the familiarity of the snug confines of his little home. Perhaps he would indulge himself with a small bottle of brandy, after all, Christmas was but once a year.
Entering the small latched gate that opened upon the narrow crazy-paving pathway that led to his front door, he felt upon his forehead first one, then another touch of crystalised cold. He looked up. The weather bureau had been right for once. For only the eleventh time since the turn of the previous century, a genuine white Christmas had been predicted for the south of England. He watched for a few moments, the sporadic flakes as they eddied silently downwards, not yet in sufficient a flurry to lay the groundwork for their heavier relatives.
