The cold, damp Channel wind whipped at her coat as she walked up the hill towards her flat. The smell from the chip shop lured her. Even though the food would be cold by the time she got home, Kim really did not want to cook tonight.
"Merry Christmas Miss and enjoy tonight. Oh Miss, remember we will be open tomorrow too."
Kim stopped at the shop door and turned, "Merry Chris..." her voice stopped. Did the little old Pakistani man celebrate Christmas?
His faced beamed. "Thank you, thank you. Remember, my chips are magical. See you tomorrow!"
Embarrassed and somewhat shaken, Kim quickly fled the shop and hurried home. The shop owner's holiday greeting had opened old wounds and reminded her of just how empty her Christmas would be. The neighborhood decorations became a vague impression as the hurt, anger, and frustration built up again within her. Tears blurred her eyes as she fumbled with the apartment front door key. By the time she stood before her own door at the end of the first floor hall, she was sobbing uncontrollably.
A folded yellow piece of paper, pushed into the doorjamb, blocked the keyhole of the door. She grabbed it and crumpled it in her hand as she fumbled with her purse and the bag of chips. Her hand was unsteady and she had difficulty unlocking the door. The lock finally clicked and she pushed open the door. However, instead of finding her flat dark and cold, she found the lights on and the little room warm and inviting. She had not felt up to decorating the apartment for Christmas, but now, holly garland wound its way over the curtain rods, a small Christmas tree sat on the table in front of the window. Its lights flashed brightly and there was the wrapped shape of her favorite liqueur under its branches. Then Kim saw the tall elegantly wrapped present on the floor in front of the table and tree. She was astonished, bewildered, and confused.
She deliberately closed the door and set the lock. Her teary eyes sought the comfort and guidance of the picture by the door. It was a collage of photographs of her fiancΕ½. Her beloved Dickie smiled back at her. One picture showed him in his dress uniform and another kneeling by his armored vehicle in the Iraqi desert. In the centre was an elegant note of condolence with the broad signature of Phillip Mountbatten, Colonel in Chief, Queen's Royal Hussars. She fought back the tears, as she thought of gentle young man, killed near Basra almost a year ago. She gently touched the picture. Somehow, Kim felt strangely comforted by the pictures and the note from the Prince. She felt less lonely. Kim glanced again at the decorations, the tree, and the presents. A new strength flowed through her. Kim turned and walked towards the kitchen drying her tears as she went.
Her sobbing stopped by the time she crossed the small bed-sitting room and stood before the kitchen table. Slowly she placed her purse, the chips, and the note on the table and removed her coat, draping it over the back of one of the chairs. The only sounds in the apartment were Kim's breathing and the crackle of the balled note as it opened on the table. Kim reached for the paper and flattened it against the table. She tried to smile, as she read the words written on the paper by the perfect hand of her landlady.
"Kim,
A number of the boys arrived this afternoon with some decorations and presents for you. I let them in. I hope that was all right. I trust you stopped at Harold's on your way home for some chips. I put some coins in the gas meter and left some extra change by the sink. There is a meat pie, and some minced tarts in the oven. I put some more goodies in your fridge. Have a warm Christmas Eve, sweetie.
Marie Smith"
Kim stared at the note for a moment. She whispered "thank you, thank you everyone, but what I really need is Dickie..." Her mind turned to anguished longing. Then the gentle whoosh of the gas oven and the smell of the meat pie brought her back to reality. Kim placed the chips to warm in the oven with the pie, and put on the kettle to make tea. The mundane activities helped subdue her loneliness and grief.
The ballerina danced across the television screen. The Nutcracker was one of her favorite ballets. Kim huddled on the day bed dressed in her terry bathrobe, a simple flannel nightgown, and slippers. Her grandmother's Afghan throw rug covered her feet and legs. The dinner dishes were stacked on the side table. Kim reveled in the liberating radiance created by her second glass of Drambuie. The liqueur had been one of the gifts she found under the tree. Kim smiled. Whether it was the spicy chips or Mrs. Smith's meat pie and tarts, or the liqueur, Kim felt warm and at peace. She experienced contentment for the first time in months.
Shiny blue paper and a large red ribbon wrapped the tall rectangular box, which stood in front of the table. Kim had promised herself that she would save the opening of the last present until Christmas morning. However, it seemed to beckon her and urged her to open it. She fought the desire, but finally gave in.
Kim nearly lost her balance as she bent down to pick up the present. It was surprisingly heavy. Kim could not lift it. Instead, she tried to drag it towards the day bed, but she slipped and fell back onto the bed. As she fell, Kim grasped frantically at the ribbon which secured the wrapping. The bow gave way sending the tall present into a wobbling spin. The cushions comforted her fall. Tchaikovsky's music, the ballerinas, the present, and the room swirled as one and Kim's eyes closed.
