One drab, dreary morning, early in December, I woke from a restless night's sleep to find that an uninvited, heavy sense of doom had manifested itself rather uncomfortably inside my head. It was as if a flicker of foreboding had rooted itself deeply within my ageing bones and insidiously tainted my often-absent mind. If I were to provide you with a quick self-portrait at this present time, you might glance at it before deeming it ‘woebegone’. No winter's sun shone through the window. No delicate prisms danced daintily on the bare, plain white walls. Just a lingering, careless chill that cut right through to the bone. And little else. No birds sang chorally down below, just an absence in the laurel and the bare, naked, solitary tree. Nothing but a void, it seemed. A soundless vacuum with no trigger to ignite a pondering head. Letting out a lengthy tuneless sigh, I propelled myself forward. The pillows at the rear of my back quickly lost their warmth as unnecessary strain assaulted my slender, bony wrists. Gently easing myself back, I sat up straight, where the view from the window proffered very little to tease the imagination.

 

Where were the rolling hills that in other seasons would hem the horizon? Clearly lost today, just a blanket of mist, consuming the rooftops and hedgerows beyond. There was a little distraction, however, as a neighbour scraped ice from the windscreen of his car, a battered old Volvo V40. He was wearing one of those funny hats that have flaps at the sides to keep the wind from your ears, whilst his donkey jacket looked a few sizes too big, or so I thought, and as he coughed rather hoarsely into a gloved hand, an elderly lady watched from the window. I believed her to be his mother. Raising the net curtain, a little, she gestured something to him. Shaking his head, he headed back inside, though not before his wiry dog, whose name I recall was Boot, appeared from over the threshold, wagging his tail as his master quietly shooed him back inside.

 

Turning away, I echoed a sigh made earlier and slumped back down into the bedsheets. What to do on such a grey, desolate day. No work for me, being a retiree. No partner, no dog and simply no desire to do anything or to go anywhere. I asked myself, what do others, those such as I, do on days like these? I wasn't sure but referred to these slatey hours as: ‘those bleak and sombre periods, a time for nothing'. The mislaid urge to jump out of bed and dress myself; the diminished enthusiasm. I lay still and thought about what people might be doing with their day. Some will have family to help out, perhaps grandchildren to take to school. Maybe a Christmas luncheon to attend, school plays to applaud or shopping for often unwanted gifts. Others, may be more pious, rushed off their feet with church preparation for a more fundamental celebration. All in the merriment and excitement that Christmas can bring. Not for me. No such commitment. To be out in the bone-chilling cold, shuffling heel to toe amongst insufferable crowds, entering and exiting stores that are unbearably busy. Stuffy nosed voices on tannoys, begging for more cashiers and requests for a store manager to attend Customer Services. I imagined the mind-numbing swarming shopping malls where Cliff, Bing and Wizard would be belting out their festive best. The shops that were still open, that is, as many folk now opt to buy things on-line, from the comfort of their own homes, shipped straight in from the Amazon jungle. The instant imagery this conjured up made me chuckle to myself, albeit very briefly. Overly packaged parcels delivered by stressed out delivery workers, who often garden hopped to save time. Though they never came here, to No 11. I didn't need anything, I had everything I needed and ever would need. Or so I chose to believe.

 

No. There would be none of that fuss and nonsense for me. Didn't care for it. I have my plans for the 25th and it involves little more than some old comedy classics, a bottle of something nice and a chocolate orange, maybe a few nuts if I can fish out the nutcrackers from the multipurpose drawer. Plus, my cherished audio books are always on standby, should they be needed. Dinner or lunch can be a ready meal, on a tray. That'll do me nicely, I thought, before reminding myself to check the freezer. As icy rain lashed hard against the single glazed window pane, I thought of the poor little birds outside, thinking to myself that I must pop out and feed them when there's a break in the weather. They brought me such simple joy and I liked to repay them with seed and a little dried fruit, particularly at this time of year, when they most need it.

 

Quickly wrapping the belt of my faithful dressing gown around my waist, I tied it into a bow. Each foot shuffled itself into the correct slipper and I made for the stairs. Glancing over my shoulder, I told myself that the bed could wait, I may be returning to it shortly. The carpet, though somewhat timeworn and threadbare, was not yet a trip hazard and would last a while longer. Entering the kitchen, I gazed at the dishes. Dinner was stew last night, rather insipid, palatable only when mopped up with bread and butter. On the drainer sat a chipped china bowl, along with a saucepan, side plate and cutlery. I chose to leave them there, as I would most probably open a tin of soup for lunch and would need them again. I turned towards the pantry. On the cold tiled floor, stood a pale blue tin box, the words 'Bird Seed' were painted on the front, in elaborate gold lettering. It had been purchased from one of those little catalogues that get pushed through the letterbox. It was nice, it did the job, I liked it. Changing into my outdoor shoes, I opened the tin and scooped up some seed. The back door needed a couple of careful tugs before opening and exposed a yard in need of a little care. As my offended nostrils acclimated to the pungent dampness, there was just a little colour to be seen, like on an old sepia photograph, that told very little of the accuracy of the occasion. Steadily, so as not to slip, I emptied the seed onto the bird table, noting that yesterday's offering was all but gone.

 

Closing the door behind me, I headed back into the warmth, where I changed back into my slippers before seating myself down at the small, square table. A single placemat portrayed an old yellow vintage car whilst a second-hand chrome toast rack, along with the usual condiments, sat on a gingham tablecloth, the wipeable kind. Purchasing it years ago in a Marks and Spencer sale, it reminded me of the green dress that my rag doll wore when I was just eight years old. Funny how little things come back to you, when at the same time you forget so much. But what did I care to remember these days? Forgotten memories from bygone years, that had obviously made a lasting impression or what had happened in this cruel and greedy world three months ago. The latest salacious gossip from the nonsensical celebrity circus held not a jot of interest for me. I knew which memories I preferred to remember, like ghosts from the past, reliving time.

 

As my empty stomach began to whine, I made for the fridge where I kept the eggs. That's what I'll have, boiled eggs, salt and pepper and some thick cut soldiers, smeared with best butter. Realising that I had none, I made the bold decision to take a walk-up Oakhurst Road, hopefully I might still find some in the honesty box that sits like Humpty on the wall, outside No 4. Was Humpty an egg? I believe he was, wasn't he? Not to worry. Freshly hatched and very tasty, you had to be quick off the ball or they were soon gone, priced rather reasonably at £1.20 for half a dozen. Though with all the baking going on at this time of year, I presumed that I would be returning empty handed.

Opting not to shower, for it being far too cold upstairs, I dressed in a hurry, settling for the same outfit that I wore yesterday. Corduroy trousers, a cotton blouse that was more than a little creased and a warm hooded fleece. Quickly running a brush through my short, wiry hair, I applied a little vanilla lip balm before throwing on my waterproof jacket. Easing my feet into fur-lined wellies, my purse was placed into the only pocket with a zip and with a net bag in one hand, I felt for my gloves with the other. There appeared to be only one. Damn. Where the devil have I dropped that? Locking up, my hood raised and secured, I set off, yanking at the garden gate as it struggled to shut behind me.

 

Outside, the wintery scene from earlier suddenly didn't seem so sombre. Yuletide wreaths adorned several doorways, whilst an array of colourful lights shone through the dank, misty air, offering a little child-like comfort to the eyes. I wondered if I could sense something baking, as a redolent aroma lingered upon the harsh, unforgiving breeze. To both my left and my right, several small birds pecked away at berries whilst hastily hopping back and forth into the bushes. A solitary robin sat stationary. Traveller's Joy, the 'herbe aux gueux', favoured by clochards of yesteryear, curled itself around an old gate post, like a feather boa, artistically structured from a collection of lifeless spiders, such as the ones you might find under the fridge when you pull it out to clean behind. Muddy puddles provided a mirror of iridescent colours, as the sunlight desperately struggled for a slice of the day.

 

Luckily, one box of eggs remained, sitting next to a small glass jar that contained several coins. After dropping in the correct amount, I opened the box to find all eggs intact. Pleased with my purchase, it was time for home. Home. It was 10:35 am and my stomach grumbled. Hmm, after breakfast though, what then? More daytime telly, fronted by overpaid, pretentious presenters speaking in condescending tones? No. I'm not that hungry, I told myself and continued walking, my sombre mood beginning to improve a little. Heading towards the local nature park, I turned right where the village community hall stood in Pinfold Lane. There were a number of vehicles in the car park and I was certain that one was Rachel's, the ruby red Citroen. Rachel was a bit of a newbie to the village, having inherited a wonderful old house from an aunt. Always smiling, she wore bright scarlet lipstick, recently teamed with a matching woollen coat that skirted her shiny boots. Probably her favourite colour.

 

Curiously, I peeked inside, I had little else to do. Peering idly through the glass, I could see that preparations were taking place for some kind of festive lunch. Mrs Edwards was there, along with Kathy from the pet shop, whose husband Terry was busily arranging tables and chairs. His face appeared flushed and a little sweat was visible on his forehead, which he casually wiped away with the back of his hand. Wendy, who managed the local Book Club, was up a step ladder putting up passé decorations. Just then Rachel appeared, tea towel in hand, her face lighting up when she saw me. "Jenny, how lovely to see you. Have you come to help with the community lunch?"

More than a little embarrassed; my mouth uttered words that I hadn't told it to. 

"Erm, yes. If you can use me…?" Damn, I thought. Why did I say that?

"Great! All hands-on deck then. There's a kettle over there, how about starting with some tea and biscuits for the crew. You'll stay for lunch later? You will stay, won't you? Of course, you will, you'll probably need it after we've finished up here." I looked down at my dirty wellies. Bloody damn. My internal dialogue chastised me for not wearing decent footwear.

"Tea, white with two sugars for me please, Jen," shouted Terry. Oh Gawd, why is this happening to me!?

 

Reluctantly, I did as I was instructed and not before long, the Christmas luncheon was in full swing. I suddenly realised that I hadn't laughed so much in ages and it felt a little weird. Some of the characters were hilarious, to say the least, the yarns they could spin would cause a streetwise millennium to blush. Finishing up, with all bellies properly sated, I fetched my things and worked to bid my farewell. "Jenny. Hold on. Before you scoot off, what are your plans for the big day?" Rachel smiled and eagerly awaited my reply. Once again, the thought of having to admit publicly that I would be at home alone, with not even a scruffy, old cat for company, made me feel discomfited. I whispered the words that I had nothing planned as yet. There you go, are we happy now?

"Come to me then, say around midday?" No way José…What shall I say? Be quick! She's waiting…

I was totally caught off guard. "Oh, don't you have friends and family coming round?" I stammered, flushing from the neck upwards.

"No, it's just me, I'm sad to say. Please say you'll come and share the day with me? I have a larder full of goodies and some Christmas DVDs, should the telly be full of the usual repeats."

On Christmas morning, I woke from a peaceful night's sleep to find that a sense of optimism had made itself comfortable in my head. A little joy had rooted itself into my present mind, elevating my mood and as a ray of sunshine shone through the window, tiny rainbow prisms jigged softly on the bare, plain white walls. It was an atmosphere most carefree, where nothing else was needed. And, though my heart had no desire to dance, my head had no need to ponder, everything felt balanced and as it should be. Gently humming a festive tune, I eased myself forward. The pillows at my back needed plumping and having done so I sat back a little, in order to sit up more comfortably. The view from the window seemed hopeful and as I reached for the gift she had dropped by last night, the snowflake gift tag carried her words, 'Happy Christmas, Jenny. Thought you might be in need of these, Rachel x'. "Oh! A beautiful pair of hand knitted gloves, red-ones!" I gently chortled. On the bedside table sat a Moleskine diary for the coming year. Multiple entries had been scribbled in already: ‘Book Club’: Last Wednesday of the month at Toll Cottage, ‘Coffee and Cake': Tuesday afternoons at the local care home, ‘Sunday Morning Rambles’: Followed by drinks at the village pub. Suddenly, I had a feeling that all was well with the world. After all, it was Christmas, when magical things can happen.

 

© 2023. Mrs WH