The Ghosts of Christmas Past

The brightly and expensively decorated tree was tall, very tall. To a six year old it looked like it would reach the sky, and it was if the star on the top was real, plucked from the heavens. She craned her neck and peered hard at it, she was sure it twinkled at her.

Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Well, go on, dear, open them.”

She brought her gaze down to the huge pile of gaily and well wrapped gifts stacked high under the tree. Each was covered in thick gold and silver paper and adorned with yards of ribbon and large fancy bows. So many she didn’t know where to start. Standing in front of them, overwhelmed and bemused, she fiddled with the yellow ribbons on the front of her pristine white dress, which were matched by yellow ribbons separating her light brown hair into two pigtails. She shuffled her black patent shoes that were reflecting the twinkling lights on the tree.

“Oh, for goodness sake, child. Your father and I have spent all this money on you and all you can do is stand there gawping!”

She turned to her mother and shrugged sadly.

Tears pricked at the innocent eyes of the child as she remembered the scene that had so saddened her the day before. She had been visiting the large toy store, Hamleys, with her nanny. As they walked up to the store she caught sight of a number of children crowding around the shop window, their faces pressed against the glass, looking longingly at the array of toys displayed there. The children’s cheap, dirty clothing and worn shoes made her frown in puzzlement. How can there be such poor children still living in the streets of London? The scene had reminded her of the illustrations in the leather bound editions of her Dickens books. But those stories had been written a long time ago, she had no idea that people still lived like that. She stood still staring at the children until her nanny tugged at her arm and pulled her into the store; with a backward, disgusted look directed at the children, she chivvied the little girl through the doors. When she continued to pester her nanny about the children, she was told that they were probably from the local orphanage or one of the large rundown estates and she should ignore the dirty, deplorable children. This Christmas day she wished she could find all those poor children and give them all the presents she neither wanted nor needed.

“I know, lets open his big one first, shall we, darling? Her father knelt down beside her and took her small hand briefly in his large well-manicured one. Letting go of her hand, he began to rip at the silver paper covering a present as big as her. As she helped a head with a silken mane appeared then a tail of the same golden hair. It was a rocking horse like the one that already sat in the nursery, although this one was not only bigger and better but also obviously more expensive. What did she need with another rocking horse, she thought, she was hardly a baby anymore and besides she would rather have had a real pony, just like the Smythe twins who live in the big house in the country where her parents had taken her on a visit that summer. She wanted a real pony more than anything.

“Isn’t it beautiful, darling? Do you like it?”

She nodded slowly as she stroked the soft hair that covered it body then she ran her hand down the silken tail combing her fingers through it.

“Come on.” Her mother said. “ Open all the rest.”

So the little girl and parents spent the next hour or so unwrapping presents of varying sizes. Most contained expensive impractical dresses, and shoes with silver gilt buckles. And dolls with perfect faces and velvet dresses. She moved the arms and legs of the one with the long blonde hair.

“Be careful, dear. They are not for playing with. We will put it on your dresser to look nice, shall we?” Her mother carefully removed the delicate doll from her hand and placed it back under the tree. Her father raised his eyes at his pretty little daughter and smiled knowingly. She managed a small smile back.

They continued to open gifts revealing bone china tea sets and some exquisitely made miniature furniture to go in the doll’s house she had been given for her birthday earlier that year.

Then she found it, the very last present tucked at the back of the tree. A book. She read the title out loud as she traced the words with her finger. ‘My big book of horse and pony stories.’ On the cover was a prancing black stallion. She sat crossed legged on the deep piled carpet, her back resting against the front legs of the rocking horse and laid the book out in front of her. Carefully she turned each page, her brown eyes drinking in the beautiful illustrations. She stopped at a picture of a handsome peasant boy riding a grey mare, his dark hair blowing in the wind as he race a cross a wild landscape to rescue a beautiful princess held captive by a wicked witch in an dark tower. She sat and stared at it for ages then continued through the book to look at the other pictures and stories but, in the end, she returned to the one of the young boy, completely mesmerised by it, her young mind imagining her grown up self riding off into the sunset on the back of the grey with her knight in shining armour, together they would have a stable full of horses and ponies and live happily ever after. As she continued to immerse herself in the book and its stories her mother berated her to her father.

“I don’t understand her. All these beautiful and jolly expensive gifts.” She waved an elegant hand in the direction of the pile of unwrapped but still neatly stacked presents. “And all she interested in is a book you bought from that cheap bookshop for a few shillings. Oh, Arthur, I really do not understand Dora…at all!”

-----

If he pressed his nose against the window and stared really hard, he could still make out the tall iron gates at the bottom of the drive, the hazy moonlight picking out the two cherubs that sat on the top of each of them. These were the same gates; he had thought only a few months ago, must be the gates of heaven, where he had been told his father had gone. Only he soon discovered, once inside the gates that his father wasn’t here and the large, cold and stark house that sat in the grounds was certainly not the heaven his young mind had imagined. Here you were shouted at and smacked for, as far as he could see, doing nothing particularly wrong. All the children slept in small uncomfortable beds with very little bedding and fed bland and tasteless meals. And he was sure bad things happened, especially at night, he would often awake in the early hours of the morning, to see one of the older boys creeping back to their beds in the large dormitory, and then lay there listening to their muffled sobs. He heard stories too! Stories his young innocent mind couldn’t comprehend but that he would come to understand only too well as he grew older.

Beyond the gates and the tall brick wall that wrapped itself around the imposing building that was now his home, stood the huge factory chimneys belching out thick, black smoke like angry monsters into the dark Yorkshire sky. But he wasn’t afraid of them, he was a big boy now, he’d been five years old on his last birthday a few weeks before. Not that anyone remembered, there were no cards or presents, he only knew because he had found a small scrap of paper in his coat pocket with his name and birthday on it and had been reminded when the same date had been written on the blackboard at school that day. He had tried to comfort himself with the notion that her birthday card to him had got lost in the post and that she hadn’t forgotten. He began to shiver and pulled the faded blue dressing gown tight around his thin body, in an effort to keep out the cold and damp.

He suddenly caught his reflection in the glass windowpane, instinctively brought his small hand up to his head and tentatively he ran his fingers over the short, spiky stubble that had once been his thick dark, almost black hair. He hadn’t understood why his hair had been so brutally shaved off, he didn’t have nits; he wasn’t dirty, not like the boy who sat next to him in the schoolroom. Wiping his eyes on his frayed sleeves he sniffed back the tears that had threatened to spill over on to his cheeks then taking a small piece of yellow cloth from his dressing gown pocket, he gently placed it against his face, feeling the softness on his cheek. He imagined he could still smell her perfume on it. He had learnt fairly quickly to keep his comforter hidden from the other boys and some of the so-called carers, for fear of being teased or even beaten for being a ‘baby’.

He returned his gaze to the gates, and at once his heart began to quicken, there was someone hovering outside, could it be her? He looked harder and sighed sadly, it was only someone out walking a dog, which had stopped to relieve itself at the gateposts then they disappeared out of sight.

He looked around the yard that was still covered in snow although it was no longer crisp and white as it had been when it fell that morning. It was now dirty and slushy where dozens of feet had trampled, slid and jumped. In the corner of the yard, on a small patch of what once had been called a lawn, stood a snowman. He could just make out it’s beady coal eyes, they seemed to staring at him, it’s smiling mouth of small stones mocking him as if it knew why and who he was waiting for. The snowman had been made that afternoon when the children had been allowed to play outside in the snow. He had refused to take part in the building of it, preferring to sit on the cold, icy steps at the entrance of the building. From this vantage point he had an interrupted view of the driveway and the gates at the end. So that’s where he sat for the whole of that Christmas day afternoon, waiting expectantly for her to come strolling up the drive. He daydreamed as he waited, imagining himself running towards her, she would gather him up in her arms and promise never to leave him again. He would be able to show her his one and only Christmas present; maybe she’d have more for him. He picked up a small wooden horse, and made it clip-clop along the windowsill. It was craved out of wood, it’s saddle of leather, and the mane and tail were of real horsehair. It hadn’t actually been given to him, he hadn’t unwrapped it from its bright paper. His gift had been one of a model aeroplane, a Spitfire from the Second World War. The horse had been given to the blond boy who had sat next to him, crossed legged on the hard floor where they wait in line as Father Christmas handed out gifts donated by local businesses and charitable organisations. The blond boy had tried to look pleased but he had seen the look of disappointment on the boy’s face and had offered to swap his plane for the horse. He hadn’t minded at all, he liked horses and one day, he thought to himself, he’d learn to ride and maybe have a horse of his very own. He imagined himself as a knight in shining armour; fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in distress, like the ones in the picture books on the schoolroom shelf.

As he continued to play with the horse on the windowsill, the door was suddenly and noisily flung open, flooding the room with light. He jumped up startled.

“Oi! What do yer think yer are doing in ‘ere?” A voice boomed as a tall, scrawny man entered and strode towards him. The young boy didn’t answer but stood stock still by the window. The man grabbed his arm and squeezed hard.

“I were talking to you.” He spat. Still he didn’t answer despite the pain caused by the man’s grip.

“What do we have ‘ere then.” He reached out to grab the toy horse. “Ah, a little horsey.” The boy snatched it back.

“Leave lone. Mine!” He said trying to pulled his arm from the man’s grasp.

“Oh, he speaks then.” The bully of a man gripped his arm even harder and pulled him into the middle of the room but the boy started to put up a fight and began to kick out with his bare feet and then punched the man with his small curled fist. The man laughed, mocking his feeble attempts.

Without a second thought the boy landed a hard bite on the man’s bare arm drawing blood.

“You little brat.” The man swung his fist catching him a glancing blow on the side of his face before letting him go and taking a step back surprised, his bravado disappearing when he realised the boy wasn’t going to succumb easily to his bullying tactics that worked on some of the weaker children.

“You just wait, you little sod. I’m going to fetch Matron, tell her what you’ve done. You’ll get the cane for this.”

“Don’t care.” He said in his bravest of voices, trying hard not to cry.

The man made his way to the door, but before disappearing through the doorway, he turned to the boy, and grinned inanely at him.

“ She not coming for you, you know. She hates you. She doesn’t want you. Nobody does.” He spat and with one last sneer, strode off down the corridor.

The boy returned to the windowsill, sitting back on it he drew his legs up to his chest and allowed the tears to flow.

A gentle hand lay on his shoulder and he looked up and through the tears that blurred his vision, he saw Mrs Higgins, the Matron standing beside him. He hadn’t heard her walk silently across the room, for despite her large size, she was surprisingly light on her feet. He had been fortunate that it had been Mrs Higgins’ turn to be on duty that Christmas Day, as she was the most kindest and caring of the senior staff.

“Come on now, dear. What is it? What are you doing?” She asked softly. She decided not to reproach him over the incident with the orderly. She didn’t like the man, and had come to the conclusion that he had got what he deserved.

“Waiting.” He shrugged, gulping back a sob.

Mrs Higgins smiled sadly, and shook her head. Poor lad, she thought, she had been keeping an eye on him all day, and knew who he was so desperately but patiently waiting for.

“She’s not coming, dear.”

“She promised.”

“I know.” She gently rubbed his back.

“She said at Christmas, she would come for me.”

“I know, dear, but it’s late now and she’s not here, is she. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Wait a bit longer.” He asked looking up at her with those beautiful big brown eyes.

“No dear, you have to go to bed or you’ll get into trouble. Come on.” She held out her hand as he gathered up his horse and comforter from the windowsill. “I promise, I’ll wake you if…when she get here.”

He nodded reluctantly and took hold of her chubby hand in his small one.

Mrs Higgins took him back to bed quietly so as not to wake the other boys in the large dormitory. As she tucked him in, she looked down on this sad child. He was a lovely little boy, his handsome features already foretelling the good-looking man he would become. She was very fond of him, although she couldn’t admit it to anyone, the patrons expected the orphanage to be run with a rod of iron, the strictest of discipline and firmness, and had no time for sentiment or love. But she foresaw trouble and pain for this little one in the future. He would grow up to be an angry and bitter young man. She could only hope that one day he would find somewhere he could call home and someone to love and care for him.

“Goodnight, Stevie and Happy Christmas.” She whispered to him.

Stevie snuggled down under his thin blanket and holding tight to his yellow comforter and his horse, he thought of his mother. Perhaps she had missed her bus, he wondered, and was walking through the snow to him.

“Tomorrow, maybe mummy, you’ll come tomorrow.” He murmured as tears trickled from his dark eyes and down his cheeks.

-----

“And where do you think you’re going.” The short stocky man speaking with a drunken slur grabbed the teenage boy’s arm.

“Out.” The boy shrugged him off and the man tottered backwards, sitting down with a bump in a convenient chair.

“Oh, no you’re not, you’re staying right ‘ere.” The man grabbed the arm of the chair and pushed himself back up to a standing position.

“Why?” The boy asked with a insolent tone to his voice.

“Cos it’s Christmas Day and you should be spending the day with your family, with me, your father.” He jabbed his chest with an unsteady finger.

“Why, so you can have another drunken go at me about that crappy job. I ain’t going

back, Dad!”

“You’re just a lazy git, that’s your trouble, son. Don’t want a job do yer? Too much like hard work. How many jobs have you ‘ad since you left school, you tell me that.”

“I dunno?”

“You dunno? Too many to count, you’ll amount to nothing. Just be one of those longhaired layabouts, smoking pot all day! If your mother were ‘ere, she’d soon sort you out.” The man collapsed once more into the chair.

“Well, she ain’t is she? You can’t keep harpin’ on about what Mum would have said or done. She’s dead, Dad. Dead!” He laid a hand on the doorknob and paused. Looking over his shoulder at the pathetic sight of his father slumped in the armchair, he made one last remark before opening the door and walking out into the cold, wet day.

“ And if Mum were ‘ere, she’d sort you and your god forsaken drinking out too!”

Out in the yard, he pulled the collar of his denim jacket up around his neck, and wrapped his arms around himself to keep out the cold and rain as he walked quickly into the wooden garage, leaving his father to drown his sorrow in yet another whisky.

In the garage he removed an old great coat from a nail by the door, shrugging himself into it, he sat down on an upturned empty barrel, and started to fiddle with the old clapped out motorbike in front of him. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. God, it was cold in here, he mumbled as he lit a cigarette. He couldn’t stay here all day, he thought. Perhaps he could go down to the pub at lunchtime and meet up with some of his mates. He knew he wasn’t yet old enough to be drinking in pubs but the landlord didn’t seem to mind and the local bobby, particularly this time of year, often turned a blind eye.

As he pulled the coat tighter about him, his eye caught sight of an old musty and mildew-ridden saddle hanging in the corner and his thoughts turned to his mother.

His father was right; she would have sorted him out. She would have horrified if she'd known how many jobs, he’d given up, without even trying.

And it wasn’t his father fault he’d turned to drink. The past year had been hard for him, and today of all days even harder. It had been on Christmas day last year that his mother had shown the first signs of the illness that was to culminate in her death only a few months later.

He was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t helped his father, hadn’t been the supportive and caring son he should have been. He had coped with his mother’s death by going off the rails, getting into trouble and rebelling against his father.

He stood up, dropped his cigarette on the concrete floor and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot.

Opening the door of the house cautiously, he saw his father still slumped in the chair and his heart sank, only to be followed by relief when he saw the whisky glass had been replaced by a mug of black coffee and in his father’s other hand he held a photo frame.

“Glad you came back, son.” His father said looking up from the photograph. “I think we need to talk…soberly.” He added gesturing to the boy to sit down in the chair opposite him.

Father and son after apologising to each other, talked amicably for sometime about the boy’s mother and his inability to keep any job.

“ I was talking to Colonel Maddox the other day, he’s willing to take you on up at his place, ‘elping with the horses.

“What up at his posh house?” his son asked with a slightly enthusiastic tone to his voice.

“Er…no, I don’t think so. I think it’s at his other place, what’s it called…Follyfoot, I believe that’s what he called it?”

“What that place? Oh no, Dad. They’re all clapped out old nags there, and that includes the old bloke that works there too!”

“Come on, son. Beggars can’t be choosers. Give it a try at least. For your mother, she always said you were a natural with ‘orses.” He handed the boy the photo frame that he recognised as the one that sat on his father’s bedroom dresser. He looked at it and sighed. It was of his mother, her flame hair tucked into her riding hat, with him as red haired toddler being held by her as they both proudly sat astride a beautiful chestnut horse.

He glanced up at his father and sighed heavily.

“The Colonel says you can start as soon as possible. What do you say, will you give it a go, if I promise to cut down on me drinking. Please, Ron.”

Ron nodded. “Okay.” He said as rose from his seat and placed the photograph of his mother and himself on the mantle piece amongst the glitter covered Christmas cards.

-----

“He does like it, doesn’t he?” The woman held out the teddy bear to the baby as her husband looked on.

“Yes, of course, my dear.”

“And the toy car too?” She ran the little green tin car along the ground making soft engine noises.

“That too!” Her husband watched as his wife continued to play with the car, wheeling it around in figure of eights.

“It’s good that we are all together for his first Christmas. I’m so glad we were able to take him away from that hospital. You know they wouldn’t even let me see him, but now he’s here. And we can be with him.” She looked up at her husband and smiled. “Why don’t you come down here, dear and play with him too?”

So her husband knelt down beside his wife, and reluctantly joined in with the play. Putting an arm around his wife, he listened to her softly cooing and talking to their baby. She described the Christmas lights on the trees and the nativity scene in the toyshop window to her child. He watched her tenderly as she told the story of the birth of the baby Jesus. The sight of a mother with her child should be one of beauty and adoration but the scene with his wife being played out before his eyes today, was heart rendering and pitiful.

“Come on, my dear. It’s time to go.” He placed his hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet, supporting her as she walk away, he looked back over his shoulder at the teddy now propped up against the gravestone… that told of the death of their beloved son at only a few days old.

“Are you alright?” A hand lay gently on his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see a young man standing in front of him.

“Samuel?”

“What? No Slugs, it’s me, Steve… Are you okay?”

“Oh, sorry, lad. I was thinking of….” Slugger sighed sadly. “I was thinking of a ‘notsohappy’ Christmas, a long time ago.”

“I know, Slugs. We’ve just been reminiscing over Christmases past too, haven’t we?” Steve turned to Dora who was now standing by his side, her arm around his waist. “And how different this Christmas could have been!” He added sighing heavily.

Dora nodded sadly, then letting Steve go, she moving towards the old man, she leaned forward and took him by the arm, helping him rise from his chair. “Come on, Slugger, let’s open our presents. Ron’s getting impatient, he’s behaving like a big kid.”

“Yeah, Slugs, don’t leave me in suspense any longer. Want to find out what you’ve all got me. We ain’t got all day.” Ron said jokingly.

“ You right there, Ron.” Steve said looking at his mate as he knelt on the floor with Dora. “ There’s still a load of horse work to do today, Christmas or not.” He laughed.

“Oh gawd, thanks for that Steve, me old mate. And it could have been a beautiful day.” Ron said sarcastically as he dive under the tree and handed out a present to each of them.

Slugger stood, the present Ron had given him in hand, he paused as he unwrapped it and gazed down at his three young friends seated on the floor in front of the tree. Ron hollering as he plonked his new cowboy hat, a present from Dora and Steve, on his head, and Steve kneeling behind Dora, she leaning back against him as he wrapped his arms around her. Dropping a light kiss on her hair, Steve watched, with the characteristic boyish grin on his face, as Dora opened her present from him. She blushed as she removed a very small, very frilly, baby-doll nightdress from its tissue paper. Ron hadn’t failed to notice the sexy nightwear and raised his eyebrows knowingly at Steve, who winked back, revelling in Dora’s obvious embarrassment. Dora looked up at Steve, giggling she hit him playfully then thanking him, kissed him tenderly. Slugger’s gaze rested on the young couple, their faces glowing with happiness and their eyes full of love for each other. They had had their share of sadness this past year, he thought, but they had overcome it and their relationship, whether in spite of it or because of it was stronger than ever. He admired them for the maturity and strength they had shown in dealing with the ups and downs of their life together.

He was shaken from his quiet thoughts by the sound of raucous laughter as Ron lassoing the tree with a piece of string, almost brought it down on himself only to be saved by Steve and Dora’s quick reaction as they caught the toppling tree, sending the decorations scattering over the floor.

As the friends straightened the tree and replaced the fallen baubles, jovial banter flying between them, Slugger smiled at them, he may have lost one child but fate had brought him three more, in the guise of these young people, whom he loved as if each was his own flesh and blood. He suspected that most of the ghosts of the past had been laid to rest, and future Christmases would be a lot brighter and happier.

“Merry Christmas, everybody, and may there be many, many more” He whispered.

The End

© Sue Hirst 2006