Never Forget

Christmas Past

CLEMENCE CAMPBELL

"The sky looks how I feel," I complain.

It has been raining since early morning and from the kitchen window I can see the decorations on the Christmas tree wilting under their soggy weight.

"With Max away, I was already dreading today and now we'll have to squash the front room. I think it's best we forget about Christmas this year and go back to bed," I continue.

"Come on Mamma, it's Christmas, where is your Christmas spirit? Max promised that he'll be here next Christmas?" says Avis attempting to cheer me up.

"Look the tree is ruined. Where are we going to put the presents?" I sigh in dismay.

Avis looks at the pitiful tree. The rain drops fall from its nestles forcing the limbs to droop. "Your right it is a sorry sight," she says.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the first drops of rain had started to tap dance on the tin roof I had lightly poked Chris under the covers with my foot. He had stayed late at the pub drinking with the publican and his response was to roll over groaning like a hibernating bear. On his arrival home, he had placed the Christmas presents under the tree. Now, less than four hours after dozing off to sleep, he is tip toeing over the wet grass to retrieve Santa's precious gifts.

Throwing back my shoulders and standing tall I smile at my daughter, "You're right love, it is Christmas. I think I'll get dressed and head to church early."

"I'll come too," Avis offers.

"No, thanks love, I need some time to myself. I'll meet you all there for the service. I'll save you all a seat," I say feeling a desperate urge to seek the sanctuary of the church.

Avis giggles at my half-hearted attempt of humour. We, Campbell's have sat in the same pew since Grandma Jane and Grandpa George were alive and there wouldn't be one person in town game enough to risk stealing our position.

Dressed in my Sunday best, I walk out the front gate. The blue material usually intensifies the colour of my irises but within a few paces I am sure that it is beginning to contrast against the red of my bloodshot eyes. Unable to maintain my composure anymore I let the tears flow and my shoulders heave as I sob. I hurry my steps, furiously trying to wipe my tears with the lace handkerchief Max gave me for my birthday. Hearing footsteps I look up, Mrs Clatteral is walking towards me. I lower my head hoping to fob off my neighbour. Today is proving to be hard enough without having to deal with that lady.

"Merry Christmas Mrs Campbell,"

Aware of my frog faced appearance I half lift my head, shielding my face with my hand.

"Merry Christmas to you to Mrs Clatteral," I sniff.

Mrs Clatteral glances inquisitively but to my relief, for once the woman decides it best to let things remain private.

In the family pew, I remove the black and white image of George and Clive from my purse. I look at their faces, staring into their eyes and trying to remember their voices. I weep at how hard it has become. 'Lord, grant me the strength to accept what cannot be changed,' I whisper in prayer. Outside, the clouds part and a ray of sunlight passes through the stain glass window. Memorised by the rainbow specks of dust that dance through the air, I hug the photo to my bosom and rock as my sobbing eases.

Slowly the church begins to fill. Being Christmas there will be more than the regular Sunday parishioners in attendance. The rest of my family enter the church together. Chris slides into the seat beside me. He can tell by the look of my face that I have had a hard morning. No doubt I look like I have gone a couple of rounds in the boxing ring. Chris places his hand on my lap and I lean into his side resting my head on his shoulder.

*******

Sitting in the front room of the modest house, is the largest Christmas pudding I have ever seen. Before entering, Avis had insisted that I close my eyes and that Keith had blinded folded me with a tea towel.

"Surprise!" Avis yells removing the buff.

Despite myself I find myself laughing for the first time that day. Wrapped in a bedsheet, the pudding is tied with the red sash off Chris' nightgown and decorated with green pumpkin vine leaves and three balls wrapped in red paper arranged to look like holly.

Chris has the privilege of undoing the knot and pillows and gifts spew from the pudding bag.

"Thank you, for making me smile," I say pulling my youngest close.

The wrapping paper of the opened gifts is piled in the centre of the room and each member of my family holds a small package wrapped in brown paper. They are identical presents that have spent the past year in the cupboard waiting for George and Clive to return.

"One, two, three," counts Avis and everyone tears at the packaging paper.

Maggie is the first to open her gift and is delighted with her blue stoned bracelet.

"Mmmm, I'm not sure this colour will go with my outfit" says Chris admiring the bracelet that now adorns his hairy arm.

"Me either," laughs Keith, "No guessing what was in the package we sent on to Max."

While the rest of the family secure their bracelets to their wrists, I roll the stones through my cupped palms as though they are the most precious gems in the world. As they rub my skin I feel their smoothness drawing me closer to the boys. Somehow I think there is a wonderful story behind these stones that we will never know.