Christmas is a time of festive rejoice, love, thankfulness and rejuvenation. It is a time where we should forget our troubles for one day and celebrate every positive in our lives – no matter how little that positive may be.
Maybe, once upon a time, Christmas was purely about it’s name’s sake – a mass to celebrate the birth of Christ and there are some who still celebrate it as such. But, long ago, the day became bestrewn with other traditions and proceedings that are synonymous with the date but which have little to do with it’s original intent. St Nicholas (aka Santa Claus) has little to do with Christ (and his birth) except to share an association with the Christian religion.
But broadening original intent is not necessarily a bad thing, though. The true message of what the day should be about outweighs all of it’s singular themes. The message goes beyond turkeys, trees, fairy-lights, carol singing, santa grottos and nativity plays. It’s really about giving and appreciating and love. Forget about your latest top-fashion £160 boots, your iPads, your phones, your game consoles and every other impersonal present that the newest generations have come to demand of their loved ones. Those kinds of gifts are for people that have lost the magic and meaning of Christmas and, quintessentially life - who don’t appreciate that there is more to the festival than keeping up with the newest trend, drinking to excess, stressing out about inconsequential details and bemoaning the shit TV schedule.
Christmas, in a more all-encompassing respect, is about giving back to the world – about showing appreciation for every good thing you have received throughout the year, no matter how trivial or shrouded by darkness that good may seem. It is a time to rejoice in being human and to demonstrate the best qualities of our species; love, generosity, humbleness, gratefulness and happiness. For one day in the year you should put aside your differences (in the name of whatever religious on non-religious reason you wish) and refrain from argument or ill word. For one day in the year give without expecting to receive in return. Gifts aren’t just a physical object – they can be something emotional, a labour, something sentimental, an intention or a promise... Just spending the time cooking a nice meal is a wonderful gift for those around the table. A homemade photo-frame carries a sentiment that no ‘bought’ one ever will. A letter listing every way a person makes your life better will have more impact and overall long-lasting worth than the scrap price of a Galaxy Tablet when the next model is released. A gift is something with thought and meaning – it has sentiment and emotion and reason and labour. A gift does not need to have practicability. If you cannot appreciate a handmade bookmark that someone has taken the time and care to design themselves, instead of buying you the latest TV box set must-have, then you need to step back and re-evaluate your values. If you have lost the ability to appreciate a gift from the heart rather than from the wallet then you do not deserve a gift at all. The opposite also stands; if you cannot give a gift from the heart then you should not give a gift at all. Nor should you receive.
Look at yourself right now. How did you celebrate Christmas (or any equivalent religious festival)? Did you moan about all the cooking you had to do or did you find a way to make it fun? Did you gripe about the same cheesy music or did you sing along (even if it’s only in your head) and think about the meaning behind the lyrics? Did you go out and buy what was trendy and looked good; or did you think really hard about what the person you were buying a gift for would actually like? Did you spend time with your friends or family – attempting to have fun and trying to get to know them better – or did you sit in front of the TV and watch the Christmas specials, regardless of how awful the channels were?
Did you give a few quid to the charity collector on the street so you didn’t look bad or did you buy a bunch of flowers and take it to a random cancer hospice yourself? Did you drop some change in a homeless person’s cup or did you bake/buy something and take it down to the soup kitchen? Did you stand in a long queue in a shop and bemoan about the busyness and slow service or did you smile at the other customers around you and approach the counter and thank them on their dedication and effort during such a stressful time?
Did you go into the Christmas season looking to be admired and thanked for your thoughtfulness or did you go into it looking to bring a genuine smile to a person’s face. There is more than one way to be a Scrooge and to go through the typical Christmas motions without meaning the sentiment behind your efforts makes you the worst kind of Scrooge there is. But like the Dicken’s protagonist, there is always time to change your ways and make yourself more wholesome and happy, not just at Christmas, but the whole year through.
This is the story of two people who learn that the best gift to receive at Christmas is not necessarily a material one. It is the story of realising who you’ve become, disliking it and then actively changing for the better. Yes, I’m sure you already realise what story this harkens to.
It is a common claim that there is no pure originality left in storytelling and that every tale is simply a variation of a similar theme of another. Whether this is true or not generally does not concern the typical reader - so long as the story feels new and exciting and unexplored, most readers will feast upon the adventure without delving into deep analysis. This is just as well, as everyone, who reads, will have their own opinions on what makes a story better than the average. No opinion is correct and no opinion is wrong because opinions cannot be classified in those terms. For me, an observer of the narrative that is the human lifetime, a tale is truly only worthy of the accolade ‘brilliance’ when it has a simple plot that can be used and twisted, again and again, to tell a hundred more different stories about a hundred more different characters.
Charles Dickens, of whom most of the learned world has a least heard of – regardless of having read his works - was a man who set the wheel in motion for many storytellers. Unbeknownst to many of today’s authors, most of their works will have been influenced in some way by him. That’s not to say that Dickens was an original storyteller, his works were influenced by his own predecessors, including Shakespeare – as those with the most popular works generally make the biggest impact.
But what is so fascinating is that some of Charles’ works actually come to life in the real world, in ways and twists that one wouldn’t foresee or expect. Perhaps it is the precautionary messages he puts through his stories or perhaps it’s because he has a firm grasp of archetypes.
When he penned ‘A Christmas Carol’, Charles Dickens sent out several powerful messages and they have been reiterated hundreds of times in both obvious and subtle adaptations, such as, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, ‘The Snowman’, ‘The Christmas Card’, “A Different Kind of Christmas and, of course, ‘The Grinch’. The messages don’t just stop with Christmas though. You will find odd parallels running through the likes of ‘The Shawshank Redemption’, ‘Citizen Kane’ and even ‘Toy Story’.
One of the most poignant messages ‘A Christmas Carol’ delivers though, is the idea that you can only find true happiness and self worth by confronting your past, seeing what you truly are in the present and realising what the future could hold if you stay the same. This is the story of how in one day, a young man looks his past in the eye, sees how it is affecting his present self, realises what he could have if he stopped allowing the past to direct him and decides to change for the better.
This isn’t ‘A Christmas Carol’. There are no literal ghosts. There is no time travel. And although the past, present and future come together on the day of change, the story begins long, long before that moment.
~*~
Christmas Day, 1999, Oak St James
Crunch… crunch… sniff…
The large twinkling tree in the village centre loomed bright and welcoming, glittering with warm purples, blues and greens against the navy night air.
“Once in royal David city, stood a lowly cattle shed…
Where a mother laid her baby, in a manger for his bed…”
From the open door of the church, the angelic voice of a choirboy sang a beautiful solo of a timeless classic. It was a day of rejoice, a day of thankfulness – a day of family and friendship.
Inside the townhouses, the fires were on and the tables were brimming with festive food. Children laughed and jumped around excitedly, getting underfoot, as the adults indulged in celebratory glasses of wine - their paper hats getting more and more squint with their own brand of laughter. Some have their TVs on; booming out the dramatic seasonal episode of Eastenders or Coronation Street – serving a reminder of what Christmas shouldn’t be about. Others tune into the Kings College Choir on the Radio - eyes misting as the heartrending vocals dig deep into the pockets of compassion.
Outside of those hearty homes, as the stars sparkle in the growing darkness, the frost glitters in the street lights along with the odd snowflake. The sparkly beauty goes by unnoticed by most – families too busy within themselves to spare a thought out-with their four walls.
But sixteen year old Louis Tomlinson isn’t like most people. He’s bright and magical – a ray of sunshine in most peoples’ lives – with a heart of gold and a streak of irresistible mischief that grabs the hearts of even the most hardened souls. He is the kind of lad that all parents wish for – a giver, achiever and appreciator.
Of all the people who should be inside, enjoying the time of family and festivity, it’s Louis – Christmas has always been the time he was supposed to shine the most. His love, generosity and sense of fun make him like the sun – pulling people into his orbit and showering them with light and protection. He’s the life and soul of his family and his sisters absolutely adore him. But Christmas has never been the way is should for him. Something has always eclipsed the sun and today had been the worst eclipse yet.
Today, sixteen year old Louis Tomlinson trudges across the frozen slush into the village square and drops heavily onto a bench. With a fraction of his possessions stuffed into his school bag and an eye almost completely swollen shut, the young lad shivers in the sub-zero night air. Then he draws his knees up to his chest and bursts into tears – heartbroken, abandoned, bruised and now… homeless.
~*~
Christmas Day, 2010, Oak St James
“A… a year?” Louis repeated faintly. He stared down at the scratched wooden table, desperately trying to make sense of what he was hearing. It was absurd. No. No it wasn’t absurd, it was impossible. Stephen wouldn’t hurt him like that. Stephen couldn’t hurt him like that. It was ridiculous. They were Stephen and Louis. Stephen and Louis. Best friends since birth and then childhood sweethearts from the age of fourteen (thirteen in Louis’ case). Inseparable. Unbreakable. Star-crossed. This year, alone, had been so special for them as it had marked their having been a couple for equally as long as they hadn’t; their fourteenth anniversary. Their relationship was harkened to a modern day love-story. They had gone through so much together. Louis had sacrificed so much in the name of their relationship – swapping many loves for just one; Stephen’s.
Stephen knew that. Stephen knew Louis had lost almost everything in order to be with him. So this… this crap that he was trying to insist was true… No, it can’t possibly have happened. Louis refused to believe it. That kind of cruelty only happened in the movies. And certainly not on today of all days… Stephen knew that today was fragile enough.
“I’m in love with her,” Stephen croaked again, like this was valid reason.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Shut the fuck up! Louis wanted to scream. He gripped his head with both hands, breathing fast - furiously trying to find a way to prove this a lie.
“Louis,” and Stephen had the gall to actually sound upset, “please… say something?”
Louis couldn’t. He was reeling. He didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, cry, fall down or lash out.
“I’ve… I’ve packed up my things.”
Louis’ head snapped up. What?
“We’re… leaving…” Stephen wouldn’t meet his eyes, “tonight.”
“We?”
“Sarah and Me.”
And those were the three words that finally crushed what was left of Louis Tomlinson’s Christmas spirit.
What should have been a day of hard-earned, much needed, love and devotion started with a one-way demonstration of physical attraction – pending a later reciprocal gesture – and ended with a broken young man standing on the Oak Cliffs two days later, screaming as he hurled a £3000 band of silver into the sea and seriously contemplated following it.
~*~
11th January 2012, Oak St James Primary School
Holly bit her lip as she stopped and turned, peering back around the door she’d just exited. Her teacher was now slumped over the desk, hands over his eyes and shoulders shaking. He had been so sad every since they’d come back from the Christmas holidays. He tried not to show it in front of them but it was pretty obvious. He kept smiling but his eyes were weird – they didn’t sparkle like normal.
Holly’s lower lip trembled at the sight of her teacher looking so miserable and she couldn’t help herself. Ignoring her friends’ calls to hurry up, she stepped back into the classroom.
“Mr T?” She asked tremulously, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.
His head snapped up and she saw his eyes were wet.
“H-Holly?” He shakily wiped his face and pasted on a bright smile just for her, “are you okay, love?” He put a hand to her forehead, “Do you need to go home?”
She shook her head, “I’m fine today – just a tiny headache. Are you okay though? You’re…” she touched his cheek with her finger, “crying.”
“I’m…” he swallowed hard, “I’m okay.,, I just… I had a sad Christmas and it’s taking a while for me to cheer up. But don’t worry! I’ll be back to normal soon. I promise.”
~*~
24th February 2012 – somewhere in the Devonshire Countryside. Possibly Lost.
“Shit!” Harry cursed and pushed his foot down on the brakes, managing to stop just two metres shy of the rear of the Volvo Estate in front of him. He let out a shaky breath and quickly turned the radio down. Up ahead, a steady stream of cattle calmly marched their way across the road to the opposite field; mooing, snorting and occasionally pausing to itch their flanks against the gate post. Harry subtly wound his window up as the unappealing scent of prime Devonshire farming filled up the interior to the point his eyes started to water. It was a smell, though, that he was going to have to get used to. Just like the roads; which now had Harry at one brake-slam short of a nervous breakdown. He was a lad from the suburbs of Manchester, a city where the definition of a country road was two lanes with a nice little white line up the middle, indicating that one lane went in one direction and the other in the opposite – and sometimes there might not even be cats-eyes.
In Devon, on the other hand, the Manchester country road was pretty much a main thoroughfare and everything else just a mess of one-track lanes – often with grass growing up the middle and blind double-corners. They were certainly a test of your ultimate navigation and driving skills, especially as passing places seemed to be far and few in-between. In the last hour, Harry had met no less than three huge tractors with trailers and his hands were now actually shaking. It wouldn’t really do for him to die before he had even got to step inside his new home. However, the more animal crossings, and random fords that popped up out from nowhere he encountered the more likely his premature death would become a reality.
As the last cow clomped into the field, enticed by the greener grass, the first car started to move off again – not even waiting for the gate to close. Harry took in a deep breath and put his Range Rover into first gear, determinedly not moving off until the gate had been fully closed and locked. He managed to will up the enthusiasm to hold up his hand in recognition, as one of the lads, who’d been holding back the traffic, lifted his up in thanks for his patience. It wasn’t their fault – this was their home and their job and Harry guessed that traffic was more an inconvenience to them than the temporary hold-up was to the drivers.
In reward for his manners, Devon replied by springing up a signpost around the next corner, citing, ‘Oak St James ½ mile’. Almost there, he realised, and nearly cried in relief.
~*~
Oak St James was a large picturesque village right on the edge of the South West English coast. It was home to 903 residents in total and kept itself separate from it’s neighbours by vast sprawling farmland and two densely wooded valleys. In an attempt to escape some of its self-imposed isolation, a tiny harbour had been dug into the rugged coast – just less than a mile from the village centre - like a tiny porthole in a ship’s hull, giving the parish a gateway to the blue expanse of English Channel.
To the East of the harbour the cliffs grew dramatic with great jagged stone bottoms and striking cut-out arches. To the west, around quarter of a mile of sheer rocky cliff-face, bore a small, pristine sandy beach – Oak Cove. The sand was so white and the sea so turquoise blue you would have thought you were in the Bahamas – except for the air temperature. Yeah, this wasn’t yet the season for shorts or anything that didn’t include thermals.
Running between the harbour and beach was a steep, coarsely hewn, coastal path that zigged-zagged itself up a rocky submit then across briar, grass, and abandoned gull nests to a steep decent into weedy sand dunes. It was a small haven for tourists to explore on a daytrip, or a romantic stroll for lovers to enjoy together but, more commonly a great walk for the locals to exercise their dogs.
In the 20 km² of farm land that made up the Devonshire Parish, 14 farms cultivated the land with a patchwork of wheat, rapeseed and vegetables. In between those fields grazed large herds of cattle, mostly striking black and white Friesians – helping to keep the county rich with locally sourced milk and beef.
The village, itself, boasted an old seafaring and agricultural heritage - with quaint little thatched houses, a more modern 1800’s two-storey stone built centre (with classic sash windows and – what would be - flowing window boxes in the summer), a prominent 16th century church and an appropriately entitled pub, The Wheatsheaf and Anchor. It was a bigger dwelling than Harry had first imagined but just as charming as Wikipedia had suggested; which was a nice ice-breaker considering the cultural shock he knew he was about to receive.
Slowing down, Harry took the chance to take in as much as he could – first impressions were always important, whether you were the giver or receiver.
His first impression of Oak St James was one of a community desperate to win the ‘Best Kept Village’ award. Many of the houses on the main street had long tidy gardens and bore names like Primrose Barn and Warrendale. It was very quaint; especially as some of the older houses, like White Lodge, opened right onto the road. Even those managed to look freshly swept and painted. It was a very tidy village, he decided. Very, very tidy.
Further along, he came to a large semi-cobbled square - where the road triangled around a large angel-adorned stone fountain. There was no water running but in the current climate of it being the driest February since records began, it was probably a considerate decision. Around the fountain were several benches, some ornamentation in the shape of two anchors and four small black cannons - plus half a dozen flower boxes awaiting the sun. It seemed very welcoming, he thought, and very pretty – definitely postcard worthy.
The square was wide enough to allow a small amount of parking on the outskirts, which was very handy for visitors and those wanting to pop into the shops for a few minutes on the way home. There wasn’t even a parking meter, just a sign indicating a stop of no more than an hour, which was fair enough really.
Around the outskirts of the square, spaced between homes and unidentifiable businesses, were a number of necessity shops such as a grocers’, a bakers’, a butchers’, a post office, a small tea-shop, a hair-dressers’, a pottery/gallery place and even a tiny estate agents’ (of all things!). Oak St James seemed pretty self-sufficient, if you cared nothing for anything more exotic than the English basics. Harry doubted he’d find any cans of water-chestnuts on the shop shelves for his stir-frys but at least he wouldn’t have to make a nine-mile drive to the nearest town just for a pint of milk. What it would mean was that he’d have to make a careful food plan for each week – getting everything in one big shop. Not ideal if he had one of his ‘hankerings’ but it wasn’t exactly the end of the world either. At least when it came to baking, something he had urges to do at the weirdest of hours, most of the ingredients had long shelf lives. He could stock up – ready for whenever the mood struck.
Slowing right down, Harry pulled to a stop in front of the post office, right behind an old Morris Minor. From inside the back, several Jack Russells were yapping excitedly, making the car rock back and forth. Even the cars around here were relics of the past, he mused.
Unclipping his seatbelt, Harry opened the car door and nearly fell face-first onto the road. Jesus Christ his arse was numb… and evidently his legs weren’t too impressed by the seven hour car journey either.
It should have only been a five hour journey from Manchester but there had been an accident on the M5. Two hours at a crawl on a motorway was enough to test anyone’s endurance (and patience). He glanced around to make sure nobody had noticed his moment of almost failure – and, thankfully, no one seemed to have. First impressions counted for a lot in his line of profession. Then again, this village wasn’t exactly bustling with people in order for someone to have clocked his clumsiness. The village seemed eerily dead… the kind of dead you read about in old books about fictional country towns terrorised by a monster… Harry shrugged to himself. Well quite frankly, if there was a monster here then it was in for a great meal because there was no way he was venturing back out on those evil roads again today – not even to save his own life.
Squaring his shoulders, he reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed the papers, ducked out again and then made his way around the car, letting the driver’s door shut on its own. It was a cool, clear early spring day and the weak sun prickled at his bare arms as though to tease that, in a few months time, he could have the most glorious of tans. Too early yet, though, mate, you’ll have to wait, it sang, as the shadows danced in the light breeze. Harry didn’t mind so much – his body had never quite tanned evenly and he usually ended up with the most ridiculous of tan-lines. A few years ago there was the time he’d fallen asleep on the decking with his sunglasses on… Gemma had gone around calling him the ‘inverted raccoon’ for weeks... witch. But yeah, tans and Harry hadn’t always seen eye to eye and when he stepped into the cool shade of the buildings it was with a sense of peacefulness.
The village post office stood like something straight out of a James Herriot novel - lime-washed white stonework with black edging; it had a garland of budding roses climbing up the sides and over the top of the door, as though nature was trying to reclaim the building as its own. Two empty flower pots guarded the entrance like sentries and Harry had to actually duck under the awning to get inside – it was that low.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to dimness inside and he nearly walked right into a postcard stand in the process. It was quite spacious inside though – deceptively so - with only two central shelving units displaying the usual mix of envelopes, boxes, string, sellotape and paper. Against one wall, Harry noted there was a lottery stand right next to one of those remote cash machines – the kind that charged you £2.50 for a single withdrawal. On the opposite wall stood a range of birthday and greeting cards plus an assortment of boxed Devonshire fudge, decorated with glossy pictures of the local scenic sights. Harry made a note to send a box up to his mum – she loved that kind of thing.
There was only one serving window at the back and there were currently two old ladies chatting to the middle-aged woman behind the glass. Harry hung back, a little curious and more than a little amused by the thick Devonshire accents – very ooooharrrr.
“… well I heard it was a woman and she was coming down from Aberdeen,” one was saying, quite haughtily.
“I’m sure Paula said it was a man – who wanted to come down here to eventually retire with his wife,” said the other.
“I don’t really care if it’s a man or a woman,” the lady behind the counter replied, “so long as it’s not one of those modern young hospital doctors who think antibiotics are unnecessary unless you’re at death’s door. Two weeks I was in bed with the flu – you remember Ivy? I’ve never been so ill in my life and that loco still refused to give me anything for it. I lost two weeks of business just because he thought it was better for my body to fight for itself.”
“Oh those young doctors are terrible,” Ivy agreed. “They’d rather send you to physiotherapy rather than spend a little money on painkillers. It’s all about saving the pennies these days with them, isn’t it – no care about the patients, just so long as they stay within their budgets. I had one bloke, up at the hospital suggest I try acupuncture for my knee. Acupuncture! I tell you. I said to him, Ere Doc, I’m 74 years old and have arthritis – the last thing I want is someone sticking needles into my joints and draining out what little cartilage I have left. Now just give me a prescription for some decent painkillers and pray that this winters’ flu takes me out.”
Harry had to clap a hand across his mouth so he didn’t burst out laughing. He loved old people’s humour so much.
The other old lady responded in kind, “Oh that hospital is terrible – they won’t even pay for some decent staff. They take on all the freshly graduated students because they’re cheap and then move them on when they get too expensive and experienced. When I went in for my hip operation they had the cheek to give me this twenty-nine year old surgeon. Twenty-nine! At that age they can’t possibly have the full knowledge and experience for that kind of work.”
The other two ladies made noises of agreement. Harry couldn’t help himself any longer. The lady behind the desk smiled at him as he approached, “Hello there deary, what can I help you with?”
“Good afternoon,” Harry greeted, offering his most charming smile to all three, “My name is Dr Harry Styles – I’m here to pick up the keys to The Appletree and the surgery?”