Christmas Fireside Stories

by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver

  Anita had been scribbling something on a piece of paper. ‘Here,’ she said as Clarence and Woody made for the door. ‘This is Freda’s address. You can write to her and tell her . . .’

  Clarence shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ he said. ‘He can’t. Woody has a wife and two kids back home.’

  The door closed and the room fell silent. John was flexing his sore fist. Anita laid her head on his shoulder and wept tears of frustration. John didn’t know what to say but as he gently held her he loved her even more. His hand hurt like hell, but he would have clocked a dozen Canadians for a moment like this.

  ‘Thank you,’ Anita whispered as she moved away. ‘You were wonderful.’

  Doris tipped the empty nutshells onto the fire. Anita wiped her eyes and put what was left of the Christmas cake into the tin. John sat at the table staring blankly ahead. It had been wonderful holding Anita in his arms, but what was she going to think of him when he gave them the telegram?

  ‘You can sleep down here, John,’ said Doris. ‘Go back in the morning when it’s light.’

  ‘My things . . .’ John began.

  ‘They’re still very wet,’ said Doris. ‘No, you stay here, dear. They’ll be dry in the morning.’

  He slept badly, his fitful dozing permeated with nightmares about telling Anita and her mother that Paul was dead. Every time he woke up, he knew he couldn’t put it off much longer.

  The twins bounded downstairs early to open their presents and Anita followed. ‘Happy Christmas, John,’ she said shyly.

  He was relieved that Anita seemed to have recovered from her disappointment of last night. She was so beautiful, even in a threadbare dressing gown and slippers. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him and the telegram.

  Doris made some tea and they had a boiled egg for breakfast. For a man used to bread and dripping, it was a rare treat. As they chatted, he tried to tell them several times but couldn’t bring himself to spoil everything.

  As the twins played with their new toys, Clarence came back. He had come alone, carrying a large box. ‘A gift from C Company Royal 22nd Regiment,’ he said, but they all knew it was his way of apologizing for Woody’s behaviour. Inside they found things they could only dream of: among them a tinned fruit cake, biscuits, a tin of salmon, ham and a seven-pound tin of strawberry jam. Best of all, he gave Christopher and Christine some Neilson’s Chocolate Rosebuds.

  ‘What a wonderful gift,’ cried Doris, ‘but it’s not right to enjoy this all by ourselves. Clarence, please, you must join us tomorrow afternoon, and John, you must invite your mum and your sister over.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Ma’am,’ Clarence nodded.

  ‘You’re a good man,’ said Doris, patting his arm. ‘How providential that you came.’

  Clarence grinned. ‘You have young John to thank for that.’

  ‘Yes, I was wondering about that,’ said Anita, turning to John. ‘What were you doing here, Johnny? This is nowhere near your place.’

  John felt his face flame. He looked helplessly at Anita. This would be the last time she’d ever speak to him.

  ‘I brought a telegram,’ he said faintly.

  ‘A telegram?’ Doris panicked. ‘Oh, dear Lord. Is it Paul?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said John. ‘I never read it. It’s still in my pocket.’

  ‘Then get it,’ she cried.

  John found the telegram in his jacket, still hanging over the clothes horse. He held it out to Anita’s mother.

  ‘You read it,’ she said.

  John tore it open.

  ‘Regret to inform you . . .’ he began. Mrs Barton screamed and almost fainted. Clarence grabbed her and sat her down. Anita snatched the telegram from John’s hand. John turned away. All he could hear was Mrs Barton’s sobbing.

  ‘Wait a minute, Mum,’ cried Anita. ‘Regret to inform you, Paul Barton is POW in Germany.’ She smiled eagerly at her mother. ‘Don’t you see, Mum? He may be a prisoner but he’s alive. Paul is alive!’

  The next minute Clarence and Doris were laughing and whooping around the kitchen with the twins. Anita gave John a hug. ‘Thank you, Johnny. You’ve given us the best Christmas present ever.’

  Their eyes met, and as her lips responded to his kiss, his racing heart told him it was the first of many, many more to come.

  My Favourite Christmas Memory

  PAM WEAVER

  Having worked with children for a large chunk of my life, I have some wonderful Christmas memories, but my favourite has to come from the time when I worked in a private day nursery. The children were all under five and we were doing the nativity play. We had arranged to do the play in the morning when the children would be at their brightest and best, but the owner, who only appeared in the nursery every now and then, wasn’t very keen. Apparently mornings didn’t suit her terribly well, so for that reason alone we had to change it to the afternoon.

  The mothers were invited, as were the local press. It was a bit hectic getting everything done after lunch and some of the children were tired after their long morning, but we managed to make it fun for them. As the children gathered in the corridor in costume, ready to walk into the classroom, to our horror the owner of the nursery began to stuff a big sweet into every child’s mouth.

  Because the children were too young to follow a script, we had decided to create a tableau while the narrator (a member of staff) told the story. We had an inkling of trouble ahead when the Angel Gabriel and one of the Wise Men began shoving each other in the corridor in a quest to get a better sweet. One of them ended up in tears, but we sorted out the problem and were confident that the feud had been settled. Despite a few chocolatey faces and a couple of yawning angels, the tableau began to look amazing. The photographer clicked away, but then, keen to get to another nativity play at the local primary school, scooted off. The owner left with him.

  This was in the days before mobile phone cameras, which was probably just as well, because when the Angel Gabriel realized that everyone was distracted by people leaving and that he was standing immediately above the Wise Man, he seized a golden opportunity to take his revenge. It was left to me to dive into the fray and part two very angry little boys, but thankfully with a little rearranging of their positions they settled down.

  When I stepped back, I could see some of the mothers giggling and realized that a drowsy angel had lain down beside the baby in the manger and gone to sleep with her thumb in her mouth. She looked so sweet that it seemed better to leave her there. Surely nothing else could go wrong . . .

  We sang some Christmassy songs and the children were wonderful. Everything was going perfectly until there was a loud clatter on the wooden floor followed by a heart-rending wail from the child playing Mary: ‘Jesus’s arm has fallen off!’

  Nothing could be done, because the elastic inside the doll that held the arm on had snapped, but once we’d swaddled the baby in the shawl again you couldn’t tell the difference. Who cared, anyway? I looked around at all the happy, smiling faces and knew that everyone’s joy was all that mattered.

  A Wounded Christmas

  Mary Wood

  DECEMBER 1942

  Alice

  Alice gripped her head in her hands, but the action failed to block out all her fears. Not her past, nor her time behind enemy lines working with the Resistance, nor her deep worry for her darling Steve – out there somewhere, she didn’t know where . . .

  For the umpteenth time she asked herself, Is he safe? Is he alive? And prayed, Please God he is, and please, please keep my darling sister Gertrude safe too.

  So much to haunt her. So much to make her heart heavy. A heart that had suffered, but also found joy beyond measure in her love for Steve and in the discovery of her half-sister Gertrude.

  The soft rug yielded to her feet and gave comfort as she swung her legs off the couch. Bad things were happening everywhere, but everyone had to carry on as best they could; she would be no different. Time to
reconsider her options . . . The shrill sound of the phone cracked the silence around her and interrupted her thoughts. Her body stiffened as she listened to her maid answering the call.

  ‘Yes, Miss Alice is in, who is calling, please? Oh! Very well, please wait a moment.’

  Rising in one movement, Alice opened the door to the hall just as her maid lifted her hand to knock. ‘Who is it, Penny?’

  ‘The nursing home, Miss Alice, they need to speak to you.’

  Mother! Oh God!

  Hearing the words spoken to her down the crackling line took the strength from her legs. Backing towards the chair that stood nearby, she sank into it and tried to speak. ‘But – but . . . She was fine yesterday, she—’

  As if she hadn’t spoken, the matron continued in a matter-of-fact way: ‘I’m afraid we don’t think she has long. The doctor has just left, but he warned it may only be hours. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I – I will come straight away.’

  Brave words, but going to see her mother had always taken even more courage than she’d had to muster in the thick of the dangerous missions in France. So much hung between them: cruelty, lack of care, lies. Then there was her mother’s final mental breakdown that had indirectly caused the death of dearest Bren, her closest childhood friend and someone who had wanted to be more. How sad that she hadn’t been able to feel the same for him. But he died thinking she did, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘I have your coat ready, Miss Alice, and Jensen is bringing the car around to the front for you. I hope Lady Louisa is all right.’

  Dear Penny would only be paying lip service to this wish. She’d been with the family a long time and remembered what used to go on. She and Cook and the lovely Bill, their former gardener, had done what they could to protect her against Mother’s violent outbursts and the vile acts of Nanny.

  The door opened and a cold breeze wafted around her, camouflaging the reason for the shiver that shook her body at the thought of the loathsome Nanny, and bringing to her the fresh wintry smells of the beautiful surroundings of her home.

  The wonder of the setting of this house had always given her peace. The large dwelling, elegant in its design, stood on the edge of Bexley’s Danson Park in south-east London. Its garden sloped down towards the natural beauty, giving views of nature dressed in all seasons. Today, white frost clothed it, providing a spectacular vision of hedges draped in lace, and trees like dancing giant fairies, swaying proudly in their winter finery. But both were outdone by the lake, which dazzled like a thousand diamonds as the sun, low in the sky, skimmed its surface with a weak shimmering light.

  A peace settled in Alice, as it always did when she allowed herself a moment to let the beauty of the scene seep into her: a landscape so at odds with what disturbed her mind and light years apart from the reality of the hell searing the real world as the war raged towards its third year.

  With this inner peace came an urge to live in the now. The past was the past, the present held its own heartache, but there was still plenty to get on with. She could be of more use to her country than she was at the moment. The humdrum existence of dealing with admin at the War Office had kept her occupied, but she wanted to go back and continue the work she had begun with the Resistance. Back to Gertrude, to secure her safety. Miraculously, Alice thought, the injuries she’d sustained at the hands of the Germans, when they’d captured her and Steve, had healed.

  Again she thought of Steve. Their escape, orchestrated by the Resistance movement, had resulted in further injury to him. Whether he’d recovered from that injury, she did not know. Nor did she know whether Alfonse, the leader of the movement, had been able to get himself and Steve to safety. The not knowing was a source of agony to her, and yet it held hope as she clung on to the belief that no news was good news.

  But, all of that aside, she would approach the General this afternoon, no matter the outcome of this visit to her mother. She would beg him to let her go back. She had so much knowledge and training going to waste. She needed to be back in France, using her expertise to further the cause. Somehow she would persuade the powers that be that she was ready.

  Lil

  Lil’s hand had gone numb. The face of the young officer holding it was screwed up in agony. The doctor’s voice droned on in the background, soothing but useless words: ‘Nearly done, old chap. The last stitch going in now. Once this is done you will feel more comfortable.’

  Comfortable? Eeh, she doubted the lad would ever know the meaning of the word again. One of his legs had been blown off and half of the arm on the same side, and with some horrific internal injuries the lad was in agony. Now he had a deep gash on his good arm, brought about by his thrashing about and hitting the iron bedstead. Probably in anger. Many emotions took these lads, but anger always triumphed.

  ‘All done, sir. You’ll be reet.’ Releasing her hand from his grip and wiping his face with a cool damp cloth she had at her side, Lil tried to offer encouragement. ‘Come on, now, your young ’un will be in this evening to see you. Think about that and try to get yourself rested for her visit, eh?’

  His ‘thank you’ came from lips that still grimaced with pain.

  ‘When can I give him his next pain relief, Doctor?’

  ‘I have made one up for him to take in fifteen minutes. It was unfortunate that this happened when his last dose was wearing off. Keep your chin up, young man, getting better is all to do with willpower.’

  ‘Aye, and he’s a lot to win through for. By, lad, your young ’un’s a bonny lass, and she wants to have Christmas with her daddy. So make that happen, eh?’ Lil often found herself dropping the formal address of her charges, but none of them seemed to mind.

  All of her patients were officers, all broken in some way or other in the line of duty. This hospital, fashioned out of a beautiful old mansion in Kent, offered them a peaceful sanctuary to recover in – or, God forbid, to die in, with dignity and amongst their own.

  Straightening her body, Lil looked out of the window. The typical English country-house garden surrounding the house looked like a winter wonderland as the frost whitened everything. Even the statues had icicle jewellery hanging from them, as if dressed in their best finery for Christmas.

  In the dimming light of late afternoon, the more able-bodied officers wandered around outside, despite the cold. Tiny red lights glowed as they drew on their cigarettes. Small groups chatted, some men stood on their own. What was going through the minds of these solitary figures she could only guess.

  Frustration brought a sigh from Lil. How long before the bosses of the Red Cross approved her application to work for the Voluntary Aid Detachment? She’d passed all her exams and was a fully qualified nurse now. She’d done her time in this hospital and she was ready. More than ready. Especially now that Mildred, her ma-in-law, was nicely settled in living with Gillian. What Lil would have done without Gillian, she didn’t know. The lass had been her saviour and the best friend a girl could have. Eeh, thinking of me and Mildred living down here in London at all, is a wonder. I never thought I’d leave the North, let alone that Mildred would do so! Not with how Mildred was so set in her ways. But with Alfie – Mildred’s son and Lil’s late husband – not coming back from the war, there just didn’t seem any reason to stay up there. Yes, it had been Lil’s birthplace, the small Yorkshire town bordering Lancashire, but it didn’t hold happy memories for her.

  Born in a workhouse and losing her mother, who’d succumbed to the disease and hunger that was rife in that institution, she’d found a spark of happiness at first with Alfie. But the bitterness in him at being an unrecognized bastard son of the owner of the Mill, had eroded that happiness and led to Lil suffering violence and rape at his hand.

  The arrival of young Gillian, an evacuee to their area from London, had marked the turning point for her. With Alfie away, she’d accompanied Gillian to her home on a visit and had been drawn to help the folk of the stricken East End. Working with the local Red Cross had led her to tak
e up nursing, and here she was. But her efforts still didn’t feel enough. She wanted to do so much more!

  As Lil raised her hand to pull down the window blind, knowing blackout time was approaching, a car swung in at the gate and made its way up the long drive towards the building. Alice? Yes! Eeh, that’s a turn-up, but a welcome one.

  Alice was the only other good thing, besides Mildred, that had come into Lil’s life through her marrying Alfie. It had been Alice’s uncle who had fathered Alfie. Meeting her had been a shock. Having to tell her who she was and about her husband being Alice’s half-cousin hadn’t been easy.

  Alice had been brought into this hospital, injured and broken in spirit. Lil had known who she was as soon as she’d heard her surname. But far from the revelation causing friction, it had joined them in a loving friendship. And they had been a help to one another. Now, mended, well in body if not in mind, Alice had taken to Mildred, providing her – the woman who’d been wronged by Alice’s uncle – with the means to live a good life, or at least the best anyone could as things were today. Mildred spent a few days at Alice’s every week and savoured her part in taking care of Alice. Not that Alice wanted her to help, but she could see it made Mildred happy to do so.

  Alice stepped out of the car and came up the steps. Her presence took this beautiful building back to its former glory – a Rolls-Royce parked at its steps with a chauffeur helping a lady to alight. It made Lil wonder, as she had done many times, what life had been like here before all of this happened. Alice had told her a little, as she had attended balls here with her then beau, Bren, but still, it was hard to imagine the place as it was. Now packed with wards and operating theatres, peopled with gliding nuns and giggling nurses, the building provided shelter and care, but also saw the toll of human misery that war had brought to it. Though, she had to admit, that was balanced with hope, and sometimes laughter from the wounded.