|
Dorothy
Jackson sat on the sofa with her hands clasped in front of her. It was
Christmas Day, so the fire was lit, and reflections sparkled from the
decorations that covered the small tree and every possible vantage point
in the small living room. An appetising smell of roast turkey was
beginning to make itself felt.
"Surely
he'll come this year,” Dorothy thought. "Lord, I've prayed this
prayer every year since 1982 ... please.. Lord?" Her eyes were
fixed on the photograph of a young man in amongst the candles on the
mantelpiece. Her mind went back to the service at Church earlier that
morning. They'd found out somehow, some years ago, that she prepared the
house ready for Darren to come home to every Christmas. And every year
they gently tried to persuade her to put memories behind her, to join
someone else's family party. She didn't lack for invitations although,
come to think of it, there'd not been the usual approaches after the
service this morning. Ah, well. She was glad to be alone with her
memories - and hopes. Was it really 23 years since Darren had stormed
out of the front door on Boxing Day after that terrible argument with
Rex, slamming it behind him with never a word? Rex had been dead a good
few years now. He and Darren had never really hit it off, not after
Darren grew up. "Good riddance to bad rubbish" Rex had said.
It wasn't Darren's fault he couldn't keep a job. People just didn't
appreciate him and he'd never found his niche.
The
sound of the timer on the oven brought her back to the present. That
turkey needed to come out and rest before it was carved. For a moment
she wondered what she was going to do with it this year, if, as usual,
it was still intact on Boxing Day. No, this was the year he was going to
come. "Miracles do happen," she assured herself, as she
carefully lifted the turkey out, and put it to keep warm. "In
2005?" a voice in her head seemed to say. "No angels in the
sky these days."
Making
herself concentrate on her cooking, Dorothy tipped the potatoes into the
roasting tin: 40 minutes or less, perhaps, as the oven seemed rather
warm. Memories of an excited little Darren waiting for his Christmas
dinner, urging her to turn the heat up, made her eyes fill with tears.
"None of that, now" she said to herself. But she couldn't help
remembering. He'd been so good when he was with her in the kitchen - a
real handy little person. Not that Rex had approved. "Get out and
do something useful", he'd said. Dorothy sighed. She was a fool,
she supposed, and they all knew at church, and had decided it was better
to say nothing this year.
She went back into the living room. The table
was laid for two, and the Christmas bottle of sherry was waiting to be
opened. This was the first year she hadn't opened it ready. Perhaps she
really was losing faith. From the street outside came the sound of carol
singers. Her favourite: "Away in a manger". She'd taught it to
the baby Darren.... but surely lunchtime on Christmas Day was an unusual
time for carol singers? And surely there was only one voice?
Dorothy went to the front door. For some reason her heart was
beating like a drum in her throat, and her fingers fumbled the latch as
she opened it. On the doorstep stood a middle-aged man, awkwardly
holding a travelling bag and a parcel wrapped in Christmas paper.
"Mum?"
he whispered. "Mum, I've come home."
At
the corner of the road, shielded by some wheelie-bins, the Minister
watched until he saw the door close behind the man. Then he made his way
briskly back to his car, parked just out of sight of the house.
Christmas lunch was waiting at the Manse, and there was some telephoning
to do, not least to the church member, who, on a pre-Christmas break to
Tenerife had got chatting to the British barman in the hotel where he
was staying, discovered where the barman came from and gradually put two
and two together. And, of course, most importantly the Minister said to
himself, he wanted to give thanks for mercies received. "A real
Christmas miracle", he thought, as he let in the clutch.
Have
a Happy Christmas
Judy
|
