A CHRISTMAS TALE
We usually spent Christmas in Worthing, West Sussex.
But this particular Christmas was different.
Our aunt, uncle, and cousins had gone to Zimbabwe for their festive cheer.
Leaving my mum, my sister, and I resigned to the fact that we would have to spend Christmas alone, just the three of us.
This was a daunting prospect indeed. For as long as I could remember we’d always spent Christmas at Worthing. It was the annual highlight. My sister and I just couldn’t get our heads around not being there.
Mum reassured us we’d have a wonderful time; that we’d see in Christmas with plenty of magic, cheer and entertainment.
We weren’t convinced.
As far as we were concerned, our Christmas was doomed to failure.
And then the day arrived.
Running downstairs to the living room, what did we see?
Nothing, absolutely nothing.
Not one Christmas present under the tree.
What on earth is going on, this shouldn't be happening, Christmas Days aren't supposed to be like this.
Turning to Mum for answers, we caught her grinning; she had something planned that much was plain to see, but what?
A Christmas Day party game, the rules were simple enough; find the presents hidden around the house.
We weren't particularly thrilled. Christmas didn’t happen like this.
We found the presents too easily.
Behind the couch, the television, the curtains, under the chair; lo and behold, one even hidden behind the door.
Whoopee do!
We weren't impressed and made our opinions blatantly clear.
She wasn’t pleased with us, not pleased at all.
‘I've tried my best to make this Christmas special and what do I get in return? Moan, moan, moan. Well, fuck you kids. Make your own Christmas, spend it without me, and see if I care,’ she shouted as she flung her arms up in desperation.
She stormed out slamming the door behind her. Marched upstairs to her bedroom and slammed that door shut too.
All through this, Kate and I sat there, dumb-founded, and a little scared.
We had often seen Mum angry, but nothing like this.
This was new and unknown territory.
I mean, she actually swore at us and she had never sworn at us before, swearing was against Mum’s law!
Our Christmas had suddenly turned into our worst ever.
Our Christmas was ruined.
We sat in abstract doom and gloom, contemplating all that had just happened.
Two kids on the verge of crying, two kids all alone on Christmas Day.
Our childish minds raced. Could life get any worse? Is this what abused kids had to go through? Have we still got a mum or not? Is Santa Claus really real?
Ding dong.
The doorbell took us by surprise.
We wondered who this could be as we apprehensively opened the door.
Standing there was Mum dressed up as an old lady.
Bent forward, frail, supported by a snooker cue, dressed all in black with a scarf wrapped around her neck.
She wasn't wearing her glasses and squinted at us as she stood there smiling.
Our reaction was a confusion of shock, embarrassment, bewilderment, and puzzlement.
‘Hello children, I’m a dear friend of your mother, is she home?’ she asked.
‘Come on Mum, be serious. What on earth are you doing?’
‘Oh I’m not your mother. Go get her for me. And do let me in its cold out here.’
I ran upstairs to Mum’s bedroom, determined to get to the bottom of this. But the door was locked; and there was no answer.
‘Your mother isn't in?… well we can have a party without her,’ said the woman at the door who we knew was our mother but somehow weren’t completely sure!
We made her tea with four sugars, of which she sipped merrily. Our mum only ever drank coffee and would spit it out if she tasted any hint of sugar.
What followed was complete magic; we didn't think that this woman was anyone other than our mum, Ruth Taylor. But somehow she made us believe we were wrong.
We believed she was our mother's friend.
As far as we were concerned our mother was upstairs locked in her room and, to be honest, we were having too much fun to care.
‘You must be hungry. Go on children, raid the cupboard, pop the champagne, and let’s get this party started.’
We had a fantastic Christmas day.
By the time she got up to say goodbye, we were begging her to stay.
Waving from the door, we watched her hobble up the street out of sight.
Bemused by what had happened, I went upstairs to find Mum, but her bedroom was still locked.
Sometime later she came downstairs, and we ran to her in laughter.
‘Get away from me,’ she said, still obviously angry.
‘What is this mess? Who said you could do all this.’
‘But Mum,’ we cried in innocence.
Of course we told her everything that had happened, but she sat there as if she knew nothing about it. And we believed her.
It was a truly magical Christmas indeed.
