What the Dickens
I have always hated Christmas. Yes I know, I can hear you all starting with the pantomime booing even as I start to write this, my friends and colleagues calling me Scrooge (to much hilarity – theirs – not mine) has become a yearly event.
I suppose I am the embodiment of Bah Humbug.
Nothing could melt my heart or warm me to the celebrations and, as every year most folk would start to put up their tinsel and tree, I would pull a scarf more firmly around my neck, my hat more firmly upon my head and arrange my face into a permanent scowl for the whole month of December.
I never joined in the festivities at work, the thought of the works Christmas Party sent shivers down my spine, and the thought of all that Turkey and mince pies brought a lump to my throat.
And the endless carols and songs, I am sorry to say that if I ever hear ‘I’m Walking in the Air’, one more time, I shall certainly scream –or strangle a choir boy, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.
Yet there are moments in life, unexpected moments that cause us to stop and consider and wonder. There are moments, if we pause and reflect well enough, a time when our own spirits will visit (if we are lucky) and give us all one last chance of redemption.
Mine happened in the midst of the hullaballoo of Christmas.
I was walking through Newcastle, head down and shoulders hunched against the hordes of shoppers, all keen to devour the latest bargain. The crowds moved as a seething pack of hungry wolves stopping at nothing to ensure every item on their Christmas lists was bought, and always a little extra besides.
I looked at them in shops. Weary woman, (for Christmas shoppers are in the general female) the male of the species leaving all responsibility to a token dash on Christmas Eve.
All faces were grim, determined and tired. Arms long and aching, laden with bags far too heavy to carry for their size, like watching small ants moving mountains!
I felt suffocated by the shops, trapped inside with the bright lights and body heat. Wrapped in my hat, gloves and scarf I felt a slight swoon coming on. I never like shopping at the best of times but this was ridiculous. I had only popped out for a few essentials, no list of gifts to buy for me. I always found a £10 book token quite appropriate and adequate for my various nephews and nieces and had smugly bought those at the end of July. I never saw much of my family anyway. I always find the family a bit of a strain, especially at Christmas.
I needed to get outside. Squeezing through the throngs I pushed and grimaced towards the door, knocking in my stride a whole raft of assorted gentleman’s gloves to the floor. I could hear the packaging squealing and squeaking as it was trampled underfoot by a thud of heels and boots and hastened quickly towards the exit.
Outside the temperature had dropped to almost zero, a blessed relief from the baking store, yet the buzz and lights were almost as intense as inside. The Yuletide market, full of crap had no doubt been attracting the flies. A different crowd gathered here. The ne’er do wells (as I thought back then), the great unwashed. The shell suits and track suits, the bling and the trainers, all buying the cheap and the shoddy, the plastic and the gaudy.
I pushed on not wanting to linger.
On the corner of the street stood a young girl selling the ‘Big Issue’, bareheaded but not quite barefoot. She seemed to be trembling with the cold and looked the picture of sorrow. The crowds pulled past her, no coins left for the homeless. And quite right too, I mean, there’s no need to be homeless nowadays is there, she was probably better off than me?
People are always banging on that Christmas is the time to be charitable, to think of the poor and destitute at this festive time. Well I say charity begins at home. Aren’t there places for these people to go? Bring back the workhouse that’s what I say, make people work for a living.
Anyhow, I greeted her outstretched hand clutching the magazine with a wave of my arm and a turn of my head but just managed to hear the quiet low whisper ‘thank you, have a nice evening’.
Have a nice evening indeed!
The crowds seemed to be thickening as I walked towards the monument of Earl Grey surveying the crowded streets from his vantage point. Lucky sod.
Something seemed to be happening further down the street. People were stood and it was hard to get past, even with my shouldering skills. I stopped for breath at the back of the crowd and on tiptoe peered over the heads of the gathering.
At the far end a stage had been erected and there were more Christmas lights and music. Christmas lights, that was it, I remembered reading in the Metro that Ant and Dec were switching on the Newcastle Christmas lights.
Bloody Ant and Dec, that was all I needed, chirpy, chatty Geordies, as if I wasn’t already surrounded by them!
Feeling defeated with the whole Christmas thing I just stood and watched for a while. People are crackers, standing in the cold for hours, freezing, just to see a couple of home boys done good, two lads probably earning more money for this gig than most people earn in a lifetime.
Lots of kids too, bloody kids, shouldn’t they be at home doing homework or something?
Just to the left of me stood a thin bloke, probably in his thirties with an oldish looking woman in a wheelchair, I guessed it was his mother. They had the look of the really poor, the thin gaunt face of the underclass. You could tell the years hadn’t been too kind to them, a hardness etched into their faces, a defeated ‘this is how it is’ look.
Even their clothes looked poor, not quite belonging, more than likely they had belonged to someone else when new.
The woman in the chair looked frail and worn with a checked tartan blanket over her knees.
Poor buggers I thought, there for the grace of god and so forth. Even I could manage a small degree of pity, for the deserving few.
The crowd suddenly shifted in pitch, something was happening. An announcement, the boys had arrived and a sudden cheer raised the skies.
And at that moment it happened, something so beautiful and touching that my cold heart almost stopped. Something so ordinarily simple.
The man gently stooped down to his mother and gathering her up in his arms lifted her aloft so she could get a glimpse of the entertainment.
The kindness and love in the man’s eyes was honest and unconditional. These two had been quietly queuing for their free bit of happiness, a bit of excitement and escapism from the daily grind. The woman at once became animated, shining with happiness and joy at the scene. The younger man tenderly tucked the blanket around his mother, she seemed so light in his arms, and it was obvious that he loved her very much and that it was no trouble, no trouble at all.
It was one of the most touching things I have ever seen.
I stood in silence for some time before I realised tears were rolling down my cheeks.
It had taken this quiet, almost unobserved spectacle to bring me back to the richness and most humble state of humanity.
I wept for the kindness and love that my hard heart had swept away for too many years. A choir of school children had started singing ‘Silent Night’, and I swear that my heart almost broke with the weight that had started shifting from it.
Looking upwards into the clear night I noticed the stars for the first time in years. How clear and bright they shone. A light crossed the sky, a long trail of fire falling through the universe. Maybe it was a firework, or perhaps a shooting star. I remember my grandmother telling me that that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God. I had loved my Grandmother, and she had loved me dearly.
I suddenly thought about all of those nephews and nieces I hadn’t seen for years. Maybe it was about time to start.
Feeling a shiver, I suddenly noticed how cold I was feeling. Stuffing my gloved hands into my pockets for extra warmth, I could feel a few coins, a bit of spare change. I thought about the young girl on the corner. Maybe I would buy one of those magazines to read on the train journey home.
I must say, since that evening a few years ago, nothing has moved me quite so much as those two souls braving the cold December night, and I shall always thank them for their gift.
From that time I have been a changed woman. Instead of the ‘bah humbug’ tag it is now always said by my beloved nephews and nieces that I know how to keep Christmas well, if any man or woman alive possess that knowledge
May that be truly said of all of us!
And, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!
Copyright G Lawler 2011 (with thanks of course to Mr Dickens and Mr Hans Christian Anderson references to The Little Match Girl and A Christmas Carol )