In the kitchen, the nine lessons and carols
from King’s comes on. The high, pure voice of the lone chorister starts to
sing. I miss my mother so much I cannot breathe. I cry for her.
There, I think, after five minutes, that’s
done. I should really have written it down on my list. Let the emotion out, I think. Let it run around and feel the wind in its hair. It does no good if it is kept inside.
I go to the village for the last of the
errands. ‘Happy Christmas, happy Christmas,’ I say, to my favourite ladies in
the shop and to the kind woman in the chemist. The Christmas lights twinkle
gently against the indigo sky. Children in festive hats are literally jumping for joy.
I smile, thinking that I am not jumping for joy for tomorrow but for the day
after. For the lovers of racing, Boxing Day is the real Christmas day and this
year there will be the old king up against the young prince and nobody can tell
who will come out on top and it will be a clash of the titans.
I drive back along the lime avenue where
families are out walking their dogs. The grandparents are there and fathers
with tiny infants hoisted onto their shoulders and mothers corralling the
canines.
Down at the field, the mares are very happy
because the kind farmer has appeared like Father Christmas to fill their shed
with hay. That is their best present and they are content. I rub their sweet
spots and murmur in their dear ears and smell their beautiful, honest, earthy
scent.
I take the dogs out along the burn, where
they rush and race and bark hysterically at the resigned old heron, who flaps
off in faint indignation. The sky is translucent as the gloaming falls and,
above the hill, there is the evening star. It is so glittery and magnificent
that at first I think it must be a spy satellite. But no, it is its true self,
as eternal as the ages. I stare at it for a long time.
I’ve got my iPod with me and I stick the
earphones in and decide to have a song. I don’t want Dean Martin singing Let it
Snow, so I put on The Rolling Stones instead, singing You Can’t Always Get What
You Want. I belt out the words, into the still evening air. As I walk over the
meadow I see a light burning and suddenly remember that I have new neighbours.
I hope very much that their windows are not open. I imagine them peering out
into the half-light, to see a lunatic in a strange hat bawling ‘I sold my soul
to Mr Jimmy.’ I suddenly can’t stop laughing. Poor neighbours. They have no
idea.
So glad I found your lovely blogs and books before the year's end. Very best wishes.
ReplyDeleteHappy Christmas Tania, I hope it passes with the same peaceful grace as your writing , Rachel
ReplyDeleteHappy Christmas to you and your animal gang.
ReplyDeleteLove your blog, Happy Christmas Tania and the friends you take such good of!
ReplyDeleteJamie B.
Lucky New Neighbours.
ReplyDeleteMerry Christmas and Happy New Year - from one weird neighbor to another. (I often stay in my vehicle after parking in my driveway because I'm not yet through with the steering wheel drum solo to the song I'm blasting.)
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