A Christmas Tale
James loved Christmas, it was his favourite time of year. He loved the carols, the lights, the crackers and the turkey. He loved watching the Christmas movies with his father and laughing at the bits they’d laughed at the year before and the year before that. He loved the dinner, the pudding, the trifle, and the mince pies. He even loved Christmas Mass, and he usually hated mass. But most of all he loved the presents. Some years Santa didn’t bring him exactly what he’d asked for, some years he only brought him half the stuff on his list, but James didn’t mind, he knew Santa tried his best and that it was greedy to expect too much.
Even when he got older, and he discovered that Santa wasn’t real, that it had been his parents, his poor put-upon parents, who’d been buying all his presents, he still loved Christmas. He didn’t want toys anymore, it was either music, clothes or money – the money was so he could buy drink, but he never told his parents that. And even though he no longer believed in Santa, and even though he snuck out Christmas evening, to his friend’s house, for a few glasses of sherry and a singsong, he still loved the day. He loved being at home with his parents, all of them together, his Mammy and his Daddy, his two older brothers, and his younger sister. They fought like cats and dogs all year round, but on Christmas Day everyone was nice to one another, and he loved that.
Later on, when he moved out, he was able to drink as much, and as often, as he liked. Christmas took on a new meaning entirely then. It was all about the pub, about getting spruced up and heading out to the local, to the warmth and merriment, to the songs blaring out the speakers, to the mulled wine and hot toddies. In the pub everyone was in a good mood all the time, but this was especially true at Christmas, and no more so than on Christmas Eve. In a way it was like being a kid again, all the smiling faces, the giddiness, the excitement, the joys of the festive season but with a new adult twist. Because now, not only had you Christmas Day to look forward to, you also St Stephen’s Day, the biggest piss-up of the year.
After a while that grew old though, he still liked Christmas, liked going back to his parents for the few days, heading out for a pint with the ould lad, meeting up with his mates if he had time. But all those sessions, those endless, drunken nights; he was past that now, he had responsibilities now, a job, bills to pay. He had plans to start his own family too. If only he could find someone to start it with. There’d been women, girlfriends, lovers and partners, but none of them had stuck around for long, each of them becoming the one that’d got away. His friends were all settling down, starting families; for them Christmas had took on a different meaning, life had come full circle, now they were the ones warning that Santy might not come, leaving out milk, and a few carrots for the reindeer. He had a couple of nephews, a niece, but it wasn’t the same, not really.
And then his parents died, both of them, in the space of a couple of years. Where did he go for Christmas now? His brother invited him over, and that was fine for one year; they made the best of it and it was good to be with family. But he couldn’t keep going there, it felt weird, like they were taking pity on him. So, he started spending Christmas alone, booking himself into hotels, going on holiday somewhere, treating himself, trying to make an occasion out of it – when all he wanted to do was for it to pass so life could return to normal. There were still good Christmases, years where he caught up with friends he hadn’t seen in decades, years where he had a girlfriend, someone to spend the day with, but most of the time he dreaded it, dreaded seeing the happy, smiling faces, hearing the excitable chatter, the squeals of delight. James was on the outside looking in now, wondering how it had come to this.
James no longer loved Christmas. It was now his least favourite time of the year, a time of pain and remorse, something to be endured, tolerated, overcome by any means necessary. He drank a lot now, told himself that it was Christmas, that he deserved it. But these weren’t festive drinks, cheerfully slurped pints with friends as they reminisced about yuletide past, these were bitter, acrid drinks, wantonly consumed at home, in front of the telly, tears welling in his eyes as he watched more happy, smiling faces, wishing for once he could see someone like him, someone who just wanted the whole thing to be over, someone who hated it just as much as he did, someone who might sit down and have a chat with him, a drink, pull a cracker, put on a silly paper hat and tell him a corny joke about an Eskimo or a snowman.
James is 78 years old now. He hates Christmas, detests it. Each year he wishes this was his last one, that he’d never have to go through it again. His brothers are dead, he hardly talks to his sister. Those nephews of his, that niece, they’re in the UK, Australia, have kids of their own that James has never met. He can’t even have a drink anymore, doctor’s orders, he disobeyed those orders once and spent a whole week regretting it. But that’s the least of his worries now. Because it’s a struggle to get out the door sometimes, the cold weather aggravates his arthritis, and that chesty cough he’s harboured for years is getting worse. He’s an old man now, a frail old man, slow and weak. As soon as winter hits everything becomes that little bit harder, he rarely goes out, maybe once a week, to the post office to collect his pension and then onto the supermarket for the few groceries. The rest of the time he stays indoors, leaving it till as late as possible before turning on the heating, always conscious of the electricity bill.
This year on Christmas morning, James will get up out of bed, at around eleven, his usual time, throw on his dressing gown and shuffle into the kitchen. He’ll turn on the kettle and make himself a bit of porridge. Then he’ll sit at the table, afraid to turn on the radio in case he hears a song he remembers, and eat his porridge and drink his tea. He’ll go into the sitting-room, no tree, no presents, no lights, turn on the television and look for something non-Christmas related, something which won’t remind him of all those happy years, of the joy, of the happiness and the laughter. And there he’ll stay until bed-time, until the small hours of St Stephen’s Day. No-one will have called, no-one will have rung, there’ll have been no turkey, no trifle, no Christmas movie with the family. It’ll just have been James and the television, dreary documentaries, reruns from the seventies, the occasional whoop of delight from outside as the neighbours welcome more loved ones to the fold, the sound like a knife through his heart, reminding him of the day that’s in it, reminding him that this used to be his favourite day of the year. He doesn’t want to be reminded of it, to remember what he had. It’s easier to forget, to pretend it never happened, to push those memories away and stay in the present. Just another day, another year, hopefully his last.
You know James, we all know James. This year, instead of waving at him, wishing him Merry Christmas and continuing on your way, do something different. Invite him over. Don’t take no for an answer. For you it’s just an extra place at the table, a slight inconvenience, for him it’s more than you could ever imagine.
