Christmas Memories

"Happy holidays!", shouted my nephew as he was practically rugby tackled into the car by my sister, Tally, who looked much more tired now that she did 15 minutes ago in the cosy cafe seat.

"Yes, and you Maxy! Be good otherwise you know the elves will tell Santa and he won't visit!", bribery or scare-mungering? I'm not sure at this point whether it is acceptable to lie to children for the benefit of the parents, but I presumed Tally would appreciate it.

We'd spent the last hour or so trying to catch up in between the interruptions of Max, who was 4 going on 14 and wanted to be the centre of everyone's attention at all times. I love him, like any Uncle would, but also am glad to be going home to peace, quiet and above all else - no Christmas talk. Running my hands through my hair, I pull my hat as low down as possible without cutting off vision and make my way down the pavement; one last wave at Maxy - his nose pressed against the window, looking much like a farm animal - and his Mum and I turn the corner.

It's a short walk back to my dingy flat, past the homeless shelter, over the bridge and "Hey Presto!" you've arrived; if you imagine a rectangular box, limited windows and those really out-of-date sun-bleached net blinds hung sporadically on a 20-storey flat in the suburbs of London, you pretty much have been to my humble abode. I've been here since I was Maxy's age. Both Tally and I grew up here, we loved it of course as any children did - we had no idea of the poverty, the hard-stricten parents co-existing and sharing the bare minimums for the children to eat; we just thought it was awesome we all piled round friends all the time and played games, but now I see that it was actually because they shared housing to be able to keep warm, food so we didn't starve and company so that everyone checked in and not out.

It's not all bad, I thought, as I looked up at the few twinkly lights in the windows of those still here with children, probably Maxy's age, trying to make Christmas magical as it should be for any children. Christmas is special, it brings people together doesn't it? Well I suppose, but it also is quite a hardship on the majority of the population.

Christmas used to be magical for Tally and I, our Mum used to do everything; tinsel made from old worn clothing she'd kept all year, Christmas tree stars made out of toilet roll middles, paperchains galore she'd sit and create with us on those cold December evenings after school. She always made sure we had a present under the make-shift tree, branches from the park she'd arranged in some sort of upside down triangle. We loved it, it was pure magic – the whole experience from the last day of school to the New Year wishes and the plod back after stuffing our faces silly with sweets, homemade mince pies and chicken sandwiches. We had a good up-bringing, I knew as far as that but I also know now, which I was completely oblivious to then, how Mum must have struggled with us. She never let it show though, isn’t that great? She was the central of the party, the beaming smile on a cold day, the warmth of a hug and the comfort of a blanket.

That was of course until she disappeared. Just like that, sudden and unexpected. I wonder how life goes on without her. Even now, 7 years later and still in the same toil of despair every festive season.

One day everything just changed. My sister and I ran home, like we always did. Jumping over the bins, running riot through the hustle and bustle of winter shoppers; probably knocking over anything in our path, not a care in the world – racing to be the first home to have a slice of warm Christmas cake and hot chocolate with Mum; she’d promised us this just before kissing our foreheads goodbye on her way out the door that morning.

Tally beat me. She always did running; not much of a runner – much more of an eater - at that time, can’t blame me when Mum was like Mary Berry.

I finally got to the front door and Tally was standing in the hallway waiting for me. “She’s gone”, “Who’s gone?”, I said back between panting. “Mum…Mum’s not here, she’s gone”. There was panic in Tally’s eyes and I could sense that she was on the brink of losing it, she’d never been very good at holding it together. Even in the Christmas play’s she was always one wrong note away from crisis and mental breakdowns. I looked at her a second, plucked some reassurance from somewhere, “Mum’s probably just nipped to the supermarket, don’t worry, let’s get some food”. So that’s what we did, we looked through the cupboards, found a dusty can of beans and got ourselves a couple of forks and sat at the kitchen table, eating out the can. When we’d finished and there was still no sign of Mum I said to Tally we should get on with some homework and she did exactly that, no arguments.

Within the following few hours were hard; trying to keep a brave face whilst simultaneously wondering where an earth your mother is, isn’t very easy as a teenage boy going through puberty let me tell you. By the time it was bedtime I was a wreck of worry as well. Without having any means to contact Mum (we didn’t have phones in those days, expensive and unnecessary Mum used to tell us) I decided bed was the only logical thing to do. I didn’t lock the door – in case Mum came back and didn’t have a key, so we both went into Tally’s room, blocked the door with a chair and slept top to tail.

The days and weeks after were hard. We ended up telling the school in the end, we had too. We had no food, no family and no money. Our electric meter went out, we had been stealing some fruit and vegetables off the market on our way to school but I could see Tally losing weight, and in the midst of the holiday season no-one really noticed the odd broccoli going missing. We heard nothing from Mum. She just got up and left. Our neighbours claimed to never have seen anything, although I think Doris down the end of the hallway would have done; she always kept everything to herself but sat out on her balcony for most of her waking life.

Christmas had always been a reminder of Mum leaving following that, we tried really hard to make it work; Social Services put us both into care and we had the first few years in a zero-star children’s home. It certainly didn’t scream safe and secure, more like sad and stuck. Which we were, we fought with our Social Workers, threatened suicide if they split us up. But it was all we had – memories of Mum and each other. Our Dad had never been on the scene and probably never would be.

We finally got moved to a new home – a nice area with a nice family; Tally began to trust again and finally she got the grades to go off to Uni, where she met Maxy’s Dad, he was a Barrister from London and was probably the nicest man you could ever meet. He reminded me to be kinder, more open and listen. Tally adored him, and he clearly adored her.

I look back at everything we had been through over the last 7 years, my mind’s eye reminding me of the heartache, the sadness, the confusion. Both Tally and I had got some therapy; it’s a funny thing when the one person in your life that you expect not to leave does exactly that without a trace. We both thought we were fine for a long time, and then it really hits you. I think it hit me when I met Maria, she has a little girl – 4 years old now – and is the love of my life. We met Christmas eve 2 years ago; my usual Christmas before Maria was sat in the nearest pub listening to Mariah Carey on repeat and drinking whiskey until my head felt less messy that I could go home and not want to kill myself.

Maria was a breeze; she made my life again. But she also opened up a huge can of worms I had undoubtedly been supressing for the last 5 years. Trauma of a teenage boy without a Mum – you could write a novel on it. I hated Christmas so much, all because of Mum. Both Tally and I did, it wasn’t until we had Maria’s little girl in our dysfunctional family and now little Maxy that we realised the scope of Mum leaving – how could she have done that we ask each other on a regular basis. The love I have for two children that aren’t even biological mine is indescribable, let alone how Tally feels about her own little boy. I swear if he is out of her sight for more than the nursery day, she would lose her mind.

Maybe it’s the love we didn’t receive as children that has made us so strongly attached to the children in our lives now, but we always will make sure Christmas is magical for our families. No more disappointment, no more tears, just pure joy, gingerbread house competitions and love.

I turn to my front door - windswept and chilly in the dusky afternoon and am taken aback to see a drone leaving a parcel on my doormat. Running over to try and catch the flying object, I jump and miss - with a thump against the door in front of me. Looking down at the parcel - I notice the handwritten note tucked carefully inside the ribbon. I look around, hoping Maxy and Tally come out from nowhere with the remote for the drone - but no one is near by and I have a moment of shear panic that it could be something detrimental to my health - a bomb? A gas explosion?... I kick at the box and realise it is from the bakery down the road, “Sweet Delights” and am relieved it is neither a bomb nor a gas canister waiting to explode. Hurrying myself indoors I am intrigued to see who the parcel is from, I suspected it would be Maria. She is always buying little gifts and pick-me-ups, especially this time of year as she is well aware of the Christmas darkness within my family.

I open the envelope and see a little quaint picture of a Christmas tree, a roaring fire and three people in front of it holding mugs.

The message inside reads:

“Dear my darlings,

I am sorry for the hurt and upset. I wanted to contact you before now but I never know what to say.

I hope your Christmas is always better without me, here is the Christmas Cake you never got.

Yours truly, Mum x”

I am completely shocked. How does she know where I live? How can she even think to send a Christmas cake after all these years, all the trauma associated with a missing Mum. Now to send a pastry box and think life will be fine?

I should call Tally, but I can’t put into words how I am feeling. I am happy, sad, angry and confused moreso. Why wouldn’t she come and knock if she was in the area? Or wait or leave a number.

Typical Mum, I thought. Typical Christmas. Thinking about the now rather than the impact. Where is she? Who is she now?