Christmas Pudding and Custard

I hated Christmas; it was no secret. Reader, I don’t mince my words when I tell you earnestly that I could give Scrooge a good ol’ run for his money. Bah Humbug, Bah Humbug and Bah Humbug some more.

To me, despite my faith, Christmas was synonymous with gluttony over mum’s seven-course meal, delayed ungratification as we waited until after the Queen’s speech to unwrap presents we had neither need nor desire for, followed by a host of squabbles for reasons I don’t care to recollect. My memory agrees with me on that last one, refusing to allow me to retrieve the relevant files to recall the memories of Christmas past. Imagine being a kid with nothing to look forward to at the end of year after year. And it wasn’t for one day. It was the entire festive season! Imagine being that kid whose favourite thing about the end of term holidays was the final day because you knew it was only one more sleep before you could be back among friends; among the people that made your heart leap, not weep.

Skip forward a few years, to a Christmas present; the time and stage that our story is set.

It’s Christmas morning, 2012. Outside is dark and cold. I hear the wind calling long before it’s ready to greet me. I’m certainly not in a rush to meet it, until I persuade myself it’s a lot warmer out there than it will be inside this home when the rest of the household wake-up. I shower quickly, dressing in thermals beneath my good pair of jeans and the thickest jumper I own. I’m not sure if I’m shivering in the frosty temperature, or quivering at the thought of spending the whole day freezing amongst the down and outs of today’s underdogs of society.

The cupboards certainly ain’t those of Old Mother Hubbard. Pancakes, brioche, bread for toasting, eggs and beans. The menu for breakfast alone is endless. I open the doors, fight back a wave of nausea and swiftly shut them again. I content myself with a dark green, bitter, crisp Granny Smith apple and a large glass of Buck’s Fizz…without the fizz! They were clear about the dos and the don’ts at the two-day training event we attended the other week. Do turn up on time. Don’t be late. Do wear warm clothes. Don’t wear your best clothes. Do be vigilant at all times. Don’t share any personal information. Do be courteous. Don’t be too familiar. And definitely no drinking before or during your shift. It’s a lot to remember despite being common sense. I tell myself don’t be a smart-ass, not all sense is common.

It's 08:00. I hear the first stirrings of life from upstairs just as my phone vibrates in my pocket alerting me that I need to leave now if I’m to keep to the first rule. I don a woolly hat, gloves and scarves; a useful present I treated myself to when the events of today had been confirmed. Cocooning myself in my puffer jacket, I brace myself and set off in the icy winds. With transport at a standstill, I estimate an hour-long walk before I reach my destination. That’s what Professor Google shows me on his map. Who am I to disagree?

Barely ten minutes pass. It feels more like 30. A quick glance at my phone to check for directions and I see the time, 08:11, staring back at me. I want to cry, it’s so bitter. But I don’t. I’m haunted by my mother’s revelation, ‘you’re an ugly crier,’ and her favourite saying, ‘if the wind changes, your face will stay like that!’ So I bite my lip, pull my scarf and jacket in tighter and raise my hood. If this is me after 11 minutes, what must it be like for the people tucked up in doorways and bus shelters night after night?

I arrive at the shelter seven minutes ahead of schedule. Margaret from the volunteer interview selection greets me with a cheery wave, bright smile and a strong hot cup of coffee. Usually, I can’t stand the poison but this morning I grasp the cup feeling my fingers slowly, painfully thaw out.

Before long a bell rings signalling all volunteers to the main hall.

“Gather round. Gather round volunteers,” calls Margaret.

We shuffle in and huddle close as she relays some important information about the day.

“First of all, on behalf of the charity, I’d like to welcome you all to the centre and thank you for giving up your Christmas Day to be here with us.”

I look around at the volunteers closest to me and watch them beaming with pride. I picture them picturing themselves giving themselves a pat on the back for their selflessness. Margaret continues to prattle on for a further 10 minutes recapping the rules of engagement whilst we carry out our divine duties. We are divided into groups and assigned to a team leader; one of the eight overly-happy-and-excitable-for-this-time-in-the-morning individuals up front, facing us. Margaret keeps me for herself.

“I’ll put you on stockroom duty for now love. Didn’t you say you have a background in retail when we last met?” Margaret asks.

I mumble my agreement and obediently follow when she indicates. She stations me in a back room having explained I’m to work my way through the black sacks of clothing and bedding, sorting them into various barrels labelled per type of item and size ready to be packaged and gifted for the needy. I find my stride and in no time at all, I am warming up in temperature and spirit as I make light work of the task. I bet the family at home have the heating cranked up to the max as they take their pick of their favourite clothes complete with a flashing Christmas jumper

Margaret returns an hour later with a new assignment.

“Changing of the guard,” she chimes. “I’ve got you down for security detail love. As the only lass out there, it’ll be your job to pat down all the females that come through the door and you can help out with the gents if they permit it.”

Errrgh. I’ve literally just begun to feel the tips of my toes and my nose again and now I’m cruelly being delivered back to the inhospitable winter’s clutches. Thankfully, they’ve had the heart to install outdoor heaters so it is more bearable than I thought. I’m introduced to Rob, the team leader who will be out front with me. We briefly talk technique, prohibited items and safety before the rabble rolls up ready for a day in the warm amongst their own. I pat and probe, confiscating hip flasks and suspect baggies as I go. Back home, I imagine the little ones scrambling about the tree looking for their nametags, shaking and examining the packages in their eagerness to guess the contents of their gifts.

He swaggers in just before the end of my stint. His name is Simon. Greeting Rob by his first name, Rob greets him back.

“Good to see you again Si. I’ll come and find you for a chat later.”

He stands in front of me, arms outstretched, legs slightly apart. I pat him down, declare him clean but note the faint whiff of weed about him.

“Do we have the art room this year?” Simon asks Rob, ignoring the dude currently occupying Rob’s attention.

“Course we do Simon. Just for you.”

Simon begins to head indoors.

“Alice, go with him won’t you. I’ll smooth it over with Marge, let her know I’ve assigned you to the art room for the next rotation.”

Not needing to be told to head for the warmer climate twice, I hot-step it after Simon and together we go in search of the much sought after art room.

The next 70 minutes pass in a flash as Simon and I occasionally talk over Origami projects. We make boats, and cups, and frogs, and the famous cranes that grant you a wish if you manage to make 1,000. All the while, team leader, after team leader, after guest, after guest pop in to see him for a quick acknowledgement of his presence. I find it strange how a man of few words has such a following.

“You’re quite the celebrity here,” I joke after what must have been the 10th interruption.

Up until then Simon has been quite quiet and I’ve not known how to break the ice, yet I notice how his body language has softened to mimic my own. He regards me warily and I watch him work his mouth, set to tell me something. I wait with bated breath.

“Howdy Campers!” I don’t need to look at the clock or turn round to put a face to the familiar interruption. It’s noon and Margaret is here to keep things moving.

“Hi Margaret,” Simon and I pipe up in unison. Wow, we really are in sync now.

“So Alice, how’s it going? I see you’ve met Simon.”

“Great thanks, and yes we’ve had a pretty fun chilled out morning.”

“I can see that. These are fabulous,” she says, gesturing at our paper offerings. “So I’ve got you down for a 15-minute tea break followed by…”

Her sentence is clipped as Simon cuts her off.

“If it’s okay with you Margaret, could I keep Alice a little longer?”

Margaret shuffles uncomfortably. I can tell she is thrown by the request and what it means for her meticulous scheduling. Nonetheless, she agrees.

Sitting down with a steaming cup of herbal tea each, I seek to reconnect with Simon before I lose the window of opportunity.

“I gather you were going to tell me about how you came to acquire your celebrity status…”

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, Simon played with his cup and blew at the steam to make it dance. It was like watching snake charmer with a bunch of hypnotised cobras.

I was almost ready to give up waiting for a response when he stared at me with intent, glassy-eyed.

“I’ve been coming here every year for the past 12 years,” he started.

I tilted my head to show I was listening.

“I had a house once, and a wife. We had a house…and then she died.”

I sniff and blow my nose. I’ve always been oversensitive. It doesn’t take much to start me off. Simon continued.

“I came the first time ‘cause I was lonely. We didn’t have kids. It was just the two of us. When Christmas came, I didn’t know what to do with myself and the caseworker suggested I come here.” He paused briefly. “It’s good here. You meet people, get a good meal, a place to stay.

I wanted to reach out and hug him, tell him how heavy my heart felt for him but my training prevented me from doing so. I gently brush my fingers across the back of his hand and retract it again.

“I tried really hard to keep the house, but the memories you see? I started drinking, couldn’t keep up with it all and the bank took it.”

“That’s awful!” I exclaim, unable to control the quiver of emotion in my voice. We finished up our drinks and made our way back to the art room. I feel bad thinking about the breakfast I missed that has been over for a while now, dishes assigned a spot in the dishwasher, prosecco cork long abandoned besides the carton of orange juice. Still sealed. Prosecco bottle very much empty.

Over the next 45 minutes, Simon gave me a full rundown of his misfortunes; getting clean, the relapse, getting clean again interspersed with life on the streets in between placements at local hostels.

“You can often find me down Canning Town. There’s a café there; Friends Café. They often feed me a warm breakfast, let me rest there a while when it’s quiet.”

“I know it,” I say. “I work…” I stop myself before I reveal too much, the training going round and round in my head. “…not too far from there,” I finish.

I’m a dab hand at making these cranes now. Working from muscle memory, my hands fold, and crease, and twist the colourful paper squares into elegant little birds that will grant me the wish I knew I now wanted to make. They keep my hands busy and away from clawing at the scars of my own painful memories that criss-cross my wrists; a habit that overcomes me when I feel stressed. The thought of mum in the kitchen fluffing about with the various courses that would soon start rolling out of her kitchen didn’t help, but it was hard not to dwell on this image as the rich scent of luxury wafted out of the shelter kitchen.

I acknowledge Simon’s history and swerve the conversation to safer, happier territory and we chat animatedly for hours. Simon accompanies me on my duties for much of the day and we spend much of it laughing, singing and communing with the streams of guests that continued to turn up throughout the day, only taking an absence of leave when I attend kitchen duty and the serving of the Christmas dinner. Bless him though, he waits until the end of service to queue for his meal so we can dine together.

The shelter has excelled themselves. Roast potatoes, Yorkshire puds, sage and onion stuffing, pigs in blankets, honeyed parsnips, a medley of steamed veg and slices of turkey and beef all soaked in a thick gravy. And I’ll you something reader, it wasn’t bad at all. I’ve had many a pub lunch that would fail to get this 4.5/5 star review.

“I’m stuffed,” I remark half an hour later, letting my belt out a notch and sinking into my chair fort a little respite before we’re shuffled around again.

“What? Don’t be silly, you’ve not had the best part yet.” Noting the look of confusion on my face, he chuckles and calls out, “Dessert! They make a mean Christmas pud and custard. It’s the best part of the day, well, after meeting you here.”

I groan at the thought of having to move too soon, to serve one of our guests of honour the remainder of their meal, but alas, I make to move.

“Sit down pet. I’ll get these.” Trust Margaret to be casting a watchful eye and a Dumbo-sized ear in my direction.

True to her word, Margaret returned a few minutes later with two bowls of cake and custard, placed them down in front of us and left. I stared at the pudding. My own family exhausted from the bickering about whose child had broken their cousin’s toy within five minutes of receiving it would be tucking into a chocolate yule log about now; the dessert of choice because half the family detested fruit of any kind.

Simon dunked his spoon into his bowl. It emerged with a mouthful and a half of sweet gooey fruity sponge, dripping with white creamy sauce.

“Mmm mmm mmm. You gotta give this a go, otherwise I’ll have to eat yours too. Now I could do with the extra insulation being out there on the streets, but by the looks of you, you could do with a good feed any day of the week.”

My heart sunk a little at how accustomed Simon was to his lot that he was able to make light of it

I’ve never tried Christmas pudding before. It was eradicated from family Christmas menus before my time. That said, my eyes bulge at the glorious sight I behold. I watch white wafts rise from the soft, hot dessert. It looks filling, yet airy at the same time. It certainly smells enticing too. The scent of currants, a hint of citrus and unfamiliar spices tickle my nose. Chunks of apple, speckles of cherry and blanched almonds sent my taste buds into overdrive. My senses are in ecstasy. I forget how full I am and literally inhale the dessert as though it would disappear in an instant if I dare to pause consumption. To be fair, it probably would. Simon has already given me fair warning.

The end of our meal coincides with the time for our guests to leave. I walk Simon to the door.

“Wait! Before you go…” I race out back to see what’s left of the donations. I find some trousers, two sweaters, a thermal top and a blanket. I bundle the items together and return to Simon. “Merry Christmas, maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Merry Christmas Alice and thank you, for everything.

I leave the centre almost two hours later with the rest of the volunteers, following the mass clean-up we undertake. 21 cranes are wedged in a paper envelope tucked into my back pocket. A smile caresses my lips as I imprint the memory of this perfect Christmas on my heart and mind to be cherished forevermore. For the first time in my life, I look forward to Christmas future and head out unfazed by the -5 degree temperature as I embark on the hour walk home.

Over the next eleven months, I alter my timetable to coincide with collecting lunch early on the last Friday of the month. I see Simon every so often, usually with one of two guys I recognise from exchanges in the art room. In between, I spend every spare waking moment preparing for our annual date. On 29th November, 2013, we exchange our usual pleasantries and a reminder to meet at the shelter on Christmas Day. I tell Simon I have a special gift for him and see his eyes glass over with the emotion that comes from a special connection. He looks frail despite the several layers I can see. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I fold him into an embrace before parting company, excited for what’s to come. I want to squeeze him tight but refrain for fear of snapping him.

With the newfound passion Christmas now held, the next month passed in haste. On Christmas eve I strung and hung the 1000th crane on the mobile I had created. I took a picture of them all flying in their flock then draped the creation into a bag. I knew Simon wouldn’t be able to take it with him, but I wanted him to wish upon them. He could keep the photo as a reminder of his changing luck.

Christmas morning arrives. I shower, dress, check and double-check my bag, and head out into the blustery world. From the moment I arrive at the shelter, I remain vigilant, looking out for my friend. There’s something wrong with the clocks. They all seem to be on a hefty dose of caffeine or something because they’re ticking terribly fast. They mock me, telling me it’s 13:00 but it can’t be, otherwise Simon would be here already.

At 15:00 I’m rotated to distribution duty. I spot one of the guys from the café in the line so I wait patiently for him to arrive in front of me.

“Hey Billy, How’s tricks?” I ask.

“Same ol’, same ol’,”he replies, not quite meeting my eyes.

“Simon not with you?” I do my best to sound casual, but I hear the edge to my tone.

The remainder of the conversation passes in a blur as Billy recounts how Simon had been ill for a while. Cirrhosis apparently. He told me how fond of me Simon had become and how it probably gave him the extra 11.5 months to live. He was already on borrowed time when we met. I faltered at the news but swiftly recovered when I thought of his spirit. Did he know he had given me the gift of Christmas? I wish I’d told him.

I couldn’t face Christmas dinner post service, but I wanted to honour a memory and a dearly departed friend. When all the guests were fed and done, I served up steamed Christmas Pudding and custard to the Volunteer team. As the cook’s creation mingled with my inhalations and tantalised my tongue, I was at peace. Where other spy a simple dessert, I experience the taste of trust, warmth, love, friendship, care, support. I experience the taste of the one family member I chose. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without him.

*Names have been changed or omitted to protect the identity of the characters and charity. Some details have been altered for dramatization.