GEORGE
George awoke slowly, his mind clouded by sleep but feeling that there was something special in the air. Seeing the bright sunlight shining through the thin curtains of his icy room, he clambered from bed, winced as his soles encountered the cold lino and crossed to the window where he gasped with pleasure. It had snowed in the night. The moors were untrammelled white from horizon to horizon. It was a magical sight.
Just then, George heard music from the kitchen; Christmas carols and his mother singing along with her favourites as she made breakfast. Moments later the back door slammed and he heard his father enter, stamping his boots and depositing a load of logs for the fire with a roar and a crash in the kitchen corner.
"Come along, George," his mother's voice, "we're waiting for you."
Of course, it was Christmas Day! He put on his threadbare dressing gown and hurried down. His parents were waiting at the table, smiling, and in front of him was a plate of all the breakfast things he most liked: sausages, bacon, eggs, toast and, joy of joys, black pudding. They ate with silent appreciation.
After the plates had been tidied away and George had dressed, he and his father went outside to build the champion snowman that such deep and crisp snow deserved. With an old hat of his father's and a pipe, some pebbles for buttons and two marbles for eyes, he looked rather splendid. Even George's mother joined in, dragging herself away from the preparation of Christmas dinner to supply a carrot for the nose and a celluloid flower to tuck into his white body as a buttonhole.
What a splendid fellow he is, thought George. The best ever.
By this time, the fire George's father had lit in the parlour was drawing well and the room pleasantly warm. The adults had whisky (father) and sherry (mother); George was allowed a small sherry as it was Christmas. He drank it but pulled a face; how could anyone drink this stuff for pleasure?
"Dinner's ready," he heard his mother from the kitchen. "Come on you two, don't let it get cold!"
George tucked in. The turkey, stuffing and assorted vegetables all covered with smooth gravy slid down as did the Christmas pudding and brandy cream afterwards. Full of food, it was traditionally time for crackers. Two each to pull, that was half the box. George knew the other half would appear at teatime. Snap and crack they went, their gaudy cases splitting to reveal equally gaudy hats, cheap novelties and bad jokes.
"When will we open the presents, Mum?" asked George.
"After the King's speech, like we always do. Give me a hand with these plates, there's a good boy."
Five minutes before the King was due to speak, George's father switched on the old wooden wireless. George sat impatiently, glancing at the glittery tree with all the tantalising boxes below it and then at the fire. Hurry up, he thought, as the King's voice droned on. His gaze was caught by the flames leaping red and blue above the logs, the heat irresistible.
His paper hat, bright orange with a gold foil star, tipped rakishly over one eye as George fell gently asleep.
It was a full week before the police, alerted by the postman and neighbours concerned about the lack of smoke from the chimney, broke down the door of the remote moorland cottage.The old man was stiff in his chair by the fireplace.
The room was bitter cold, the small fire that must have burnt long since a pile of ash.
The Coroner was to decide that there was no evidence of foul play. At that age it had been just a matter of time. One thing puzzled him, though. The man had been found wearing a bright orange paper hat, with a gold star, as if from a cracker, but there was no sign of crackers or indeed anything to do with Christmas in the cottage.
And somewhere, across the moors, on the deep and untravelled snow, runs and skips an eight year old boy. He crosses in front of and behind his mother and father until they exasperatedly tell him not to get under their feet. They have a long journey ahead.
The boy doesn't care. It's started to snow again from the darkening sky. And besides...it's Christmas.
-end-