Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall

by Kate Forster

  ‘You only have to say my name once,’ he reminded them.

  ‘Not true, that took five “Dads” for you to look up,’ Seth answered.

  ‘The record is twelve,’ said Ethan.

  ‘Twelve? That’s not true,’ Marc replied, insulted at the insinuation from the boys.

  Marc tried to remember when that might have been but he knew he didn’t always show up for his kids and he knew what that felt like. He closed his laptop and put it beside him.

  ‘It is so true – I have video evidence,’ Ethan said. ‘I can get it down from the cloud and play it on the TV if you want?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Marc feeling exposed. ‘You have my attention, so what would you like to say.’

  Seth lay on the floor of the large sitting room, staring into the fire that Peggy had laid and lit for them.

  ‘We want to go and get a Christmas tree. A real one, not a plastic silver one, a real one, like in Elf.’

  Marc didn’t know what the one in Elf was like but he assumed it was the gold standard for trees.

  Why hadn’t he bought a tree yet? Why was he being such a Scrooge? When Christa had asked him if he wouldn’t mind getting some decorations he had been so rude to her. God he needed to stop being such a moody bastard. He had come to Pudding Hal to give the boys a proper English Christmas and he was fighting it every step of the way. Christa was right in her assessment that he didn’t like being told what to do but it was more than that: he didn’t want a tree because of his memories of Christmas as a child. He didn’t want to look at a plastic tree with a star perched drunkenly on top while his drunk parents created a war below.

  What would happen if he gave the boys the Christmas he never had?

  Their Christmases in California had been low-key and usually run by his wife who knew his aversion to the holiday. The boys received presents but sometimes they went to St Barth’s or Maui and spent the day on the beach.

  But what if he gave them the memory of the tree and the cooking, and the present buying? What would happen? His parents wouldn’t come back and ruin it. He wouldn’t have to carry the burden of caring for his siblings and trying to get enough food for them for the day, telling them Christmas was bullshit because no one really lived like you saw in the movies or the TV shows.

  He was holding the power to heal himself in his hands and he was ruining everything for the boys.

  He remembered the yelling and the police coming and his dad being dragged away to spend Christmas night in the cells. The turkey on the kitchen floor, next to the foil container, the grease mark against the wall from where his dad had thrown it mid screaming match with his mom. He thought Thanksgiving had been bad with his mom locking his dad outside for spending the rent at Caesar’s Palace but Christmas really outdid itself for family toxicity. After that his mom told him that Christmas was a piece of shit holiday and there was nothing to be thankful for at Thanksgiving and they wouldn’t have Christmas again as long as she lived. The memory of the disappointment took his breath away. Why was he putting his own pain onto his children?

  ‘We can get a tree,’ he said, feeling his eyes sting, and he blinked fiercely to stop the emotion. Why was Christmas so heavy with love and pain for so many? He knew he wasn’t the only one. He saw it when Christa spoke of her father and her Christmases.

  ‘Can we go into the city and get one?’ Seth was sitting up now. ‘Now?’

  ‘If you want.’ He had planned to do more work this afternoon but he could at least get a tree. That wouldn’t hurt would it?

  ‘Okay, get dressed. We’ll head into York and get a tree.’

  The boys yelled and cheered and ran upstairs.

  He sighed and looked at his laptop, which he was tempted to reopen, but if he did then he would lose the momentum to go.

  Be a better father, he heard himself say to his own father when he was younger. Maybe he should take his own advice for once.

  *

  The tree was only the start of the Christmas project at Pudding Hall. They needed a tree holder and then decorations – which the boys bought far too many of – but he liked their selection. Toy soldiers and little angels and sprigs of holly tied to red ribbons and more.

  And the lights. So many lights. Marc looked at the ropes of lights on display and wondered which ones would be right and if there was a method of putting them onto the tree.

  ‘Can we get an ornament each?’ asked Seth. ‘And then we can use it next year and the year after and forever and it will be our own ornament – just ours.’

  Marc was deciding between cool white twinkle lights or multicoloured globes and wishing he knew which option was the best. He put both into the basket and figured Paul would be able to help him choose.

  ‘Yes, get what you like,’ he said.

  ‘You have to choose one for you and Adam and Paul and Christa too,’ said Ethan. ‘So we all have one.’

  Marc wanted to roll his eyes but looked at the huge array of ornaments.

  He chose a navy and silver painted glass bauble for Adam and a red and gold one for Paul.

  What would he get for Christa?

  There were cooking ones, which were cute, but she was more than that and he wanted her to see that he knew. Choosing the right ornament mattered to him, and he looked through the options.

  There were silly ones with Santa Claus and champagne bottles and traditional partridges and even glass squirrels.

  Then he saw one that made him smile. A family of deer. A stag, a doe, and a little fawn standing in front of a pine tree. It was mercury glass and hand-painted in shades of gold and green. He didn’t know why he liked it but he did and he thought it would make her smile. Holding it, he felt the cool glass, heavy in his hand. It reminded him of Christa, maybe because the doe had blue eyes and long lashes, like Christa’s.

  ‘Is that for you?’ asked Seth, peering at the ornament.

  ‘No, it’s for Christa.’

  ‘Does she like deers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Don’t forget to get one for you,’ reminded Ethan.

  He looked again and saw a Christmas pudding with a sprig of holly on top. It reminded him of her pyjamas and he smiled as he picked it up. Perfect, he thought.

  After he had paid and corralled the boys he guided them from the store, telling them they didn’t need a life-sized blow-up Santa for the living room.

  Finally the tree was tied to the roof of his four wheel drive and the decorations in the boot of the car when he heard the boys yell.

  ‘Christa, Christa.’

  He saw Christa across the road in a pink coat and white woollen hat with a pom-pom on top. She looked like cupcake and he smiled at her, feeling shy but not sure why.

  Christa was carrying many shopping bags filled with all sort of goodies poking out of them.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said and she looked at the tree on top of the car. ‘A tree – how wonderful! You can have a fun time decorating that. We can make sugar cookies to hang on the branches if you have some ribbon.’

  The boys jumped with excitement. ‘Can we get some ribbon?’ they asked.

  He laughed. ‘Sure thing. Do you want to put your things in the car? I can drive you back.’

  Christa shook her head. ‘I drove here but thank you.’

  She really did have the prettiest smile and he liked that she ignored that he had been rude about the decorations the night before. His ex-wife would have gloated at him changing his mind.

  ‘Why don’t you put them in the car, come and help us choose some ribbon and then you can head back without breaking your shoulder with all of your shopping?’

  ‘I have to cook lunch,’ she said.

  ‘We can eat here in town. Why not? Make a day of it?’

  He wasn’t sure why he wanted her to stay but the boys were now pulling the bags from her shoulders and handing them to him so he could put them in the car.

  ‘Gosh, you Ferrier males are very p
ersuasive.’ She laughed. ‘What about Adam and Paul?’

  ‘They have gone sightseeing, much to Adam’s horror,’ said Marc as he locked the car. They started to walk down the street, while the boys ran ahead.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I was thinking about what you said about your own dad and Christmas. You were right, I was putting my own stuff onto my kids. Thanks for showing me that I was being a bit of an idiot. People don’t often do that to me, well except Adam but that’s usually about work stuff, not life and kids’ stuff.’

  Christa said nothing so he went on.

  ‘Christmas wasn’t a happy time for me as a kid and I guess I thought it didn’t matter to my kids, even though I want them to have a great English Christmas. I thought if I had Christmas in another country like the UK, which is beautiful, I would be able to get over my own Christmas issues.’

  People passed them on the footpath, carrying shopping bags and flowers and pushing prams and holding hands. The spirit was infectious even to a Scrooge like him. ‘This…’ He gestured around them. ‘This is not like anything I know. I thought this was all just stuff you saw in the cheesy Christmas movies; I didn’t know it was a real thing. I send my assistants out to buy presents. I don’t wrap them. I don’t even choose them. I mean what does that say about me?’

  He looked at her and she threw her gloved hands up at him.

  ‘I am only here to cook, not to give you therapy,’ she said and he saw a glint in her eye and a smile at the corner of her lips.

  Then she laughed and it was a real throaty, hilarious laugh that made him join in with her.

  ‘I was also worried about it being tacky, like silver trees and pink flamingos.’

  Christa was still laughing. ‘While my pudding PJ bottoms might say the opposite, I do have excellent taste in Christmas decorations but I understand this time of year can be hard for people. Not everyone loves Christmas!’

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked as the twins stopped outside a games shop, pointing out new video games to each other.

  ‘We have that one, that one, and that one. And those there. And those at the back. Dad we have all of these,’ yelled one of the boys.

  ‘Christmas?’ she asked. ‘I love it, but it’s also around my birthday so I’m biased.’

  ‘And you’re working for us over your own birthday and Christmas? That’s crazy.’

  He glanced at Christa who was looking at the boys but she had a tightness around her mouth.

  ‘Money makes choices for you, and limits them sometimes,’ she said and he heard the edge to her voice.

  ‘Dad, can we get the video games in the window that we don’t have?’ Seth was pulling at his jacket sleeve.

  Usually he would have bought them for the boys because he thought it would keep them occupied for a while and he could work but he saw Christa frown and turn away from them, walking to another shop window and leaving him with the boys.

  ‘No, you don’t need any more games – you have enough already,’ he said firmly.

  The boys stared at him as though he was making a joke and then they realised he was serious.

  ‘Dad,’ one of them started to complain.

  But he put his hand up.

  ‘Enough. You have enough games. And there are other things to do back at the house, okay?’

  He was surprised when the boys were silent.

  And then Ethan nodded. ‘Okay, but we want to make a gingerbread house. Can we do that? Can you help us? We can do it together.’ The look on their faces pained him and he felt sick at what sort of a father he had been lately.

  ‘I can film it for my documentary I’m making,’ said Ethan and he nodded encouragingly at his son.

  ‘That would be cool,’ he said to him and saw the happiness in his face.

  ‘Christa,’ he called to her and she turned, her face expressionless. ‘The boys want to make a gingerbread house for Christmas. If you can help us, we would love to do it as a project. Ethan wants to film the process for his doco.’

  She smiled at the three of them, her face relaxed, cheeks pink with the cold.

  ‘Wow, what a cool idea. I’d love to help but why don’t we make it more than a house? Why don’t we make a gingerbread house of Pudding Hall?’

  The boys started to yell ideas at each other. ‘We can do all the windows and the stairs. What do we make stairs out of? Can we do the garden?’

  They started to walk again, the boys running ahead to talk excitedly about the gingerbread house and the Christmas tree.

  ‘It doesn’t take much to make them happy. I need to remember that,’ he said. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  ‘I hope I’m not some morality tale for you because I’m low on cash and have to work through my birthday and Christmas.’ She laughed.

  Marc felt embarrassed. He was always terrible at explaining anything other than a business deal.

  They came to a café in an old Tudor-style building. The window was filled with delicious-looking pies and sandwiches and cakes and slices. Someone walked outside and a gust of warm air and the scent of coffee escaped.

  ‘This looks good?’ he said but it was more of a question to Christa who was peering in the window.

  ‘It looks fantastic,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry.’

  Soon they were seated and the boys were happily discussing Minecraft blocks, which Christa knew nothing about.

  Marc was studying the menu when the waitress came to them.

  ‘Hello, is this lovely family ready to order? Your boys are very well behaved,’ she said to Christa, who seemed to be grasping for words. For a moment, Marc wondered if this was what it would be like as a family. His ex-wife didn’t like going out with the boys because she said they weren’t old enough to behave. They had always eaten separately at home in San Francisco, eating different food, prepared by a different chef. He had eaten out with the boys many times but not as a nuclear family, he realised.

  He smiled at the waitress. ‘Thank you, and yes, we’re ready to order. Christa? What would you like, darling?’ He tried not to laugh as she gasped.

  And then he saw her blush from her neck to her hairline and he realised he liked teasing her. In fact, he liked it more than anything else he had done in a very long time.

  8

  On Monday morning, Christa called the number Petey had given her and asked for Zane. She had spent Sunday evening cooking two roast chickens with all the trimmings for the family and had eaten with them but quickly cleaned up after and headed upstairs.

  ‘Sorry, Zane is out but he can return your call when he’s back. What’s your number?’ said the person on the end of the line.

  Christa gave her number and then put down the phone.

  She felt slightly dithery, hoping Marc would come into the kitchen but also hoping he didn’t because she needed to get on with her work.

  She would make some stock for the soups using the quail, which would give her a beautiful broth.

  Soon she had the birds in the roasting pan and in the oven. Then she started chopping the onions, carrots, celery and garlic. She used the fresh parsley from the market and the pig’s foot she had bought at the butcher before she’d seen Marc and the boys. Then she dug into the shopping bag, hoping she hadn’t lost the precious small ingredient.

  ‘There you are,’ she said and she opened the bag and held it to her nose and took a deep inhalation and then sighed.

  ‘Wow. Seems like you have some good stuff there. Is it legal?’ she heard Marc’s voice say and she felt her stomach flip.

  Damn, it was a crush. How embarrassing.

  Pulling the bag away from her nose, she handed it to him. ‘Take a sniff and tell me what you think it is.’

  ‘Oh a sniff test – I’m good at this. I once smelled a baloney sandwich that had been in my sister’s school backpack for a full semester.’

  He held the bag to his nose and closed his eyes.

  ‘I can smell…’ he opened his eyes and looked at her ‘…spice. Wo
od. Something like incense but not cheap stuff like at Venice Beach but something like I smelled in the Atlas Mountains in Morocco.’

  Christa wasn’t sure if he was being pretentious or silly but he seemed serious.

  ‘They’re juniper berries,’ she said.

  Marc seemed thrilled with this news.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m gifted. There were juniper bushes where I was. These super rare ones that I was asked to help fund a protection programme for.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Christa, trying to get her head around what he was saying. ‘Fund the bushes?’

  ‘Of course. I love gin,’ he said and then he laughed.

  For a moment she thought about telling him her plans to cook for others with his food but how could she say it without sounding like a thief or as though she was judging him for having so much more than others. She would tell him, she thought, eventually, when she found the right time. She needed to think about it, she told herself. But deep inside, she knew she was avoiding it because he’d probably think she was some sad do-gooder who was trying to make him feel guilty about having so much. Who was she to think she could solve homelessness and world hunger, like a foodie Bob Geldof?

  She opened the oven and turned the meat, making sure she was scraping up all the bits caught on the pan.

  ‘That smells incredible,’ he said. Peering into the pan. ‘Is it for dinner?’

  ‘No, it’s stock for soup.’ She shoved the pan back in and closed the door and her phone rang.

  She picked it up and answered, ‘Zane, how are you? Can you hold a minute?’

  She put her hand over the receiver. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ She took the phone and walked outside, shocked at how cold the air was and wishing she had her coat but Marc was inside the kitchen now. He was looking inside the refrigerator, which was his right, but she wished he would go away at least until she had spoken to Zane.

  ‘Hi, Zane, I’m Christa. Petey from the market gave me your details. He said you might be looking for volunteers?’

  ‘Yes, we are actually. What sort of help are you hoping to give?’ Zane asked.

  ‘I’m a chef, so I can cook some of the food, like soups or stews and I can help in the van a few nights for the next few weeks. I’m not in York for long but I was helping homeless people in London and I want to support the people of York.’