Christmas Fireside Stories

by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver

  But he had kissed her and she hadn’t pulled away, and that had been enough then. He’d told himself his letters would convey all that he hadn’t said. He hadn’t bargained on being taken prisoner within days of landing in France.

  He shook his head as the bloodbath that had been Mons seared his memory. British troops had fought alongside their French and Belgian comrades in a bitter struggle for the town, and for the first time in his life he had seen the anatomy of his fellow man laid bare as German bayonets and machine guns had done their grisly work. He’d been badly injured and near death for a long time; ironically it had been the expertise of a German doctor that had eventually enabled him to pull through.

  It was only then he’d discovered his parents had been sent a telegram in error reporting his demise.

  He stubbed out his cigarette butt and straightened from where he’d been leaning against a house wall on the opposite side of the road to Kate’s front door.

  Had she married Timothy Finlay because she loved him? Would she still have married someone else if he hadn’t been injured and had written the letters telling her he loved her? She had been as cold as ice when he’d seen her at the funeral, her manner making it abundantly clear she wanted none of him, even as a friend. That had hurt, and at the time it had seemed answer enough, but over the last months he had wondered if it was grief at Tim’s passing that made her act that way. After all, she’d buried her husband that very day.

  Or was he clutching at straws? He hunched his shoulders, ashamed of the weakness in him that was Kate, a weakness he managed to throttle during the day when he was working on the farm but which came to torment him each night.

  He was a prosperous farmer now; as an only child his parents’ passing had meant the farm came to him lock, stock and barrel, but it didn’t mean anything. Not without her.

  Matthew gave himself a mental shake. There were plenty more fish in the sea. What was he doing pining after a lass who had upped and married someone else and who had a couple of bairns to prove it? He was barmy, that was the truth of it, and what the hell he was doing standing out in the dark on Christmas Eve in the bitter cold, he didn’t know. He could be back at the farmhouse in front of a roaring fire with a glass of brandy warming his bones. He’d had more than one offer from lassies hereabouts to warm his bed an’ all. He smiled grimly. There was nothing like prosperity to put a come-hither sparkle in a lass’s eye.

  He took off his cap once more, slapping it against his leg and then irritably stuffing it back on his head. Enough of this foolishness, standing here like a lovesick lad wet behind the ears. He didn’t dare to think what his farmhands would say if they could see him.

  He should go home.

  The food had been put away, the paper chains were hanging gaily across the kitchen ceiling and for once the kitchen was as warm as toast; there was even a small fire taking the chill off the front room where Harry and Rebecca were fast asleep. Ellie had come in and watched the children while Kate had returned to Mrs Bell’s to collect her two shillings. At least she had money in the pot for the rent man now. Not much, admittedly, but if she eked out the coal and the food she might be able to put all the money she earned next week into the pot too. Enough to pay two or three weeks off the back rent, anyway.

  She refused to think about the weeks after that; it was Christmas Eve and there was magic in the air and she didn’t want to spoil it by facing reality. Not tonight. Not this one special night.

  She glanced around the kitchen, mellow and cosy in the glow from the fire in the range and the dim light from the oil lamp in the middle of the table. The battered old furniture had taken on a grace it could never aspire to in the harsh light of day, and even the snow falling thickly outside the window seemed pretty tonight, rather than just another obstacle to be overcome.

  Once Mick had brought the turkey and the stockings for Harry and Rebecca she would go to bed, she told herself tiredly, and, as if in answer to the thought, there was a knock at the door.

  Her brow wrinkled. What on earth was Mick doing knocking on the front door rather than coming in as usual by the back yard? No one used the front door apart from the doctor or Reverend Alridge, and the latter had only come to the house once, to finalize the arrangements for Timothy’s funeral. Perhaps it was the doctor for Mr or Mrs Gilbert upstairs, but she would have thought they’d have told her if one of them was poorly and expecting Dr Clark.

  When she opened the door she stared at the snow-covered figure standing on the pavement. For a moment time stood still, and then deep inside her body a trembling began and a whirling, frantic cacophony of thoughts.

  ‘Hello, Kate,’ Matthew said softly.

  She tried to pull herself together, but coming on top of the emotion of the last hours it was beyond her.

  He waited a moment and then cleared his throat, a nervous sound, and strangely it restored her equilibrium long enough for her to say shakily, ‘Matthew. What a surprise.’

  ‘Can I come in for a moment?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone . . .’ Her voice trailed away as she realized she was babbling. She stood aside for him to step into the hall. ‘Go along to the kitchen, the bairns are asleep in the front room.’

  Her legs were weak as she followed him and when he turned to face her, his tall broad figure in its heavy overcoat filled her vision to the exclusion of anything else. Willing her voice not to tremble, she said with a composure she was proud of in the circumstances, ‘What brings you out on such a snowy night?’

  He hesitated, then simply said, ‘You.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I was going to say all sorts of things if you answered the door. That I was passing, that I felt Tim would expect his old friends to make sure you were doing all right, that . . .’ He shook his head, rubbing his hand across his face. ‘That I hoped we could be friends. And I do still hope that,’ he added quickly. ‘But now you’re in front of me and I can’t pretend. The truth is, I need to spell out how I feel about you, for my sanity if nothing else. Kate, I love you. I’ve always loved you and I shall go on loving you to my dying day. I’ve come to realize it’s something I can’t do anything about. You’re here—’ he touched a hand to his chest – ‘in the heart and soul of me, and I know it’s too soon after Tim, but I need to know if there is any hope at all for me in the future. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever if that’s what you want, but I can’t carry on not knowing, and tonight, Christmas Eve—’ he rubbed his face again – ‘I suppose I was hoping for a miracle.’

  She stared at him, a change coming over her face and the guarded, wary expression melting at the look in his eyes.

  Emboldened, he murmured, ‘I thought – that day I came to see you before I went to France – I thought you might care for me a little?’

  ‘I did.’ Her voice a whisper, she breathed, ‘I do.’

  The dropping of her defences was too much for him to take in for a moment. Then he reached out, pulling her into his arms.

  This time the kiss was not the swift, tentative one of a nervous suitor but that of a man hungry for the woman he had been waiting for. Their lips clinging and their bodies pressed as if to merge, they stood for endless moments in the dimly lit room, lost in their own heady world.

  When at last Matthew raised his head, it was to murmur, shakily, ‘Kate, will you marry me quickly? As soon as I can arrange things? I want to take care of you and the bairns and there’s no need for us to wait . . . is there?’

  It would cause a stir, with Timothy not having been gone a full year. There would be gossip, and every busybody hereabouts nattering to their neighbours over the walls dividing their back yards, relishing the whiff of a scandal. There would be those who would declare they’d suspected she had been carrying-on for some time, and she would be labelled a bad lot.

  For a moment the old fears were strong, and then Kate looked into Matthew’s face. This was her miracle, not Harry’s or Rebecca’s – not even Matt
hew’s – and she had to grasp it with both hands and believe in what she had been given by One who loved her, just as she was. And she took the first step towards the confident, happy woman she was destined to become, lifting her hand to tenderly stroke his cheek as she smiled.

  ‘No, there’s no need to wait at all.’

  A Christmas Tradition in

  the Bradshaw Household

  RITA BRADSHAW

  A Christmas tradition in our household is the Christmas Eve walk with the dogs. No matter the weather or the amount of work to be done, Christmas Eve afternoon will see us taking the dogs to the nearby woods and letting them have a whale of a time. The afternoon is theirs, and humans have to fit in!

  It’s often cold and icy, sometimes frosty or snowy, and to walk home as the sun sets in the crisp air with tired, satisfied furry babies means that Christmas has begun. They have an extra-special tasty dinner and then curl up on the settee with us (I know! Dogs on the furniture! Sorry, but we don’t care!) while we have a glass of wine and watch TV with the lights twinkling on the Christmas tree.

  Magic!

  The Gift

  Margaret Dickinson

  CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914

  The sound echoed eerily across the frozen waste they called No Man’s Land.

  ‘They’re singing,’ Tom whispered to the man standing beside him in the trench.

  ‘In German,’ Joe whispered back. ‘The Hun is singing Silent Night.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘I know the tune. We sing it in church at home.’

  ‘I’ve never heard it before.’

  The two men were quiet now, listening to the deep, melodious voices. And their own thoughts turned to those at home. Mary would be helping their three children hang up their stockings near the fireplace, Tom thought. Then they would kiss the picture of him, each one in turn – she had told him this in her last letter before climbing the stairs and snuggling down in bed. Then she would fill their stockings with whatever little gifts she had been able to afford, no doubt shedding a tear because he wasn’t there to help her. Tom swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. He hoped she’d remember to put a shiny new penny in the toe of each stocking.

  ‘I’ve hidden them in my drawer,’ he’d told her. ‘Don’t forget now.’ They’d been the last words he’d said to her before he’d marched away, a proud volunteer to take the King’s Shilling and fight for his country.

  Joe was thinking of his widowed mother. His three younger brothers were itching to follow his example and enlist. But Joe wasn’t sure it was a good idea, not now he had seen the conditions out here. If they should all be killed, their mother would have no one. After Christmas, he promised himself – the Christmas by which everyone had believed the war would be over – he would write to each one and warn them . . .

  ‘They can sing. I’ll give ’em that,’ Tom murmured. Cautiously, he started to stand up, to look above the parapet, just to see . . .

  Joe grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘Keep down, you fool. It’ll be a trap.’

  Now they could hear others close by, in their own trench, whispering. The hymn came to an end and the silence was even more unnerving than the singing had been. And then, spontaneous applause broke out in the British trenches with cries of ‘Bravo’ and ‘Happy Christmas’.

  Rising above the noise and the laughter, they heard a German shouting, ‘Tommy? Tommy? Can you hear me, Tommy? Happy Christmas, Tommy.’

  ‘He knows my name!’ Tom’s voice rose in panic. ‘How’s he know my name?’

  ‘He doesn’t, you idiot,’ Joe laughed. ‘It’s what the Hun call us. We’re “Tommies” to them, just like they’re “The Hun” to us.’

  ‘Yeah, but we can’t shout that to him. Not if he’s trying to be friendly. It’s an insult.’

  ‘Friendly? More likely he wants to shoot your head off the minute you pop up above the parapet.’

  ‘I thought we called ’em “Fritz”.’

  ‘Well – yes – that too.’

  ‘That’s not rude, is it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so, no.’

  Tentatively, Tom lifted his head. ‘What do you want, Fritz?’

  ‘Ha! You are there!’

  ‘Of course we’re here,’ Tom muttered. ‘Where does he think we are? We’re here and they’re there – more’s the pity.’

  This wasn’t the glorious war Tom had envisaged when he’d marched away with the cheers of the townsfolk ringing in his ears and urging him on. He was cold and hungry and his feet never seemed to be dry. There was the constant fear of being shot or blown to smithereens, to say nothing of sharing his dugout with catsized rats. And yet, he’d made some good pals. Joe, here beside him, for one. But now, it seemed, someone from the other side wanted to be friendly.

  ‘I have present for you, Tommy.’ The German was shouting again.

  ‘I bet he has,’Joe muttered morosely. ‘A bullet through the head, most likely. Throw him one of your jam-tin grenades, Tom.’

  Tom was poking his head cautiously above the parapet again. Then he ducked down quickly. ‘He’s walking towards us carrying some sort of light.’ There was a pause whilst Tom took another quick peek. ‘There’s loads of ’em climbing out of their trench and coming towards us.’

  ‘Are they all carrying lights?’

  ‘No, but I can see their shapes.’ More voices filled the night air, German and British mingling in mutual greeting.

  There was movement in their own trench now and, glancing to their left, the two men saw that some of their compatriots were climbing the ladders and going over the top of the parapet. But it wasn’t the usual ‘over the top’ order signalled by a whistle when the soldiers launched themselves, guns at the ready, towards No Man’s Land and on, through a hail of bullets, towards the enemy trenches.

  ‘Look! Just look. Some of our lads are going to meet them,’ Tom said.

  ‘Idiots! They’ll get killed – or court-martialled. Have they forgotten the order that came down the lines only yesterday? No fraternizing with the enemy, it said. The top brass must have been expecting something like this to happen.’

  ‘Joe – he’s here – the one with the light,’ Tom whispered urgently. ‘He’s standing right above us.’

  They both looked up to see the grinning German soldier in his heavy trench coat and spiked helmet, standing on the parapet of the British trench and holding a small Christmas tree with six tiny flickering candles. He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, and he had a thick, curving moustache.

  ‘I bring you gift for Christmas, Tommy,’ the German said in thick, guttural English. ‘Ha-ha.’ He laughed raucously, the sound carrying through the darkness. ‘We are not going to fight you tomorrow. We play games together. Football, yes? My friend, he has a football.’

  ‘Is he serious?’ Joe muttered. ‘Who the heck brings a football to war with ’em?’

  ‘Evidently, a German.’

  All along the British trench now, soldiers were climbing out to meet the men whom only a few hours earlier they had been trying to kill. Making a sudden decision, Tom grasped the ladder, put his foot on the bottom rung and heaved himself up, leaving his gun leaning against the wall of the trench, not wanted or needed in this strange, impromptu truce. With a shrug of resignation, Joe followed him and as they climbed out of their trench, very slowly and a little fearfully, a wondrous sight met their eyes. As far as they could see in both directions, small, candlelit Christmas trees were set on top of the German parapets, flickering and glinting on the frosty earth. The two men stood for a moment, staring about them as soldiers from both sides appeared, like rabbits from a warren, and walked towards one another.

  Tom turned and held out his hand to the German. ‘How do you do, Fritz?’ he murmured, prompting another bark of laughter from the stranger.

  ‘My name is Kurt – Kurt Schulze.’

  ‘And mine’s Tom Benson.’

  ‘Ha – you really are “Tommy”.’

/>   The German grasped Tom’s hand in a warm, firm handshake and the Englishman winced. ‘By heck, he’s got a grip of iron,’ he muttered. ‘I wouldn’t like that round my throat. I wonder if he’s learned unarmed combat, an’ all.’

  ‘I expect so,’Joe murmured.

  ‘Yes – yes, I am,’ Tom said, loudly, ‘and this is Joe.’

  The introductions made, the three men stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure how to strike up a real conversation, until the German thrust the little Christmas tree into Tom’s hand. ‘There, you take. Put it in your trench when you eat your turkey. Ha-ha.’

  ‘Fat chance of such luxury,’ Joe said, but his initial reluctance was thawing a little now; this German seemed genuine, and beside them, all along the line, soldiers from opposite sides were laughing and talking together, offering each other cigarettes and chocolate.

  Joe and Tom had arrived only recently in the front line, just west of Ploegsteert Wood, which the Tommies soon nicknamed ‘Plugstreet Wood’. They were among the first of Kitchener’s volunteers to replace the battle-weary and, by this time, the much-depleted British Expeditionary Force’s battalions. They hadn’t seen the battle at Mons, where the British had been forced to retreat, losing a lot of the ground they had occupied, or the fighting near the river Marne, which had been more successful for their side. They hadn’t been there in the middle of September when both the French and the British Commanders had given the order to their troops to entrench. Deep, winding trenches had been dug and were still being dug when Tom and Joe arrived.

  ‘I didn’t know this is what we’d have to do,’ Joe had grumbled, as he’d tried to deepen the already waterlogged trench. ‘Looks like we should be issued with spades, not rifles.’