Christmas Days: 12 Stories and 12 Feasts for 12 Days

by Jeanette Winterson

  It’s a mystery, said the SnowMama.

  Soon they were on Jerry’s street and outside Jerry’s home. The lights were still out.

  Here, said the SnowMama, let me do the door. I’ll freeze open the lock.

  Inside the house was cold and empty. There were dishes piled in the sink and on the counter. The floor was dirty. There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the room but it had no decorations.

  It will be Christmas in a few days, said the SnowMama.

  My dad left last Christmas, said Jerry. I think my mum’s upset.

  No one ever came to Jerry’s house now. Not to play or to visit. She was used to seeing it like this. The mess and the dirt and the sadness. Now she saw it through the SnowMama’s eyes.

  Let’s clean the place up together, said the SnowMama. You start with the dishes. I’ll wash the floor.

  The SnowMama’s mopping method was unique. She melted a little bit of her snowskirts and spun the water round the room, shooing it straight out of the door when it was too dirty. Soon the dishes were done too, and dried, and the floor was gleaming.

  All right! said the SnowMama. Now collect all the dirty clothes and the sheets and things from the bed, and we’ll go to the launderette.

  It’s closed! said Jerry. And we don’t have any money.

  Trust me, I’m a snowman.

  At the launderette the SnowMama sprang the lock and in they went. Operating the machines was easy. The SnowMama prised the metal front from the token dispenser with her steel fingers.

  Plenty here, she said, carefully refitting the door.

  While the laundry went round and round, Jerry felt herself getting warm and sleepy. She dreamed she was in a snowstorm of washing powder and that the sky was made of sheets.

  A drunk walking by, second bottle of vodka in his pocket, saw or said he saw a snowman doing the washing –

  I’m tellin’ ya she was eight feet tall and white and built like a cube and she had these scary green eyes, and pitchforks for hands, and there was a little girl with her fast asleep on a couple of chairs.

  Ya sure it wasn’t Santa Claus in there with her? Ha ha ha ha ha. . .

  When Jerry woke up all the laundry was washed and dried and folded, so she and the SnowMama made their way home.

  You see to the beds, said the SnowMama; I’ll be back very soon.

  Jerry made up nice new beds for herself and her mother. For the first time in ages the beds looked like nice places to be, snug and warm and clean and inviting. She started to yawn. The clock said nearly 4am.

  Just then the SnowMama returned pushing a shopping cart piled with groceries: fruit, coffee, cakes, vegetables, bacon, eggs, milk, ­butter, bread, a turkey and a plum pudding. The SnowMama’s red dog-hoop mouth was a bigger, wider grin than ever.

  I broke into Store’s Stores!

  But that’s stealing!

  Yes, it is.

  But that’s wrong!

  So is a child with nothing to eat. Here . . .

  And the SnowMama boiled some hot milk and made Jerry a big piece of cheese on toast. Jerry sat up in bed eating and drinking and nearly asleep.

  I have to go now, said the SnowMama. You can see me in Nicky’s garden tomorrow.

  I don’t want you to go, said Jerry.

  I need to be out in the cold. Big goodnight – I’d give you a kiss but I can’t bend down.

  Jerry jumped up on the bed and kissed the SnowMama. She felt a little bit of snow melt in her mouth.

  The next day Jerry woke up hearing the front door open. She jumped out of bed. Her mother had come home. She looked tired and defeated. She didn’t notice the beautiful, clean kitchen or the sparkly windows or the warm, happy feeling of the house. Jerry put some bread in the toaster. It’s nearly Christmas, she said.

  I know, said her mother. I’ll get you a present, I promise. We’ll decorate the tree together. I just need to get some sleep . . . I . . . She stood up, went into the bedroom, came back out again. Did you clean everything? I’ve never seen it look like this.

  I washed it all. And there’s food. Look!

  Jerry’s mother looked in the fridge and in the cupboards. Where did you get the money for all this food?

  The SnowMama did it.

  Jerry didn’t say anything about the SnowMama stealing the food from Store’s Stores.

  Is she, like, a charity? For Christmas?

  Yes, said Jerry.

  Jerry’s mother looked nearly like her old self before Jerry’s dad had left. I can’t believe someone has helped us – been kind to us. Did she leave a number?

  Jerry shook her head.

  Her mother looked again at everything in their little house. This is like a miracle. It is a miracle, Jerry!

  Go out and play and when you come back I’ll have made dinner. Like I always did.

  Jerry ran round to Nicky’s house. She couldn’t wait to tell her friend everything that had happened during the night. She told her about the SnowFish, and the Big Little SnowMan, and how she had ridden on the SnowMama’s back. She didn’t tell her about the launderette or the stealing. But Nicky didn’t believe her. She went up to the SnowMama and pulled her nose off. See? If she was alive she’d yell at me!

  Jerry grabbed the pine cone and pushed Nicky flat down into the snow. Nicky started to cry and her mother came out. That’s enough, you two! Jerry, we’re going Christmas shopping this afternoon – do you want to come?

  I don’t want her to come! shouted Nicky.

  Jerry pretended to go home but in fact she hid behind the shed. As soon as the car had pulled away she ran up to the SnowMama. They’ve gone! You can move now!

  But nothing happened. The SnowMama was still as a statue. ­Jerry waited and waited, colder and colder. Feeling sad and silly, she walked home through the park. The SnowMen were all there, fishing or standing in groups. She saw the SnowCat under the tree and ran up to him: Hello, Lucky Love! But the cat said nothing.

  So Jerry set off home, wondering if the house would really be clean, if the food would really be in the fridge, if her mother would really be making dinner.

  As she came down the street past Store’s Stores Mr Store was standing grumpily on his step in his horrible brown overalls. He waved at Jerry to listen to him.

  I was robbed last night! Thieves broke in and stole food. One of them was dressed as a snowman! I have it on CCTV. Can you believe it?

  Jerry couldn’t help smiling. Mr Store frowned so low that his horrible eyebrows were on top of his horrible moustache. It’s no laughing matter, young lady.

  Jerry opened the door to her house. Her home was as clean and bright as she had left it. Delicious smells filled the kitchen. Jerry’s mother was listening to carols on the radio. She had made a lasagne. They ate it together and her mother was full of plans. I’ll get a different job – no more nights. We’ll keep this place nice. Just somebody helping us has made all the difference. Do you know that?

  That night Jerry’s mother had to go back to her job but it didn’t seem so sad and hard as before. Jerry had a plan to sneak out and go to the park, but she found that her mother had double-locked the door. She was thinking, maybe, she could climb out of the bedroom window so that no one could see her, when she heard a tap-tap-tapping at the kitchen window.

  It was the SnowMama.

  Jerry opened the window.

  It’s so warm in there now I can’t come in, said the SnowMama. I brought you these to decorate the tree.

  She had a sackful of pine cones like her nose but these were all shining white and frosted.

  Why didn’t you talk to me when I was at Nicky’s? asked Jerry. I waited and waited and you were just snow.

  It’s a mystery, said the SnowMama. Why don’t you decorate the tree? I’ll watch through the window.

  Soon the tree was splendid with
its cones and the house looked festive and fun.

  Did you know, said the SnowMama, that there are more than a million snowflakes in just one litre of snow?

  And is every snowflake different? said Jerry.

  A snowflake is formed as it swirls and falls through the air, and that swirling and falling is never the same, always different, said the SnowMama. How is your mother today?

  She was happy today, said Jerry, and she made a lasagne. I did the washing-up.

  You have to look after each other, said the SnowMama – if not, you’ll both be sad and cold, even in the summer.

  Parents are supposed to look after their children, said Jerry.

  Life is as it is, said the SnowMama.

  Jerry looked out of the window at the frosty stars. She said to the SnowMama, Can you come and live with us? If we could keep you really cold – like get you your own freezer or something?

  The SnowMama’s green eyes flashed in the light.

  Then everyone would know what we know – and that can’t happen because everyone has to k-snow it for themselves.

  What? said Jerry.

  That love is a mystery and that love is the mystery that makes things happen.

  Jerry slept the whole dark night of softness and quiet and a million, million stars.

  When she heard her mother come in the next morning Jerry jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen and kissed her mother, who was admiring the tree.

  Where did you find these decorations?

  The SnowMama brought them, said Jerry.

  I wish I could thank her myself. Are you sure she didn’t leave a card?

  Jerry decided she would go and ask the SnowMama to meet her mother. While her mother got ready to sleep after her night shift, Jerry got dressed and ran through the park towards Nicky’s.

  When she got to the gates of the drive, she stopped.

  There was a different car parked next to Nicky’s family car. The car was parked right where the SnowMama had been.

  Jerry ran in and behind the car. On the ground was the bobble hat and two old forks. Jerry dropped on her hands and knees and dug frantically in the snow. She found the SnowMama’s emerald eyes. She started to cry.

  Nicky came out, just wearing a jumper and leggings.

  What’s the matter, Jerry?

  But Jerry couldn’t speak, so Nicky said, The snowman got knocked down when my friends came. They just backed up in the car . . . sorry.

  But Jerry kept on crying and Nicky didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t real, Jerry – we can build her again if you want. Do you want to?

  But the weather was changing. Already there was rain and the snow was softening and the roofs shed great slabs of snow. Jerry ran back through the park and saw that the SnowPeople had started to move on.

  Some had lost their heads. The SnowCat was just a heap with one ear, and the frozen lake was changing colour as the warmer water sat on its surface. The SnowFisher had dropped his rod and line.

  Jerry went home. When her mother woke up Jerry tried to explain about the SnowMama, but her mother didn’t understand. But she did understand that Jerry was upset and she held her close and promised her that their lives would be different from now on. There would be food, and warmth, and clean clothes and time.

  I won’t be drinking. I won’t be depressed. I won’t leave you alone, she said to Jerry and, though these things are easier to say than to do, Jerry’s mother kept her promise and there was never another cold and hungry Christmas.

  And Christmas Day came, because it always does, whether you want it to or not, and it always goes, whether you want it to or not, because life is as it is. And Jerry opened the presents under the tree, and among them, best of all, was a microscope and a book that told you everything about snowflakes.

  It had all started in Vermont in 1885 when a boy called Snowflake Bentley began photographing snowflakes through his microscope. He was the first person ever to do this and when he died he had ­photographed 5,381 snowflakes, and every photo was different.

  And Jerry went back and stood where the SnowMama had stood. But the place was empty.

  Over the years that followed, Jerry built the SnowMama every winter, usually in the park by the lake, but the SnowMama ­never came alive again.

  Jerry grew up. In time she had children of her own and they loved the story of the SnowMama, even though they had never seen her.

  It was Christmas Eve.

  Jerry’s kids were in bed.

  The stockings were hung on the ends of the beds and the cat was asleep under the Christmas tree.

  Jerry went to turn off the lights. The snow was falling softly. For some reason she opened the drawer to her desk and got out the old microscope that her mother had given her so many years ago. Then she pulled on her boots and went outside.

  Her kids had built three SnowPeople all in a row. Jerry pressed the microscope against the nearest cold white form and studied the snowflakes magnified in the glass. How could life be so multiple, unexpected, ordinary and a miracle?

  Like love, she said out loud.

  And a voice she knew replied – Love always comes back.

  There was the SnowMama. Standing in the garden.

  It’s you! said Jerry.

  Always, said the SnowMama.

  But all these years – where have you been?

  It’s a mystery . . .

  I’ll tell the kids – they know all about you!

  Not tonight, said the SnowMama. Maybe one day, who knows? I guess I just wanted to see you again; I always hoped I would.

  And something like a snowy tear fell from the SnowMama’s eye.

  Wait! said Jerry. Wait . . .

  She ran inside and went back to her desk drawer.

  She had kept the green glass eyes wrapped up with the microscope.

  These are yours, she said. Shall I put them in?

  Then she kissed the SnowMama and felt a little bit of ice melting in her mouth.

  It worked out, said Jerry.

  I know, said the SnowMama. Sometimes a little bit of help is all we need.

  Don’t go! said Jerry as the SnowMama began to spin away.

  I’ll keep an eye on you, said the SnowMama. Ha ha. And who knows what the future brings?

  And away she went, gliding as silent as the stars until she was as faint and far as a star.

  A million, million stars and lucky love.

  met Ruth Rendell in 1986 when she was fifty-six and I was twenty-seven. We were friends until her death in 2015, when she was eighty-five and I was fifty-six.

  I met her when she was at the age I am now – and that changes the way I think about our friendship, and her remarkable kindness to me.

  I had published just one book back then – Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit. She was a celebrated international success. The Queen of Crime.

  We met because she needed someone to house-sit while she went on a book tour of Australia for six weeks. I was writing my second novel, The Passion.

  With her characteristic thoughtfulness for young writers, Ruth said that she too was writing her second novel – as Barbara Vine, the pen-name she had recently assumed for thrillers of terrifying psychological insight.

  Ruth and I really liked each other. In some ways it was as simple as that. Over the years we started our own tradition of spending Christmas Day or Boxing Day together. Her son lives in America, and after her husband, Don, died, our Christmas times became more important to us both.

  The routine was always the same. She told me when to arrive so that we could go for a long walk around London. She planned the route – there was always something she wanted to see. Her later work is full of London. She loved walking in London and Christmas Day is quiet.

  After the walk, we’d eat. Ruth cooked. She was a nimble cook, no
fuss. She wasn’t all that interested in food, but she liked making Christmas dinner.

  What did we have? Pheasant, roast potatoes, carrots, a green vegetable of some sort, usually whatever I had grown in the garden that had survived slugs and pigeons. So we might eat sprouts if we were lucky, kale if we weren’t. Lots of gravy and, and this is the point of the story, Ruth Rendell’s pickled red cabbage.

  Ruth made the pickled cabbage in early autumn. She always rang me to tell me the day. ‘Oh, Jeanette, it’s Ruth; I’m pickling the cabbage and then I’ll walk down to the House.’

  She meant the House of Lords, where she was a Labour Peer.

  It’s not generally known that Ruth was a big Country and Western fan, so the cabbage-pickling was accompanied by ­Tammy Wynette or k. d. lang.

  I was never present at the process of pickling. Ruth was her own alchemist and, whatever she did, she did it better than me. I have her recipe but not her knack. Pickling was something that Ruth’s generation of women understood. Ruth was born in 1930. As a teenager in the Second World War she was pickling for victory. And her own mother was Swedish, so, if you think about it, Ruth’s pickling skills go back to the turn of the century, and were learned from a tradition whose winter food-supply depended on salting and fermenting.

  And of course when Ruth was growing up in London, first there was the Depression, then came the war, then rationing – and nobody had a fridge.

  When her husband was alive she pickled him gherkins. He loved a gherkin. She told me she had pickled rabbits during the war.

  ‘What did they taste like?’

  ‘How should I know? It looked disgusting. I wasn’t going to eat it, Jeanette!’ And then that laugh. Ruth had a wonderful laugh, directed at the comedy of life, its absurdity.

  It’s fair to say she was a connoisseur of the pickle. She loved a pickled herring. I adore pickled cucumber and I always order it when I eat at the Wolseley Restaurant on Piccadilly in London.

  Ruth liked me to take her there. Generally in life Ruth found herself paying the bill; she was both wealthy and generous, so it was good for her to be taken out, and our rule was that she never paid at the Wolseley. I always got there first so that I could order champagne without having a fight . . .