A Christmas Story

In front of him lay 35 acres of gravel pit and not an angler in sight, which was hardly surprising; it was Christmas Eve. Ray stared bleakly into the whitening scene and his mind wandered back to 2001 when, on the same day, he’d sat in his old armchair listening to the ticking of the clock. On reflection, he thought, this is better.

There had been nothing they could do. During the day, as he fished, Dora had suffered a succession of strokes, they told him later. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone. After 35 years, she was gone. And that Christmas and every Christmas he would remember he’d lost his soul mate and that, because he’d been piking at the time, he hadn’t even been there to say goodbye.

The decision to spend this harsh day on the pit hadn’t been too difficult to make. The void left by Dora’s death had not been filled… could not be filled. They’d not been blessed with children in their marriage, so his entire life was Dora. As the years passed, both he and Dora – both the ‘only child’ of their family – had lost their parents.

They’d enjoyed village life and always had plenty of friends, so the lack of family hadn’t mattered to them. In retirement, Roy had spent more time fishing, but when he got home it was as if he’d been away for months. Dora would fling her arms around him and ask what he’d caught, then tell him any gossip before presenting him with a meal kept hot in the oven. And she’d gaze at him as he ate in the same way she had gazed into his eyes when they’d first met.

Across the lake, two mute swans plunged their heads into the dark water in synchrony. The cob and pen had nested here for 15 years to Roy’s certain knowledge, and he wondered whether they would end their days together, or whether one would be left to the emptiness of grief.

Four days after Dora had died she’d been buried at St Mary’s, the village turning out to say their farewells, the landlord propping Roy up at the graveside. Then they’d walked back to the Rose and Crown for an hour before Roy felt he had to be alone with his thoughts, and had spent the evening in his chair, listening to the old longcase clock ticking relentlessly, a reminder of how slowly time can pass.

He’d had visitors since – old friends, many alone like him, would drop by for a cup of tea. He’d become more of a regular down the Rose and Crown. He’d won the rosette for best onion at the allotment show in September. He wasn’t short of friends, but what he really missed was companionship – family.

A robin now hopped suddenly into view on the willow branch where he was fishing, no doubt hopeful of a few maggots. Roy emptied his crisp crumbs on to the unhooking mat, and the robin accepted them as a substitute. And then Roy heard something which stirred something rooted in his childhood – he heard the faint but distinct tinkling of bells.

He was sure he could hear bells. Exactly the sound Santa’s bells might make, he mused. And they were getting louder. So he turned away from where his rods sat in the rests to look behind him. And then he heard the familiar refrain of We Wish You a Merry Christmas.

From between the willows, a procession appeared, led by Jim, the landlord of the Rose and Crown, carrying a large, clinking tray covered in a teatowel. Behind him were half a dozen of the regulars, red-nosed and smiling as they belted out their Christmas carol.

Roy was struck dumb. Jim uncovered the tray to reveal a sumptuous, steaming Christmas lunch and a glass of sherry. Roy smiled – he smiled wider than he had for the entire year.

“Merry Christmas, Roy,” said Jim. “Yes, Merry Christmas,” all his friends added.

And just as they all started laughing at the silliness of the gesture, the bobbin on the right-hand rod fell away and line peeled from the reel. It may not have been a perfect day, but Roy’s friends were right. It was Christmas.