into rainbow swirls.
Then, just for fun, I’ll make a batch of fondant sugar mice with string tails and dozens of spicy, crisp gingerbread stars to hang on the tree.
In early December I’ll have made the annual expedition to the frozen attic in search of the boxes containing the tree and baubles, not to mention the large porcelain-faced figure of the Angel Gabriel, who seems to like to hide himself away, so that a second expedition usually has to be mounted to find him.
And when it comes to decorations – well, forget themes, for I’m the least likely person to wake up one day thinking, “Mmm, I think I’ll have an upside-down black tree this year and a black and blood red theme throughout the house. Wonder where I can buy matching holly swags and door wreaths?”
No, out will come the cheap gold tinsel tree that my toddler son fell in love with so many years ago, to be heavily loaded with every treasured old glass ornament from the box – birds with fibreglass tails, violins, trumpets, bears, dogs, icicles, Santas and snowflakes. And then, the crowning glory, I’ll top it with a papier-mâché Santa that my mother’s sister bought when she was four, which makes it over ninety years old now. The red robe has turned the colour of Brown Windsor soup and at some point he’s been misguidedly embellished with a white cotton wool beard and a smattering of scarlet glitter glue, but he’ll still benignly preside over all.
It looks quite magical when it’s done and the house, garlanded and redolent of Christmas spices, seems by Christmas Eve to have acquired a heady sense of mystery and expectation, even if it doesn’t remotely resemble anything in the magazines.
So … I suppose you could say that I am a traditionalist; only most of the traditions are of my own devising and make for an easy and stress-free Christmas.
And every year, just as I’m starting to wonder if those are snowflakes or seraphic feathers lazily swirling down from the sky, the Angel Gabriel finally turns up.
Previously published in the Express S magazine.
In Annie Moss, James thought he’d found the perfect tenant for the cottage he’d inherited from his great-uncle. She was in her mid-thirties, quiet and widowed, with no children to trample mud onto the newly-fitted carpets. Then he remembered that she was a gardener, so might well do that herself!
But as if she could read his mind, Annie smiled at him and said, “I’ll look after the cottage really well and leave my muddy gardening boots in the porch, I promise.”
Their eyes met … and held. His were a forget-me-not blue, reminding her of the fresh promise of an April sky, while her brown ones made him think of the dark velvety softness of pansies …
Annie also liked the way he hadn’t made the usual joke about rolling stones gathering no moss, though it was true she’d moved about a lot since her husband died. But here … well, there was something about the place that made her want to put down roots, spread out her branches and – just possibly – burst into a late flowering.
“So, you already have some work lined up in the area?” he asked.
She nodded. “At the garden centre, though I’ll be happy to sort out the garden here for free, if you’d like me to? It’s a bit of a mess – I couldn’t help noticing all those holes …”
She paused and he grinned.
“I was treasure hunting! My Great Uncle always said he didn’t trust banks, so he’d hidden his valuables away at the cottage, instead …”
“Didn’t you find anything?”
“Only a small amount of cash under his mattress and a tin box with a few half-sovereigns in it on a ledge up the chimney. Somehow I thought he’d have a bit more put by, so I did a quick sweep of the garden with a borrowed metal detector, though there was nothing there except old horseshoe nails.”
“Well, if I hit treasure trove I’ll let you know,” she promised. “I have a metal detector, too – you wouldn’t believe how useful they can be to a gardener. I once found a whole Morris Minor buried just under a lawn, it was no wonder if was patchy!”
*
As summer slid into autumn, Annie transformed the neglected cottage garden, digging flowerbeds and planting a rambling rose by the porch.
Then she turned her attention to the small area at the back, where two gnarled old apple trees stood amid a waist-high tangle of weeds. And there she came across a dog’s grave, shedding a few tears over the poignant inscription:
Old Charlie
RIP
Faithful friend.
*
“Oh yes, Charlie was a Jack Russell and Uncle Ray adored him,” James explained when he dropped in, as he now frequently did on his way home from work.
“I notice you didn’t dig any holes down that end?”
“No, because I was sure Uncle Ray wouldn’t want Charlie disturbed.”
“I had thought of dividing up some of the clumps of primroses and planting them on the grave,” she suggested. “It would look lovely in spring.”
“Go ahead, I’m sure Uncle Ray would have loved the idea,” he agreed, then smiled so warmly at her that her heart, which had entered some kind of ice age after the loss of her husband, began a rapid thaw.
*
But next time he came, he seemed different, colder. “So, you planted the primroses on Charlie’s grave yesterday?” he said.
“Oh yes – but how did you know?” she asked, looking disconcerted – and also, he thought, slightly guilty.
“One of my friends saw you digging under the apple trees – and then he heard you shout ‘Eureka!’” he added pointedly.
She laughed. “He must have thought I’d gone mad, but finding it was just such a relief!”
“Finding what?” he demanded.
“My wedding ring: it must have slipped off while I was transplanting the primroses, so I took my metal detector out and found it.”
He suddenly started laughing, too. “You know, I thought you’d been treasure hunting, even though I was sure Uncle Ray wouldn’t have buried anything near Charlie.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t have – and even if he had, I would have told you.”
“Yes, I really should have known you better by now, Annie,” he agreed, then glanced at her left hand. “But you’re not wearing your ring?”
She shook her head. “No – losing it seemed like a sign that perhaps it was time to stop wearing it … to move on with my life.”
“Oh? Then perhaps you’d like to come down to the pub with me? I suppose I can’t keep you to myself forever.”
“Are you … asking me out?” she said uncertainly. She knew his wife had left him for another man a couple of years before.
“Yes, though I’m a bit out of practise with the dating game.”
“Me too – but you definitely owe me a drink for suspecting I’d been stealing your property!”
*
Being gold, Annie’s wedding ring had come out of the earth as freshly gleaming as it went in, which was more than