Maybe Next Year
Snow drifted from the darkening sky, spiralling towards the earth, coating the tree-lined streets of suburbia. It hid the grime on the streets, giving the impression of a clean and virginal land. The blanket it cast, as yet unspoilt by the hustle and bustle of footprints and tyre tracks.
The house, a three-bedroom semi, the epitome of Middle England, stood in a quiet residential area. The warm glow from inside casting its light onto the newly constructed snowman in the garden. With twigs for arms, a carrot nose, button eyes and an orange peel smile, he stood tall and proud; on parade for any snugly-wrapped passers-by to point at, and relive their youth with a nostalgic smile.
Inside the house, a small girl sat on a deep-pile rug in front of the roaring fire. The orangey-glow flickering onto her soft features, making her eyes shine in the subdued lighting of the strategically placed table lamps.Her long dark hair hung on her shoulders. She was lost in a world only a child could inhabit. The land of make believe. Where everything was nice, and turned out exactly the way you wanted it to. Where toffee apples grew on chocolate trees, and talking bunny rabbits granted wishes.
She played with the latest life-like doll, which actually dirtied its own nappy when you fed it ‘special food.’
“Whatever next?” Mummy had said. “Will they bring out a doll that has tantrums at bath time, too?”
Her other Christmas presents were scattered around the room. Each played with, then discarded, as she moved on to the next. She had gotten everything she had asked for. Well, almost everything. There was one thing on the list she was still waiting for.
She had written it to Santa herself, and Mummy even took her to the Post Office to post it.
The fibre optic Christmas tree subtly changed colours in the corner – the chocolate baubles having long since been eaten.
A choir was singing carols on the T.V. Their dulcet tones permeating all around the house, and mingling with the familiar smell of home cooking. Beef stew and dumplings – Daddy’s favourite.
Her Mummy was in the kitchen now. She could hear the pans clattering on the hob. She would be wearing her ‘Christmas apron.’ It was a tradition. Mummy always got a new apron for Christmas.
“It’s good luck,” she would tell her daughter, kissing her forehead and smoothing her delicate cheek.
Her Daddy would be home soon. Will Santa Claus have granted her final wish?
The sound of a key in the door. A blast of cold air as the front door opened. The young girl froze. But it was not the cold air that made her do that. The atmosphere had actually changed. It had become heavy, thicker. More intense. If she had been allowed to play with knives, she could have used one to slice through it.
The smell of stale booze overwhelmed the home cooking and choir singing.
“I’m home!” Daddy bellowed, slurring. “Where’s my tea?”
The girl could sense her Mother freeze; even in the other room. She could almost feel her Mother’s fear through the paper-thin walls. It was not difficult, she had witnessed it year after year, month after month, day after day. Her mother fearing the man she loved. Terrified of the father of their child.
Any moment now there would be more yelling. Doors slamming. Plates smashing. Fists flying.
Sure enough.
They all came, and in that order.
Her mother was yelling for her husband to stop. Hysterical pleading.
Finally her mother came into the living room. She sat on the sofa, sobbing. Her eye already puffed and closing. Blood running from her nose. Tears dragging mascara down her swollen cheeks. Her ‘lucky’ Christmas apron was torn. She would need a new one for next year. But then again, she always did.
The choir sang on, oblivious. The fire roared. The tree lights danced. And outside, the snow fell.
The young girl sat cuddling her doll, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. She cast her mind back to her letter to Santa, and the final unfulfilled wish.
Oh well, she thought, maybe next year Santa would bring her a new Daddy.
The End
(c) Glenn Upsall 2008