Christmas Day 1990 fell on a Tuesday. It started with a dry, overcast morning; a brisk easterly wind lending a significant chill factor to the northeast coast of England.
James had risen early, showered, dressed and was now sitting in his favourite pew at St Peter’s Church, Barminster, for the service described in the Parish magazine as a ‘Family Eucharist’.
First irony of the day, thought James as he glanced at the empty space next to him, Janice having declined to accompany him. He looked around the half-empty church. The congregation was predominantly composed of couples or families. Children of all ages had accompanied their parents, bribed into attendance by the ability to bring their favourite present with them. Scattered between them all were a few solitary, elderly individuals who he knew to be either widows or widowers. They were in church on that particular morning, as much for the contact with other human beings as to pay homage to the Lord on his birthday. James felt the loneliness of those who lived alone. It can be lonely enough for some of us who still have a spouse alive, his thoughts continued ruefully. For most of the year, he did not mind attending church on his own. However, his solitariness on Christmas Day did seem to render his marital situation even more poignant than was usually the case.
The smell of incense brought his attention back to the service. James stood and watched the Reverend Ewing pass the thurible to an altar boy before turning with upturned palms to the congregation, announcing:
‘The Holy Gospel is written in the first Chapter of the book of St John, beginning at the first verse.’
James bowed reverently as the prescribed Gospel for Christmas Day was read aloud.
‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him…’
James closed his eyes, the better to absorb the sound of the Holy Scripture. It was familiar territory and the words brought great comfort. Just the act of listening to them spiritually recharged him and helped to restore a sense of inner peace.
‘In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness had not overcome it.’
He knew he needed God’s help to find the strength to persevere with his relationship with Janice. He needed God’s light to shine in the darkness of his own life. Perhaps even more so now after his revelatory experience at the staff Christmas party. The almost electric sense of passion between Anna and himself had filled him with unease. Over the past week, he was troubled by his inability to remove the thoughts of that evening from his mind. The memory was insidious. During any quiet moments of his day, it came seeping back like a tide refusing to ebb. When he closed his eyes at night his mind was instantly filled with vivid flashbacks: the intensity of her blue eyes, the softness of her voice, the feel of her hand on his shoulder, that kiss…
‘And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth.’
For the second time that morning his attention had wandered off the contents of the service. That also troubled him. Normally he was so absorbed in the liturgy that little could distract him.
‘This is the Word of the Lord,’ the vicar continued.
‘Thanks be to God,’ responded James along with the rest of the congregation.
He forced his attention on the remainder of the service, partaking of the Communion with a more focused mind and singing the traditional carols with a modicum of enthusiasm. After the Blessing he remained seated as the organist gave a fine rendition of a Toccata and Fugue by Bach. Then, as the final refrain echoed around the vaulted roof, he rose, bowed to the altar and joined the flow of parishioners towards the west door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Moorhouse,’ he said, recognising the somewhat rotund little woman standing next to him in the aisle. Mrs Moorhouse had been a patient of his whilst he had been working in the training practice in Barminster.
* * *
‘Why, if it isn’t Dr Armstrong! Good morning to you,’ replied the butcher’s wife, turning to see who had spoken. ‘How are you getting on in your new practice? We all miss you here, you know!’
‘Very well, thank you. It is not unlike being in Barminster, except that the patients are not quite as nice as those I was used to here,’ said James, returning the compliment with a smile. ‘Oh, you always did flatter us.’ She blushed as she spoke, a matter that James had always found amusing. At the age of sixty-two, Mrs Moorhouse clearly continued to have the mind of a much younger woman. ‘Are you all on your own today?’ she continued, glancing round.
‘Yes, sadly, I am. My wife has stayed at home.’
‘I do hope she is not too unwell?’ Mrs Moorhouse’s assumption that only illness would keep a wife from being together with her husband in church on Christmas morning was typical of her Christian belief in the sanctity of marriage. She had strong ideas as to how relationships were supposed to work.
‘Eh, no, thank you for your concern. Nothing which nature cannot cope with,’ James replied evasively, not wishing to expand on that particular line of discussion. ‘Good morning, Mr Moorhouse,’ he called across the aisle to her husband.
‘Top of the morning to you too, Doctor,’ the equally rotund spouse replied. His reddened face suggested that he was looking forward to removing the rather tight suit and collar his wife had made him squeeze into for the morning service.
Whilst speaking, they had almost reached the west door of the church. James excused himself from the Moorhouses and walked between the rear pews. There was a personal matter he wanted to attend to before departing.
To the left of the doors was an old iron stand upon which half a dozen or so candles were burning. Placing a 50p coin in the nearby collection box, he selected a new votive candle and carefully lit it from one of those already alight. Placing it firmly into a holder in the centre of the stand, he stood and watched its flickering yellow flame.
‘Lord, I light this candle from the light of someone who has come in your name before me. I offer it as a piece of my own spirit that it may act as a statement of my re-affirmation of the vows once made to be true to your teachings within my daily life and, most importantly at this troubled time of my life, of the marital vows once made to Janice. I pray that by doing so, your own light will continue to burn within me, that my actions may remain true and honest, and that the light of those actions will in turn bring light and peace to all those within my life. Amen.’
James’ lips moved slowly as he spoke, his voice almost inaudible as he found the words of his prayer. He crossed himself and stood silently for a few moments more, his eyes focused on the flame of his candle. Finally, he walked over to the west door and squeezed behind the last group of parishioners in an attempt to slip out without the need for further conversation.
‘Happy Christmas, James.’ The vicar’s voice carried over their heads just as he was about to exit. He paused, looked back and raised his hand in acknowledgement.
‘Happy Christmas, Michael,’ he re-joined. Whatever that means in reality, he thought to himself as he set out on the short walk home.
* * *
‘Good service?’
The question could not have been more casual than if he had just been to see a new blockbuster at the local cinema.
James closed the front door and started to unbutton his coat. In front of the window stood a small tinsel tree, the multi-coloured lights doing their best to bring some gaiety into the room. At its base lay several presents, all neatly wrapped: evidence of the commercial distraction of the day’s great festival away from its spiritual significance.
‘Yes, it was a good service,’ he replied, doing his best to ignore the pungent smell of air freshener. Today was not the day for such battles.
Janice sat in an armchair with her back towards the door. She neither looked up nor attempted to rise to greet him. Her fingers continued to flick through the Christmas edition of the Radio Times as she spoke.
‘Mum rang. They’ve had some snow in Shropshire and may not make it here tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I am sorry. Another time perhaps?’ replied James, quietly relieved that Boxing Day was not going to be spent trying to make conversation for hours on end with two people with whom, try as he might, he could find very little in common. He draped his coat over the stair bannister post and walked across to the second armchair.
Janice looked up and eyed him suspiciously.
‘You might at least make it sound as though you actually mean it, James. You are not sorry at all. I know you don’t want them here. You never have liked my family.’
‘Janice, not now. Not today of all days. Of course I want them here if it will make you happy. Let’s put our differences to one side, eh? Can we not at least try to have a pleasant Christmas Day together?’
Janice closed the Radio Times and dropped it onto the floor next to her chair. ‘Lunch is booked for one-thirty. I’ll drive,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘Fine. Good. Looking forward to it,’ replied James, trying to sound enthusiastic. A meal with Janice was a trial at the best of times. At least by going out he was spared her cooking or indeed the need to cook for himself. It was actually doubtful as to which of those two options was preferable. He would still no doubt end up being the only one to eat. However, it was harder for them to argue in the middle of a restaurant. The fact that she wanted to drive suggested that he would additionally be spared the public embarrassment of her becoming inebriated.
‘What time do we need to leave?’ he continued, having no idea where she had booked.
‘In about twenty minutes. I managed to get us in at the Willerton Grange.’
‘Ah… right… yes… good.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No, not at all. A good choice. I look forward to it.’ Second irony of the day, thought James. He fingered his crucifix through the gap between his shirt buttons. Perhaps I ought to have lit a larger candle, he reflected with a degree of silent amusement.
* * *
‘Has the lady finished, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you. I do believe she has.’
James watched as the waiter removed Janice’s untouched main course, returning to straighten her chair and brush clean her place setting.
Lunch had not been a success. Following an amicable start, the decline started after a rather unimaginative prawn cocktail, when James remonstrated with Janice for lighting a cigarette between courses. As a result, she had announced a trip to the ladies’, picked up her handbag and left the table. She did not return by the time the main course was served and hence James had gone in search of her. He found her sitting in the foyer, cigarette in hand, flicking through the pages of Yorkshire Life. His entreaty for her to continue lunch was rebutted with the announcement that she was no longer hungry and that he should continue without her. This he had done, well knowing that there was little to eat at home.
‘Would you care for Christmas pudding, sir?’
‘Yes please, with brandy sauce.’
‘And the lady?’
‘No. She will not want anything else.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The waiter acted in a matter-of-fact way, as though it was a normal occurrence to eat Christmas lunch alone, having been publicly abandoned by one’s wife. For James, it was indeed a familiar scenario. He had long since become immune to the whispered comments that ensued as other diners cottoned on to the marital drama taking place at a table in their midst.
Whilst waiting for the pudding, he poured himself another glass of wine and looked around the dining room. Broad daylight did nothing but emphasise the garishness of the corporate Christmas on offer from Willerton Grange. However, it was not a sense of dread that had earlier beset him, as Janice parked her red Renault Clio in the car park, but rather a gnarling sensation deep within his chest as his very soul once more clutched at the memory of recent events.
The third irony of Christmas Day was that the Willerton Grange had chosen to use its ballroom as the setting for lunch, presumably in order to accommodate as many diners as possible. Accordingly, he had found himself sitting opposite the dance floor staring at the very space where he had stolen a few moments of illicit, but oh so pleasurable, romance. As the melodious strains of ‘Lady in Red’ started to replay within the depths of his mind, the hubbub of the diners receded into the distance and he heard once more the soft voice of Anna. Only the dance floor remained in focus as he again took her right hand, placed an arm gently around her waist and stepped off into a slow foxtrot.
In his mind, he felt Anna move her right hand onto his shoulder and again felt the delicious sensation of her body closing into his own. He could smell her perfume as her head nestled into the side of his neck; he felt the wisps of long, fair hair falling across his face; once more, he sensed the electrifying moment when their lips met and again felt the deep unspoken longing that had coursed through them…
‘Will you be requiring coffee, sir?’
The waiter’s voice broke into his reverie and the room came back into sharp focus.
‘Eh, no, that will be all, thank you.’
With slow, thoughtful movements, he ate the pudding, hardly noticing it in the process. Those few moments in Anna’s arms may well have had no greater significance in reality than that attached to the many other embraces replayed throughout so many office Christmas parties, except that, for him, they had highlighted the tenuous thread that held together his marriage to Janice. Those moments had placed a harsh spotlight over everything that was wrong in their relationship. They had stripped away the artificial veneer of cosiness and starkly shown it for what it was – cold, soulless and without love. They had revealed to James the true emptiness of his life and the depths of pleasure he was missing. They had given him a glimpse of what might have been had circumstances been different. If only he had not, in the loneliness of student life, agreed to Janice’s leap year proposal of marriage. If only he had heeded the warning signs, which were already there within the relationship. He sighed heavily. If only – the two saddest words in the English language. Pausing to take in the empty place setting opposite him, he drained the last drop of claret from his glass.
‘Happy Christmas, James,’ he said aloud to himself.
Summoning the waiter, he paid the bill and walked out into the foyer. Janice was nowhere to be seen. A quick survey of the car park told him the rest. Buttoning his overcoat against the cold December afternoon, he walked around to the hotel reception where he found the concierge engrossed in yet another replay of Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the concierge, barely looking away from the screen of the portable television.
‘I hope so,’ replied James. ‘I find myself in need of a taxi to take me to Barminster, please.’