Hercules didn’t need to rattle the bars on his crate on Christmas Day morning because I was already awake and had been for the past two hours. It was the same every Christmas Day. I always seemed to open my eyes at about four and, that was it – wide awake.
Christmas Day was the one day of the year when I tried not to think. About anything. Hercules and I liked to sit on the sofa and watch back-to-back episodes of Friends. Well, I say Hercules liked it and I often imagined that his favourite ‘friend’ was Chandler, but I really had no idea whether he was entertained by Friends or not. What I did know was that he enjoyed snuggles on the sofa in front of the log burner.
My Friends binge-watch was one of only two Christmas traditions I had. I’d done it with Hercules’s predecessor, Titch, and her predecessor, Dinks. We even had a special way of selecting which season to watch. I’d take one suit from a pack of cards and spread the ace through to the ten in a circle, then place the bunny in the middle. Whichever card they touched first would dictate our viewing and we’d see how far we could get before bedtime, sometimes dipping into the next season. Some families played board games or charades on Christmas Day. This was my game with my family.
At 5 a.m., the central heating clicked on and I listened as the pipes in the old building filled, gurgling intermittently. I lay there gazing round my flat, thinking for the thousandth time how much I loved it. Not all the shops and cafés on Castle Street have flats above them and those that have are often rented out. Some of the traders hate the idea of living above their business, believing you could never escape from work if you live there too. When my business is my life, why would I want to escape?
Castle Street itself is a cobbled street off the main shopping precinct in the North Yorkshire seaside town of Whitsborough Bay and contains a good mix of independent shops and businesses. When I moved in, the building was already used as a café and I knew exactly how I wanted to refurbish it but I’d struggled to see a vision for the flat. I remember panic welling inside me a few days after completing on the purchase, wondering if I’d just made the second biggest mistake of my life. What had I been thinking of, taking on a rabbit warren of tiny storage rooms, a dilapidated bathroom with no running water, and a damp problem from a hole in the roof which the previous owner had obviously got a builder mate to temporarily ‘fix’ so I wouldn’t notice it until it was too late? There was something about it, though, that made me believe it could be incredible.
Fortunately, I found a builder with vision. After the café opened for business, Owen stood on the cobbles and spent ages staring up at the top floor then went round the back and did the same, before going inside and bashing intermittently into the plasterboard ceiling and walls with a hammer, shining a torch through the holes. A week later, he came back with some drawings and I couldn’t quite believe it was the same building I was looking at. It turned out the plasterboard hid ceiling beams and thick wooden pillars.
‘I’m not sure how you feel about open-plan,’ Owen said, ‘but this space is fantastic. It’s double-height so I’m thinking loft-style living with a mezzanine floor at the back and a roof terrace above your first floor. It’s not going to be cheap but, if you’re planning to make this your long-term home, it’ll be worth it.’
And it had been. It took about a year to get the building works finished while I rented a flat above a shop on the other side of the street. A few years ago, I found the missing piece to truly make it my haven – hygge. I’d actually never come across hygge (pronounced hoo-ga) until I overheard a couple of women talking about it before my Pilates class. As soon as I got home, I went online and knew that I’d found my style. A Danish concept for creating a feeling of cosiness, comfort and well-being through simple things, hygge is about candles, blankets, oversized sweaters, hot chocolate in front of a roaring fire, a cup of tea and a good book. The only part I hadn’t embraced was ‘togetherness’. Although, if one woman and a giant rabbit could constitute togetherness, then perhaps I’d actually embraced the concept fully.
I turned over in bed, looked towards Hercules’s crate, and sighed. ‘Happy Christmas,’ I muttered, peeling back the duvet.
After feeding us both, then showering, I changed into fresh snuggly clothes – very hygge.
‘Which Friends season are we going for today?’ I asked Hercules, placing him on the floor with the shuffled playing cards in a circle round him. He moved towards the eight of clubs then changed his mind and headed in the other direction.
‘Season one?’ I asked when Hercules hopped onto the ace. ‘We’re going back to the start, are we?’
And that was our Christmas Day. Just me, my rabbit, season one of Friends, a spot of crafting and the occasional break to eat some leftovers from the café.
As bedtime approached, it was time for my second Christmas tradition. I made my way to the large dresser in the dining area, paused, then reached for the handle on the middle drawer and slowly pulled it open. Lifting out a bright yellow photo album, I placed it on the dining table, then took out a snow globe and gently shook it. Miniature white flakes swirled and danced before settling at the hooves of a pair of carousel horses.
As long as I live, I’ll never forget that amazing day in Herne Bay on the south coast. I was only seven at the time yet I clearly remember riding on one of the cream and gold horses on the carousel on the pier. I’d chosen a horse called Emma because of her violet and pink saddle – my favourite colours at the time. Dad sat behind me, holding me tightly round the waist, while Mum sat beside us on a horse with a bright red saddle and bridle which matched her coat. I was laughing, Dad was laughing and, best of all, Mum was too. And not pretend laughter, trying to assure me everything was fine. This was proper, genuine belly laughing. Her long, reddish-brown curly hair flew behind her and her red coat billowed as the horses gained momentum, galloping and leaping over imaginary fields and hedges. Still giggling, we ate ice-creams on the pier, then chased each other along the sand and shingle beach.
If I could go back to one day in my past and relive it over and over again, that would be the day. Because, for whatever reason, Mum was free that day. The black cloak that smothered her was at home in a locked box and I got to see my beautiful mum live her life and love her life. We christened it The Best Day Ever and bought the snow globe to forever capture the memories.
Afterwards, Mum would often shake the snow globe, a smile playing on her lips, no doubt remembering how elated she’d felt. Then she’d sigh and put it down again, her shoulders slumping. I always imagined her echoing my thoughts: Why couldn’t all days be like The Best Day Ever?
In my flat, I shook the snow globe again before setting it back down on the table, then suddenly shivered. I padded into the lounge area and added another log to the burner, watching the flames licking the edges of it. As I made my way back towards the dining table, I became aware of the changing light in the flat. I turned to face the giant arched window and gasped. Fat white flakes of snow were tumbling towards the cobbles. Dashing to the dining table, I picked up the snow globe, then returned to the window where I shook it again. Holding my arm outstretched, I was mesmerised by the miniature flakes tumbling against the backdrop of larger ones. Magical. Completely magical.
Hercules nudging against my legs drew me out of my trance. I carefully placed the snow globe on the dresser then picked him up for a hug. ‘Fancy looking at some photos with me?’ I asked.
Sitting down, I placed Hercules on the table next to the album and stroked his back and ears.
‘This is me as a baby,’ I said, opening the first page. ‘And this is my mum. Wasn’t she beautiful? And my dad. Handsome, wasn’t he? Do you think I look like them? I’ve got Mum’s hair. Mum used to say I have Dad’s hazel eyes, but I can’t tell from these photos.’ I turned the pages gently, giving Hercules a running commentary. But each image was a little more blurred than the last, and my voice a little wobblier with each explanation, until I couldn’t speak anymore. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks and splashed onto the plastic film. Reaching the end of my childhood photos, I closed the album. ‘Happy Christmas, Mum and Dad,’ I whispered. ‘I miss you.’
Putting Hercules to bed for the night, I brushed my teeth, put a fresh pair of PJs on, then curled up under my duvet with Waffles, the bear who’d arrived in the last ever Christmas Eve box. The one before my family fell apart.