Christmas Day

 

 

It’s very, very early. It’s still dark.

It’s Christmas morning and the stocking on the end of my bed is full; I can see it. I want to know what’s in it, but I’m scared to look. I’m scared that Dad doesn’t know how Christmas stockings work, like Mum did. Does he know there’s supposed to be an orange? And nuts in shells? And chocolate money and a selection box? Does he know there’s always a book and a soft toy?

Outside, it’s stopped snowing, but there’s still this thin, pale coating of snow over the roofs of the houses. It’s a white Christmas. Normally, this would be the most exciting thing ever, but now it just looks empty. Like the whole world knows my man isn’t there any more. I’m scared that this emptiness will get into Christmas and spoil it.

Christmas is too important to spoil.

I pull my stocking off the bed and go into Hannah’s room. She’s still asleep, lying on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow. I shake her shoulder.

“Hannah. Han-nah.”

She moans.

“It’s Christmas.”

Hannah rolls over and rubs her eyes.

“Are there presents?”

“Lots.”

Hannah doesn’t care about things not being right when there are presents. She tips her stocking out on the bed and starts tearing the wrapping paper off things. There’s a soft toy dog, a selection box, a CD . . . but then I can’t wait any longer.

And it’s OK. I don’t know if Dad bought the things himself or if Grandma or one of my aunties helped, but it’s OK. All the things that ought to be there are there, and more – a hardback Jacqueline Wilson book (Mum only ever bought the paperbacks), a notebook with unicorns on it and unicorn stickers, a friendship bracelet kit and a DVD of The Secret Garden that either Auntie Rose bought by mistake or surely, surely means we’re going back home soon, because Grandpa doesn’t have a DVD player.

Best of all are the little pile of things at the bottom of the pillowcase that come from the UNICEF catalogue, which is where Dad gets all his Christmas presents. They’re the least exciting things in the whole stash – a T-shirt with a dove on it, a jigsaw puzzle and a cookery book of different foods from around the world. Hannah barely looks at hers. But I keep mine close beside me, because I know for certain that they come from Dad.

 

Christmas happens.

I get presents from all sorts of random people who never normally send me things. I get some from people I never even knew existed – Great-auntie June, who’s Grandpa’s sister and breeds cats – Terry and Maggie, who used to be our next-door neighbours when I was a baby – someone called Linda, who even Dad has never heard of.

“Who are these people?” says Hannah.

“They’re people who care about you,” says Dad, but Hannah isn’t impressed.

“Do I have to write them all thank-you letters?” she says, waving a bottle of bubble bath. “Even for stuff like this?”

“Next year,” says Grandma. “I might not bother buying you a present, if that’s how you behave.”

“I liked yours,” says Hannah, quickly. I got roller blades from Grandpa and Grandma but Hannah got money, which she likes much better.

 

After we’ve opened the presents, we sit quietly together in the living room. It’s dark apart from the Christmas tree, which is glowing away in a corner, little coloured lights shining off the tinsel. I don’t think there’s anything more beautiful in the world than a Christmas tree.

Hannah’s sitting on the floor rearranging her present stash again. Hannah can never sit still for long. Grandpa’s leaning back in his chair watching Dad. Grandma’s drinking her Christmas sherry, watching Grandpa, watching us.

These are my family, I think. I squeeze my eyes tight shut to save the picture in my head. I remember the Holly King, still out there.

Go away, I think, as loud as I can. Don’t get these. These are mine. Don’t get anything else that belongs to me.