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The Christmas Card a short story part 1

The Christmas Card a short story
The Christmas Card a short story

23 December 1968 evening


Harry Cavendish settled into his armchair in front of the fire. He looked around the room, taking in the Christmas decorations. It had taken all morning to put them up. It shouldn’t have taken him so long. The decorations went up in the same places, and in the same order, every year. It should have been a quick job.

Harry knew every part of the flat. He had lived in it all his life. Almost seventy years of living in the same flat. At first with his mother and father. Then his sister came along. The four of them squashed into a two-bedroom upstairs flat.

Through all those years, each December, the decorations came out and added a little Christmas cheer to the dreary flat.

Then the flat emptied. First, at age twenty-four, his sister married and left home. That had been just before the second war.

Then his parents died, first his father and then in nineteen-sixty, his mother. After his mother died, he didn’t see the point in putting up decorations, just for himself. But he had done it anyway.

Years later, he was still doing it, using the same decorations year in and year out. Each year there were new tears in the paper, and a little more tape needed to make them fit for purpose once more.

As a child, he remembered how eagerly he awaited each year when his family took out the box of decorations from its hibernation. For him, the decorations transformed the room into a sparkling magical wonderland. Perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but it was how it felt. The decorations from his childhood were long gone, replaced one at a time at various Christmases until Harry now had the latest incarnation.

No one had added new decorations to the box for a long time. Looking at them now, fixed firmly in their temporary annual home, he realised he had replaced none of them. His mother bought the last new ones.

Harry put up the four main decorations in the same place. Each one stretched from a corner to the light in the middle of the room. Then more decorations around the walls. Each point of contact with the wall added a drawing pinhole to the collection of holes accumulated over previous years.

He was pleased to have finished his annual task of putting up the decorations, even though he had made an error in when he chose to do it.

He took on the job after breakfast, when it promised to be a sunny, if cold, winter’s day. Leaving his food shopping until the afternoon. But by the time he was ready to leave the flat and brave the last-minute Christmas shoppers, the weather had changed. Black clouds were gathering, bringing an afternoon of rain.

His coat was still wet, slowly drying in the hallway. The smell of damp fabric seeping through the flat. He should bring it into the living room and hang it next to the fire. It would never dry in the freezing hall. He should have done his shopping first thing and seen to the decorations in the afternoon and saved himself a soaking.

It was only seven o’clock, but Harry was settling down for the evening. He reached out to the radio on the sideboard next to his chair and switched it on. He turned the dial slowly to change stations, listening carefully until he heard what he took for Radio Two fill the room with sound.

Harry had been listening to the new station for a couple of months, and while he wasn’t sure he liked all the programmes, at least he could hear them. They weren’t tuning in and out all the time, like they did with Radio Luxembourg.

He checked the mantlepiece clock and saw that he had about twenty minutes of his programme left before the sports programme started. There wouldn’t be much sport played, being so close to Christmas, so when his programme ended, he would switch to Radio One.

Harry glanced over at the window. Outside, it was as dark as night, but then it was night. It had been raining all afternoon. Just lightly at first, but the rain had increased in intensity and was now lashing down. The wind had picked up and every few minutes it threw a handful of rain against the living room window. A draught of wind whistled through the windowpanes.

Harry got up from his chair and crossed to the window. He looked out from his top-floor flat onto Wellington Street. The traffic heading from Gateshead towards the High Level Bridge and onwards into Newcastle had reduced to only a trickle. Christmas or not, the stormy weather was keeping people indoors.

He could have gone to the Arches for a couple of hours. The pub was only a short distance away, at the other end of the street. He could be there before he got too wet. He had considered going, but he didn’t want to deal with the false cheerfulness of the Christmas revellers. The pub would be awash with beer and wishes for a Merry Christmas. Only to be forgotten a few days later when the festivities passed.

It was a pity, as since he retired from his job as a postman, he liked a Monday night in the pub. A few pints and no worry about the early morning start for work. But never mind, he would enjoy his Monday nights in the pub even more when Christmas was over, everyone was back to work, and the pub was quiet on a weekday night.

He briefly wondered what special Christmas treat Lene, the landlady at the Arches, would serve up to celebrate the season. Perhaps a bowl of crisps on the bar, or a plate pie cut into twenty pieces. Half-hearted treats for the regulars as a reward for a year of custom. He smiled to himself as he considered the agonies Lene would have gone through to offer something for nothing.

Harry was about to close the curtains, but left them open. He didn’t mind the rain when he was safely indoors. An amber glow from the streetlights lit the street and reflected from the pools of water forming on the road. A car rushed down Wellington Street and splashed through a puddle as it headed towards the bridge. Its rear red lights briefly glowing brighter as the driver reduced the car’s speed to take in the slight curve in the road when it reached the bridge.

Harry turned from the window and looked at the mantlepiece. His one Christmas card struck a lonely position next to the clock. The card was from his sister, keeping in touch, even though they hadn’t seen each other for decades. She lived at the other end of the country, so realistically, it was unlikely they would ever meet up again.

He picked up the card. The picture on the front showed a candle and two bells. A ribbon was wrapped around the candle to add to the decorative effect. Although why anyone would wrap a ribbon around a candle, he couldn’t say, it seemed a dangerous thing to do. Harry could see where he stood in his sister’s hierarchy of card recipients. The card had all the markings of being the last one in the box. He opened the card and re-read the message inside.

The same message she wrote every year. Wishing him all the happiness for the season and hope to see each other in the new year.

Although this year the message was a little different. The prospect of seeing each other next year was a little more hopeful, almost pleading. The last sentence written on the card was new. She said she hoped to receive a card from him in return.

She had never said that before. In all the years his sister had been sending him cards, he had never sent her one in return. He didn’t send cards to anyone. It was just what he did. Or rather, just what he didn’t do.

Over the years, his friends and family got the message they wouldn’t be receiving a card, so they stopped sending one to him.

It was the day before Christmas Eve, so he reckoned that was it for cards for another year. He put the card back on the mantlepiece.

He crossed over to the sideboard and picked up a small cardboard box where it lay next to the radio. The front of the box showed an idealised picture of a pretty young Victorian woman. At least she looked Victorian, judging by her coat and hat. She was standing outside a toy shop and beamed in delight at all the toys, just out of reach behind the window. The implication of the picture was she was about to go into the shop and buy toys for a child.

Across the top of the picture, the words Twelve Assorted Christmas Cards, in bright yellow, confirmed the purpose of the box. He lifted the lid and tipped out the contents. A pack of cards and envelopes fell into his hand.

He counted out the cards, although there was no need. He knew they would all be there, as he had used none of them. It was part of his Christmas tradition. He made a point of buying a box of cards from the shop at the end of the street. He had no plans to use the cards, but the whole world didn’t need to know he didn’t have any friends.

Harry flicked through the cards, selected half a dozen, and started putting them up at strategic points around the room. He always bought assorted cards, so there were no repeats in this make-do Christmas decoration. He wasn’t expecting any visitors, so there would be no one to witness his small deception.

Harry crossed to the fire and picked up the coal scuttle and tipped coal onto the fire. He set the scuttle down and sat in his chair. He pulled a tartan blanket over his lap and settled down to his programme on the radio.

It had been a tough year; his pension didn’t go very far. Throughout the year, he scrimped and saved so he could have a warm Christmas. There was plenty of coal in the flat, so at least he wouldn’t go cold. Well, not until January at least, but that was another year.

The fire blazed away as Harry stared out of the window. He should get up and close the curtains, but he left them open. The Bob Holness show came on the radio. He listened to the mix of music for a while, but Harry could feel his eyelids getting heavy. He should get up and go to bed, but he gave into the tiredness and closed his eyes, just for a moment. Perhaps when this piece of music ended, he would go to bed.

Harry woke up. The room was in silence. It took him a moment to realise he was sitting in his armchair in front of the fire. He looked at the clock on the mantlepiece; it was two in the morning. It must have been the sound of the radio going off that woke him. Oddly, it was the lack of sound that woke him. The click into silence, rousing him to wakefulness. He moved in his chair and felt a shot of pain down his right side. Stiffness from sitting in one position for several hours. He pulled himself from his chair and settled the fire. It was almost out, only a few dull red embers remaining.

He switched off the radio and made his way to his bedroom, stepping out of the still warm living room into the chilly hallway. His bedroom was colder still. He jumped under the bedclothes and shivered in the icy cold of the room. If only he had put his hot water bottle in the bed before settling down in front of the radio for the evening.

Harry shivered as the bed slowly warmed. Eventually, he fell asleep for the second time that evening.


What seemed like only minutes later, a loud banging in the distance woke Harry. He sat bolt upright in his bed. A pain in his right side reminded him of his hours in the armchair. It was still dark. He couldn’t work out what time it was. The banging stopped. Then started again. It was coming from outside. ... to be continued.

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