Christmas Wishes at Pudding Hall by Kate Forster

9

Marc was still awake when Christa’s car came up the driveway. He checked the time. One in the morning. Whatever professional event she had been at ran late, he thought and then checked himself. It was none of his business but still it made him curious. She said she didn’t know anyone in York and now she was out at events until one in the morning.

Leaving his office, he entered the foyer of the house just as Christa walked inside.

‘Oh hello, I hope I didn’t wake you,’ she said.

‘Not at all, I was finishing some work and about to head to bed but was going to turn the tree lights off first.’

Christa looked at the tree. ‘It’s a magnificent tree. The boys did a beautiful job.’

Marc looked up at the tree that was twinkling in the semi darkness. The scent of the pine was soothing and the little angel on top was looking down at them.

‘Even for a Scrooge like me, this is pretty nice,’ he said with a small laugh.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she asked him. ‘I’m going to make a decaf one. Always helps me sleep.’

Marc was tired but he wanted to stay up with Christa.

‘Love one, although I hate tea. Can I have coffee?’

Christa turned to him as she opened the kitchen door. ‘Coffee? At this time? Will you sleep?’

Marc shrugged. ‘I’ll get a few hours’ sleep – it’s okay.’

He turned on the kitchen lights and Christa made them their drinks and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘I can smell sausages,’ Marc said, sniffing the air. ‘Did you eat sausages tonight?’ He paused. ‘God sorry, that was rude. It’s a nice smell, just in case you were worried.’

Christa laughed. ‘That’s good to know. Yes, there were sausages at the event I attended.’

‘So it wasn’t a black-tie affair I guess?’ he teased.

‘Are you saying sausages can’t be fancy?’ she said, pretending to be offended. ‘Not everything is foie gras and caviar in the world.’

Marc laughed. ‘I actually hate both of those things.’

Christa took the fudge out of the fridge and he watched her carefully cut the remaining pieces into little squares. ‘Don’t worry I won’t give you the rhubarb one,’ she said as she put down the plate.

Marc looked at the plate and took a small piece of chocolate fudge and popped it in his mouth.

‘The tree was a good idea. Thanks for the push,’ he said.

Christa pulled off her woolly hat and he watched her hair stick up with the static as she sipped her tea. ‘It wasn’t a push, it was a suggestion.’

‘Thanks for the suggestion then,’ he said supressing the desire to smooth her hair down.

‘So, what’s your Christmas battle scar?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked but he knew what she really wanted to know.

‘Why you hate Christmas so much? Was it terrible behaviour from family? Poverty? Addiction? Mine was poverty and addiction. Dad was an alcoholic. He eventually got sober but we had a rough few years there for a while.’

‘Um…’ he said, thinking. ‘I try not to think about it too much. There’s not much happy stuff in the memory board.’

Christa picked up a piece of the rhubarb fudge. ‘You don’t have to answer. I was just curious. I’m nosy. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No, it’s fine. I know I’ve been giving mixed messages about Christmas.’

Christa laughed but not meanly. ‘You don’t want a tree, then you buy the biggest one ever cut down. You say no decorations and now the house is beginning to look like Santa’s wonderland. It’s hard to stay on what is what day to day.’

Marc put his head down on the table. ‘I know, I know.’ He raised his head and looked up at her. ‘I’ve been pretty crazy.’

And she smiled at him so kindly he thought she might already know his life story but he knew that would be impossible.

‘Not crazy, but I have learned the more you try and push the memories away, the more they come shooting back like a pinball in a machine, harder and faster every time you try and avoid them.’

He thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘So put me in the second category. Parents who spent their money at the bar instead of on food or even a small present under a shitty plastic tree is what I dealt with. Three younger siblings who didn’t know anything about what was going on and me trying to keep them fed with my money as a delivery boy. I think I hoped it was all fake. Then I would be the one who knew better, you know?’

He looked down at his coffee, thinking about the debt collectors coming on Christmas Eve and taking the car. The one thing they had that made life easy for them to get to the shops or Dad to get some work as a handyman. Without the car they were stuck in the outskirts of Los Angeles and without a car, they were sitting ducks for homelessness.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You deserved better than that. So did your siblings.’

He nodded. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Was Christmas especially difficult? Besides it being your birthday, which is what date, by the way?’

Christa smiled at him. ‘Christmas Eve. Which is why I am called Christa.’

‘A Christmas Eve baby. Did you hate it growing up, having to share your birthday with a baby named Jesus?’

‘Not at all. My dad was great about it. We always had a separate celebration and presents.’

‘And your mom?’ he asked.

‘She died when I was four. I don’t really have any memories of her but I know I was loved. I guess that matters doesn’t it? Knowing you are loved and cared for?’

Marc thought back to the apocalyptical fights with his parents and the police coming and the arguments and the violence between his parents at Christmas. It was strange how it could be such a special date for someone and the worst date for another.

‘Yes, you’re right. I hope my boys know they’re loved. I’m not always great at telling them. I need to get better at it.’

She smiled at him. ‘They’re such great kids, Marc. Honestly, they’re a delight.’

‘That’s not something I hear very often,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to hear.’

A sadness washed over him. He looked at Christa. ‘What is it about you that makes me want to tell you my whole life story? You’re like some sort of emotional siren.’

The blush on Christa’s neck rose again. ‘Oh I don’t know, people do seem to tell me things. I guess I’m just a good listener?’

‘It’s more than that,’ he said. ‘You get it, whatever “it” is.’

He hoped he wasn’t coming across too strong. He wasn’t even flirting; he was being his true self and it felt foreign and yet liberating. He didn’t talk about his feelings to people, especially people who worked for him, but Christa wasn’t here for long and she challenged him in a way that wasn’t combative but instead thoughtful and putting the boys first.

Her finger was circling the rim of the tea mug, slowly as though she was performing telekinesis on the cup. He wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a small whirlpool in the cup.

‘My dad went through some tough times. As I said, Dad struggled with alcohol. I mean it can’t have been easy raising me from so young and trying to keep up with bills and rent and trying to grieve for your wife.’

Marc nodded. He knew what it was like to have alcohol ruin a childhood.

‘When I was nine, we didn’t have any money or food, or heating, so Dad took me to the shelter for Christmas lunch. I remember thinking it would be awful but it wasn’t. I mean it wasn’t the Pudding Hall experience but it was okay.’

‘Tell me about it,’ asked Marc.

Christa paused for a moment, as though gathering her thoughts.

‘I remember the presents,’ she said and smiled at the memory. ‘There was one that set my course to sail to where I am now actually.’

‘What was it?’ He was genuinely interested in her story.

‘First I got a pink diary with a lock and key. Oh that was exciting and it came with some glitter pens – even more thrilling.’ She laughed. ‘But the final present was something called The Beginner’s Cooking Set. It came with an apron and a chef’s hat. A cutting board. A set of measuring spoons in different colours. Wooden spoons of different sizes. A recipe book for children. Spatula, tongs, a serving spoon and some kitchen scales. And I was shocked. What a horrible thing, I thought at the time.

‘And then a woman who had served me lunch looked over my shoulder and said, “You and your dad will never want for food again with you cooking up a storm”, and I thought about it and realised she was right. If I could learn how to cook then I could care for Dad. And then he wouldn’t drink because he didn’t have to worry about it anymore.’

Marc sighed and shook his head. ‘The stories we tell ourselves to make sense of chaos, even as kids huh?’

‘Maybe, but he did stop drinking eventually, and I learned to cook and here I am. He went to meetings, got sober and got a job as lorry driver. Then we were okay and Dad spent the rest of his life trying to make up for that time. There were tough times and a few Christmases spent at the dining hall of a charity but I knew he was trying. That helps – when you can see someone is trying to change.’

Marc sighed. ‘I wish I knew. So did he also buy you a present for Christmas?’

Christa laughed gently. ‘He always did. Not expensive ones but always things he thought I might like. I mean he wasn’t some redeemed soul. He was pretty rubbish sometimes. One birthday he gave me a copy of a book from my own bookshelf, as though I wouldn’t notice. That was pretty rough but he tried in his own clumsy and broken way. But when he was sober, he always made an effort. So what if many of the presents were from charity shops? They showed he understood me. That meant more to me than anything expensive.’

Marc listened as she spoke, watching the kindness on her face as she thought about her father.

‘So what happened after The Beginner’s Cooking Set? How did you then decide you wanted to become a chef?’

Christa thought before she spoke.

‘He gave me a book when I was sixteen. He knew I was getting good at baking. I cooked for us every night and I liked it. But then he gave me The Cake Bible – it’s a famous cookbook for bakers – and that absolutely started me on my path to where I am now. He never got to see me graduate from Le Cordon Bleu but I felt his spirit every moment of the course.’

God she’s so beautiful, he thought, and not bitter at all.

‘Would you have forgiven him if he hadn’t gotten sober?’ he asked.

Christa looked him in the eye. ‘What was there to forgive? He was in so much pain that he dulled it with alcohol. I didn’t need to forgive him, I needed to love and support him, and I knew that even as a child. Was it ideal? No, but no life is. We all get a turn, don’t we? It’s just that some of us have the turn younger than others.’

Marc though about his life. He had grown up trying to keep the family together, trying to get his parents to change so he could have a childhood. All that energy and work and it didn’t stop the outcome.

‘I have a lot of anger towards my parents, still,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t speak to anyone in my family.’

‘Where are your brothers and sisters?’ she asked him, looking confused.

Marc shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We were placed into foster care when I was fifteen. Split up and the younger ones adopted. I was older and angry so I got to live in a group home. I tried to find them years ago but they were all closed adoptions.’

‘Oh that’s awful. I’m so sorry. You must wonder and worry more often than you realise. You’re probably used to living with it but I’m sure it’s always there.’ She sounded so sincere and sad he felt his throat tighten at her kindness. It was true. He did worry. He did look for his siblings in crowds, wondering if they were happy, hoping they had good lives.

He looked ahead, staring at the dark kitchen windows.

‘It was pretty awful but it was still better than home,’ he said.

They sat in silence for a while.

‘Tell me about you getting into Le Cordon Bleu,’ he said.

‘Why do you want to know about that?’ She laughed.

‘Because I like hearing success stories – it fuels me,’ he said with a smile.

She thought for a moment. ‘I found out I got in the day of my father’s funeral actually,’ she said.

‘Oh Jesus,’ he said.

‘That’s life though isn’t it? Endings and beginnings.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘but that’s rough.’

‘My dad had told me to apply before he was diagnosed with cancer but I didn’t think we could afford the fees. It’s expensive,’ she said. ‘Then he died and he had an insurance policy on him from his work, so I could go.’

‘That would have been hard.’

She nodded. ‘It was. Thank you for saying that.’

Their eyes locked for a moment and then Christa drained her cup of tea.

‘I should head to bed,’ she said, picking up his cup and hers, pushing her chair back and standing.

‘Yes,’ said Marc still sitting at the table. ‘Oh, I forgot, we got you an ornament for the tree. The boys asked me to choose one for you.’ He went to a shopping bag with lights and tinsel poking out of the top, rummaged until he found it and came back to the table and handed it to her, wrapped in tissue.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ she said.

‘I know, but the boys wanted special ones. Seth chose Santa on a skateboard and Ethan chose a Christmas-themed milkshake decoration. Quite unusual selections but very them.’

Christa smiled as she unwrapped the tissue and turned the ornament over in her hand.

‘A deer family,’ she said, sounding surprised.

‘Yes, I don’t know why, it just appealed to me. I could have chosen something food-related but I guessed you would get sick of silly gimmick gifts like that.’

Christa looked at the ornament carefully. ‘I have seen deer here a few times now. Once a huge stag when I arrived and then I saw a stag and a doe. They were just gorgeous.’ She smiled at him. ‘Thank you, this is really thoughtful and sweet.’

‘It was nice actually. Thinking about what to get you.’

‘Did you choose one for yourself?’ she asked.

‘I got a pudding,’ he said, taking the ornament from the bag.

She took it from him. ‘It’s so sweet. It matches my pyjamas.’

He laughed. ‘I suppose we should hang them on the tree.’

‘My pyjamas? I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ she teased.

Marc laughed louder than he’d planned to and quickly covered his mouth.

‘No, these,’ he said, holding his ornament up in front of her.

‘Yes, let’s,’ she agreed and she followed him to the foyer of the house where the tree sat in all its glory.

*

The scent of the pine was one of the many favourite things about Christmas for Christa and the freshness of this tree and its pretty jewels and lights gave her a flutter of excitement.

‘Gosh, where will I hang my little deer family?’ she said.

‘You can hang it anywhere,’ said Marc, putting his pudding on a side branch and adjusting it so it faced forward.

‘No, I can’t. I have to choose the right placement so the deer family can see the comings and goings and can see outside when the front door opens.’

She heard Marc laugh but not unkindly.

Finding a place in the centre of the tree, she carefully hung the family and moved some tinsel away from them, so they had a clear view of the room and beyond.

‘I think that’s just perfect,’ she declared as she stepped back and looked about the area.

‘The tree does look good,’ Marc said.

‘The boys did a great job.’

‘I did some also. I did the lights. They nearly broke my spirit. I lost control of an end, and had to lay them out up the hallway to untangle them.’

Christa laughed, remembering her father’s own battles with tangled lights.

‘There is a saying that you can see what a person is really like under stress when they have to untangle Christmas lights. How did you go?’

Marc paused and looked at the tree. ‘Let’s just say, the lights and I have reached a mutual agreement that I will not be doing this task next year.’

‘I think many Christmases have been jeopardised by poor lights management,’ she said, giggling.

Marc crossed his arms and surveyed the tree. ‘Lucky I’m not like that then.’

‘Lucky you’re not,’ she agreed.

He turned to her. ‘Thank you for the chat, Christa. It means a lot.’

She gave a gentle laugh. ‘My pleasure. Baking and chatting are my specialties.’ She paused. ‘Goodnight, Marc.’

‘Goodnight, Christa. Sleep well.’

She turned to give him a small wave goodnight from the top of the stairs but he didn’t see her. Instead, he was staring at the tree, his face clouded in sadness that Christa understood only too well.