WHAT HE WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS

It's that time of year again...

Granny Lucille smiled warmly at her grandson. He reminded her so much of her late husband, Bernard who might have still been sharing her life if he hadn’t got run over by an out of control diesel roller only last year.

The little boy, Archie, looked back at her and she could see, in the honest innocence of that smile why she had loved her man. It was all there, every loving smidgen bit of it, and her heart almost bubbled over. Christmas was only a few weeks away and she told herself she was going to make sure that Archie would have a gift that would remain in his memory for the myriad years that lay ahead of him.

She wanted him to have the best Christmas any small boy could have. And she wanted him to have a gift that would keep on giving, from her to him, a lifetime memory of this one point in time, because she wouldn’t be around for ever, she knew that.

She was a wise old woman and she knew the one fact of life, that the only certainty after birth, was death, and she was well on the road to whatever faith or morticians promised her. There could be no deviation from that rule for her, no whizzing past the grave for an extra chance to live. She had even booked and paid for her own funeral. She was going to be lain next to Bernard. That was the right thing for her to do and the right place where she might spend eternity.

Or if not eternity, for the few years before the cemetery was sold off to developers and turned into high-rise flats.

Not even, she knew, did graveyards last for ever.

But back to the forthcoming Christmas.

“Archie,” she asked, “have you thought about Christmas?”

“When the baby was born and laid in a manger, and some shepherds came along?” he asked, curious at to why she might have asked the question.

“Yes, that one,” she replied, wondering if there was another festivity also called Christmas and that the youngster might get confused if there was. She shook her head. Of course there wasn’t!

“What else do you know about Christmas besides the baby in its manger and the shepherds?” she asked.

“We have Brussels sprouts, which make daddy fart. Then mummy and daddy have loads of drinks and get drunk,” he replied, wide-eyed.

She remembered earlier Christmases. Archie hadn’t been conceived back then, nor his dad who was her son. And she and Bernard had celebrated Christmas with a bottle of sherry and two glasses.

It was all they had been able to afford, times being lean, but that didn’t matter. It had been good sherry and they had giggled their way to an early night and an opportunity to conceive their first child, which they had done with a great deal of vim and vigour, loads of passionate kisses and the knowledge that they could have a lie in next morning.

She shook her head to dislodge the memory, and wiped one eye which had unaccountably started leaking.

“No, darling,” she had cooed, “what else happens at Christmas?”

“Presents. I get presents. Mummy and daddy are buying me a new phone,” he said proudly.

A ten year old? What could a youngster like that do with a phone? Goodness, hadn’t the world moved on since her plastic doll and Beano annual back in the post-war years!

“What would you like granny to buy you for Christmas? I mean, what would you like Father Christmas to bring you from Granny?” she asked.

“You know Granddad Bernie? The one who came round to see us at Christmas with you?” he asked.

She nodded. The very mention of the man forced a second tear to appear in her eye. But he was only a child and would have no idea about the heights that love can soar to, nor how much a permanent parting could hurt a woman.

“He was squashed flat by a big old road roller,” reminded Archie.

“I know darling. Granny misses him so much...”

“I want one of those,” said Archie, “but not a big one like the one that squashed granddad, but a smaller one with a seat for me to sit on, and a remote control.”

Granny had barely got her head around remote controlled televisions let alone remote controlled diesel rollers, and anyway the whole idea that the thing that had crushed her beloved Bernard to death was wanted as a toy by her grandson was too horrible to contemplate.

“Why do you want one of those, darling?” she asked, almost scared at what he might say on reply, but needing to ask the question anyway.

“It’s daddy,” said Archie, smiling that sweet smile of his, just like Bernard’s when he’d wanted to drag her to bed halfway through Sunday afternoons and she’d been watching a black and white film about gorgeous girls and the most innocent love.

“What about daddy?” she asked.

“Well, he works for an oil company that wants to start fracking in the forest, and that could spoil the whole world. And it’s mostly my world, my future world, that will be spoiled. So I want to run him over. Squash him flat. If he doesn’t do as I say and work for something less horrible,” replied Archie. “He’s your son, isn’t he? So you must understand.”

She didn’t reply because a sudden stream of tears, warm and salty, that ran down her face stopped her from thinking let alone speaking.

And that angelic smile of the boy, the very sweetness of it while he spoke of the most terrible things…

...Reminded her of that Christmas long ago, and the sherry bottle with their two glasses, and how Barnard had got his way.

© Peter Rogerson 07.11.19