A Cheerful Christmas
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I’ve always loved a happy ending.
My own life is so long ago, and I don’t have many memories of it that aren’t bittersweet or just plain sad, but if you give me enough pages and an editor to tell my story right, then maybe some happy bits will stick in your head for a little while. Maybe you can remember them when the dark times come around again, and they’ll remind you what good things there are out there too.
So let’s start with a merry tale of a boy who grew up in the shadow of his father. And by the time this book has ended, he won’t be that anymore. He’ll be more than that, and I hope that you all know how lucky we all are to live in a world where that sort of thing is possible.
The first page starts like this:
It was cold outside on this bright morning in late December—too cold for the boys in the street not to have their scarves pulled tight around their necks. But it wasn’t quite cold enough to make us stay indoors and do nothing except play with our new toys, because that would make us bored.
Besides, we knew what happened every year on Christmas Day. Our mother made us eat lots of food and then she went off somewhere and returned with a lot of new clothes. We didn’t really want those anyway—we had plenty already—but we couldn’t wait until she got back.
She came from a place called America; her accent sounded funny to our ears but it always gave us the thrill to hear someone speak a language other than German. That’s why we used to call her “Mother.”
We’d seen the TV news about this war and how it was supposed to be the worst ever, and the way everyone said it would go on forever. But even though no one could see anything wrong with America fighting against the Nazis and the Japanese, we still thought they were terrible people because we’d heard how bad they were in school.
They did everything wrong, even worse than Hitler did. It was only natural that we wanted the Allies to win, and that we would have been happy if the war had lasted forever, just so long as it kept the Americans away from our home.
“Come here! Come and say hello!”
Our mother was standing in front of the door wearing a long brown coat over her clothes and a scarf wrapped around her head. The boys behind us started laughing and pointing at the white patch of skin on top of her head. Even though it was funny, our mother didn’t laugh.
She took one look at them and raised her hand, ready to hit one of them hard. We knew she wouldn’t do it, but it made us all laugh even harder when she shouted in surprise at what her hand had done to her face instead. Then she turned around and walked inside.
“Hello, Mother,” we said.
She looked tired and unhappy, and she hadn’t bothered to tidy up after herself before she left, so there were dirty dishes sitting everywhere. But when she saw the way the three boys stood in front of her, she smiled, and all the boys fell silent.
She put down her bag and went into the kitchen and came back out with three plates and four knives and forks. There was food on all of them too, but she didn’t offer any to the boys. Instead, she sat next to each one of them and waited until they’d finished eating before she spoke.
“How are you today?”
One of the boys said nothing. He just stared into his empty plate with tears streaming down his cheeks. The other two boys answered her together.
“Fine.”
They looked so happy that we all started crying too. We wiped our eyes quickly on the sleeves of our coats.
“Good,” our mother said.
That’s what I remember most clearly about those days. How everything felt different from what it usually did, and how good it all seemed. It must have been because our father had gone away and would probably never come back.
I’m sure the others remember the same thing, although their thoughts will differ from mine. They might think differently or feel less, or love more. You’re allowed to disagree with me. Everyone does. Just don’t forget what I’m saying. This isn’t just something I’ve dreamed up, but a true story of what happened.
I wish I could tell you more right now, but we have work to do. There are stories to be told, and I want to read every last one of them before we go home.
THE LITTLE GIRL WORE A RED DRESS AND A SMILE
She was six years old, which was just a little bit too old to be taken on holiday by her parents, but she didn’t care. Her name was Milly, which was short for Maudie. Everyone called her Milly, not Maudie.
Not even her best friend, Amy, who was the same age, knew why. And no one ever asked Milly’s parents why either, because they wouldn’t know the answer. All Milly’s family knew was that whenever they said her full name she would get cross and stop talking.
But Milly had stopped getting cross about things long ago because life was easy these days, and Milly liked easy. She liked everything easily.
Milly’s father was a builder and had worked hard all his life so he could pay for the holidays. It wasn’t as much as Milly wanted to spend on them, but it was more than her mother, Susan, wanted to spend.
She’d never known the world outside the small town where they lived, but she liked being close to her parents, because they always understood her, and never judged her. Milly couldn’t judge anyone else though, because she had no experience of anything else.
All she knew was her own small corner of the world, and she was quite happy there. She didn’t want to see how everyone else lived, or how the shops and buses worked; she only wanted to go to the beach and play in the sand and swim in the sea. So this year when her father suggested another holiday, Milly said yes without asking questions.
They drove along the motorway, past fields full of cows and horses and sheep. Past the sign that said ‘Welcome to Devon’. Then, when they were nearly at their destination, Milly noticed a big black cloud looming over the horizon and wondered if it was going to rain again.
Her mother turned down the radio, then put it back.
“It looks like it might storm,” she said. “I think we should wait until the sun comes out.”
“But we haven’t got time,” said Milly. “The caravan is waiting for us.”
“We can’t just drive back,” said her mother. “And it’ll be alright anyway, Milly. Look at that sky!”
Milly peered through the window, trying to see where the storm was coming from. But instead of seeing clouds and grey skies, she saw white sand dunes with bright blue water beyond, and palm trees swaying gently in the warm breeze.
She closed her eyes and imagined that she was lying on the sand with the wind blowing her hair behind her so that it flapped around in front of her eyes like wings. When she opened her eyes again, she realized her mother was right. The sky was clear, and the sun shone brightly on the sand and on the water that sparkled like diamonds beneath her feet.
“I wish we didn’t have to hurry,” Milly’s mother said.
“Me too,” agreed Milly. “Let’s get there first.”
They pulled up next to the caravan, parked under a big oak tree that looked like it had grown there, especially for the purpose.
Milly jumped out of the car and ran straight into the air-conditioned interior. It was cool and dark after the brightness of the hot sunshine outside. As soon as she stepped inside, her mother followed, dragging her suitcase along behind.
Milly stood by the door while her parents unpacked the suitcases. She thought about playing outside until they came back, but then decided she’d rather keep watching them as they went about their business. Her father took the suitcases inside.
Her mother sat on one of the beds and started to take off her shoes. Milly sat down on the edge of an armchair and began to play with a small wooden horse that her father had bought for her at a shop on the way here.
She pushed the tiny horse around on the floor with the tip of her toe, making him gallop in circles and jump over little bumps that made squeaking sounds underneath his hooves.
Then her mother spoke.
“How long do you reckon it’ll take?” she asked Milly’s father.
He shrugged. “A couple of hours probably,” he said. “There’s plenty to look at if you like walking round the shops.”
Milly stopped playing with the horse and stared at him with wide eyes.
“Shopping?” she said. “But I’m not allowed to go shopping unless I ask you first.”
“Well, we’re all in one place now, aren’t we?” said her father. “You can go and buy yourself some things if you want to.”
Milly looked from one parent to the other, wondering if they were joking.
“Really?” she said. “What kind of things? What will I need?”
She’d never bought anything before, apart from sweets from the sweet machine at school.
Her father smiled. “Anything you like really,” he said. “Just make sure you’re careful.”
“Are you going to come with me?” asked Milly.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
Milly was disappointed, but also happy. She was looking forward to finding out what was available, without having to ask anyone else to decide for her.
She walked over to the bed and looked out of the window at the view. Beyond the fields and trees and hills, the sea stretched away as far as she could see, with only a few boats bobbing on the waves.
And above it all, the sky seemed almost too big, because it curved in a great circle, all the way across the world and up to the stars. The sun was shining there, warming everything below it; even if she hadn’t been able to feel its heat, she would still know that it was warm because it was shining so brightly.
As she looked up at it, Milly wondered why she couldn’t see the stars from home, even though they were supposed to be much closer to Earth than the sun. But then she remembered something her teacher had told them.
They said that the sun blocked out the stars when it was at its highest point in the sky during the day. Maybe it was like a huge mirror that reflected the light onto the land, where everyone could see it. She felt excited. Perhaps she could look out of the window now, and she wouldn’t see the sun anymore, but lots of stars instead.
Milly climbed into bed, and as soon as she was tucked in and her covers were pulled up to her chin, she reached out and pulled the curtains open.
The moon hung in the sky just as it had before, except that now Milly could see the stars all around it. She turned her gaze back to the sky, which was filled with so many tiny lights that she thought she must be dreaming.
She stayed where she was for ages, trying to count them all until she fell asleep.
In the morning, Milly woke to find a bright red sunrise shining through her bedroom windows. When she opened her eyes, she saw her parents already dressed and sitting together, drinking coffee and chatting quietly. Then her father got up and went over to the table where Milly’s mother was sitting. He handed her some papers, and then he went back to his chair and sat down again.
“Have you done yours yet?” her mother asked Milly, who nodded and went over to join them.
The two adults read through the list of questions together. Milly could hear her father asking her mother whether or not she needed any help understanding a certain word, and he was always careful to repeat every single letter that wasn’t written properly.
Milly watched him work on the paper, feeling very proud of her dad, who didn’t seem as bad at reading and writing as Milly had thought. She wanted to help, so she put her hand on the paper and pointed at each of the letters she knew how to write, saying “A” and “B,” until her father stopped her.
He made a big deal about telling her that she shouldn’t do this sort of thing without getting permission first.
“Sorry,” Milly said.
“You don’t need to apologize,” her father said. “I’m glad that you’re helping.”
Milly’s mother looked surprised and pleased. She glanced at Milly and then quickly turned back to her husband.
“You did well last night,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Thanks to you both.”
Milly smiled at them, and when her father noticed what she was doing, he grinned back at her. It seemed strange to think that he was smiling at her, but Milly didn’t mind.
The three of them ate breakfast and talked about where they should go next, but after a while, they decided to stay where they were for another day. Their parents had found an old shed that had been left behind by the previous owners of their house, so they spent some time cleaning it out and making sure that it was safe to live in.
After that, they set about fixing it up, putting up walls and ceilings, and painting the walls a nice bright blue color.
They spent most of the day in the sunshine outside. Milly enjoyed watching her father work with his hands, measuring and cutting, and shaping things. Sometimes she helped too, fetching tools and carrying them to different places, but mostly she just played near her parents and watched what they were doing. They laughed a lot and teased each other, which was good fun to watch.
Milly’s favorite part of the day came at dinner time. Her mother had prepared the evening meal in advance—something she never usually did—so that her father and Milly could take care of the rest themselves.
They all sat down at the table together and dug into their food. There were roast potatoes and vegetables and meat, but Milly was most looking forward to the apple pie that her mother had baked especially for dessert.
“Do you want me to pour the milk?” Milly’s father asked as he took the knife out of his pocket.
“No, I’ve got it,” Milly said.
He handed her the bottle, and she poured herself a glass while her father cut up his pie. Milly loved eating apple pie because it tasted so good and it gave her an excuse to use her fork with the funny prongs at the end, which made it easier for her to pick up the pieces.
She also liked the way that it looked; the apples were all mashed together inside and the pastry on top looked like the sun setting.
After they’d eaten, Milly stood up from the table and went over to her parent’s bedroom door. She listened for a moment, to make sure that her mother and father were still awake, then she opened it slowly and peeked inside.
Her parents lay on their beds, holding hands. Milly crept in closer and stared at them, trying to imagine how long they’d been married. They were still so young!
Milly thought about all the things they must have shared—their ups and their downs. She wondered what it would be like to marry someone like her parents, or even better than them, and she wished that one day she might find a man or a woman who loved her as much as they loved each other.
But before she knew it, she found herself thinking about something else. She looked away from them and shut the bedroom door quietly behind her, making sure that it latched properly.
She went back to her own room and climbed into bed. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and closed her eyes tightly, trying hard not to think about anything, just wanting to keep all of the thoughts inside of her head. She was going to dream tonight, she told herself firmly.
Tonight she was going to sleep. That was why she’d come here. She knew that if she let herself drift off now, there wouldn’t be any waking up.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about what her father had done.
She’d always felt like she was different from other kids her age, ever since she was little. She didn’t feel the same as everyone else. She was shy and awkward, and sometimes she even felt sick in school—and she hadn’t been able to explain why those feelings had been bothering her.
But Milly knew that her problem wasn’t the sort of thing that could be explained. Not even a doctor could help.
It had happened when she was nine years old when Milly had been on her way home from school and had suddenly collapsed. By the time she’d gotten to her front door, the world seemed to have gone dark around her and all she could do was sit on the floor and close her eyes until someone came to look after her.
That was when Milly’s mother discovered the truth. Or maybe she’d just known it for months, but never wanted to believe it. When her parents brought her to the hospital that first night, she had been scared and frightened beyond words because she didn’t know what would happen to her now.
There was no cure for it. No treatment. Nothing that anyone could do or say to make Milly better. The doctors and nurses had tried everything that they could, but in the end, they’d just told her parents that she needed to go somewhere else—to a place where they could help her.
It wasn’t until three years later that they’d been able to get her to a specialist in America, who specialized in treating kids just like her. At first, they were going to send her to another hospital, but after talking to Milly’s mother, the specialist decided that he would travel to England himself instead.
The first year that Milly lived in the U.S., she was too frightened to leave her room, except for mealtimes, when her mother would bring her meals through to her bedside table. She hated the new food that they served her at the hospital: the chicken and fish, the potatoes, the broccoli.
She didn’t want to eat anything. Even though the people in America didn’t laugh at her and tease her, she missed being able to spend time with other children. And when she thought about how she would never be able to play again—when she pictured her friends running and playing around her—she would start crying.
But gradually she began to relax. As the days passed and she became more used to life in America, Milly’s mother taught her how to use an e-mail program on her computer. After the third week, she was allowed out of her room and started spending longer periods of time downstairs.
It felt strange at first, to see people outside of the hospital—people walking around and shopping, going to work, and watching television. But eventually, she got used to it.
And she made some good friends there, too. Kids who understood what she was going through, and whose problems weren’t any bigger than hers. Some of them lived nearby—others she only talked to online, or by phone.
One of the other girls she spoke to over the phone regularly was called Emma. Emma was fourteen years old and also suffered from an illness like Milly’s—but unlike Milly, she’d never been able to recover fully from it.
Milly had asked her once, “Are you getting better? Because I’m really scared that I’ll never be able to get better.”
Emma replied slowly, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get better, Milly. All I can tell you is that sometimes I feel like there are times when I don’t have the energy to get up and do things anymore, and then at other times, I seem to have a lot of energy.
And sometimes I’m tired for no reason, so I have to sleep for hours on end just to try and recharge my batteries, but sometimes I don’t need to sleep at all. So there must be something wrong with me that the doctors haven’t found yet because I should be better by now if they’ve fixed me up. But we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Milly had felt comforted by Emma’s words. But as much as Milly wished that things might be different one day, it still hurt to hear the words that Emma said—because they sounded as if Emma was saying that she herself hadn’t recovered completely. That she wasn’t happy.
But then, Milly realized, perhaps that was the way Emma wanted to be. Maybe she was afraid of getting well enough to live a normal life because she wouldn’t be able to talk to her friends on the phone anymore, or because she’d have to go back to school again and be forced to do homework.
Milly thought hard about what Emma had told her, but she couldn’t come up with any answers.
It wasn’t until Milly had been living in America for six months that she had her first real encounter with death. One morning she woke up to find that her father had died in his sleep during the night.
He’d suffered a heart attack, which had stopped him from breathing. Her mother hadn’t left his side since they’d arrived back from the funeral and had barely eaten; Milly knew how worried she was.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Milly’s mother said when she came home that afternoon and sat down at the kitchen table next to Milly, who was sitting there, staring into space. “I know you loved your daddy very much, and I know that you’re going to miss him very badly—”
“He won’t be coming back, will he?” Milly finally asked.
Her mother looked at her for a long moment before saying quietly, “No. No, he won’t.”
The End