The Last Bauble On The Tree

A tale of love reborn

On tiptoes, I reach up to one of the highest branches of the Christmas tree and hang the delicate pink bauble. For an angel of a grand daughter is printed in black lettering on one side and on the other, a cherubic baby’s face beams out.

“Amy will be the first of many babies for you, I’m sure, darling,” my mum had said when she presented me with the bauble, shortly after Amy was born. We’d often spoken about my wish for a big family.

The thirty-four years since then have flown by. And now I can’t stop my thoughts drifting back to the day Amy’s father told me he was leaving. He’d met a woman at work, he’d said. She was older, a divorcee, with no offspring and no intention of ever having any.

I recalled sitting there feeling dazed in the lounge, while year-old Amy grizzled at my feet and threw her wooden bricks across the room.

I felt like doing the same, as anger and hurt swelled inside me, while he spilled out platitudes about how he should have realised earlier that he wasn’t cut out for the responsibility of fatherhood and how we would be better off without him.

With a sigh, I push those thoughts away and concentrate on happier ones – such as what a treat it’s been this year not to have to struggle getting all the boxes of decorations down from the loft on my own.

Brian came over earlier today and negotiated the ladder with obvious ease. We piled everything up in the front room and between us, we made short work of putting up an evocatively scented real tree and untangling the strings of fairy lights.

Brian had only just finished threading them around the branches when he announced he was going into town to do some shopping.

“What, on a Saturday afternoon?” I said, aghast. “The place is bound to be heaving. Parking will be a nightmare. Why not leave it till Monday?”

But he was already slipping his arms into his coat.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll see you later,” he said, with a big grin. He kissed me on the cheek and dashed off, whistling away, as though he was relishing the idea of the crowds.

Does he prefer the idea of shopping to this? I wonder, as I lift the lid off the box containing tree decorations. I’ve been looking forward to explaining the significance of each one. Now, that will have to wait.

Before making a start, I light a couple of scented candles on the mantelpiece and push the CD of Christmas songs into the player. Even though I can’t hold a tune, I always sing along. Lucky for Brian he’s out. He’s yet to experience my caterwauling.

The songs are the same old ones, played every year in shops and on the radio, but it’s a comfort to know that some things stay the same. Like my ritual of making mince pies on Christmas Eve and always taking the decorations down on Twelfth Night.

It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t even know if Brian likes mince pies – or Christmas cake, for that matter – and I have no idea whether or not he might be superstitious.

I TURNED to see him SMILING a big, broad, WELCOMING smile

He likes chocolate chip muffins, though. He was eating one when we met for the first time.

Ducking out of the rain and into a coffee shop on a blustery afternoon nine months ago, I saw that the only spare seat was at a table for two by the window, where he was seated.

I stood nearby with a coffee in one hand and carrot cake in the other, looking around to see if anyone was leaving when I heard someone say, “Why don’t you join me? I’d be delighted to have some company.”

I turned to see him smile a big, broad, welcoming smile. It seemed fitting that the sun broke through the clouds at that moment, making the raindrops on the glass sparkle like diamonds.

“Well – if you’re sure I’m not intruding,” I said, slipping shyly into the seat opposite him.

“Not in the least.” He held out his hand. “Brian Staples.”

“I’m Jackie Morgan.” We shook hands and started to chat away without any awkwardness.

Like me, he was retired, but had been widowed for several years and lived just a few streets away. From that day, we started seeing each other regularly.

From now on, a squally March day will always bring back nice memories. I sigh contentedly and start to put more decorations on the tree.

Unwrapping the crumpled sheet of newspaper around one of them reveals a delicate silver metal stencil of the New York skyline. Immediately, a photo comes to mind.

Taken at the top of the Empire State Building a few years ago, it captured Amy, her arms open wide like a butterfly spreading its wings. It was as though she were embracing not just the view of the city but of a world out there waiting to be explored.

And explore it she did, as a dancer on cruise ships, before being promoted a few years later to cruise director. I couldn’t be more proud.

Next out of the box is a small soft-bodied figure dressed in a stripy yellow and red outfit. Amy bought it at the St Croix carnival. I’d flown out to celebrate her thirtieth birthday and we had a lovely day watching the performers parading in their vibrant costumes under a cloudless Caribbean sky.

Singing away to Santa Baby, I hang the little fellow on a middle branch between a copper Canadian maple leaf and a wooden Texas cowgirl in an orange Stetson.

The last bauble in the box is from Disneyland. I’d saved hard to take Amy when she was twelve – old enough to go on the big rides but still young enough to get swept up in the magic of the parades. I’m sure it was that holiday which sparked her taste for adventure and performance.

I loop Mickey and friends over a low branch and, as I accompany Bing Crosby in the final bars of White Christmas, glance at the remaining item encased in bubble wrap. Undoing the plastic, I take out the angel Amy made at primary school.

To other people it would be nothing more than scraps of satin stuck onto a two-pronged wooden clothes peg, but to me it’s the most precious decoration of them all. On the peg’s round head Amy had drawn two black dots for eyes and a slightly crooked smile. Stretching up, I place it at the top of the tree.

Idecide a cup of tea is in order and to keep me company, a look at some of Amy’s photos. Call me old-fashioned, but when my daughter sends pictures to my computer, I get them printed out, put them in an album and label every destination.

I open the sideboard and take out the album on top of the pile.

No sooner have I sat down at the kitchen table than I hear the front

door open and Brian call my name.

“I’m in here,” I reply, with a frown. He’s been in town for less than an hour. Surely he can’t have finished his present shopping already.

He walks into the kitchen and shrugs off his coat, dropping it onto the back of the chair. Apart from one small brown paper carrier bag, there is no sign he’s made a dent in his list of nieces, nephews and their various offspring. “How was it?” I ask. “Fine,” he replies with a wink and that big grin I’ve grown to love. He looks over my shoulder and points to the photograph of Amy and myself in our strappy dresses, our skin lightly tanned from the Caribbean sun. “You look beautiful, Jackie. You and Amy could be sisters.”

“You old flatterer,” I say, laughing it off, but his comment sparks a warm glow inside me.

Brian has yet to meet Amy but he’s spoken to her on Face Time and by phone and always shown an interest in her work. It often crosses my mind that Brian would have made a lovely dad, and how sad it is that he and his wife were unable to have a family. Brian interrupts my thoughts. “Have you finished the tree?” I nod. “Although, when Amy gets back, she’s bound to bring something new for me to add.”

Jamaica will be her last destination before she comes home on leave in a few days’ time.

He is still holding the little bag in one hand, but holds out his other.

“Come on, then. Let’s have a look and turn on the tree lights.”

“Good idea. I’ve been wanting to tell you all about the decorations.”

He leads me into the front room. It’s dark outside but the room is bathed in honey-coloured light from the flickering candles and the air is filled with their cinnamon and clove aroma.

Brian switches on the tree lights and an abundance of tiny brilliant white stars sparkle.

“Beautiful,” I say, breathlessly. They show off the tree to perfection. I point to the baby bauble. “My mum bought this bauble –”

But he cut in. “Talking of baubles…” he says and takes a small red box from the carrier. He takes a deep breath. “This is for the tree.”

Puzzled, I open the lid. Inside is a plain red sphere.

Unable to keep incredulity out of my voice I say, “You went into town for a bauble? What about your Christmas list?

“Never mind about the list.” He sounds a little agitated. “And I ordered the bauble on the Internet, but had to collect the…” He stops and slaps his forehead. “What am I doing?” He flushes pink and then he says, softly, “Just take it out of the box.”

I bite my lip, not knowing whether to tell him that, years ago, I decided every one of my children would have their own special decorations and the tree would be filled with their memories. When I realised Amy would be an only child, all the decorations became connected to her from the time she was born to the places she travelled.

I stare at the bauble, thinking how out-of-place it will look on the tree – like an intruder. Then, I glance up at Brian’s expectant face and feel a pang.

What is wrong with me? Is that how I think of Brian? Someone who wouldn’t fit into my life? But he is part of my life already – and this gesture is a sweet one.

Iremove the bauble, which is different to any I’ve seen before because there is a hinge on one side and a tiny catch on the other. I press it, and one half pops open.

I gasp. Slotted into a cushioned black velvet pad is a white gold diamond solitaire sparkling as brightly as a tree light.

Brian gets down on one knee. “Will you marry me, Jackie?”

My stomach gives a little flutter and my throat tightens.

Without a moment’s hesitation I answer, “Yes, I will.”

He gets up and slides the ring onto my finger. Then he kisses me.

We still have a lot to learn about each other, but the most important things I know already. Brian is kind and thoughtful and it’s a comfort to know things can change for the better. But, most important of all, I know l love him.

Finally we draw apart, both of us slightly breathless.

“I hope Amy will approve,” he says, sounding a little unsure.

I glance up at the angel whose smile looks wider and not quite so crooked. “I know she will,” I say. “By the way, what did you want to tell me about the ornaments?”

“Oh, just that I’m very fussy and only those with a special meaning go on the tree.” I snap the bauble shut and by its silky thread, hook it over a branch at the front. It spins, then gradually slows and settles as though it has found the place where it belongs.

I stare at the BAUBLE, thinking how OUT OF PLACE it will look on the TREE