The First Fall Of Snow

A thought-provoking story

She MUST have been BLIND not to have seen SOME of what went on

I’ve brought you a card to send to your mum.” Despite the fact Mark’s voice is gentle and soft, I’m startled awake nevertheless. I’d been deeply asleep, conserving my energy – dreaming, maybe. Of what, I’m not sure.

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m sleeping on the street. I can’t help but smile at the sight of Mark’s Santa hat. The incongruity of it. It’s a strangely cheerful sight. Mark works for a local homeless charity and I’ve got to know him well.

Christmas lights twinkle above me, and I can just make out Slade’s dulcet tones from the shop a few doors up.

I pull my gloved hand from my sleeping bag and take the card, fumbling with the pen.

The glove will have to come off if I’m to write legibly. If I’m to write at all.

Is this a good idea? A card? How will she take it?

It hadn’t gone well, my last contact with Mum, the day I left home last January. There’d been the mother of all fights. I’d told her some home truths about Steve, about how he shouted at me when she wasn’t there. How he’d push me around.

Steve couldn’t cope with the fact Mum and I were close; a grown man was jealous. What had he expected? He’d moved into our house when I was seven. Mum and I had been alone by then for five years. What else did he expect?

I couldn’t call him her boyfriend or partner. I couldn’t call him anything.

“It’s hard to believe you, Cara. You tell that many lies,” she’d said when I protested about him to her.

I couldn’t blame her. My teenage years hadn’t been packed with truths. Yeah, of course I’m going to school. No it wasn’ t me who stole cheese from the supermarket. Cheese. Why? I’m not even very fond of the stuff. Not that I’d turn it down now. Beggars, quite literally, can’t be choosers.

But she must have been blind not to see some of it. That’s something I’ve not been able to understand.

I left in a temper and she didn’t stop me from going. We’ve always been a bit like that, Mum and I. Neither of us have ever been very good at saying sorry or backing down. She’d texted me a few times after I’d gone, asking me to come home, but I was too stubborn.

I was quite happy sofa surfing to begin with; until I finally outstayed my welcomes. There’s only so long you can freeload. And I found myself here – in a supermarket doorway several towns away. I made myself difficult to trace.

Mark told me that Mum has tried to find me. He was good, kept my confidence – happy to pass messages back, so at least Mum knew I was safe. Alive.

Do you really think I should send it?” I ask Mark. “That she’ll want to receive it, I mean?” “She’s your mum,” he says. I know what he’s getting at. I open the card. My hands, stiff from the cold, make marks. I’m wrapped tightly inside a sleeping bag. The rest of me is completely numb.

Her name, my name, and Happy Christmas in the space between.

I haven’t left space to write love. My writing is bigger, rounder than usual, childish writing, although my childhood is long behind me now. “Almost done, Cara?” Mark’s voice is soft. He crouches beside me, waiting. He’s too good a man to rush me, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder, the bell on his hat jingling each time.

I smile at the thought of reindeer waiting impatiently – Prancer and Blitzen, snorting and pawing the ground, desperate to carry on with their journey. Instead there’s his battered Saab, sitting on double yellows. Playing Santa for the likes of me doesn’t come without risks for him. “Almost,” I say. My hands shake as I squeeze the card into the too-snug envelope. The image on the front is of a robin on a gate, a snowy vista in the background. An imaginary scene.

No address is needed; he will hand deliver it. He knows where she lives.

I write Mum on the envelope.

Iused to love writing Christmas cards; sitting at the table with Mum while Steve was at the pub, my list in front of me, Slade pounding out a backdrop. It was all part of the Christmas process.

We’d dig out our battered lists. Mum’s was chock full of crossings out, new addresses written in. Mine was mainly friends in my class, the odd kind teacher and a few cousins. We tended to share out relatives between us. I’ve always liked Christmas. One year I substituted toothpaste for mincemeat in the mince pie left out for Santa, cold tea for whisky. Steve wasn’t happy, and you don’t want to feel responsible for Steve’s unhappiness.

“It was a joke,” I protested. From the day he came to live with us, he did his best to disguise his dislike of me in front of Mum.

“That’s the last time we play this game,” Steve hissed. “It’s years since you’ve believed in Santa anyway.”

He took a swipe at me, which I ducked to avoid. I’d become good at ducking to avoid Steve.

I offer the card to Mark. Blowing into his ungloved hands, he takes it. His cheeks are red, there’s a drip of moisture on the end of his nose. If it’s true that you lose most of your body heat from your head, by wearing his Santa hat Mark’s not taking any chances. You don’t want to risk getting a chill on Christmas Eve, do you? Not when you have a family at home waiting for you.

I wear two hats and a scarf. I’m not sure why I’m quite so careful. Mark’s ready to leave. “These old bones,” he mutters as he pulls himself to standing, shaking out his legs. I’m guessing he’s deciding what else to say; he’s hardly likely to wish me a Merry Christmas, is he?

Each of us is different, us homeless, we’re not the homogenous lot you might imagine us to be. Still, you’d think he’d be practised at it, wouldn’t you? The charity worker, the Good Samaritan.

“You stay safe, Cara. I’ll come by first thing. Pass on any messages.”

It’s good of him to promise that. I wonder if there will be any. How Mum will react to the robin on a fence.

I’d heard rumours on the street that Steve had moved out.

Mark touches my forehead and closes his eyes and I imagine him saying a silent prayer for me. I kind of like that.

As he makes for his car the promised snow comes, just a flurry of flakes as the wind gets up, twirling from the grey sky. I stick my tongue out and catch one. Of course it melts instantly; its uniqueness is no defence against the warmth of my body.

At home I’d press my nose on the window when I woke every Christmas morning, desperate to see the surrounding rooftops white. But year on year it never happened. And yet, now it does.

I want to call out, to rush into Mum’s room long before dawn, shake her awake, bounce on the bed. “Mum, Mum, it’s snowing, look.” I want to pull her from her bed, drag back the curtains, show her the magic. But I can’t. I’m too old. And I’m not there.

Like I say, I really like Christmas. Don’t we all? But not this year.

“Hey, Mark, wait a minute, will you?” I call out to him.

I just catch him before he’s closed his car door.

“There’s something I want to add,” I say. I open the card and write on the left hand side, where we would always write a personal message.

I want to SHOW MUM the magic. But I’m TOO OLD. And I’m NOT THERE

Mark is back a couple of hours later. I’m wide awake like a kid looking out for Santa, imagining the tinkle of sleigh bells in the sky. I’ve been waiting. Hoping.

“She says yes, Cara. And that she’s sorry, too.”

I scramble to gather my few belongings together.

I hope this will work; that it’s not just for today. I hope we can mend what we broke between us. That I can go home.

As Mark’s car pulls away from the kerb I glance back, watching the snow fill my footprints. Within moments it’s as though I was never there.