Christmas Wishes

Feelgood family fiction

Lara felt the dull thrummings of a headache building in her temples as she squinted through the gathering dusk at the single track road ahead, the sat-nav all but useless in this remotest part of Devon. She was starting to wonder whether she had taken on more than she could reasonably manage.

It had begun with a letter in October; thick watermarked paper and swirling script. Her mother, Eleanor, was semiprofessional when it came to social manipulation and her children were no exception. The letter was a baton of sorts, passing the mantle of Christmas responsibility to the next generation.

And who could blame Eleanor for that? Losing Dad so suddenly that summer had shaken them all, the family dynamic now skewed and swirling to settle in its new form. Christmas without his particular brand of bonhomie and benevolence was going to be a challenge.

But Lara adored Christmas, always had. A visit to the Christmas shop at Liberty’s was a highlight of her year, the very scent of pine or cinnamon enough to bring joy to her heart. This was a responsibility she could embrace, she’d decided, if only she could persuade the rest of the family to jump on board.

She glanced at the crumpled map on the seat beside her and turned left, breathing in sharply as the mossy banks grew ever closer. She tried not to think about the etiquette of who should reverse if she met another car, her view to the rear blocked by glittering parcels and enough festive food to feed an army.

She could only hope that the cottage she’d booked was as enchanting as it had looked online. For that was the key, was it not, to surviving – or dare she hope, enjoying – this first Christmas without Dad at the helm, massacring the turkey with his questionable carving skills. Something completely different, without any comparison to Christmases past.

A light flurry of snow dusted the windscreen and Lara gave a small gasp of delight. A white Christmas! And, as she pulled to a halt on Oakwards Lane, she knew without a doubt that she had made the right choice.

She pushed open the car door and looked around in wonder, a hand pressed to her mouth. Swallowing the thought that her father would have adored the madness of this Alice-InWonderland folly, she allowed her eyes to flit from detail to detail, feasting on the building in front of her. A plump white cottage quite literally built around an ancient oak tree, so sturdy and magnificent that its canopy of branches seemed to mother and protect the cosy dwelling skirting its trunk.

A Christmas wreath already adorned the glossy red front door, warm lights illuminating each window and smoke rising gently from the chimney.

Lara allowed herself a smile. She

Her LACK of a Significant Other was an ONGOING bone of CONTENTION

might not bring grandchildren to the Christmas table, but my goodness, could she deliver a magical few days for her nieces and nephew! And, of course, for her mother. She offered up a wish into the dancing snowflakes.

Lara watched the excitement light up her mother’s exhausted face as she perched on the edge of the sofa and looked around. Despite knowing that, for once, she had made a good decision, Lara still felt unaccountably nervous.

“You do like it?” she checked, adding another log to the burner that already made the cottage feel homely and toasty

warm. The dynamic of their relationship had never really evolved. It had always been her father who doted upon Lara’s precocious artistic talent as a child; even now, her prestigious job illustrating children’s books hardly fulfilled her mother’s notion of success.

And, of course, her lack of Significant Other was an ongoing bone of contention – Lara simply hadn’t worked out how to convince her mother that she loved her bohemian life at the studios exactly as it was. That she was just fine. Her mother’s hand squeezed hers. “I love it,” she replied simply, seemingly a little in awe of the vast trunk that wove through the very heart of this home, her hand fluttering out to touch the bark. “And more importantly, George and the children will too.” She sank back into the plush velvet sofa and nodded. “Thank you, Lara.”

It was almost embarrassing how much those simple words of praise meant to her, Lara thought, as she busied herself getting ready for her brother and his family to arrive. She wanted everything to be perfect for Jake, Lucy and Emily – they deserved more than a little magic after flying in from New York.

Without guidance from her brother or his wife, she’d resorted to searching the internet for age-appropriate gifts. Who knew whether she’d got it right or not? Her budget certainly didn’t stretch to the luxury their New York life afforded. Still, she’d been determined to seek out thoughtful treasures they might adore.

She stifled a yawn, stretching out her aching shoulders. All this hard work would be worth it just to watch their faces on Christmas morning as they sat around the fire in their pyjamas. Together.

Her gaze flickered to the clock on the kitchen wall and she swallowed the all-too-familiar annoyance with her brother. Always last to arrive, when all the hard work had been already been done and he could bask in his mother’s unadulterated approval.

Slowly she melted some chocolate over hot water, stirring it in contemplation of the evening ahead, resolute in her decision not to rise to George’s all-too-familiar bait.

He would, of course, find fault with everything she’d arranged – rural Devon was not Manhattan – but wasn’t that the point of this plan? Something new and different; new memories to be made?

Just for once she hoped George would realise that this Christmas was more about his mother and his children than it was about him. There was no way Lara would allow him to ruin this special time; even without her father to support her, she had promised herself to simply rise above it.

She poured warm milk onto the chocolate and filled two mugs, sitting down beside her mother and relaxing for a moment in the firelight. She sipped her drink and nestled against Eleanor’s side.

“Happy Christmas, Mum,” she whispered, but her mother’s distracted gaze remained fixed on the window, waiting for George and her grandchildren to arrive.

She heard George before she saw him, unusually flustered and shouting as

the children ran excitedly ahead from the car and burst into the cottage, eyes shining. Tired and jetlagged no doubt, but nevertheless enchanted.

It took a moment for Lara to realise Madison wasn’t with them. She turned to her brother, the question on her lips, and withered under his furious glare.

“Just don’t ask,” he said curtly. Seemingly another marriage where a “trial” separation had simply provided a conduit to yet more distance, Lara thought sadly. She stepped back and took the children’s hands.

“Do you want to see your bedroom?” she said with a smile, pushing open the wooden door that lead to their very own fairy grotto.

Each bed was in a nook carved into the walls, complete with tiny wooden doors and “snow” frosted windows. Gingham ribbons linked pine-cones and silver bells and large hessian sacks lay crumpled at the end of each bed ready for Father Christmas.

Lucy, Emily and Jake hovered for a moment and then tumbled into her arms, warm and yielding, loving and grateful.

“Happy Christmas,” she whispered, delighting in their uncompromising, simple affection.

“Happy Christmas, Aunty Lara!” they all replied, tiny cold hands nestling into the warmth of her jumper and filling her heart with joy.

Tucking them into their pyjamas and telling them one of her fanciful tales of magic and mystery was the highlight of Lara’s day. Their unabashed excitement overcoming their wide-eyed yawns, hanging on her every word, as Lara wove a Christmas story around them, suspending them all in willing disbelief.

She stayed, cross-legged on the floor, until their eyes drifted closed, hearing low intense voices from the room next door as George updated their mother on the disintegration of his “perfect” marriage – she was in no hurry to join that conversation.

Instead she reached for her trusty drawing pad and began to sketch, lightly at first, as the idea grew in her mind, but then with increasingly bold lines of confidence and excitement.

She knew, deep down, that none of the presents under the tree could hold a candle to this idea, even if it meant staying up all night to get it finished. She watched Lucy’s eyelashes flutter on her smooth pink cheek, the lines seemingly transferring themselves to paper.

The tree trunk so central to the cottage wove across the page, linking them all together. As dragons and pixies and fairies, she somehow translated each member of their family into a magical creature, yet at the same time so easily recognisable as themselves.

She smiled at the rush of pleasure she felt as her creation grew in depth and perspective – as though their laughing eyes and smiles were all too real, rather than merely pastel on paper.

She may not be rich in the traditional sense of the word, but Lara wouldn’t trade her gift for anything. Drawing made her feel alive. Andcomplete,

She felt a rush of PLEASURE as her creation GREW in perspective

she realised with a new certainty.

Standing up, she considered slipping away to her own bedroom, the urge to finish her work almost overwhelming. Shadowed in the doorway, she watched her mother’s adoring gaze follow George’s every move as he strode angrily around the treehouse, making the floorboards creak.

When would this sibling rivalry ever end? Lara wondered for a moment.

And her heartbeat seemed to flutter as the possible answer presented itself. For without a parent’s attention to vie for, what would be left?

The next morning, as Lara tiptoed through the cottage before dawn to light the log-burner, she was surprised to find her mother already on the sofa. Still more surprised to find her nocturnal work of art clasped in her hands.

Eleanor looked up at her daughter, tears in her eyes and a curious expression on her face.

“Lara. This is just exquisite, darling. And as for your depiction of me –” She swallowed hard. “I do rather fancy myself as an owl.”

Lara nodded. “It’s all in the eyes –” Her mother shook her head. “No, my darling girl, I think it’s all in the heart. You have such talent, such kindness. I never have to worry about you, do I?” She paused. “And without your father here – sometimes I think that maybe my rescuing George seems like favouring George. That I’ve forgotten that you need my attention too?”

Lara took her mother’s outstretched hands and sat down beside her, her drawing still luminous in the half light.

“I cannot begin to thank you for this Christmas, Lara. It’s a treasure beyond anything I have any right to wish for.

You somehow took all my dreams and made them real.” Her mother’s fragile fingers clasped Lara’s. “I am the luckiest of mothers to have a daughter like you.”

Lara swallowed hard, realising that in that moment, any lingering doubts and insecurities had been eclipsed by this rare moment of her mother’s undivided affection.

“This really is the most beautiful gift,” Eleanor continued, her fingers fluttering over the lines and curves on the page, the tree within mirroring the living oak at the very heart of their cottage, generous with its timeless history and inspiration – their very own Christmas tree to remember.

Lara rested her head against the warm, gnarled trunk and smiled, as the excitable laughter from the children’s room made it clear they too were awake and that emptying stockings was now the order of the day.