gnomes was a breath of fresh air.
‘I like your hair,’ said the actor Santa.
‘Thanks,’ said O’Brien, ‘I’ve only just had it done.’
At the vegetarian cafe where every lentil bake came with its own sprig of holly, Santa asked O’Brien if she would like to come for Christmas dinner.
‘There won’t be any roast corpse though.’
‘That’s all right,’ said O’Brien, ‘I’m not a vegetarian but I don’t eat meat.’
‘Then you are a vegetarian.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to join something?’
‘No,’ said Santa. ‘Just be yourself.’
In the mirror on the wall O’Brien smiled. She was starting to like being herself. She didn’t go back to work that afternoon. She went shopping like everybody else. She bought new clothes, lots of food, and a set of fairy lights. When the man at the stall offered her a cut price Christmas tree, she shouldered it home. Her landlady saw her arriving.
‘You are early today,’ she said very slowly. ‘I see you are going to get pine needles on my carpet.’
‘Thanks for the sardines,’ said O’Brien. ‘Have a bag of satsumas.’
‘Your hair is not what it was last night. Did something happen to you?’
‘Yes,’ said O’Brien, ‘but it’s a secret.’
‘I hope it was not a man.’
‘No it was a woman.’
Her landlady paused, and said, ‘I am going now to listen to the Gospel according to St Luke on my wireless.’
O’Brien put the potatoes in the oven and strung her window with fairy lights. Outside the sky was strung with stars.
At eight o’clock, when Santa arrived, wet and cold and still in uniform, O’Brien lit the candles beneath the tree. She said,
‘If you could make a wish what would it be?’
‘I’d wish to be here with you.’
‘Even if I wasn’t blonde?’
‘Even if you were bald.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ said O’Brien.
The World and Other Places
When I was a boy I made model aeroplanes.
We never had the money to go anywhere, sometimes we didn’t have the money to go to the shop. There were six of us at night in the living room, six people and six carpet tiles. Usually the tiles were laid two by three in a dismal rectangle, but on Saturday night, aeroplane night, we took one each and sat cross legged with the expectation of an Arabian prince. We were going to fly away, and we held on to the greasy underside of our mats, waiting for the magic word to lift us.
Bombay, Cairo, Paris, New York. We took it in turns to say the word, and the one whose word it was, took my model aeroplane and spun it where it hung from the ceiling, round and round our blow-up globe. We had saved cereal tokens for the globe and it had been punctured twice. Iceland was held together by Sellotape and Great Britain was only a rubber bicycle patch on the panoply of the world.
I had memorised the flight times from London Heathrow to anywhere you could guess at in the world. It was my job to announce our flying time, the aircraft data, and to wish the passengers a comfortable trip. I pointed out landmarkson the way and we would lean over the fireplace to take a look at Mont Blanc or crane our necks round the back of the settee to get a glimpse of the Rockies.
Half way through our trip, Mother, who was Chief Steward, swayed down the aisle with cups of tea and toast and Marmite. After that, Dad came forward with next week’s jobs around the house scribbled on little bits of paper. We dipped into the pouch, and somebody, the lucky one, would get Duty Free on theirs, and they didn’t have to do a thing.
When we reached our destination, we were glad to stand up and stretch our legs. Then my sister gave us each a blindfold. We put it on, and sat quietly, dreaming, imagining, while one of us started talking about the strange place we were visiting.
How hot it is getting off the plane. Hot and stale like opening the door of a tumble drier. There are no lights to show us where to go. Death will be this way; a rough passage with people we have
‘I like your hair,’ said the actor Santa.
‘Thanks,’ said O’Brien, ‘I’ve only just had it done.’
At the vegetarian cafe where every lentil bake came with its own sprig of holly, Santa asked O’Brien if she would like to come for Christmas dinner.
‘There won’t be any roast corpse though.’
‘That’s all right,’ said O’Brien, ‘I’m not a vegetarian but I don’t eat meat.’
‘Then you are a vegetarian.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to join something?’
‘No,’ said Santa. ‘Just be yourself.’
In the mirror on the wall O’Brien smiled. She was starting to like being herself. She didn’t go back to work that afternoon. She went shopping like everybody else. She bought new clothes, lots of food, and a set of fairy lights. When the man at the stall offered her a cut price Christmas tree, she shouldered it home. Her landlady saw her arriving.
‘You are early today,’ she said very slowly. ‘I see you are going to get pine needles on my carpet.’
‘Thanks for the sardines,’ said O’Brien. ‘Have a bag of satsumas.’
‘Your hair is not what it was last night. Did something happen to you?’
‘Yes,’ said O’Brien, ‘but it’s a secret.’
‘I hope it was not a man.’
‘No it was a woman.’
Her landlady paused, and said, ‘I am going now to listen to the Gospel according to St Luke on my wireless.’
O’Brien put the potatoes in the oven and strung her window with fairy lights. Outside the sky was strung with stars.
At eight o’clock, when Santa arrived, wet and cold and still in uniform, O’Brien lit the candles beneath the tree. She said,
‘If you could make a wish what would it be?’
‘I’d wish to be here with you.’
‘Even if I wasn’t blonde?’
‘Even if you were bald.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ said O’Brien.
The World and Other Places
When I was a boy I made model aeroplanes.
We never had the money to go anywhere, sometimes we didn’t have the money to go to the shop. There were six of us at night in the living room, six people and six carpet tiles. Usually the tiles were laid two by three in a dismal rectangle, but on Saturday night, aeroplane night, we took one each and sat cross legged with the expectation of an Arabian prince. We were going to fly away, and we held on to the greasy underside of our mats, waiting for the magic word to lift us.
Bombay, Cairo, Paris, New York. We took it in turns to say the word, and the one whose word it was, took my model aeroplane and spun it where it hung from the ceiling, round and round our blow-up globe. We had saved cereal tokens for the globe and it had been punctured twice. Iceland was held together by Sellotape and Great Britain was only a rubber bicycle patch on the panoply of the world.
I had memorised the flight times from London Heathrow to anywhere you could guess at in the world. It was my job to announce our flying time, the aircraft data, and to wish the passengers a comfortable trip. I pointed out landmarkson the way and we would lean over the fireplace to take a look at Mont Blanc or crane our necks round the back of the settee to get a glimpse of the Rockies.
Half way through our trip, Mother, who was Chief Steward, swayed down the aisle with cups of tea and toast and Marmite. After that, Dad came forward with next week’s jobs around the house scribbled on little bits of paper. We dipped into the pouch, and somebody, the lucky one, would get Duty Free on theirs, and they didn’t have to do a thing.
When we reached our destination, we were glad to stand up and stretch our legs. Then my sister gave us each a blindfold. We put it on, and sat quietly, dreaming, imagining, while one of us started talking about the strange place we were visiting.
How hot it is getting off the plane. Hot and stale like opening the door of a tumble drier. There are no lights to show us where to go. Death will be this way; a rough passage with people we have
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