A short story for Christmas.
Lydia sat in the front pew and shivered. Apart from Michael, her son, she was alone. The church was otherwise full, and contrary to the occasion that day, festively decorated for Christmas. Christmas was not a day Lydia had acknowledged for many years, and would even less now that there was no one left to share it with.
She looked at the coffin and pictured her father as she had seen him last, shrunken in an oversized suit and the blue tie she’d bought him for Michael’s christening. She bit her lip, determined not to cry and turned her head away from the blinding winter sunlight streaming through a window. It was three days to Christmas but what was there to celebrate?
“You ok, Mum?” Michael covered her hand with his, but she did not respond, just wanted the service to be over as quickly as possible. Desperate for a cigarette, she picked at the skin around her fingers. They were red-raw and her thumb was bleeding.
At the back of the church, latecomers found their way to the remaining seats, looking around and straining to see who they knew. Funerals were a good opportunity for the few remaining friends to catch up and congratulate each other on their longevity.
Michael tried not to let his mother see how much he needed to be elsewhere. He was her only child and at thirty-six years of age had felt the weight of that responsibility for a long time. There was nothing left to say or do, his stock of sympathy having run out long ago. Lydia already knew he would only stay to see the morning through.
The funeral took place as planned, with hymns and eulogies for a man genuinely loved by all who attended, and when it was finally over, Michael steered his mother towards the waiting cars. Lydia still wouldn’t cry; numbness had taken over and for this she was grateful. The frosty grass crunched beneath their feet and she took a deep breath, appreciating what little warmth the sun could offer. She looked around and was pleased by the number of people who had turned up to pay their respects to her Father. Even in death, he had far more friends than she would ever know.
As Lydia and Michael headed for the car park, she caught sight of a solitary man standing by the lychgate at the far end of the churchyard. He made no attempt to join the other mourners, but looked vaguely familiar. All she could make out for certain was that he was tall and wore a long red scarf. He was too far away for her to see his features clearly, but before she could get closer, other mourners clustered around in a protective cocoon and he was lost to view.
Michael’s voice brought her round: ‘We need to get back, it’s getting dark and going to snow again soon’. Glancing in the general direction of the disbanding crowd, he said: “We’ll see you all back at the house.”
Lydia finally allowed herself a cigarette. Michael looked but said nothing – he loathed the habit – but she would make no apology today and gratefully drew on its comfort. When they reached home, the promised December snow was already falling.
Aunt Vi was in the kitchen filling the kettle.
‘Come here love, you look done in. I’m making a pot of good strong tea.’ Lydia would have preferred a stronger something else but gratefully accepted the offer.
‘Thanks, Aunt Vi’.
The house was beginning to fill and Lydia made her way around distant cousins and elderly family members she barely saw from one year to the next. And it wasn’t long before she caught Michael in the hallway, putting his coat back on and talking quickly into the mobile tucked under his chin. Expectation didn’t cover the disappointment she felt inside, but a busy working schedule had long since taken him away and visits home had become fewer and fewer over the years.
‘Sorry, Mum, I’ve got to get back. But I’ll call soon. You’ll be all right won’t you?’
‘Yes, I’ll be fine, love. Don’t worry about me.’
He hugged her and the absence of physical contact in her life was even more acutely felt. But still she wouldn’t cry, just stood and waved until his car was out of sight.
Back inside, polite conversation had given up to something livelier and a wake more befitting her father was getting under way. Glasses replaced teacups and a bottle of whisky had been found. Lydia smiled for the first time that day. This was how she wanted to celebrate her Dad’s life. She joined a group of old workmates, and like her Dad, sported ill-fitting suits and unaccustomed ties. Ted was in full flow and beckoned Lydia over.
“I was remembering when me an’ yer Dad went fishing, just off Brid Harbour. We took a bottle of the good stuff with us to keep out the cold’ – and here Ted raised his whiskey glass in memory – ‘by time we got back, all we’d got were two tiddlers and an empty bottle. Sea were rough that day – bit like yer Dad in the boat. Yer Mam weren’t much pleased either…’
Lydia loved to hear the old long-familiar stories, and was thankful for her Dad’s friends. She was also grateful for the women stalwarts who produced a steady supply of sandwiches, sausage rolls and cakes from the small kitchen at the back. They’d arrived early that morning, headed by Aunt Vi, and wouldn’t let her do a thing.
But the stories, along with the whiskey, finally came to an end. It was after six, and by general agreement, time to leave. The last to go was Vi:
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to stay with you tonight, love? I don’t like leaving you on your own.’
‘No thanks, Aunt Vi. I’ll be fine, really.’
‘Well, I’ll call by tomorrow, just to make sure…and don’t forget you’re coming to us for Christmas.’
Lydia closed the door with a sigh. Lighting another cigarette, she wandered through the empty, silent house. The pain that had been locked inside now fought its way through. Reaching her bedroom, she closed the door and walked over to the bedside table where a packet of pills lay unopened beside a glass of water. Lydia lay on the bed, sobbing until sleep gave the promised release.
She eventually awoke to the jarring insistence of the doorbell and reached for the bedside lamp. It was nine thirty; she was groggy and it took some time to rise and stumble down the stairs. Whoever was at the door obviously had no intention of going away until it was opened.
On the way down she caught sight of herself in the hall mirror and was horrified at the swollen red eyes that looked back. She groaned and reluctantly opened the door, ready to rebuff unwanted company. But the man standing there would not be dismissed so easily.
‘Hello, Lydia,’ he said. She was confused and her vision was blurred.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘It’s Sam…don’t you recognise me?’
‘Sam?’ She squinted and a memory was triggered. ‘Sam…what…how…?’
Her eyes moved slowly along the figure of Sam Wesley and from the red scarf wound around his neck, realised that this was the man who had earlier been standing at the lychgate.
‘I saw you this morning,’ she mumbled, ‘what are you doing here? Why didn’t you come into the church?’ Her voice was slurred but not through the whiskey drunk with Ted.
‘Oh, you know me, I liked crumbling old churches even less than you did, remember? But when I heard about your Dad, I had to come to you.’
Lydia, leaning against the wall, opened the door a little wider to let him in. She stumbled when she let go and Sam held on to her in support.
‘I’ve left it too long…I know that and I’m sorry’
They went into the living room, now cleared of the clutter of the afternoon’s wake. Lydia slumped on her father’s chair near the fireplace and Sam sat opposite on the old brown leather settee where he could see her better. Her mind was confused and the words wouldn’t come, but Sam did all the talking.
‘Remember the old days, Lydia? What idealists we were, studying politics by day, arguing all the time, then partying hard by night…we were going to travel the world and change it as we went.’
Sam got up to look at the old photographs on the sideboard; the same photos he’d seen all those years ago and picked one up of Lydia at eighteen.
‘You’ve not changed at all’, he said.
Lydia half smiled at the absurdity but let it be. He talked about the old days when they were together, stirring up vague memories, good memories, before he went across to where she was sitting.
Sam gently lifted Lydia out of the chair and brought her over to the settee where he held her close until she gave way to the pull of sleep and oblivion. The last thing she heard was his soothing voice in her ear,
‘I’ve made all the arrangements…the ferry leaves at nine tonight and we need to be on board by six.’
It was midday when Vi let herself into the house. There had been no answer to her calls or the doorbell and she used the key given to her before the funeral. She found Lydia lying on the settee, still dressed from the funeral. The ghost of a smile was on her face and she was clutching a long red scarf. Aunt Vi, despite the shock of what she found, had not seen Lydia look so peaceful or content for years.
It was many months before Michael finally sifted through his Mother’s papers. In a box of memorabilia he came across a decades-old yellowing newspaper cutting.
‘British student killed outright in head-on collision in Calais. Sam Wesley had been taking his girlfriend on a Christmas break when he collided with a lorry returning to the ferry bound for Dover. Lydia Braithwaite, the only passenger, survived the tragic crash.
Lychgate: a roofed gateway to a churchyard, formerly used at burials for sheltering a coffin until the clergyman’s arrival
S. F. Tayor 