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“Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred, and we are better throughout the year for having, in spirit, become a child again at Christmastime.”
– Laura Ingalls Wilder
-
December 24th, 1945
The train rocks evenly as it follows its path through the hills. A sudden whistle of wind through a hole in the window sealant from above wakes Farrier from his sleep. A quick glance at his watch tells him it’s almost noon. He rubs his eyes and straightens the half-empty military issue duffle bag threatening to slip off his knees. In it, all his earthly possessions lie carefully bundled along with some parcels wrapped in newspaper and the tea towel Lucy had wrapped the biscuits in. He had savoured those biscuits the past few days, not because he was particularly fond of how the dry product stuck to his teeth, but because they had tasted of home. It was something he was still getting used to.
-
As he rounds the last bend in the road and the farmhouse appears through the trees, it becomes apparent that his arrival has not gone unnoticed. Little Lucy had been staring aimlessly out of the kitchen window, her flaxen head propped on her spindly arms, waiting. Now she perks up instantly, hops up onto the windowsill and opens the latch, leaning so far out that Farrier thinks she might fall.
“Mr Farrier, Sir, you’re back, you’re back!” She cranes her neck out to shout over her shoulder. “Uncle Hamish, come quick, he’s here! Mr. Farrier, Sir is here!”
Sure enough, Collins soon appears behind her. He locks eyes with Farrier across the driveway and rolls his eyes exasperatedly as he scoops his niece out of her precarious position. Farrier can’t stifle the laugh that erupts out of him, even as the Collinses disappear out of the window. Mere moments later, Lucy flings open the front door and dashes out, barefoot and still in her pyjamas. Through the open door, Collins is hopping on one foot as he struggles to pull his boot on the other and it makes him laugh even harder. Lucy covers the distance between them in great bounds, skids to a halt in the snowy gravel and grabs his free hand, tugging him towards the door. All the while, she maintains a steady barrage of questions the way only an excited four-year-old can.
“How was the journey, Mr. Farrier, Sir? Was it very cold in London? Did you miss us? Can you —”
“ — Lucy!” Collins finally catches up. “Lucy, you naughty girl! What are you thinking, running out without a jacket?” He picks her up and bundles her in his coat against his chest. “You’ll catch your death in this cold. You know the rules, no fussing now.”
Turning his attention to Farrier, he shrugs apologetically. “It’s her poor health, you see. She had an awful fever, only broke the day before last.” They lean closer for a quick embrace, each using their free arm. It’s cold, and Farrier’s skin feel tight as he grins.
“Shall we head in then?”
-
The good thing about owning next to nothing, Farrier muses as he follows Collins and Lucy upstairs, is that it never takes long to move. The stairs and floorboards of the old farmhouse creak beneath their feet. It’s a beautiful place — clearly well taken care of — if a bit shabby here and there. The wallpaper is faded but the oil paintings that hang on them look freshly dusted, generations of golden-haired Collinses stare at him with piercing blue eyes as he walks down the hallway. There are three closed doors on each side of the hallway, and Collins and Lucy lead him to the last one on the left.
“You’ll have the larger guest room at the end of the hall, just this way. Lucy took the liberty of, uh, decorating it for you,” Collins says with a smile as he pushes the door open.
Clearly. The little vases on the night tables are artfully stuffed with holly branches and finished off with lopsided bows of tattered old ribbon, the bed is made with crooked hospital corners and the most agressively floral spread Farrier had ever seen, and the yellow-striped wallpaper is now lined at roughly chest-height with a series of drawings of airplanes and two mismatched postcards.
“Do you like it, Mr.Farrier, Sir? I made it the beautifullest I could, and I promise I won’t jump on the bed anymore.”
Struggling to control his grin, Farrier glances over at Collins, who is a tad pink across the bridge of his nose and scratching the back of his head sheepishly. He turns away from Farrier as if to hide the blush, and corrects his niece, “The most beautiful, Luce.”
“Indeed, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. I shall be honoured to stay in a room this grand, Lucy, thank you.”
“Lucy darling, could you please go and get the vegetables ready for dinner?” Collins asks. I’m going to help Mr. Farrier unpack.”
She beams brightly and skips off back down the hall. The two men stand in silence for a few moments, listening to the sounds of pots clanging and cupboards opening and closing a floor below them. “Sorry ‘bout the decor Thomas, she was just so excited. I can get a different blanket and — ”
Farrier takes a step forward, then another until they’re breathing each other’s air. Collins trails off, licks his lower lip. His hair is a messy mop on his head, and his cheeks a fetching shade of pink. Farrier never thought he’d see that colour again. And yet, here it is. Here they are.
Farrier leans in and kisses Collins for the first time in a long time, and then he’s truly come home. Collins gasps into his mouth, a soft, aching little sound, and then strong, familiar hands are reaching for his own, threading their fingers together. It’s a long kiss, or a thousand short ones, he doesn’t know, but he’s got Collins now, and he can’t bear even the thought of letting go, ever again. A particularly loud clanging from the kitchen tears them apart. She’s innocent and kind-hearted, but so young. One wrong word, one careless touch, and it would all be over.
They’re still holding hands though. Farrier brings his knuckles up to his mouth and presses them there slowly. Once, twice, a third time. Then he lets go.
“Oh...well alright then,” Collins stammers, “I’ll...I’ll leave you to unpack. Drawers are all empty and for your use, the wardrobe on the hall has spare blankets if you’re cold and I cleared a shelf in the study for your books. Make yourself at home, Tom.”
He’s still blushing when he leaves.
Farrier sits down stiffly on the bed, his bad leg protesting. Looking out the window at the snow gently falling outside, he considers how much has changed in the last year. The previous Christmas Eve had been spent shivering under a too-thin blanket, wondering how many more years the war would drag on and whether he would live to see the end of it. Shaking himself, he sets about unpacking. All his clothes fit in the top drawer; the empty duffel bag, his wash kit and the gifts he brought in the second. That still leaves two more completely empty. He sighs. This was a bit silly. He sets the envelope of photographs he’d received from the airbase on top of the chest of drawers - he’ll have to go through them with Collins eventually, but that could wait. Grabbing the last item he’d brought, he heads downstairs to the study.
It’s a fine room, lined with dark wooden bookshelves and heavy brocade curtains. The air has a long-undisturbed, faintly musty smell of old books and polish and dust, now mixing with the smell of stew wafting down the hall from the kitchen. A thick carpet adds warmth, in the corner stands a handsome mahogany secretaire next to a well-worn leather sofa. Grainy photographs of Collins and his sister as young children dot the room. Farrier pauses before one of Collins as a toddler with chubby cheeks in a tiny sailor suit and cap, making a mental note to tease him about it later, then turns to the shelves. All are lined with dusty tomes and albums but one. It’s completely empty, ready for his own contributions to the household library.
“Mr. Farrier, Sir, dinner is ready!”
“I’m coming, Lucy,” he calls back.
He steps forward, and places squarely in the centre of the empty shelf his only non-military possession, a single shabby little book: The Aeroplane in the Great War by W.L.Wade
-
Christmas Day dawned bright and snowy that year, the Scottish countryside beyond his window looking like something out of a postcard. It’s early — Farrier wonders if he’ll ever be able to sleep in — but he can hear the faint sounds of movement from Collins’ room down the hall. Cautiously, he creeps along the edge of the corridor, taking care not to make the floorboards creak. He knock quietly on Collins’ door, and is greeted promptly.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” he whispers back, but before he can lean in for a kiss, Collins holds a finger to his lips and gestures to the armchair behind him. Bundled in a thick blanket is Lucy, her breathing slow and steady.
“Poor thing had a fearful nightmare. Was up half the night. Come on, we’ll get breakfast ready and she can — -”
“Uncle Hamish! You’re awake! You’re awake! Let’s go wake Mr. Farrier, Sir and then have breakfast and — oh! Good morning Mr. Farrier, Sir — and you can open the presents I made for you. Come on, come on.”
And with that, she hurtles past them and down the stairs, a muffled “It’s Christmas! ” coming from the kitchen below. Stunned, they look at each other for a moment, then a sly grin spreads across Farrier’s face. “Well, you heard the girl, Hamish, run along. Hop to it.”
After a breakfast of thin porridge, accompanied by Lucy’s detailed description of the social lives of the sheep in the pasture just down the way, they move to the living room. Collins fetches a box of old candles for the tree from the windowsill outside where they’d been left to chill. He very carefully lights them, the flames reflecting off the flock of brightly-coloured glass bird ornaments. Farrier settles into the old armchair, propping his bad leg up on the ottoman.
“Will you open the ones from me first?”, Lucy is bouncing slightly with excitement, “I’ve been waiting so patiently all week — here!”
She pushes two identical newspaper-wrapped packages into his and Collins’ hands, balancing herself precariously on the edge of the armchair with her little bare feet dangling over the armrest. Farrier tugs on the string holding the bundle closed and sets it aside. Inside is a set of neatly folded checkered silk handkerchiefs, one blue, one red and one green. In the corner of each is a carefully embroidered monogram, TWF, and below that, right in the corner, is a lively bushel of flowers. He holds one up to the light, recognizes bluebells, lily-of-the-valley, violets and ivy leaves, all done in tiny, slightly wobbly stitches. The wind howls outside the windows as he inspects the remaining two hankies. “Lucy, these are beautiful...where on earth did you get them?”
“I made them,” she chirps, clearly proud of herself. “But Granny MacAllister helped me a lot. She’s not really my granny, but she said she likes that better than boring old ‘Missus’. Anyway, she let me choose hankies from her big box while I was there this week, Uncle Hamish was out, you see, and she said there was a very foolish factory once that threw away over two dozen boxes of brand new handkerchiefs all because the weaving machine had snagged a little hole in the corner of them.”
Farrier continues to stare in awe at the sprightly little creature still dangling off the armrest beside him, cheerfully recounting the story at a dizzying pace.
“So Granny MacAllister and her friends from her Reading Society marched right over to the factory and collected the boxes on sleds and took them to the shelters and the schools and the hospital. And when they were done, there were still enough left for them to have a box each, so she’s never needed to buy a new hanky her whole life, even though she’s very fancy and I think she could easily buy thousands of hankies. And she let me choose some for you, and showed me how to cover up the little hole with some pretty flowers. Do you like them?”
“They’re absolutely beautiful, Luce”, Collins replies before Farrier can say a word. He too had received a trio of fine silk handkerchiefs, but his were all white. “She’s a sensible woman, is Old Granny MacAllister. It doesn’t do to be wasteful, even if you do have the means.”
Charmed, Farrier looks closely at the splendid piece of fabric in his hands. He’d only ever owned a few of his own, and certainly none as fine as this. Unless he counted the printed silk map all pilots were issued with during the war, to help find their way home if they crashed behind enemy lines. Not that he’d needed his - he’d known exactly where he was after all, that hadn’t been the problem. No, instead he’d shoved it in his boot before he was captured to keep it from being found, and had kept it as a memento ever since, though he wasn’t sure why.
“These are stunning, my dear. They’re almost too beautiful to use.”
“Nooo Mr. Farrier, Sir, not at all! You have to use them so often they tear, then I can make more.” And with that, she tumbles off the armrest and dashes back to the tree, scanning the remaining presents and selecting the largest. “Which one’s next, Uncle Hamish? Who’s this one for?”
A broad grin spreads across Collins’ face, and Farrier can’t help but smile too. “Merry Christmas, Luce.”
Lucy squeals with delight and drops to the floor to start carefully unwrapping the brown paper packet. Farrier closes his eyes for just a moment and inhales deeply, savouring the deep sense of comfort he suddenly feels. He’s brought back to the scene in front of him by a small gasp. “There’s so many.”
Lucy is kneeling on the carpet, surrounded by a halo of well-worn books, their covers scuffed and faded, their spines ragged. She clearly doesn’t care that they aren’t new, the look of wonder on her thin face is indication enough of that. Carefully, she opens one of the fragile books.
Collins clears his throat and says in a slightly raspy voice, “These belonged to yer mum when she was a wee lass, and she couldn’t bear to give them away when she got too old for them, said she’d keep them for her own little ones.” His voice falters. He takes a few deep breaths to steady himself as Farrier lays a hand on his elbow. “She’d have wanted me to give them to you. I read them too, of course. That one yer holding is the first in the Abbey Girls series, might still be a bit hard for you to read. I remember how disappointed I was when I found out that the “Collins” on the spine was just the name of the publishers. Good old Peggy never let me forget that one.” He smiles a pained smile and Farrier can see tears welling up in his eyes.
“And this one, Uncle?”
“That’s the fifth book in the series. All the ones there to your left are Abbey Girls books. That black one with the clouds and birds is A Little Princess by Burnett, next to it is Peter and Wendy , that brown one is The Railway Children by Edith Nesbit — careful with that one, the cover is coming loose. The one with the lass in the red coat is one of my favourites, The Secret Garden, also by Burnett, and that last one is, uh...hold it up quick would you...oh yes, The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. I think you should start with that last one, it’s closest yer age.”
Farrier listens contentedly to Collins’ soft, lilting brogue as he lists title after title that Farrier had heard of growing up but had never read. The orphanages he’d been raised in had been chronically underfunded, and any rare donations of books were inevitably distributed in the younger wards. Some of the nuns had even been of the opinion that all a child needed could be found in the Bible, and while the story of Noah and the Whale was a good one, it lost its draw after the twentieth reading.
Once, on a rare excursion into the heart of the city, they had stopped in at a bookshop while the Headmaster placed an order. Sat silently on the floor amongst the fifty-odd other children on the trip, still shivering beneath his threadbare overcoat, Farrier had cast around for something to distract himself. The book on the lowest shelf next to him, The Secret Garden, had caught his eye and he’d surreptitiously snuck it into his lap after making sure the Head was still occupied with the terrified looking clerk frantically scribbling the order.
He had enjoyed it immensely, at least the part he’d managed to read before it was time to leave. Unfortunately, Rigsby had ratted him out to the formmaster and the memory of the caning Farrier had received still stung to this day. He briefly wonders whether Rigsby had survived the war, before pushing the thought to the back of his mind.
“If you like I could read them aloud to you. I’ve never read most of them you see, so the stories would be new for both of us.”
“Yes please, Mr. Farrier, Sir. We could take turns reading, couldn’t we, uncle? Then nobody’s left out. We can, can’t we, uncle?”
Collins chuckles and nods in reply. “But first, I see more presents under the tree. Now be a dear and fetch that lumpy one there on the left and give it to Mr. Farrier. No, the other one.”
Lucy holds the parcel high over her head as she pirouettes towards Farrier, finally presenting it to him with a flourish and a curtsey and an infectious giggle that affects Collins and Farrier as well. He reads the neat handwriting on the side with furrowed brow, then:
“Collins, you really shouldn’t have. Really, I know times aren’t easy and you —”
“Oh hush and open it, Thomas. It’s Christmas.”
Collins’ tone is decisive. Farrier decides not to argue and slides the string off the package. Inside are several pairs of thick woollen socks and a matching set of hat, mittens and scarf. The dark wool is soft between his calloused fingers.
“It’s winter. We cannae have you gallivanting about the countryside with just yer jacket. Try them on, I need to know if they fit.”
They do fit. Perfectly.
“I learned to knit in hospital, y’know — ‘bout the only thing the nurses would let me do. Wasn’t all too keen on it at first, but after the fifth day of just staring at the ceiling, I couldn't take it anymore, y’know? So Nurse Harriet — cheery little thing she was, just sixteen - taught me the basics in her spare time. Did me good, I have to say.
“Did you learn to knit in the war too, Mr. Farrier, Sir?”
“No Lucy, I’m afraid I didn’t have the chance. But I can tell you I’m now very handy with a shovel.”
The comment naturally goes right over her head, but he isn’t bothered. He rubs the creases in his brow as he gazes at the child on the floor. Like him, she had formed her first memories and impressions of the world during a time of violence and austerity. He could only hope that this would be the last war she ever witnessed. He’s not sure they can survive another one. Coughing slightly to undo the sudden knot in his throat, he gestures at the parcels still under the tree.
“Perhaps your Uncle Hamish can teach me, now that the war is over. Those two parcels on the right are for you, Lucy, the ones with the white string. Careful now.”
She undoes the wrapping, sets it carefully aside to be used again later and opens the shoebox in her lap. Next to him, Farrier can feel Collins lean forward, craning his neck to get a better look.
“It’s an aeroplane! Uncle Hamish look, it’s an aeroplane!”, Lucy gasps, jumping to her feet and holding the model out to Collins. “Uncle, is it your aeroplane?”
It’s a small model, about a hand's length from wingtip to wingtip, made of low-grade aluminium covered in chipped paint. One of the rotors is bent and the landing gear no longer closes, but even in its dilapidated state the aircraft is clearly recognizable.
“Aye, that it is. That, mo ghaoil, is the finest aeroplane ever built - the Spitfire.” He flips it over and examines the underside of the fuselage. “An Mk I to be precise. Thomas, don’t you think she’s a bit young for this?”
“Nonsense. Every child should have a Spitfire. It’s only reasonable.” He grins at the exasperated look on Collins’ face and claps him on the back. “It’ll need a new coat of paint of course, and the squadron codes will need adjusting, but I simply hadn’t the time.”
Lucy perks up at the last bit: “Uncle Hamish was in a squ...a squadron, Mr. Farrier, Sir! He’s a pilot!”
“Was he really ?” Farrier quips, feigning awe. Collins smacks him lightly on the shoulder.
“Lucy, you goose, I told you already that he and I were in the same squadron. In fact, he was the one who taught me how to be a pilot.”
Lucy stares at the toy plane in her uncle’s hands intently, brow furrowed. Then, suddenly her eyes widen so much Farrier worries they might pop right out of her head. “Does that mean you could teach me to be a pilot, Mr. Farrier, Sir?”
“Of course, my dear,” he replies matter-of-factly, ignoring Collins’ alarmed expression, “but not until you’re much older. And only if you’ve eaten enough vegetables to get as big and strong and tough as your Uncle Hamish. You can’t fly a plane if you’re just a little speck now, can you?”
She purses her lips. “No, I s’pose not. But how will I know when I’ve eaten enough vege...ve...vegables, Mr. Farrier, Sir? Oh, will I get hair on my chest like Uncle Hamish?”
“Precisely, that’s when you’ll be ready. Now what about that second gift, eh?”
Lucy smiles, hands the plane back to Collins and sets about unwrapping Farrier’s other present. While she’s distracted, Collins leans in to whisper under his breath in his ear. “You, Thomas William Farrier, are an insufferable rascal, and it’s on your head to undo that nonsense when she finds out the truth.” Farrier leans over to quickly press his lips to Collins’ cheek, grinning.
Meanwhile, Lucy had finished wrangling the paper off the gift. It was a book with a bright red cover with a smiling woman beneath the title Cherry Ames, Student Nurse.
“Now Lucy, a fellow I met during the war, a nice American chap, he has a daughter about your age and he says she loves this series. When I saw it in a bookshop in the city, I thought I’d get it for you. It's about a very clever nurse who solves mysteries. Do you like mysteries?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Farrier, Sir. I’ve never tried one.”
The two men burst out laughing. “Well then, you can read the book and decide for yourself. But first, hand me that paper bag there would you?” It’s his gift for Collins.
Collins tugs off the string and pulls out a small tin bird ornament, slightly dented and quite tarnished, but still decidedly charming. It’s a dove with a gold-coloured branch in its beak and greying tailfeathers. “I remembered the time you told me about that tradition of yours, of adding a bird for special occasions, and...well, when I saw this little creature at the flea market, I figured peace could certainly be considered a special occasion. I didn’t know if it would fit with the rest of your collection, and I see now that it doesn’t...if you don’t want to use it, I understand compl — ”
Collins lays a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Of course we’ll use it. There’s no’ even a shadow of a doubt, we’re using it. I can’t believe you remembered that, it was ages ago.”
“Always loved hearing about the antics you got up to as a child, and the story of Great Aunty Maude and the missing peacock ornaments was a good one. Tell it again, why don’t you, I’m sure Lucy hasn’t heard it.”
And so Collins regales them with the tale of his Great Aunt Maude, her insistence that the acquisition of each of her lap dogs constituted a grand occasion and her penchant for giant gaudy peacocks. Every few years she would adopt a new poodle, and the rest of the family would conspire to have the hideous multi-coloured peacock that followed simply “vanish”. Maude grew more and more suspicious, until one year, the young Collinses hatched a plan. In the dead of night, they snuck out into the garden with the five or six “missing” peacocks and buried them in the compost pile. When Maude pointed out the disappearance of yet another of her birds, Peggy had calmly declared that it was Marmaduke, her oldest dog, who hid them. She led the family out to the yard and showed them the stash. Great Aunt Maude announced on the spot that it was clear Marmy disliked the peacocks, and she was sad to say she would not be able to continue the tradition. The rest of the family had feigned sadness at this news and later Collins and Peggy had been allowed to share a tin of peaches as a reward.
With his goofy impressions of all the family members, Collins has Lucy in fits of giggles and Farrier can barely catch his breath. It’s almost noon before Lucy stops begging for yet another retelling. They settle at the big kitchen table with jam sandwiches and tea. Collins explains the significance behind some of the other birds on the tree, finishing with the most recent: a bluejay for Lucy’s birth.
-
Dinner is a feast the likes of which Farrier has never seen. There are brussel sprouts, honey carrots, green peas and roasted parsnips from the larder, roast potatoes and a stout salmon that a neighbour had given Collins for fixing his car motor a week ago, as well as a boat of rich brown gravy and homemade bread rolls. It might not be anything fancy by others’ standards, but to him...well, he’s seen enough of life to know not to take the small things for granted.
Between bites, Lucy kneels up on the bench next to him, cups her hands around his ear and whispers, “This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had, Mr. Farrier, Sir.”
He looks at her, little cheeks still rosy from their evening walk. Leaning down, he whispers back, “It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had too, Lucy.” She beams.
“Now what are you two gossiping about?”, Collins asks playfully, scooping the last spoonful of gravy up.
“Can’t say, I’m afraid. It’s top secret.” He winks at the girl, who giggles heartily, and Collins just shakes his head exasperatedly.
After dinner, they sit in the living room, watching the flames dance in the fireplace. Lucy had declared that today it would be she who read the bedtime story, and she was struggling valiantly through “ The Tale of Peter Rabbit ”. The two men sit on the sofa, legs outstretched, listening.
Farrier finds himself dozing off to Lucy’s voice; despite its fluctuating volume, it’s soothing. He awakens when Collins nudges Farrier’s foot with his own.
“Welcome home, Thomas.”