Christmas Eve 1971

Liz McNeill Taylor

With four subdued children under twelve and a dog I drove from London to a village in the Scottish Borders, arriving at a half empty cottage as darkness was drawing in.

I drove with grim concentration, counting off the miles as they sped past, because I was running away from home. The thought of spending Christmas in my own house was beyond enduring. I had to get away from the telephone because it kept ringing and every time I answered it a concerned voice would say, Ive just heard the most awful rumour. It cant be true, can it?

The cottage to which I fled was cold and empty, furnished only with a few sticks of furniture left by the previous owners, but we soon had a log fire burning in the grate and spread our sleeping bags out on the floor in front of it. The children huddled around the hearth, wondering if they would be able to hang up their stockings. The baby, at two, was still young enough to believe in Santa Claus but the others were as stunned as I was and too tactful to bring up the subject.

In spite of the long drive, I was running on adrenalin fuelled energy and went into the kitchen to prepare food, deciding for some reason to make custard to cover the slices of cold Christmas pudding Id brought with me. The pudding had been made three months ago - before our world fell apart. I remembered sticking foil wrapped sixpenny pieces into the mixture and felt that the woman who did that had been a dewy-eyed innocent, somebody else, not me. As I stood stirring the custard my tears dropped into the pan and I watched them plopping onto its yellow surface like drops of rain.

My second daughter Sarah, who was ten, came into the scullery and put her arms round my hips. I hugged her and stopped crying because I knew I had to make some sort of an effort to give them a Christmas.

Its warming up in there, she said, Itll be fun sleeping on the floor like camping.

Wed never camped. We werent that sort of a family. Their father preferred luxury hotels to camp sites. But everything was different now. It had changed in ten minutes four weeks ago when he collapsed and died of a heart attack, most suitably in a world famous hotel in Singapore. He was 43 years old.

The thought of him, the memory of him, the smell of him, his very ghost was haunting us and it took a monumental effort not to burst out into communal wailing. It only needed one of us to start for the others to give way as well.

Id brought brightly wrapped presents for the children with us in the car but even when they were piled by the fireside, they failed to cheer us up for the little room was bleak. There were no streamers, no balloons, no holly or mistletoe, no line of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece. Grateful for the leaping flames, we ate sitting on the floor while darkness filled the curtainless window. The garden that surrounded the cottage was silent except for the occasional hoot of an owl and the dog sat staring fixedly at the dark square of glass. Shed never heard an owl before. Shed rarely walked on grass in fact and when she did, she lifted her feet high as if she was afraid some hidden predator would bite her ankles.

The plates were gathered and piled in the sink and we were settling down to watch the flickering screen of an old black and white television when there was a knock at the front door.

The dog growled and we drew together, staring at each other. Who could be knocking? None of our friends knew where we were. We had never met anyone in the village. Should I answer the knock? I was still dithering when it was repeated, more sharply this time.

Guarded by the dog, I opened the door. A woman I had never seen before stood on the step with something bulky in her arms.

Hello? I said. You dont know me but I heard what has happened to you and one of the neighbours saw you arriving. I wont stay but Ive brought you something, she said, holding out the bundle.

It filled my arms and prickled my skin. It was a small Christmas tree, decorated with silvery tinsel and small brightly coloured glass balls. On the topmost branch the mysterious visitor from the darkness had stuck a star.

Oh my God, youre an angel! I said and started to cry.

She laughed, stepped into the hall and put her arms round me. Im no angel. Im just an old woman who likes children. Dont cry, she said, Youre going to be all right.

All of a sudden I knew that what she said was true. We would be all right. We would survive the terrible thing that had happened to us. The unknown woman with the Christmas tree showed me that life goes on and that the kindness of strangers can help you through.