It was Boxing Day and the roads were empty. The heavy rain kept the children indoors. He saw no-one as his car moved quietly through the grassed field, snaking up the high hill towards his destination.
George Holland was thinking about the last Christmas.
The last Christmas had been better, far better. That much could not be argued. There had been more presents under the tree, more gleaming tinsel in the rafters, more cards on the stair rail. The tree had been bigger, too, and there had been more holly on the mantle and mistletoe everywhere you could look. On the last Christmas, his wife had cooked roast duck, and chicken pie, and crusty bread, and the pudding had been as big and as round as a melon. There had been too much food, of course, and they had eaten the same meal for nearly a week, until they were sick to the sight of duck, and pie, and pudding.
And they had laughed at how much there was for so few, and then they had remembered all those who had so little. Then on Boxing Day, they had gone to the church and helped with the food-drive, and there had seen old friends, long lost. And later, they had drunk wine with their friends into the evening, and shared the blessing of friendship. And all this had happened on the last Christmas.
For the last Christmas, the kitchen had been full of smells for a week before, as his wife prepared the mighty feast, but this year, he had smelled little more than a small chicken and a simple pie. She was not there this year when he opened his presents, and he had left his gift to her by her bedside. He had wanted to complain about these things, but he could not find the words at the time. Now, when he found her, he would tell her. Tell her all the things she had missed, had forgotten. All the things from the last Christmas.
She hadn�t taken a moment to kiss him that morning, or wait for the few extra minutes it always took him to find his shoes. He had to run late to the church on his own. Last Christmas, she had waited. Last Christmas she had laughed so gaily at the little toys in the crackers; this year she had not laughed at all. Last Christmas she had remembered to bring down his slippers from upstairs, had remembered to put exactly one and a half spoons of sugar in his tea, had remembered to thank him for bringing in the wood, just as he always did, every day, and though he never once remembered to thank her for his tea, or for his slippers, or for anything.
Last Christmas, she had chided him for his wet boots, his poor jokes, his watching too much television, had tutted at his spilled wine and too much chocolate, had driven him out of mind by her humming of Christmas ditties, over and over. This year, she had not had the spirit to chide him, nor the care to sing. This year, she was quiet.
He was angry. He would find her, at the top of this hill, where he knew she would be, and he would tell her of all the things she had missed. He would list her all the things of the last Christmas, of the bigger tree, of the warmer kitchen, of the happier songs. He would demand to know why this year, she had forgotten these things, why the last Christmas had not come again.
He stopped the car and walked out into the rain. Twenty paces was all it took to reach the small stone block in the ground, with the black plaque bearing those two dates, the first so blessed, the last so damned.
George Holland stood and stared down at the block in the grey rain. He was thinking about the last Christmas.
This story is fondly dedicated to Polo