Prologue
I read an article the other day, giving tips on how to manifest the life you want. You begin by writing a letter and… burning it. Whether you want to free yourself of worry, realise a dream, or simply declutter your mind, a well-respected life coach believes that the universe is listening. I’m not sure how I feel about that statement, but I can see how it might be cathartic for some people - assuming they have the guts to do it properly.
What I’m discovering, though, is that being honest with oneself isn’t easy. After almost an hour, most of it spent with a pen in my hand hovering over the piece of paper in front of me, it remains blank. Even though I love the idea of releasing negative energy into the ether, or drawing positive energy towards me, I can’t do it. I’m not ready to bare my soul to anyone. Least of all, myself.
Maybe I’ll write a letter to Santa, instead, and burn that. Start small and work your way up, Immi, I tell myself. As one of my three jobs involves wearing an elf costume every weekend in December, I figure that if I’m not ready to reach out to the universe, Santa is the next best option.
This year I’m hoping Christmas is going to be a truly joyful occasion to make up for the disappointments of last year. When the man you love – your soul mate – is supporting a parent through the big C, life can feel as if it’s on hold. I won’t lie, it’s been tough. My mind and my body ache when he isn’t here with me because I’m simply going through the motions rather than living my life.
Anyway, what harm can it do to honour an age-old tradition? After all, I’m one of Santa’s biggest fans. They say the act of believing makes things happen and I’ve seen that with my own eyes. So here goes:
Dear Santa
When I was six years old, I wrote you a very special letter. I handed Dad the sealed envelope and we stood together, hand in hand, as he threw it onto the fire. I watched in fervent anticipation as the wisps of pale grey smoke, tinged with little curls of white, disappeared up the chimney.
Everyone thought I was asking you for a doll’s house, but actually, I asked you to bring my mum back home to us. Dad didn’t understand why I burst into tears on Christmas morning, after I’d unwrapped the wonderful presents beneath the glittering tree. And, at the time, I didn’t understand that I had asked for the impossible.
Every year until I was twelve, when I wrote my last letter, I just asked for toys, books and clothes, as the other kids did. But in my heart there was only one thing I longed to have, because I honestly believed that it would make my life complete.
But I appreciate now how lucky I was, and that the true magic of Christmas was there all along. I was surrounded by love. The love of my dad, my grandparents and our friends. No child could ask for more than that.
This year there is only one thing on my list and it’s to be able to celebrate Christmas with the man I love, Gray, by my side. I need it to reassure me there really can be an us and that life isn’t going to cheat me, yet again.
Just keep everything crossed for me, will you? That’s all I ask. And keep up the good work. A lot of people believe in you, regardless of their age. In today’s world that’s both magical and inspiring, because what is life without hope?
With much love, Immi
1
Deck the Hull with Boughs of Holly
‘I’m just about to turn off the main road, Immi. Let the countdown to Christmas begin.’
‘At last,’ I croak, although the sound of Gray’s voice makes me instantly break out into a beaming smile.
In the background, the thrum of the car’s engine sounds eerily distant, but it’s a relief to know he will be here very soon. The thought of sinking into his arms again fills me with nervous anticipation and yet another part of me hates feeling so… needy. There’s an emptiness that gnaws away at me when he isn’t around, which nothing else can fill.
‘What’s wrong with your voice? Please don’t—’
The signal drops out for a second or two, and I imagine the car negotiating the bend as he heads away from the village hall, which sits proudly alongside a magnificent green. Originally a farming community before the lock was built and – much later – the marina, Aysbury is rather spread out. There are some large country properties set back from the road behind high walls, before the first cluster of farm cottages signals the approach to the canal. But our community extends both sides of the waterway, with a network of narrow lanes giving tantalising glimpses of a variety of old stone cottages and barn conversions.
Beyond that, the winding lane dips for several hundred yards and the tall swathe of trees are an impenetrable barrier. ‘… not coming down… something.’
I grip the phone tighter, raising my voice a little as I reassure him. ‘No. I’m fine. Really, I’m good.’
There’s a short pause and I’m sure we’ve been disconnected, then the thrumming sound is back, and the engine kicks up a notch as the car accelerates along the open stretch of road. Almost here. He’s almost here.
‘You’re not crying, are you, Immi?’
Drawing in a deep breath, then taking a moment to expel it in a controlled manner, I make a concerted effort to sound bright and breezy.
‘The Christmas magic has begun with the most inspiring, heart-warming and tenderest of moments. And it’s down to a seven-year-old boy, named Billy.’ As I swipe away a wayward teardrop with the sleeve of the new, bright green elf jacket, an overwhelming sense of happiness lifts my spirits.
‘Ah, Immi. That’s wonderful. This is going to be one a-ma-zing Christmas, I can feel it in ma bones, ma bones, feel it in my bones bi-ba-bi-ba doo bah doo.’ Gray, being Gray, launches into song. Without any warning my heart misses a beat, as excitement leaps up inside me. It’s been six weeks since he was last here; the longest six weeks of my life.
‘I’ve been trying on the new elf costume. I’ll do a quick change and then head up to The Bullrush Inn. See you there in ten. Watch out for stray sheep in the lane by Adler’s farm. Two are still on the loose after a breakout last night.’
‘The boys are back,’ he sings and starts laughing. ‘Oh, that’s baad news, really baad,’ he jokes, and I roll my eyes. ‘And I forgot to tell you – I have a new backing track for Tollie’s Christmas Tale; it’s a surprise and I think he’s going to love it.’
He begins to hum it for me, and I realise that’s one of the things I miss most when he’s not around. Music. The second main man in my life is mad, truly mad, but I wouldn’t change one single thing about him.
‘I love you, Captain Christmas.’
‘I love you, too, Santa’s number one elf.’
Wrenching shut the door of Lock Keeper’s Cottage, I head off along the towpath. Every Friday evening there’s one place everyone at the marina heads for – The Bullrush Inn. As I push through the door and step inside, the low hum of chatter tells me that most of the regulars are here already. I liberally dispense waves and smiles as I make my way between the tables.
A café and gift shop by day, every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evening between six and ten p.m., it’s the haunt of the Aysbury Junction Marina Anchor Club members.